Bathtime

After bathtime in our old Jackson Avenue house, we’d put our pod of toy beluga whales away, and begin construction on a towel fort. Inside, we’d place our little box heater whose face glowed red as it warmed us. We’d huddle around it, shielding ourselves from the chilly air of the bathroom. In there, we became the three little pigs. The wolf, then, was our mother, who clawed at our poorly pitched tent, playing along. Eventually, she’d get in, but instead of gobbling us up like the big bad wolf, she’d just sit there beside us and enjoy the warmth.