Something to Look Forward to

It's bathtime and Elan's already in the tub. Ariel, terrified of a permanent scratch on the bottom, is looking for ways to avoid joining him. He spies the potty, plants it proudly on top of the toilet. Next, he pulls a stool over, steps up, and heaves his chubby little body on top.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?" I ask.

"Yes," he replies, nodding his head solemnly. "I make on da potty."

"Okay. Good luck." He tried this for the first time the other day. I've yet to notice any results.

He grunts with all his might, and then looks between his legs to see if anything has come of it. No such luck.

"Ees not working," he informs me, then hops up, flushes pointlessly, and plops back down.

Repeat ad nauseum.

"Mommy, Ariel's such a big boy!" Elan chirps from the tub next to me.

I'm sitting on the bathroom floor, marveling at how it sparkles. Wednesday is the day my housekeeper comes. Wednesday nights are the only points in the week during which I feel like something of a success as a homemaker. Despite the fact that such satisfaction is derived from no more skill on my part than that required of signing a check.

Sigh. You can't be good at everything all at once. At least it's clean, if only for the night.

"Look at him, making on the toilet!" Elan continues, obviously touched by how quickly the time seems to fly. Ariel continues his efforts, his proclamations of status (or rather, the lack thereof), and his flushing. None of this matters to Elan.

It's contagious. Now I'm proud of Ariel and proud of Elan for being proud of Ariel, too. Warm and fuzzy feeling. Welcome, after a contact-lens-frying day at work. "Yup, he's such a big boy now."

"I not a beeg boy," Ariel interrupts suddenly. "I am Batman."

"You know what, Mom? I 'hink Ariel must be three years old now!"

"He's not. He's still only two. He'll be three next year."

"And when he is three, I'll be five."

"That's right!"

I admire the neatness with which the boys' toiletries have been recently arranged. Elan looks pleased.

"And when I'm six years old, he'll be four."

Well, how about that. The kid can add. "Very good, Elan! You just did math!"

"I did? What's 'math?'"

"You did one-plus-one and six-minus-two..."

"Yeah, I knowed it! Ask me another one."

"Okay...When you're seven, Ariel will be..."

Pause. Then: "Five!"

"Right. And when you're ten, how old will Ariel be?"

He scrunches his nose with the effort of mental number-crunching, a mannerism that immediately reminds me he's his father's son.

My own number-crunching thought process usually goes something like this:
Income minus car bill minus rent minus insurance...Hmm...If those shoes went on sale there won't be an 8 1/2 left in the country by the time I get to them, I better - "Y! Please total up the bills!"

Enter nose-scrunch.

Y's out of town. I miss him.

"Um...eleven?"

"No! Come on, silly. Think about it."

"One?"

"Now you're just guessing. Let's wash your hair."

I lower his head gently back into the water as he gazes at the ceiling. Suddenly, he bolts upright, splashing me in the process.

"I know! Eight! When I'm ten, he'll be eight!"

"That's absolutely right! Great job, babe!"

"Wow," Elan replies, thoughtfully. "Eight years old. By then Ariel will be a real human."