Bad Monkeys

            I think I am a monkey. No, I am not trying to get anti-psychotics again. I just love it when my children groom me. Like monkeys do. Monkeys sit in their trees and pick the lice off of each other. No! I don’t have lice! I just like being groomed like a monkey.

            I love to sit on the floor and have my littlest spider monkey brush my hair. It is so completely relaxing. Well, except when he slaps the brush on my head and drags it through with so much force I briefly see stars. At this point he usually explains that it only hurts for a moment, but he’ll try to be more gentle. I’m sure I have never said that to him. Oh well: no pain, no pleasure. After a quick reminder to not rip out mommy’s hair, I fall back into my monkey-like trance.

            I love to have my nails painted, but only by my older howler monkey. I do try to be fair, but the littlest chimpanzee has been known to paint all the way up to my ankle. Feeling the cold paint on my nails makes me all tingly. I am even willing to let her pick out the design, which would explain the zebra stripes I occasionally display.

            I love it when they do my makeup. I have no favorites here. The littlest orangutan usually leaves me looking like a crazed clown that broke free from the circus. The other ball of orange fluff is apt at the rode-hard-and-worn-down hooker look. The fact that I will have to replenish my makeup supplies doesn’t even bother me. I just want to lie back and doze in the pampering of my precious little monkeys.    
        
            So, here is my dilemma in my blissful monkey world: if your baby monkey refuses to clean his room, is it wrong to let him out of time out because he offers to brush your hair?