May, 2014, Wyatt is eight
I was unsatisfied with the job Wyatt had done of cleaning his face, so I took him back up to the bathroom to wash the peanut butter and grime off myself. He would be picked up any minute to go to a museum in the city with a new friend and I was not going to send him with a dirty face. While I was washing his face and hands, I noticed his nails were less than pristine, so I scrubbed and trimmed them and then I had him take off his socks so I could do his toenails, too, because as long as I am taking the time to cut anyone’s nails, I generally just go ahead and check all ten digits of any kid within reach. (Duncan was out of the bathroom like a shot as soon as he saw me pick up the clippers.) Once Wyatt’s toenails were done, I spritzed his curls with lavender water so they would coil tighter and stay out of his eyes— I don’t mind him wanting to wear his hair long, but hair in the eyes, I cannot abide. Wyatt endured these ablutions with growing impatience, but when I took a peek in his ears and made a move toward the cotton swabs, he dodged away.
“Enough! Enough!” he said, “Mommy, it’s a play date, not a wedding!”