He is trying to be quiet, bless his heart. "Bless his heart," being the thing that people say when a child is trying hard to do something and failing miserably. I am in the shower with the door closed and the vent fan, whose motor was clearly taken from a decommissioned WWII bomber, on. Yet I hear him coming up the steps from the time his first little foot hits the bottom riser. His footfalls are slower than normal, so I know he is making an effort to be quiet. He pushes the door open softly, producing one long drawn-out loud creak instead of a brief one. The curtain opens with a flourish. "Boo!" He attempts to whisper, but it is hard to suppress excitement when you are sneaking up on someone.
"EEeek!" I playfully feign surprise, but the crooked smirky smile on his face shows me that he knows I'm not fooled. "Well, I could hear you coming from a mile away. Hang on, I'm done here." When you have four kids any ideas of privacy and the sanctity of bathroom time have flown well out the window and over the neighbors hedge. The little ninja is now concentrating on adhering, then snapping off, the suction cups from the new shower curtain on to the shower wall tile. It is an enviable pursuit, when I was his age I loved a non slip bath mat that my grandparents owned. The sound of fifty or so little octopus feet snapping and slurping off of the shower bottom as I muscled it upward was so satisfying.
His attention has wandered away from the shower curtain, now that I have gotten out of the shower and began my post-shower process of applying lotions and hair products. We men become quite prissy in our old age, savoring the last bits of our youthful appearance He reopens the bathroom door again slowly, again loudly. On egress he again pauses on every little creak. This time the intended stealth is directed at not waking his napping twin sisters. As he tip toes out into the hallway close to the doors of the rooms where they slumber, I see that tip toeing may be something we need to review in our fine motor skills sessions. His method of sneaking might be more accurately described as tip outsides-of-the-feeting.
I then realize that I was not the primary target. He has spotted his prey. Boomer, his formally white, now more accurately described as off white, stuffed cat and constant companion, is relaxing in the hallway outside the door to his bedroom, having been placed thus not 10 minutes earlier by me in an attempt to "keep this place picked up."
I move to my bedroom to throw on some clothes. Privacy may have eroded with offspring, but we all still have a modicum of modesty. He shuts off the bathroom fan. His first ever attempt at conserving energy at odds with his attempt to not wake his sisters. The din had been an effective blanket of sound to this point. Then I hear the pounce.
"Boomie, I got you!" Full voice this time, no attempt made to conceal it.
I close my eyes and brace for the wailing cry of being awoken too early from a nap.
