Saturday, May 27, 2017

Don't Add Water

There are times where I question my abilities as a mother. Bath time. Bath time is that time.

It starts with the moaning and whining about the act of actually getting IN the tub. My children bathe every night, and for the life of me I cannot understand why it is such a shock each time I ask them to follow me to the bathroom, but the howls of “Noooooooooo!!!” start immediately.

Five to ten minutes later, I’ve resorted to yelling, “Last one in is a rotten egg!”, knowing full well the rotten egg will be in full meltdown mode when he loses again.

Nonetheless the egg and his sister are at least now in the vicinity of the bathroom and clothes start coming off. Someone’s head has inevitably grown three sizes over the course of the day and a button scrape over the face results in another five minutes of over-the-top performance.

At last all bare buns are in the water. Until she, he, or both desperately need to go to the bathroom…despite repeated questioning of the same before entering the tub and only after full submersion has occurred.

Hair washing. Oooohhhhh hair washing. I remember calmly laying back in the bath while my parents washed the soap from my hair, and I’ve watched other friends unceremoniously dump water over their children to rid them of shampoo. Not my girl. All shampoo must be removed by handheld sprayer and if one DROP should enter the little snowflake’s eye vicinity there will be hell to pay.

“MAMA YOU GOT IT IN MY EYEEEESSSSSS!!!! UGHHHH!!! WHY DID YOU DO THAT???!!!” Screaming for all of the world like she is the queen herself and I just a lowly servant girl.

And I think hold the train sister. Had I talked to my parents like that, my sassy rear-end would have been whipped out of that bath so fast my head would spin.

And I know its 2017 and we are not, under any circumstances, supposed to spank our children but I also think- that child needs a spanking.

But then I think about that sassy fanny, and alllllll of the many hours I spent praying for said fanny and most of the time I try, in my imaginary friend- Calm, Reasonable Mama's- voice to tell her we don’t talk to our mother that way. Most of the time  even CR Mama's had enough and an appropriate punishment is doled out.

After the water torture is over, I look hopefully at the glass of wine and book I have brought with me. I am dumb, and an apparent slow-learner. By this point sometime has found a cup of old, cold water from some container or another and dumped it on the unsuspecting bath-goer. Lots of drama ensues.

“Time to get out!”


Five to ten minutes later I have wrestled two soaking wet, slippery seal-like creatures from the tub and attempted to dry them off. I am soaked. Someone slips on a puddle.

Turning to get their pajamas, both children take off running down the hall, little moons bouncing away from me at impressive speeds.

My husband, whose job it is at this time is to cook the dinner and who suddenly seems the wisest person in the world, shrugs as they bellow past and claims he cannot help because he has “meat on his hands”. I see no meat.

By the time I’ve reached them they’ve somehow turned on Pandora and are shaking booties and elbows to “Uptown Funk”. Hot damn indeed. 

Switching to more appropriate programming, Thing 1 gets in her princess panties and catcalls Thing 2 as I try to maneuver his Fred Flintstone through the openings of his Pull-up. I give up on pajamas all together.

Finished at last, I leave them to their ridiculousness and drag myself back to the bathroom in search of my wine and reading.

I barely hit the door before I hear, “Mama, you pway wif us?” or “Mama, will you come in the playroom with me?"

And of course I do, and will, and always will. Because, not unlike the movie Gremlins, once you get them out of the water they are pretty darn cute. 

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