In order to tell this story I need to share something deeply personal and embarrassing with you.
I have a little bit of peach fuzz on my upper lip.
It's not quite blond.
I have a little bit of dark-ish fuzz on my upper lip.
I have a mustache.
I bleach my 'stache, as do most women that share my affliction. This is done with a handy little chemistry kit type thing (mixing plate and spatula included!) provided nearly everywhere through the generosity of Ms. Salley Hansen, whoever that is. The process is visually...arresting. I hole up in my bathroom while coated in bleachy goo and avoid encountering anyone at all costs. I think Dan and I were married for three years before he finally walked in on me mid 'stache bleach. He knew I did it, but had never seen the process before.
Yes, he laughed. No, I did not.
So today I put the kids down for their naps and decided I was in need of a little 'stache eradication. I happily applied the stuff and plopped down on the edge of the tub with my phone as entertainment to wait out the fume ridden and...tingly...ten minutes required.
Then I heard the guest bathroom toilet lid open.
This sound cannot be ignored, because it's possible, quite likely really, that Payne might be in need of some adult assistance with cleanup. I can't in good conscience avoid that responsibility. So I creep in there hoping just to check on him and duck out if he had completed less than serious business. Unfortunately, he was in need of my help, so I went in, and asked "You need help buddy?". He responded with a quick and inattentive "Yeah" and then glanced up at me briefly.
I kid you not. My three year old did a double take.
Payne: (wide eyed) "Mommy, wat daaaaat? On your mouf?"
Me: "Oh. It's, um, soap." (really, go ahead and try thinking of a way to explain relative cultural ideas of beauty and semi-permanent body alteration to your young child, ok?)
Payne: "Soap? 'Dinky soap!"
I'll give him that one. It does have a tendency to burn one's tender nostrils.
Me: "Mmm. Hmm..."
Payne: "You 'ave a mustache?"
Me: (nervous giggle)
Ah. Don't you love it when children say something superficially correct but also even more correct than they realize?
So, at that point I was expending a considerable amount of effort in not laughing, because 'stache bleach kind of sets, and if you smile or talk much after it's been on there a couple of minutes it does this lovely thing where it cracks and half slides off and one ends up with chemical burns on one's lips.
This story does have a happy ending. Payne was re tucked, bleach was washed off, and I now have nice blond upper lip fuzz.
I wonder how much I'm going to regret having posted this tomorrow.