[Author’s Note: Wait — it’s November! Shouldn’t I be posting The Birth of Australis?
The answer to that question is a qualified yes. It had been my intention to post that story on the 6th, for my daughter’s first birthday. However, it’s not my style to post a story that is incomplete, and that story is *very* incomplete. Like, hopefully-I’ll-finish-it-before-2021 incomplete.
While I could probably bang out the rest of the post over a long weekend, the result would suck. Instead, I’m committed to producing a story worthy of my sweet Australis, regardless of how long that takes.
In the interim, I’ll do some short one-offs like this piece.]
Somewhere in my mother’s vast collection of family videos is a film that never fails to make me cringe. It features me and a cousin, in the bath, with my aunt attending. We were both naked — but even though I’m a prude, the nudity isn’t what really bothers me.
No, I cringe not at the appearance of our bare toddler bodies, but at our unabashed toddler behavior. Shortly after the start of the video, my cousin filled a cup with bathwater and took a confident swig. To my shame, I followed suit soon afterward.
“No, don’t drink that!” my aunt admonished. “That’s butt cheek water!”
Alas, we paid no heed to her reproof. By the end of that bath, I had ingested 2000% of my daily value of butt cheek.
I actually remember that bath — or, at least, I think I do. At the very least, I remember growing up with the phrase “butt cheek water”, which was borderline cussing for me. (My family used the word “heinie” to refer to the derriere.)
Over the years, and especially once I had Borealis, I pondered how I would dissuade him from drinking bathwater — or even how I would negatively refer to the substance. “Heinie cheek water” and “bottom cheek water” don’t have the same literary bite, and neither do “gluteus maximus water” or “fecal coliform water”.
I was still undecided when my mother made the decision for me during one recent visit to her house. As she bathed my children, I heard her scold, “Don’t drink that, Bo! That’s butt cheek water!”
Oh well. So much for propriety.
Bo, of course, was positively delighted. “Buh kee wah-duh!” he shrieked, then proceeded to drink just that.
“Thanks. It’s a game now,” I quipped.
My mom shrugged, and Bo repeated, “Ewwww, dohd dink dat, is buh kee wat-duh!” {“Ew, don’t drink that, it’s butt cheek water!”}
… And that has been the refrain of bath time ever since.
Even at our house, Bo’s favorite bathroom pastime is sneaking sips of bathwater, then exclaiming about his consumption of “buh kee wah-duh”. Typically, I’m not in charge of bath time — the duty usually falls to either my mother or Taylor — so the butt cheek water drinking game goes on. (In fact, at this point, it’s easily the most-played drinking game in our house.)
Were I in charge of bath time, Bo’s gulping of bathwater — and, correspondingly, his level of fun — would take a sharp decline. However, I am not responsible for bath time, and thus my son’s nasty habit persists.
I recognize that, at some level, Bo knows that his actions are repulsive to adults — but that’s exactly why the behavior continues. In Bo’s mind, no substance is more tantalizingly dangerous than butt cheek water, and no endeavor more daring than consuming the same.
[Note: We are incredibly blessed that the “scariest” thing in our son’s life is clean, abundant water, tainted by just a smidge of toddler poop. Goodness knows that not every family can say the same.]
I also recognize that one day, Bo’s current actions will become repulsive to him. After all, I underwent the same psychological shift in the decades since I drank bathwater in a family video. It’s not like I’ll be reprimanding a seventeen-year-old Bo for drinking in the tub. (At least, not in the same context.)
Nevertheless, for the time being, “buh kee wah-duh” remains an oft-used term in our household — during more than just bath time.
The other day, I was midway through winding a ball of yarn when something was shoved in my mouth.
Now, this sort of event — having a child’s toy or fingers stuck unceremoniously into a facial orifice — is not exactly unusual for me. (Ask any toddler mom. I’m confident you’ll hear resounding agreement.)
However, such an incident is normally preceded by some sort of warning — like eye contact, or at least a giggle. Actually, it’s possible that I missed the presaging signal, because I was pretty engrossed with my yarn. I had separated a skein out into its two component loops and had hung them on the opposing doorknobs of our pantry door. The doorknobs were a poor stand-in for Taylor, who normally helps me rewind yarn. Alas, although my husband was home, he was busy working in our home “office”. (He had a potential Covid exposure that has since proven to be negative. Yay!)
Anyway, while I was thus preoccupied, Bo had apparently gotten it into his head to stick a flat, hard object into my mouth. Notably, my mouth had been closed, so I wasn’t exactly inviting the intrusion — nor did I then welcome it.
Spitting out the item, I spluttered, “Hey! What was that?”
Bo unapologetically picked up the object, which was a hexagonal green disk. It came from a game set that has long since scattered to the four winds. All that remain of that set are eight disks that Bo uses for a special activity. Rather than forming these into a tessellation — which was, presumably, their original purpose — Bo places them carefully between his toes, stands up, and walks around… with the disks still in place. For this reason, I have creatively named them “toe coins”.
Thus, when I saw the item in my son’s hand, I yelled, “Bo! You stuck a toe coin in my mouth!?”
