Bath time is fun. I keep telling myself that and I’m not even in charge of bath duty all that often. Okay, never.
All I know is baths typically end two ways: One kid crying or mommy yelling. On rare occasions, it’s both.
Well last week — the week of hell for all who followed the last post — I got tagged with a bath duty. At that point my daughter had been off from school sick for a few days and had either been sleeping or lying on the couch for three or four days. Her hair was, um, nest-y. For someone like me who is severely folically challenged, there was no way I was going to attempt to brush it out.
So I got limited instructions on what to do and was explicitly told to use conditioner. That will help get the knots out, I was told.
After my daughter gets all washed up, it’s time to tackle the hair. I grab the conditioner and am about to dump a boatload of gooey pink stuff into her hair when I get this look. This conversation ensues:
“Uh, what are you doing?”
“Putting conditioner in your hair. Mom told me to.”
“Do you even know what you’re doing?”
“How many times do I give you a bath? It’s quite apparent I don’t.”
“You use shampoo, then conditioner. Man, it’s a good thing you are bald. You don’t even know how to wash hair.”
I would have been angry if she wasn’t so right.
So now, at my age, I think I know everything there is to know about giving kids a bath. It only took 7 1/2 years.
One thing I have learned in recent weeks, though, is that my wife and I (okay, my wife) have impeccably bad timing when it comes to baths.
Three times in the last month we have followed up bath time with mis-timed dinner choices. Once it was spaghetti. The other two times it’s been worse: Grilled cheese and tomato soup.
After about two bites of spaghetti with his spoon, Brant quickly realizes it is easier to pick up noodles with his newly washed hands. Within 12 seconds, sauce is all over his newly washed face.
Fortunately, spaghetti is the least of our problems. The patience he shows while eating spaghetti is non-existent when it comes to grilled cheese and tomato soup. Really, Brant can do without the sandwich. He drinks his soup like it’s going out of style.
Be sure to read that last sentence again. Notice the word?
Here is how sandwich/soup night goes in our house: Within 10 minutes of drying off in a bath, Brant takes one bite of his sandwich, puts it down, picks up his bowl of soup, drinks one teaspoon of it and dumps the rest down the front of himself. His bowl is empty, so we repeat the process.
It’s a futile exercise, and it’s hard not to laugh because it is pretty darn cute.
We just need to work on the timing a little.