tossed her on the bed.
She bounced on her mattress. “Do it again!”
But I sent her to round up the imps, instead. Fortunately, because this involved bossing them around, she was easy to convince.
Still, it was a quarter of six by the time I got the bath running. I offered a prayer to the God of Ritalin that the little nerve-wrackers would leap quickly in and out of the tub. Sadly, the God of Ritalin had apparently been replaced by the God of Cocoa Puffs.
I’d finally corralled the boys in the bathroom when Hannah discovered she couldn’t find Bath Barbie.
“It’s not a bath without Bath Barbie,” she wailed.
“Check your room, quick, while the boys get in,” I told her. “She’s probably hiding under the bed.”
“Bath Barbie doesn’t hide.”
“Then she’s napping—go!”
“She doesn’t nap, either,” she said. “She’s Bath Barbie. She bathes.”
I herded her into her room. “Check in the pile—” the mountain of toys in the corner. “And the closet.”
“She’s not in the closet,” she whined. “I can’t take a bath without Bath Barbie.”
“You might have to make do with—” I glanced around the room “—Bath Bunny. Or I’ll just toss you in the tub with your Bath Brothers.”
That got her attention. She started digging through the heap of toys and I went back to the bathroom and was greeted by the sound of splashing. The little angels were bathing themselves!
“What great guys you are—” Then I stepped inside. They’d poured a gallon of shampoo into the tub, and were sitting amid heaps of bubbles, fully dressed. Playing Tidal Wave. “Out! Out!”
They collapsed in giggle fits. Usually they were easier than Hannah, because they were used to bowing under the lash of her tyranny. But, of course, not tonight. I grabbed a couple of soggy shirts and dragged them from the tub.
“You little monsters. You know better than that.”
“Tyler had an accident,” Kyle explained, as I yanked them out of their clothes.
“I had an accident,” Tyler said.
“He was cleaning up.”
“What kind of accident?” I asked, sniffing the air like a nervous antelope.
“She’s not under the bed!” came Hannah’s voice, from her room.
“Look in the closet!” I yelled. “Is she in the dollhouse?”
“A wee-wee accident,” Tyler said.
Thank God. “So why’d you get in?” I asked Kyle, tugging his socks off as he sat with his bare bottom on the floor.
He started giggling again. Clearly it had just looked like a good time. “We used soap,” he told me.
“You used shampoo.” I sluiced off the top of the bubble-mountain with my arm, remembering a moment too late that I was still wearing my $200 pale lilac ensemble. “Dam-arnit!” I said. “Now you two—back in there and wash.”
“She’s not in the dollhouse!” came the Bath Barbie update. “Aunt Anne, the doorbell’s ringing!”
“Look under the bed,” I yelled. “Would someone get the door?” And, to the boys: “Back in the bath! Or you can forget about birthday cake.”
“But we decorated it,” Tyler said, tears imminent.
Like a good mother, I immediately backtracked. “You can have cake! Just take your bath fast, and I’ll give you extra. You’ll be fat as Ny in no time.”
In their world, fat as Ny was a wonderful goal. They both did the hot-pepper-excited hop before splashing tubward. I’d have to sneak them extra bites, when Charlotte wasn’t looking.
“It’s still ringing!” Hannah yelled. “Somebody should get the door—oh!”
“Hannah?” I called from the hall. “Pick someone else if you can’t find Bath Barbie.”
“Help!” she cried, in a muffled voice. “Help me!”
Uh-oh. I raced into her room. She was gone. “Hannah?”
“I’m stuck.” A little voice, from behind the bed. “Back here.”
Only her calves were showing, sticking up between the bed and the wall. “You fell down the bunny hole,” I said, laughing.
She kicked her feet. “Bath Barbie’s down here, but I can’t reach her.”
“Hold on…” Her bed was a heavy wood four-poster, painted white with green vines on the posts. I heaved it away from the wall as the doorbell rang again—and Hannah fell sideways to the floor and disappeared with a clunk.
A second later, she poked her head up, dust bunnies tangled in her hair. Which now needed washing. “I can almost reach her!”
“Doesn’t Mommy ever clean?” I crawled under the bed, hooked a finger around Bath Barbie’s neck and dragged her out. “Ta da!”
Hannah grabbed her triumphantly. I made her say thank you, and the doorbell was still ringing as we entered the hall on our way to the bathroom.
“Will somebody get that?” I yelled down the stairs.
“I’ll get it,” Hannah said.
“Someone other than you.” I marched her into the bathroom and Kyle and Tyler were gone. All that remained was a pile of sodden clothes and a trail of wet footprints on the terra-cotta floor.
“Get in,” I told Hannah.
“It’s dirty.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Run a new one. I’ll be up in a minute to help wash your hair. I have to find your brothers.”
I turned and caught sight of myself in the mirror. The steam from the bathroom and exertion from the kids had caused my face to sweat and my hair to frizz. One of my sleeves was frothed with bubbles and there were dust bunnies clinging to my skirt. I opened the bathroom door and Tyler launched himself at me like a greased piglet.
“Here we are!” he said. Wet, naked, and clinging to my new clothes.
“We answered the door.” Kyle swaggered in, naked and dripping.
“Thanks,” I said. “Who was it?”
A man stepped in from the hall. “Me.”
I brushed a cobweb from my face. “Ian! Hi! How are you? Stay for dinner?”
CHAPTER 09
Okay, so I invited him. So what? Anyone would have done it. It was a reflex. An impulse. It doesn’t mean anything. I’d actually intended to invite him. It was planned. Premeditated. It was only polite. He’d delivered the gift, I couldn’t not invite him. He was being kind of pushy, when you thought about it. What kind of person arrives to a party with a gift? The kind who expects to be invited. He basically invited himself. It was boorish. Rude. I really expected better….
Actually he’d been wonderful. He brought the age-encrusted relic, beautifully gift-wrapped. He didn’t cringe at my dust-bunny meets bubble-thing appearance. And he’d even shepherded the naked boys into clothes while I finished with Hannah. I really had no other choice but to invite him.
I only hoped Charlotte wouldn’t be mad. Emily certainly was. I was downstairs in the living room enjoying aperitifs and appetizers, when Emily culled me from the herd of crostini-eaters and backed me against the French doors. “It’s her birthday,” she snapped. “Nobody wants the high school boyfriend at her thirty-fifth birthday.”