Battles of the Bath

The bath. Ahhhhh. Those two tiny words bring me such joy. What female doesn’t relish the idea of soaking in a warm tub, full to overflowing with soft bubbles, surrounded by scented candles, a good book in hand or at least some nice music and maybe even a perfectly chilled glass of white wine? Well – to begin with – the two females that I’m raising. To set the right tone for this piece, let’s call them Greasy and Grumpy. I remember bathing Greasy and Grumpy as infants. Poor things. They howled and clenched their little fists, clearly letting me know they’d punch me good if only their arms were longer … or, at least if their hands weren’t so darn heavy! My solution to their distress was to learn to give a bath so fast that I really should have called the Guiness folks in to time me. In retrospect, set up and clean up for the event was always three times longer than the actual performance. Baby tub, towels, washcloth, Dove soap (unscented!), cotton balls, pjs, diaper, wipes, Ihle’s paste, baby hairbrush, baby nail clippers, camera and, more often than not, an audience, and we were ready to go. 20 minutes of hauling crap to the kitchen, 10 minutes of clenched fists (their’s), goosebumps (their’s), ear-piercing shrieks (mine and their’s), and another 10 minutes of hauling residual crap back to the nursery. Fait accompli until the next day! Or, until they were covered in baby barf (which Grandma charmingly called “spit up”) and we had to start all over. However, like so many other little tikes, Greasy and Grumpy soon grew to love bath time. In my experience, this happens as soon as they can sit in a bath seat in the “big bath tub” – as opposed to being splayed open like a Christmas turkey on the kitchen table or in the kitchen sink. The bathtub becomes a playground. Bath seat positioned in the middle, with any semblance of water totally obliterated by duckies, boats, a variety of floating Sesame Street characters, spoons, cups and most of the plastic containers from my kitchen cupboard. Somewhere, under that pile, was a giggling Greasy or Grumpy. We had so much fun at this stage… singing songs, telling stories, blowing bubbles. Well now, wait -- it was fun when I blew bubbles. Their bubbles usually meant hauling a much-relieved Greasy or Grumpy out of the tub, scooping out the toy flotilla for disinfection maneuvers, being careful to leave the new and offensive floaters for subsequent removal, draining the water and scrubbing the tub ‘til my arms ached. Yep, fun indeed. After outgrowing “BM bubbles,” Greasy and Grumpy would actually ASK to take a bath. Yessiree, they sure did. They would have gladly stayed in that water for hours, slowly shrivelling into something resembling Sharpei puppies, if I didn’t fish them out against their will. Apparently, the ear-piercing shriek skill acquired in infancy resurfaces at this age. Only now, it’s enhanced by kicking (their’s) and wrestling (mine). They’d finally discovered the pleasures of the bath and obviously felt it best to live there. Jump ahead many years and here I sit, still firmly entrenched in the War of the Water. Every night, Greasy and Grumpy are told “Time to take your bath.” Every night, they recite from their lists of excuses: I have too much homework! I took a bath LAST night! I waited all night to see this tv show! I only need a few more points to get to the next level on this game! Oh, and my personal favorite, “FINE! I’ll take a bath if I don’t have to wash my hair!” What is with these kids anyway? It’s not that they don’t want to be clean. They love the feel of smooth, freshly-washed skin. They relish the softness of clean hair. They drink in the scent of a wonderful soap or body wash. But they want it all without the “hassle” of getting in the tub! Some nights I’d be just as glad to hose them off in the backyard and send them to bed. I realize, very soon, they will understand the lure of the bath. I do my very best thinking in the tub. I’m warm. I’m comfortable. It’s the one and only place I can truly relax… … until Stinky (aka the husband I’m also raising) comes strolling through the door, uninvited and apparently oblivious to my presence, intent on launching an offensive flotilla of his own at the opposite end of the room. Not even my scented candles can help me now. I lay there, defenceless as an infant, and do the only thing I can possibly do. I howl and clench my fists, letting him know I’d punch him good, if only my arms were longer.