rise from the couch like a war veteran reentering the battlefield. I hear giggles. Splashing. The unmistakable slap of water hitting tile. I don’t rush.

I know what waits for me.

I walk the hallway with the slow, solemn pace of someone who’s seen too much. A sock clings to my foot like it’s given up. A dinosaur figurine crunches under my heel. I keep going.

The bathroom door is open. Of course it is.

Steam hits me first — humid, suspiciously fruity. Then I see them.

Both boys in the tub.

Toys everywhere. More plastic than water.

Cups flying. Bubbles billowing. James is holding a spoon. Jack is yelling something about a bubble army.

The floor is soaked. The mat is floating. Somehow my good hand towel is hanging from the curtain rod, dripping like it’s just come back from war.

And in the middle of it all — laughter. Glorious, unhinged, echoing laughter.

Until it happens.

Jack stops.

Eyes wide.

Silent.

Then: “MOM. He peed on me.”

James looks up like a pint sized puddle pirate who’s just discovered power. They both double over in laughter. 

I close my eyes.

I take a breath.

The kind of breath that’s less calming and more self-preservation.

I don’t yell. I don’t flinch. I simply grab a towel and step into the splash zone, like a woman accepting her fate on a sinking ship. The soap is gone. The dignity? Long gone.

Just me, two slippery comedians, and a bathtub-shaped disaster.

And somehow… you are the one who ends up soaked