I’ve been cleaning up after a lot of Sloshies of late. Mere moments ago, I dragged a high stool over to the cupboard fronts above the fridge so that I could wipe away the tell-tale white remnants that announced that a Sloshie had been there. Sloshies have made appearances many places here in my house of late, for you see, my littlest Little has discovered a new favorite book so aptly entitled The Encyclopedia of Immaturity. In it, he’s discovered – among many other truly thrilling things – the fine art of Sloshie making.
The perfect Sloshie – I’m told – involves just the right ratio of toilet paper and water; it’s the poor man’s version of a snowball. Here in BC, when it comes to snow and it’s attendant glories, we are most emphatically the proverbial poor man. My kids lament this poverty of ours regularly. But pity us not, as we now have the Sloshie and the satisfying splat the Sloshie makes once it makes contact with a flat surface, ideally near someone’s unsuspecting head, is delightful. Even when it’s my head that’s very nearly been soaked and splatted, I have to laugh at the sound it makes. But the best part comes of watching my Little laugh and laugh at the splat and his near-soaked prey – most frequently his mother – and you can’t look at him and not laugh and love every fibre of the little man’s being.
His eyes crinkle with the mirth that overtakes him. He enters in so fully to his joy. I have thought a thousand times as I watch him in moments like these – marveling that God saw fit to bring him forth from me and from my genes – that I’d be a better person if I entered into my joy the way he does his. This little guy lives life to its fullest and isn’t half-hearted about anything and sometimes, if he’s really excited about something, he vibrates with it, this joy. Isn’t it time you and I did a little more vibrating with joy? It’s messy, this Sloshie making, this vibrating with joy, but we can always clean up in the morning, can’t we?