“Don’t sham Pimmy’s poo!”

Me a long, long time ago, sitting with He Who Did Not Torture Me At Bathtime

Me a long, long time ago, sitting with He Who Did Not Torture Me At Bathtime

A tale to warm the heart

This is a story about a youngster named Timmy. OK, it’s a story about me. It happened when I was, oh, one? Two? Probably two. Before we get too far, I have to make it clear that I hated bathtime. I mean really hated. Maybe not as much as getting shots at the doctor’s office (as evidenced by the time at the clinic when my mom tried to take me out of the car and I, wanting very much to stay in the car, grabbed the back seat of our Ford Pinto and held on for dear life while my mother tried desperately to pry the rest of me out. Well, something had to give—and what gave was the seat cushion, springs and all. As you can imagine, that was an awkward ride home.)

I’m going to pause here, and ask that you please take a few seconds to sign up for the separate e-mail list for Tales to Warm the Heart, because then your e-mail inbox will be graced every day (or almost every day) with heartwarming stories like this one. It’s okay, go ahead…I’ll wait.

You’re back! Thanks so much. Read on…

But next on the list of things I hated with a soul-crushing passion was bathtime. And I don’t know if No More Tears shampoo was still on the drawing board or if we just didn’t have any, but every time shampoo got in my eyes, it felt like my eyeballs were being carved out with a melon-baller. You know, it stung. At any rate, that particular night, I was frustrated after a long day, plus sleepy, cranky, and not feeling much like having my hair washed. As my mom reached for that infernal bottle of what might as well have been battery acid, the words came out faster than my brain could produce them: “Mommy! Don’t sham Pimmy’s poo!” And I crossed my arms indignantly.

I paused. Reflected. Huh? What did I just say? What kind of a child had my mother raised? And from the way she was slowly setting the shampoo bottle back down again, I could tell she was thinking the same thing. Needless to say, my hair went unwashed that night. After my mom toweled me off, I went back, embarrassed but relieved, to doing all the things 1-year-olds do for the rest of the evening.

That was the bad news. Now here’s the good news: This story has been immortalized on a mug. Not just any mug, a shiny, high quality, dishwasher-safe mug from Zazzle. After all, who wouldn’t want to sip something hot from a beautiful Quippsy-themed mug displaying what some kid so boldly declared one night during bathtime in 1977? I know I would. The even better news: Quippsy Gold members get 10% off! Of course, you can change the wording on this mug to make it special to you, and you can also turn any Quipp into a mug. While you’re at it, get two—one for Grandma this Easter. (Sorry, hot chocolate not included.)

Your turn! We know you have some great stories about your kids, and guess what? This is your chance to give us the “story behind the story.” It doesn’t even need to be about something they said, it could just be something memorable that happened on a road trip. Submit it here, and if it fits our theme, we’ll share it with everybody. And who knows, your kid’s wisdom could end up on a sweat shirt. Submit your own story

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