You remember the Friends episode in which it's revealed that Monica gives the most excruciatingly painful massages ever? Well, every time I try to wash my kid's hair. . . outraged shrieks, desperate clawing, complaints, underwater farts, and all manner of disagreeable boy eruptions. Yet when husband does the hairwashing, all is like a sun-drenched pasture with only the drone of fat bees to break the serenity. I'm staring at my fingers right now, trying to discern their aura. Spiky? Irradiated? They just look like middle-aged mommy sausage fingers to me. Come to think of it, L. hates when I try to rub his shoulders.
OH MY GOD.
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