Boiling a Frog

October 8th.

86 degrees.

I am ready for jeans and the cute pink cowboy boots I bought for Abigail on clearance after visiting them weekly at Target for months.

We had an extra long afternoon to spend together. (Extra long because between the plumber and the neighbor's dog Abigail woke up early from her nap.) How to fill the extra hour, hmmmm. I needed to hose down the artist canvas known as a driveway so we could be ready for another chalk session with the neighboring "keeds" tonight. Abigail helped as only a toddler can or will. She stationed herself so the water would hit her feet and legs before washing the chalk off. Thus making the task slightly more tedious. But she was having fun and was even more cute than normal. So I laughed, let her, and inched the spray ever closer to her trunk.

Then the inevitable happened, "Dink, dink. Momma, dink!" So the spray slowed down to a flow somewhere between trickle and meandering stream. Abigail assumed the position: mouth open as far as possible, neck, chest, and belly as far from the stream as possible, face in range and tilted just enough to catch the water. She filled her mouth only to release the water down the front of her shirt. Over and over again until the entirety of her front is dripping water and her pants have sagged like only wet denim shorts slightly large can.

Today, though, was different. I could spray her neck and her arms. I was invited to spray her belly button, "Button!" she would holler, and her armpits, and her neck. Then I tried her head and she allowed it! No screaming as if being poked by sharp objects. No crying as if watching her parents be carried away. Just giggles.

Perhaps, maybe, is it possible, can this happy hair wetting translate to bath time too? Could I possibly hope? Do I dare?