Car Fash

After dirtying myself several times by brushing up against my filthy car, I decided today was the day to get the car washed. I usually take one or both of you to the car wash (or, as Georgia calls it, the "car fash") where we sit in the waiting area while the good folks at Genie Car Wash do a mediocre job washing it inside and out.

Today, since we were near one, I went to one of those car wash places where you stay in the car. Georgia, you got all excited about going to the car wash (at least that's what I assumed because you said "car fash, car fash" about 300 times in the two blocks we drove to get there). Unfortunately, you and your brother were both frightened by the noises all the brushes and water made on the car. You flailed your arms around in an unsuccessful attempt to reach me while the belts on your car seat kept you stationary. Your brother cried out loudly several times, but he could have just been gassy. The experience turned out to be three of the more terrifying minutes of your lives.

Interestingly, you cheerfully declared "car fash" as we drove away from the horrifying contraption.