If you were driving by the house last week and saw a small naked boy watering the ivy with what God gave him, I’d like to explain.
If only I could.
Who would have thought that after more than 30 years of marriage, public nudity would now be a problem? Of course, it’s not the husband or myself (we’re pretty good at following standard dress codes), it’s all these little grandbabies that have us surrounded.
A bare bum here, a bare bum there, here a bum, there a bum, everywhere a bum, bum.
It’s like Revenge of the ‘70s; little streakers are everywhere.
There is partial streaking, full streaking and streaking at a rapid rate of speed with a diaper hanging by one tab and an adult in rapid pursuit.
Moments ago a small streaker darted from the dining room through the kitchen and around the corner. This sort of thing used to happen on college campuses as a form of political protest.
The streaking at our house is not political protest. Potty training is often the reason behind the streaking. A little person yells he has to go potty and bolts toward the potty chair. The little person is in a state of full dress, then partial dress, then no dress, shedding clothing as he runs. It looks like the mission will be a success. We are preparing to clap, cheer and throw confetti like we are welcoming the troops home from overseas, but, oh well. Maybe next time.
Not all of the nudity is a result of potty training. There is also that peculiar yet determined toddler who is periodically compelled to strip off all clothing because—apparently—toddler skin simply needs to breathe.
The problem when you are surrounded by such goings on is that you gradually begin to accept this as standard fare. You forget that the rest of the world isn’t doing diapers, is able to leave home without a pack of diaper wipes and is most likely already toilet trained.
All of which would account for our son and daughter-in-law, who did an emergency tag-team diaper change on the sidewalk with one of them holding the tot upright and the other swapping out the dirty diaper for a fresh one. Clearly, this is their third child. You don’t acquire that kind of skill until you have at least two.
As for the little boy outside watering the ivy, who has ever been able to explain what little boys do outside? I can only imagine that it was a combination of no inhibition and convenience. It would have been a long trip inside the house. Probably a good 8 feet to the front porch, another 3 feet to the front door and once inside it could well have been another eight or nine steps to the bathroom.
That said, it might not have been the first time he has done this. There appears to be a brown patch in the ivy.
Our apologies to the neighbors for the evil thoughts we entertained about their dog.