Good Clean Fun

Today, the kids and I buckled down and decided to clean out the van. Any mother of more than 1 child (and maybe even just one child) over the age of 3 knows that "mini-van" is only a code word for trash/soccer crap/stroller-diaperbag-cheerio-lego carrying device. Oh. And in the summertime--shoes. In the school year, the floor of the mini-van is the favorite hiding place for permission slips, report cards, and critical homework instructions.

The flotsam and jetsam of modern motherhood was getting pretty thick in the old red Chrysler, so the kids and I promised Chad that we would wade in.

"Cleaning the car" to the gradeschool set, of course, involves the hose and lots and lots of messy, soapy fun. "Cleaning the car" to the Playboy set involves skimpy bikini tops, daisy dukes and lots of ample cleavage. Thanks to the milk fairy, I've got the cleavage part covered. I haven't, however, worn a bikini in about 3 and a half decades.

In a slightly pathetic attempt at flirting with my husband, I batted my eyelashes at him and asked if he wanted me to clean the car in my (make believe) bikini. My husband, like most men in their mid to late thirties, is so incredibly grateful for the sacrifice my body has made over the past 10 years in delivering him several healthy, beautiful children that he barely notices and certainly doesn't mind the stretchmarks and saddlebags. (Uh-huh).

"Sure," he snorted. "It is okay if I move the van to the backyard first so the neighbors don't see you?"

Humph.