Bath Night

Image by Jessica.Tam

I balance awkwardly on the edge of the tub, my daughter sitting on my knee, lunging for the yellow duck just out of her reach. I turn on the faucet and let the water run into the white plastic basin with its baby-shaped contours.

When my oldest – now four – was a baby, we had a temperature gauge that fit over the faucet and told me if the water was the right temperature.  Its batteries long dead, it still covers the spout, rubbery and padded, a reminder of a time when I didn’t trust myself enough to decide whether the water was too hot or too cold for my baby’s bath.

I pump two squirts of soap into the tub.  Colorless, creamy, eco-friendly, it swirls in the running water, dully opalescent.  No bubbles for my sensitive-skinned girl. (No, Calgon will not take her away.)

I turn off the water, wriggle the towel off of my daughter, blow raspberries on her tummy for good measure, and lower her into the tub.  As the water meets her toes, then her bottom, then her back, she looks at me with an expression of confused delight, her eyes narrowing then widening, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth and then expanding as it takes over her face.

I kneel down on the floor next to the tub and go about my business as she goes about hers. I start with her face, my soft white washcloth gently scrubbing away the remaining bits of dinner’s spinach from under her nose. Her ears are next, and, always, I ask myself and her, “How can someone so small have so much ear wax?” Then her neck, her arms, the smuggled lint and crumbs between her fingers.

As I move to her legs to address the detritus collected between the rolls of fat on her thighs, she begins her maneuvers: as though she’s powering an invisible bicycle, she jogs her chubby legs, churning the water and splashing it onto her belly.  Her arms join the dance, her fingers spread wide, smacking down on the water.  She is laughing now – at the mess she is making, at the glory of being a baby, naked and free.

I gently scrub her wisps of hair as her wild rumpus reaches new heights, her kicks causing a tidal wave that ejects her rubber animals from the tub. I jab and parry, trying to get her clean, rinsing the foam from her head and the traces of soap from her skin.

I sit back up on the edge of the tub then and spread her hooded frog towel over my lap. Expertly tucking the frog’s head under my chin, I lift her out of the water, her limbs still swimming, and hug her against my body. I wrap her in green terrycloth and stand to bring her into her room.

As we rise, she catches a glimpse of herself in the large mirror over the sink and laughs at the funny frog baby in the mirror. At her water-soaked mama. I laugh too, at her, at how delighted and delightful she is, at how easily she laughs.  I bury my nose in her neck and inhale the perfect babyness of her: the clean, non-smell smell of her soap.

She laughs. I laugh.

It’s bath night.

Which routines with your kids do you cherish?  Which ones do you dread?