I was in Bloomington, IN this weekend for a gig, and we stopped in to the home of some local musicians to coo over their three-month-old twins and so the band and the new parents could play some tunes.
While I'm technically "with the band," paid to be there, actually working, and all that, I'm the caller and don't play an instrument. That means there's not much for me to do during jam sessions except knit. Life could be worse, I guess.
I ended up hanging out in the back room with Wade, the five-year-old brother of the new babies, watching a DVD. Wade is a pretty cool kid and really, really sharp. He was getting really into the movie when he jumped up and did the ooooooooh-I-really-really-gotta-pee dance before turning off the TV (but not the DVD) and racing to the nearby bathroom.
Not 30 seconds later he reappeared, ready to resume the movie. Let's just say that the bathroom was really close by and that I can tell the difference between the various watery sounds that emanate from such places: peeing, flushing, and hand washing. I knew for a fact that the final had not happened.
When I asked, "Did you wash your hands?" (because that's what bossy grownups do), Wade positively froze in the middle of the floor and I could see the wheels beginning to turn.
"Because you just used the bathroom."
"Well . . . maybe in your family you wash your hands," says the little man.
"Yes," says I, "We do."
Another very long pause.