“Grandma, please don’t look at my privates.” Barrett, age six, said as he peaked through the crack of the bathroom door
“Okay. I won’t.” I declared. And then, like any grand dramatic actress, I cut my eyes straight to the roof and froze in that position.
“That’s good.” Barrett opened the door a tad further, hesitated, eyeballed me again to make sure I wasn’t looking, then pranced down the hall.
I suppressed a smirk as his little, naked butt bounced by, without a towel, leaving a trail of water on the floor. Every part of his precious little body was on display.
Not that I hadn’t seen his personals millions of times in the last six and ½ years. Because… the kid was a nudist. He shucked his clothes anywhere, usually at the most awkward moments. Had all of his life. This started in his diaper days and lasted until last week. When something happened. (I don’t know what.) But, when I walked into Barrett’s bedroom five days ago, he screeched like a banshee. Scurried for cover. Then accused me of looking at his “privates.”
Life hadn’t been the same since.
I decided I’d stared at the ceiling long enough.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“You said I could have a Popsicle when I was done in the shower.”
Well… I had. But, with this modesty issue raging, I thought he’d at least put on some underwear.
I followed him into the kitchen. Watched him open the freezer, pick a popsicle and pop it into his mouth – all without a thought toward his nakedness.
“Ahhh… Are you planning to eat that naked?” I asked, unable to restrain myself.
Barrett’s face turned indignant. His hands shot, popsicle and all, to cover himself. “Grandma, I told you not to look.”
“I’m sorry.” I shot my eyes upward, again, as he marched irately out of the room.
(Obviously, I don’t get 6-year-old logic.)