Sunday mornings are very busy around our house. We are generally scurrying to get ready for church on time, and make sure we have all the appropriate accoutrements for Jude’s tenure in the nursery. Or, heaven forbid we should have to remember something else to bring. Like food for the Sunday school class. Or, I don’t know, my Bible? I’m just grateful I get out the door with my hair somewhat styled.

This past Sunday morning, all three of us were in our somewhat smallish (yet mercifully larger than our old house’s) master bathroom. We only had 2 towels between the three of us — Jude had peed all over the floor and I had to grab the 3rd towel — that I typically use to dry my hair with — to dry it up. I took my shower first while Jude skipped in and out of the bathroom, intermittently flushing the toilet, which is his most favorite activity. It’s like he intrinsically knows that it drives me absolutely insane, and yet I don’t want to squelch his desire to flush. Because let’s face it — nothing’s grosser than a non-flusher, non?

As I step out of the shower, I reach for my one towel, and decide to use it to wrap my wet hair in, leaving me, ahem, in the buff as Simon steps into the shower behind me. He begins to wash his hair, and Jude is squealing. He is reaching to flush the toilet for the billionth time and I tell him no.

As I turn around to assess the hair situation, I lean forward over the sink. And suddenly, I hear a primal scream, and then in the mirror I see the reflection of Jude as he comes racing toward me with two hands —

CLAPPPPPPPP!

Yup. My child just totally slapped my rear. With both hands.  On both, um, cheeks.

You know, I would have totally kept my cool, except Simon just completely cracked up and then I lost it too. We laughed until we cried.

And then I ran to put on my underwear.