William, Lindsey, and I have our games. I can’t play Legos, they know this. I’m not so good at house and/or school (though I could play by myself by the hour growing up). They know this too. Trains? Eh, not so much. The things they can mostly count on Mom for are playing cards, reading books, going for bike rides, playing doctor, the occasional hide-and-go-seek game, and… playing spa. The last one is my favorite.
“Hey William! You want to play spa?!?!” I ask, hoping he’ll take the bait.
Not exactly. He actually loves to play these games. He has a doctor kit and Lindsey is always forced into being the nurse (I have told them time and time again, though, that Lindsey could be the doctor too. And, in fact, William could be the nurse to which he said boys couldn’t be nurses. My feminist side made sure he didn’t make that mistake again). So he gets the doctor kit out – complete with gloves I swiped from a doctor’s office one day – and they get a clipboard and they call my name. I come up to my room where they ask me what seems to be the problem: usually a broken leg or a heart issue. I have had many heart surgeries. They cut me open, stitch me up, and I go on my merry way.
Sometimes, though, we play spa. This involves my lavendar-vanilla essential oils body lotion and back-scratching and foot rubs. Spa is the best. Even better? I don’t have to suggest it. They genuinely like it (mostly because I think they like having my attention on them, therefore should I feel guilty if the attention comes in the form of a spa game? No way!). So last night, spa it was. Normally I am a drill sergeant about bed time – teeth brushed?! Check! Lights out?! CHECK! Now, MARCH! – but when I found their bedtime nearing, and my foot rub just beginning, I got a little lax. It’s not every day I visit the spa after all.
And William gives the best foot rubs.
(image: I’d like to think our spa looks a bit more glamourous than this one. And what is with the tubes?)