After a long and, frankly, odd day I managed to coerce my 14 year old into giving me a head massage.
He’s very good at it.
Also, it was highly likely he was the cause of my need for a head massage in the first place. And if not, then I’ll blame him anyway, because … well, because I can.
Not to be left out, the littlest one asked if he could massage my feet.
As if that needed asking.
Having neglected my feet balming of late, I took the opportunity to have the six year old apply it. This would also mean that I wouldn’t have to get up and wash my hands, so it was a win-win really.
Upon completing his application of foot cream to a select portion of each of my feet, I was just about to recommend to him that he was his hands.
Before I could, however, he beat me to it.
“I just gotta go wash my hands,” he says. “Before they turn into feet.”
I did check the ingredients and directions on the side of the tube for any such side effects and couldn’t find any.
But then again this is Chippie, whom I found lying under the door of the dishwasher this morning, in a protest against having to unstack it.
Last night he was a cat.