Weapons of Wet Destruction

Having had 5 children and fostered countless others over the years, you'd think that I would have parenting down pat, actually I don't.
When it comes to Little Miss Mischief, the youngest member of our entourage, all my theories on parenting went speeding out the door at breakneck speed, with me running after, calling out "Come back, come back! I still need you maybe,... possibly,.... perhaps."
Bath time is the nemesis of my undoing, my perfect parenting skills cease to exist when it comes to the daily child maintenance of cleaning one grubby child.
My last theory about the stubborn procrastination of this little nymph to enter the bath without affray, was delaying the task of completing homework. That theory flew out the door  before I could catch it, as this week is no homework week.
Most nights the remaining members of the family draw straws, the ones that  are left without an excuse. Drue promptly says "I'm out of here" as he runs out of the house, Ritch retreats to his room in lock down mode, Zjarie, if she's quick enough, escapes to the studio with Ipod and earphones. Leaving Maurie and me to arm wrestle the situation. When our dog Pollie was alive, she would scamper out the door with Drue almost knocking him out the way, find the darkest corner of the yard, curl up into a shuddering ball. 2 hours later we'd find her, still shaking, with a whimpering look that smacks of 'is it over yet?'

The nightly ritual begins at my desk.
My desk to the eyes of one Little Miss Mischief, is a world of creative delight mixed in with a fracas of texta's, paper bits, drawings, Barbies, fairies, post-it notes, ribbons, some indiscernible things and then there's my stuff, if there's room. Underneath all that is a desk of beauty. A smokey grey glass top that's been etched with black silhouette cutouts of poppies, tulips, daisies and ladybugs, which I can see through to my toes if there is a blank spot. My compliments to Ikea for that design.
When Maurie calls out "It's bath time", with a whirl LMM is under the desk, between my feet. Her lips pressed up on the underside of the glass leaving trademark lip imprints, distracting me from her real agenda, tying my Ugg boot laces to each other.
Maurie pleads, "I cooked dinner while you were finishing an article and I have to finish some editing, so it's you tonight". I know everyone has gone, Drue's out, Zjarie's out, Ritch has gone bowling with his dad, the cat has escaped to the neighbours and the bunny rabbit is cowering under the shed outside.
Maurie starts the bath while I try to unravel my laces - she's gone! I finally find her under her sisters bed, drag her out by her feet and continue dragging the intrepid mite towards the bathroom. The floor needs a sweep anyway, her white school top also needs washing. Squeals of hysterical laughter are trailing behind. Stopping at the kitchen, I'm halfway there, for fun I drag her around the island bench a couple of times. I see a dried splatter on the floor, so I sweep her backwards and forwards a few more times, the decibels of laughter reach an all time high. The bathroom is a distant light,  I make my way there still dragging the little human broom. I let go, she attempts to dart off, but I'm fast, real fast, grabbing her around her middle, legs in running mode, mid air. I tilt her upside down so that I peel off the pants, while her smelly dirty toes are playing soccer with my nose. She discovers my Achilles Heel, the back of my knees are ticklish. Attack!
Tilt her right way round with one pant leg still hanging on the foot, I whip off her now very black, white top.
She wants to get in the bath herself, before I race out behind the door for cover, she bombs into the bath that sends a tsunami of water over the entire bathroom including me. All items on the vanity have been washed off their perch and are now swimming in the basin. I walk out looking more like a just washed Labradoodle. There's no point changing into dry clothes yet, there's still 'Chicken' to contend with.

Chicken is a pool toy that we bought some time ago from Taronga Zoo. An adorable manta-ray toy of tealy aqua's with purple splotches. When we bought it, LMM clutched the manta ray toy to her chest and called it 'Chicken', we all went huh? This toy when pressed in the middle will emit a forceful stream of jet propelled water. A weapon of wet destruction.
Zjarie walks in the front door, and LMM promptly calls out to her if she wants to see 'Chicken", before I can call out a warning, Zjarie is hit with a stream of water that landed in the middle of her forehead. Turn of the feet and head flicked backwards Zjarie with a acerbic bitterness spits out  the word 'Nice' between gritted teeth. Marching into the office where the droplets of water are spilling down her front, she contritely says, "I didn't know the 2 of you had it in you. You've bred a sharp shooter!" She closes her own door not with a bang or a thud, but it did close with a 'do not disturb' edge to it. In the background demonic shrills of victorious laughter emanate from the bathroom.
Hair wash time, joy. At least by now she is as wet as the rest of the bathroom. With a stern police like voice "Drop Chicken down!" I enjoy washing her hair, because for a few moments she is still. With stealth she waits for a moment of mumnesia to set in to attack. Out of nowhere a stream of water erupts from the bath skyward, it curves back down and lands on top of my head. Like a waterfall it finds the lowest route, down the side of my face, down the neck, underneath my top till it pools inside my bra. With soapy hands I am powerless to stop the ticklish trickle, another burst of demonic laughter follows.
Ritch, now back from bowling, is far more cunning, he waits until this time to steal past the bathroom to the kitchen to make evening snack #12. Ritch is at that teenage age where his stomach never ceases to be satisfied, his tall, lithe, lanky body defies the odds of copious food consumption.
With the hair washing chore now done, its onto the more ominous task of extricating her from the bath itself. This takes just as long as it did getting her in. Armed with Chicken,  her continuous hail of water streams force me to retreat back behind the door. I cackle myself with laughter as I do have one weapon of defence, her towel. I hold her towel lengthways to armour my body and make my way back into the bathroom. She hates being dried with a wet towel. Surrender is her final option.
Getting dressed is her cuddle smooch time, a remarkably smooth, efficient part of bath time.  I have to 'sniff' her hair with deep animated breaths and tell her she smells like a beautiful rose, which she in fact does. We wipe down the bathroom together, replace upturned bathroom paraphernalia. The battle is over.
Our bathroom thanks to LMM's efforts, will for quite a while, be the most freshly washed room in the house.

I have tried the serious, 'it's bath time not fun time' approach, even removing Chicken, but I wasn't 'toilet trained at gunpoint' enough to pull off such a conservative anally retentive attitude with conviction. I know from experience the bath time drama is actually a mask for interaction, engagement and bonding. A ruse to drum up quality time. Sadly, there will come a day she will grow out of it, as children have this really bad habit of growing up. I am not looking forward to that day.