He responded by smiling and attempting to repeat the intrusion. This time, though, I was ready with clenched jaw. The disk bounced off my teeth, which gave me the brief opportunity to snap, “Bo! Don’t do that! It’s so gross! That’s like… butt cheek water!”
What a mistake on my part. While it was a good comparison, it was maybe too good a comparison. Bo’s grin grew even wider, and as he tried again to push the disk into my mouth, he whooped, “Das yike buh kee wah-duh! Das yike buh kee wah-duh!” {“That’s like butt cheek water! That’s like butt cheek water!”}
I resisting laughing, which surely would have given my son another opportunity for toe coin insertion. To my dismay, Bo perceived my internal struggle and found an emotional weak point. Waggling his eyebrows, he tried to wiggle the disk between my teeth while chanting in a cajoling sing-song, “Das yike buh kee wah-duh, das yike buh kee wah-duh, das yike buh kee wah-duh….”
Wrenching my head temporarily out of Bo’s reach, I yelled, “Taylor!”
My sudden motion caused the ball of yarn to roll off my lap and partially unravel. I quickly swept it up before Australis, who stood impatiently by, could beat me to it. Meanwhile, all I heard from the office was Taylor’s throaty laugh.
I tried again. “Taylor! Help me!”
He sighed. “Why don’t you just move?”
“Because Aza’s trying to eat my yarn!”
Even now, my daughter had a strand in hand and was preparing to pull it and effectively wreck the still-unwound portions of my skein.
“No, baby!” I admonished, managing to pry the yarn from her fist without ruining the remaining loops. I pulled her onto my lap just in time to receive another toe coin onslaught from Bo.
Ducking away, I laugh-cried, “Taylor! Tayloooooor!”
Taylor: <more laughter>
“Please!” I pleaded, then spit out the rapidly-inserted toe coin once more.
“Das yike buh kee wah-duh,” Bo intoned enticingly.
I felt like I was being sworn into some bizarre cult — a feeling which made me laugh all the more, further rending myself vulnerable to initiation into said cult. At that point, Aza made another grab for the yarn, and I suddenly felt like maybe I should stop knitting blankets and just purchase baby gifts instead.
“Taylor!” I called one last time. Buried under two kids and at least one toe coin, I had no hope of escaping my situation or fully winding the skein of yarn.
My desperation must have been apparent, because I heard Taylor sigh again, push back his chair, and walk out of the office. Several seconds later, he had pulled both kids off of me and knelt down to their level.
“Das yike buh kee wah-duh?” Bo prompted as he offered Taylor the toe coin.
Taylor silently accepted the disk between his teeth, then launched it forcefully out of reach. Somehow, I hadn’t thought to do that. I guess I was too busy protecting my yarn, which was again under onslaught from Australis.
“Aza!” I groaned. “No, Aza!”
My daughter smiled and trilled, “Oh Ah-tha!” — which, as far as I can tell, is her rendition of, “No Aza!”
Taylor, who was already holding Bo, crouched to pick up Australis, too. “It’s basically nap-time,” he observed, “So I’ll bring them to the nursery to read books.”
“Ok, this will take, like, three more minutes,” I estimated. “Plus, you don’t need me to nurse her down, since she already napped today.”
[Note: I would guess that Australis naps before her designated “nap-time” at least 90% of the time. She is especially susceptible to overwhelming sleepiness in her carseat, stroller, and high chair — which basically means that we can’t leave the house or feed her after 11am. Thus, our desire to have both kids nap concurrently is seldom realized.]
Taylor shrugged. “That’s fine. She enjoys the books, regardless.”
Ten minutes later, Taylor and Aza emerged from the nursery, where Bo presumably was settling down to sleep.
Glancing again at the clock, I admitted, “I know, I’m sorry, I drastically underestimated the time to finish this. But I’m almost done.”
Taylor snorted. “How dare you. I would never do something like that.”
[Note: This is a bold-faced lie. Taylor historically underestimates project timelines by at least a factor of three.]
“Thanks,” I laughed. “You know, it’s better and faster when you help me with the yarn.”
“Why didn’t you wait, then? And why did you do it on the floor?”
I paused my work on the yarn. “Well, I’m ready to switch colors now, so I didn’t wanna wait ‘til tonight to have you help me wind the new skein. And I tried to find somewhere else to do it, but I couldn’t figure out another place with two side-by-side hooks.”
[Author’s Note: I have just realized that the towel hooks in my bathroom would have fit this criterion perfectly. You know what they say about hindsight.]
I concluded lamely with, “I don’t know, I guess I’m just dumb.”
Taylor bent to kiss my forehead. “You’re not dumb, sweetie.” With that, he returned to his office.
Only a few yards of yarn remained, and those disappeared quickly. Soon, I was tucking the end of the string into the newly-wound ball, rising to a crouch, and… getting a toe coin shoved in my mouth.
I twisted to see the culprit. This time, it wasn’t my son’s face grinning back at me; it was my daughter’s.
“Oh, Ah-tha!” she chirped sweetly.
No, Aza!, indeed.
To make up for the brevity of this post, here are current pictures of my cheeky kids:
