Same thing happens every night
Bill Cosby has a bit in “Himself” where he describes the mayhem that happened every evening in his house. The children are sent up to take their baths and one by one come back downstairs each complaining about the others. This of course is far funnier when related by Mr Cosby.
I only have one child thus far and he isn’t big enough to come back downstairs on his own yet. He’s not even really able to string together a sentence. Just baby words. He does get a bath every night though. This is my responsibility. I’m not even sure how it became my responsibility. I know my wife’s justification for it, as it allows her to finish up her “Work from home” work each day and gives her a brief reprieve from his incessant “go-ing.”
So here’s how it goes down. I come home from work and the boy usually shows excitement and rapidly crawls over to me and climbs up my leg. I dump my stuff and pick him up and hug him and squeeze him then spend the next hour or so playing with him in the living room. Usually this is a good time.
Then it’s time for dinner. This could go one of two ways. Either he really enjoys what he’s eating and does so with gusto, or whatever is being put in his mouth is most likely a poison that will kill him if he has a second taste. His defenses of lip lock, a tightness that only a crowbar might penetrate, and gravity mouth, an agape stance where the offending items simply ooze back out, are most formidable.
Finally it is bath time. I have mixed emotions about this, because while it is my responsibility, and therefore a chore which I resist passive aggressively, it is also an opportunity for the boy to surprise me with moments of pure entertainment.
Bath goes like this. We go upstairs. I assemble all the paraphernalia that I will need for his bath and after it is over: jammies, towel, washcloth, diaper, Desitin. I fill up his tub with warm soapy water while he stands and jumps next to the tub; for whatever reason he finds this exciting. I strip him bare and unceremoniously dump him in the tub. Again this whole process could go one of two ways depending on the position of the stars and the relative quantity of carbon in a 2B pencil. It’s really that random. Some nights we have a great time and he laughs and plays and splashes until he has obliterated all bubbles in the tub. Then there are the nights where touching him in any way with the washcloth elicits a response from him you would only expect if you were peeling his skin off. I of course prefer the former.
One night in particular he pointed his finger at my face as I bent over him washing his toes. I took the opportunity to “eat” his finger, and then devour his whole tiny fist. Finding the taste of baby soap to be less than pleasing, I “bleched” his hand back out and then made little spitty noises to spit the soap out. Apparently this was the funniest thing I have ever done. He laughed like a redneck in the front row of the Blue Collar Comedy tour and naturally once was not enough. I believe I ended up eating 30 or so fists, each one tasting much like the first, and each, upon regurgitation, elicited the hysterical laughter of my son.
Sometimes I’m tired and worn out after getting home from work, and doing anything at all seems like too much. Getting to hear that laugh, though, is worth the effort. I know someday I won’t be funny to him anymore, so while I am I eat baby fists. Even if it means doing the same thing every night.
Daddy On The Fly 
Love it! Yes, it is interesting how kids love repetition and repetitive rituals. Must bring them some sense of comfort in what must be an otherwise very intimidating and confusing world.