My kids love baths. If you stick them in a tub they will spend great stretches of time bickering and/or joyously playing with bath toys. This is almost always true, except when they are sick or have an open wound. In either of those two circumstances they will protest personal hygiene with great vigor. If you’ve ever given a cat a bath, you have a good idea of what the ordeal is like.
I usually just let it go and push bath time a bit until the virus has subsided or the scab has set. No biggie. We don’t attend many black tie functions or have lunch with the Queen. I can’t even remember the last time I dressed the kids up as Little Lord and Lady Fauntleroy.
By the same token, we don’t own farm animals or live near coal mines, so they stay relatively clean. For little people.
This past week, Conor and I were both very sick. In fact, I felt crappy enough that I didn’t even check to see if he was up for a bath because I was busy abandoning my own personal hygiene. Even being upright felt ambitious. Navigating the shower seemed reckless and futile. When at last I had regained enough brain function to resume my motherly duties, I discovered that Conor had at some point decorated himself with markers in a state of delirium.
I made a mental note that Conor would be spending some quality time in the bath after school.
However, on his way to school he fell and skinned his knee. It wasn’t a bad scrap but he did limp around dramatically at the preschool and scored an enormous band-aid for his theatrical efforts. Then he fell again after school and made the scrape worse. He refused another band-aid, blaming the band-aid for his fall, though it was more likely due to the fact that he was limp-running like a Dickens character.
A limp-run is very hard to execute without at least one wipe out. This is why Tiny Tim never joined the track team.
The bath was postponed until a scab could be formed.
That night Conor’s leg formed a scab. Yay! Unfortunately his pajama pants were included in the scab. Boo. The body’s healing power is amazing. Conor’s body just chose an unfortunate method of displaying its talents. The following day when Hubs removed Conor’s pajama pants he also removed the entire scab. And Conor’s will to live. Conor spent the whole morning and most of the afternoon laying on his bedroom floor, clutching his blanket for comfort.
We’re still waiting on the bath.
What I’m trying to communicate here is that my boy is ripe. He is traveling around in a cloud of dust and flies. But it isn’t due to parental neglect. There were extenuating circumstances. It could happen to anyone.
Don’t judge me.
Haha! The close is awesome, and for the record I never would! 🙂
Thanks, Denise! That’s because you’re a strong woman with better things to do, right?
Poor little guy! Here’s hoping for quick fresh scabs and long hot baths…for BOTH of you!
I’ll drink to that!
I think you should take his bath for him. A nice loooooooong one. Maybe with a candle or two, and a glass of prosecco. For that matter, maybe you should both have a glass of prosecco. He would feel much more mellow after that.
He fell down again this afternoon, so that sounds like a good idea. Curse you, gravity! I’m going to have to wrap this boy in bubble wrap.
Hubs is on an assignment this week and largely MIA so I cashed it all in and took the kids to ice cream for dinner. We all needed it.
At a certain age, or better stated, level of swimming proficiency, the bathtub can double as a babysitter. Seriously. My girls will hang out for over an hour in the tub while I write. Or drink. Or nap. Great stuff.
And a bathtub will never raise its hourly rates. Or sleep with your husband. Oh bathtub, how I love thee.
Or text incessantly when they’re supposed to be playing Hi Ho Cherry-O and cleaning your kitchen.