Man in his Pyjamas A collection of comedy writing, poetry and Asperger Syndrome.

Community Bathing

Emailed 3.11.14

My 3-year old daughter invented a new game the other night, and frankly, I am NOT a fan. Here is the context.

I have been off work this week, and thus have had a bit more time on my hands. I have spent much of this time in the bath. I don’t often take a bath; I will probably never take a bath again…..

So there was I luxuriating in a sea of bubbles made up of heavily agitated shower gel and medicated shampoo, when my son came into the bathroom to go to the loo. We exchanged pleasantries, as you do, you know, when someone gate crashes your inner sanctum and private nudity.

Good evening; nice to see you again.

If only that was where the story ended, but it isn’t. The little three foot social misfit then further misjudged the mood by, without prompt, explaining exactly why he is such a good wee-er.

In fairness, his aim is straight and true; his posture both mature and well versed, however my only interest was in soaking in silence. Yet he went on. Comprehensively so. Oblivious to the social clues – i.e. eyes shut, sighing and quietly whispering sshhhhh.

His impromptu and frankly unwarranted presentation included a fully narrated, step-by-step demonstration of exactly how he likes to wee, why he likes to wee, and when he like to wee; and, included helpful phrases such as ‘now I shake it’ and ‘time to pull my pants up’.

Next thing I know, he is nude and down the plug end. I have no idea how THAT happened.

And THEN, in walks the other one. She is instantly aggrieved that she is not covered in bubbles and immediately insists ‘get nudey Daddy’. Now I’m hoicking her over the side of the bath and splashing her down between my legs. My luxurious bubble bath feels less like a Flake advert now and more like a Guinness Book of records attempt.

I reiterate, my only interest was in soaking in silence.

In fairness – it was ace. We made bubble beards, pretended to be Santa and HO HO HO’d loudly. We squirted each other with water pistols and played basket ball with the flannel. All was well with the word. I was NOT down the plug end, my children were being delightful, and we were spending some quality time together. BOOM.

S’what holidays are all about. Daddy was a happy daddy for once. What could possibly go wrong? What? I’ll tell you freaking what…..

My 3-year old daughter, without warning, yanked my penis and shouted:


This took me somewhat by surprise. I could hear the surprise in my voice, as, in a pitch far higher than my normal baritone, I soprano’d:

Er – don’t do that baby please!

But the dye was cast. The seeds had been sown. She had the bit between her teeth (metaphorically speaking). I think she could sense my fear. SHE WOULD NOT STOP GRABBING MY MISTER.

I tried politely asking her to stop, but she just laughed at me, hysterically. I tried getting cross and using my big voice


This just made her laugh even more. Every time I un-cupped my junk, thinking that she’d been distracted by a passing rubber duck, she’d grab it again and shout WILLY.

Her reactions are lighting quick for a toddler let me tell you. Her peripheral vision is eagle-like. I was a nervous wreck. I felt like I was in a horror movie. Jaws maybe? I could hear the Psycho shower scene music in my head, as my pride and joy lurched for my manhood with a maniacal look in her eye.

With every yank she’d laugh like she was auditioning for a baby milk advert. This in-turn made the boy laugh, who was down the plug end minding his own beeswax. Mummy then came into the bathroom to see what all the noise was about, and SHE started laughing.

So just to be clear – everyone was looking at naked Daddy and laughing. SUPER. Daddy was sitting in a tepid bubble bath, that came up to his belly button (just) cupping his genitals in a bid to stop his children pulling his willy and laughing. He was fearful. He felt exposed. Violated even.

They don’t tell you about that in the parenting classes. I’d remember.

© 2014 Man in his pyjamas. All rights reserved.

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