Landis is a LONG bath taker. He's always messing around in the tub, never really getting down to the business of washing his hair or his body unless you go in and nag him every 5 minutes. Look. I'm all for a good soak too. But can we wash first, THEN soak? Please? It would make my night easier. And contrary to what Landis obviously believes, I don't enjoy being a nag. So the other night, after I'd been in the bathroom a few times reminding him to actually WASH himself, I went back in to see if there was a snowball's chance in Hell that he'd decided to follow instructions. He was laying as far down in the tub as he could, ears underwater, eyes closed."Landis?" I say. His eyes open."Have you actually washed yourself?"He nods."Really?" I ask him skeptically."Yes." He says as he sits up."Did you wash your hair?""Yes.""Did you wash your body?""Yes.""Everywhere?" I ask. Because let's face it......He likes to do a half-assed job."Yes EVERYWHERE!" he replies, clearly exasperated with me and my questions. "Even my VAGINA!"
Gibson's newest obsession is obtaining a "six-pack". The abdominal kind. (Sigh...) Are you wondering why an 8 year old would care about that? Me too. To be honest, I don't even know where he heard the term because he most certainly didn't pick it up around here. I mean, I try to work out on a regular basis, but my fitness regimen has everything to do with the fact that I consume red meat, cheese, potatoes and beer in large quantities, and nothing at all to do with chiseling my gut. Unless you consider the ability to button your pants consistently (without cutting off the circulation to your brain) to be a sub-category of chiseling. I, for one, don't. He's so committed to his abs that on our last vacation, Gibson spent time doing calisthenics on the riverside. "Mom! Watch this!" he'd yell, and then take off down the beach using "fast feet" drills to dodge the rocks along the bank. When he ran out of beach space he'd turn and sprint back, drop at my feet and do push ups followed by a few sets of sit-ups. He finished his routine by jumping back and forth 20 times over a line he'd drawn in the sand with his toe. And come to think of it, he may have thrown some jumping jacks in there somewhere too.... All in the name of the almighty Six Pack. (My routine was a little more mellow. It consisted of sitting in a chair at the river's edge, watching the sun set and doing arm curls. With 12 oz. "weights".) When he digs snacks out of the pantry after school he studies the labels. "Is this good for my six-pack?" He shovels salad or green beans or broccoli into his mouth at dinner occasionally explaining - as he pats his stomach - that vegetables are good for your six-pack. Six pack, six pack, six pack. The kid is 8. So the other day he wanders up to the stove where I'm making dinner, pulls up his shirt, smacks himself in the stomach a few times for good measure and says "Hey Mom! Wanna' see my SIX PACK?!?!?!" Then he draws himself up to his full height and flexes with all his might - arms out to the side, elbows bent at 90 degree angles, look of intense concentration on his face - his entire body a solid little rock. "Hnnnnnnnnnnggggggg!!!!!"And I guess I was feeling a little squirrely, what with all that hopped up testosterone floating around the kitchen, so I spun around, whipped MY shirt up exposing my not-nearly-as-solid-abdominal muscles and replied "Yo' Gibson!! Wanna' see MY six-pack?!?!" I gave my gut a few obnoxious smacks, raised my arms above my head, and flexed every muscle in my body - going through the motions of the best pose-down I could muster. Which, of course, made not a damn bit of difference to my physique because there is no way in the WORLD you can see any bit of muscle fiber under my pudgy little belly. And that, my friends, was the point. Because, you see, I'm funny. (Or at least I think I'm funny, and frankly that's all that really matters....) Gibson though, didn't get my joke. So he's standing there, head cocked sideways, taking in my pose-down with a look of concerned confusion on his face. "Ummmm...Mom?" he says, and I can tell that he's going to try to let me down easy. "That's not a six pack............. That's chubby."His baffled response totally cracks me up, because yes. Yes it is. See? It's a joke. And then Mike,........Mike..... supportive husband that he is, decides that Gibson has just insulted me and jumps immediately to my defense. "Well Gibson," he says indignantly, "she HAS had TWO babies!"Hmmm. Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...................... Thanks? It's not that I don't appreciate what he was trying to do. I do. And I wasn't really offended. Really. I promise. But since the opportunity has presented itself, let me go ahead and use this interaction as a "Teachable Moment". Fellas? Lean in here. I'm gonna' share a little secret with you.A little closer... That's it.. Are you ready? OK. Here's the deal...... When you perceive that your wife has been insulted and you (the fabulous husband that you are) spring to her defense, it's best to just say that you think she looks great.... as opposed to justifying why it's OK -- in fact, perfectly reasonable -- that she's a little bit fat.
