Krystina

I have heard a number of horror stories,too many to count, from parents recalling just how terrible bath time is for them.

Their children scream, and kick, and throw things at the mere thought of taking a bath. And these parents are the ones who have to dodge toy trucks being thrown their way, whilst simultaneously trying to wrestle that child into the tub.

For me and my son, however, it's a completely different story.

Rather than having to wrestle Bryan into the tub, I have to wrestle him out.

If he had it his way, he would live in the bathroom and only come out to eat and watch Gumball.

After telling Bryan that we would be having a special guest over for dinner tonight, I ushered him, very willingly, into the bathtub.

I told him, and I quote "we gotta be quick baby, so I can fix your hair and finish dinner." That's what I said. Verbatim.

Yet, for some reason, more specifically Bryan's toddler tantrum, here I sit on the edge of the tub, thirty five minutes later, listening to the bath time selections by the illustrious Bryan Green.

"Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub-a-dub-dub. Gotta wash, wash, wash, in between my toes. Take all the boogers, out my nose." He giggles and splashes, humoring himself with the thought of nasal mucus.

Boys.

"Okay, honey, you really have to get out now. I gave you and extra 10 minutes, twice, and you're thoroughly wrinkled." I try to reason with him.

He looks at me, furrows his brows a bit, opens his mouth to argue, then, seeing the no nonsense set to my face, obliges.

Hell must be freezing over.

I grab his superman towel and, ignoring the slight twinge in my back, bend over to take him out of the tub and dry him off.

After he's been thoroughly dried, I attempt, keyword attempt, to style his hair in an appropriate manner. I wanted to see if I would be able to slick it all down towards the back, but of course, Bryan's curly locs put up a fight. And win. So I settle for what has, in the past few weeks, become Bryan's new favorite hairstyle: a manbun.

I lead him out of the bathroom, and across the hall to his room. I move to help him with his undies, just as he moves to push my hands away. "No." He whines. "I can do it my own self." He pouts.

Sweet Jesus, he's growing up. "Okay, babe. No problem. After you get into your undies, how about you get yourself dressed as well?" He nods excitedly. I lean closer towards him, "Wear something Clark Kent would wear." I tell him, knowing he'll understand that better than me telling him to wear something semi-formal.

"YES!" He says enthusiastically, before I leave him to get dressed.

I hurry downstairs, only then noticing how little time I have left.

We're having chicken salad and a side of breadsticks, for dinner. The chicken breast is done, but the lettuce is still sitting nicely packaged in the refrigerator.

I get it out quickly, along with everything else I need, and get to work.

20, long minutes later, my fingers are slightly bruised from my grip on the knife, but the chicken and salad are chopped and ready to be plated.

I've been watching a lot of cooking shows recently, so I know that plate presentation is key, and these plates, if I may say so myself, are looking mighty delectable.

I'm wiping off the counter where I was chopping the meat, when the doorbell rings.

No. Fücking. Way.

It's already 7:30.

I'm not even dressed.

"Dammit." I curse lowly, walking into the foyer to answer the door.

"Hey." He says when the door opens. He, as usual looks great in what is probably his everyday attire. A black blazer over a white dress shirt, and black slacks. His hair is unruly, and by the way he's dragging his fingers through it anxiously, I can see why.

He thrust a large bottle into my hands. "I was gonna bring a nice wine, but then I remembered that not everyone at the table will be of legal drinking age. So I got this sparkling apple cider instead." He laughs nervously.

It's lowkey, lowkey, on the very lowest of keys, adorable.

"This is great." I tell him honestly. "Bryan loves apples, so this is right up his alley." He breathes out in relief, rubbing his hands together as I shepherd him into the living room.

"I just finished up dinner. I'm gonna go get changed, and then bring him down. You think you'll be okay here for a few minutes?"

"Yeah. That's fine. Take your time, Krys. Really." He assures me as he takes a seat. "I could use a few minutes alone, truthfully."

"Ok. Well, we'll be down in a few."

I rush up the stairs, first checking in on Bryan, before going into my room.

I know Stephen told me to take my time, but I'm not. I wouldn't be a very good hostess, if I left my guest alone for more than a few minutes.

After a quick wash up, I don a pair of black skinny jeans and an off the should sweater in the same color. I swipe a bit of tinted lip balm onto my lips, followed by a few coats of mascara,  before I slip on my ballet flats and leave out.

I walk into Bryan's room, silently praying that he doesn't have on something ridiculous. He's, thankfully, dressed in a simple plaid shirt and dark pants. He doesn't like to wear shoes inside the house, so instead he has on pair of black socks with the grips on the bottom so he's not sliding all over the place.

"Look at you! Handsome little man." He smiles up at me in response before taking my hand.

My heart is pounding while I lead him down the stairs and into the living room.

I haven't really had time to think about my impromptu dinner invitation to Stephen. Or what it really meant. Now I'm, for lack of a better word, shook. My nerves are wrecked.

Stephen is leaning over slightly, with his hands clasped together in front of him, when we reach the living room. He stands when he notes our presence.

He looks like he's about to vomit.

I catch his eyes, and send him a reassuring nod before bending down to Bryan's level.

"Hey, honey. You remember Stephen, right? He helped you with your truck a few night ago?"

"Yeeeahh." He replies, a small smile on his cherub face.

"Well, he's our special guest tonight. We're all gonna have dinner and then hang out for a bit. Sound good?"

He's silent for a moment, putting his hand around his chin in an exaggerated "I'm thinking" pose.

"Can we watch Gumball?" He asks, finally.

This kid.

I nod.

"Sounds good." He tells me.

____________________________________________________________________

This is a filler chapter, so no juicy bits. I've got a lot in store for this little dinner, and all of that would not have fit in one chapter.

Are you all doing well??

I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas and New Years, I know I did. Hence me being MIA.

Quick question, is anyone having trouble using the Wattpad app on their mobile device or tablet?

My app has been spazzing for the past few weeks, and it's really been bothering me. I've re-downloaded it about a dozen times, and still no change.

Sad ting.

The next chapter should be posted within a week.

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