Cass has decided he can take his own baths now. He's mastered the hard-to-do-bit, the sloshing of water over his head after shampooing, and feels confident in soaping up and rinsing off without any help. Not that I was helping that much, you understand, but now I'm not invited in to read while he splashes away.
This relieves me from the nightly ritual of handing him a washcloth so he can cover his parts (Mooo-oooom!) and finding another so he can wipe his eyes free of bathwater.
And now that I'm not there, he sings.
A mixture of short songs he learns at school (Here comes the train for you...Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, eve-rrry day the train will go) and songs from his MP3 player (Accidentally in loooove, I'm accidentally in loooooo-vvvvee..(pause)..Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet...Make a little birdhouse in your soul)* trickle from the bathroom and wend their way downstairs, where his father and I sit, grinning like fools at each other.
Six is sometimes a know-it-all, and definitely testing boundaries, but six is very, very nice.
*His musical taste varies hugely from Shrek (that retching sound? Not attractive, Alethea!) soundtracks to Death Cab For Cutie to dance stuff to Newfoundland jigs. Pigeonholing this kid is going to be tough.