The array of mess before me increases my heart rate instantly. I see many deflated dollops of white shaving cream on the floor, the walls and the glass door of my large shower.  I just cleaned this bathroom two days ago!  I’ve been enjoying the sense of order and sparkle every time I’ve walked through my newly cleaned spa on the way to my master closet. The shower, particularly, required a lot of  strenuous work. I scoured and panted for a full thirty minutes to achieve perfection…and now this.  This….well….this was NOT good.

“What happened in here?!!!!!   Chaaaarrrrlie!!!!!  Come in here this instant!”  Lately, there’s been a ban on yelling (issued by King Scott against his Queen because he feels her loud buzzing/yelling/screaming  too often yields a negative energy throughout the castle grounds) but I cannot help myself in this instance.  This mess is just too insulting.  I have not cursed (as I am only three days into my rehabilitation to overcome my swearing habit).  With this sight, however, I’m starting to realize that it might be too much to ask…to begin curbing both my swearing and yelling dependencies all in the same week.  The Queen is now considering a new edict herself.  “No more use of the parental shower suite.  The children will use the kid bathroom upstairs only!” (With the older kids – who tend to hog the upstairs bathroom with their lengthy showers and elaborate preparations – three thousand miles away on vacation, this new ban shouldn’t be too hard to enforce.)

“What?!!  What, Mom?”  Charlie comes barreling around the corner from the master bedroom into the bathroom to see what the Queen Bee is buzzing about now.  He sees me point frantically at the shaving cream scene in my shower.

“What do you mean, ‘What?’  I say.  “This is a HUGE mess!  I just cleaned this bathroom!”

“I’m practicing my technique.”  Charlie begins an elaborate shaving dance, tilting his chin this way and that as he “pretend-shaves” the sides of his face, his chin, his neck.  His eyebrows raise, his lips curl downward in a mock grimace (is that how Scott shaves?) as he runs the invisible shaver over his cheeks and jawline.

And because these exaggerated gestures by the eight year old boy standing before me in his boxer short pajamas is suddenly so funny and irresistible…I begin to laugh.  (The queen really wants to remain angry and continue on with her steamy tantrum but she has no control over the stream of chuckles that come burping forth.)  I turn on the shower nozzles to get a lukewarm spray of water going. I begin rinsing out the assorted mounds of shaving cream.  This will take a while and I soon realize that I’m probably going to have to get a little wet as I need to actually crouch within the shower and use a forceful scooping motion to effectively direct the shaving cream swill toward the shower drain.

Having placated the queen yet again with his humorous charades, Charlie starts for the bathroom door.

“Wait a minute!” I call out.  “You didn’t  use my shaver in the shower when you were…um…shaving, did you?  Don’t ever do that!  That’s very dangerous.  You could cut yourself  badly, honey!”

“Mom, Relax!” Charlie says.  “I used my finger because I knew that’s the kind of thing you’d freak out about.”  He walks out the bathroom door but quickly returns and stands before me as I crouch on the shower floor. Shower water drips down my arm and begins to dampen the back of my shirt while I swipe and scoop at the shaving cream puddle.  “Besides,” he tells me, “I NEVER use pink shavers.”