You know those parents who say that bathing their children is glorious and awesome and it’s such a bonding time and during a bath their children are so sweet and angelic and fun and cute and full of rainbows and sunshine and unicorns and glitter?
Yeah, well those parents are full of crap. It was fun for the first year of The Beast’s life. Then he learned how to climb and now bath time is just a giant ball of wet suck.
I’ll do just about anything to avoid giving The Beast a bath. If Daddy is home, I always volunteer to do dishes during bath time. I say things like, “Gosh, there are a ton of dishes and bath time rocks, so I’ll let you do the bath since you’re such a great husband and dad and deserve the break,” when we both know that bath time sucks. My husband is just too nice to fight me.
When The Beast was a baby, bath time was sweet and fun, and when he’d shoot his little pee-pee stream up in the air and then watch it come splashing down all over him because he couldn’t sit up yet, we’d all laugh and then we’d hug and hold hands and sing Cumbaya. Now when we give him a bath, he drenches us, intentionally tries to hit us with his pee, laughs and then I go drink wine and pop a Xanax.
He loves to climb the wall and then jump into the water like he’s a WWE* wrestler. I do not watch WWE, but I remember when Rocky fought Hulk Hogan. Picture The Beast as The Hulk climbing up the wall, wedging his toes into the in-wall soap holder thingy and then jumping into the tub. (*Do you watch WWE? Really? You know it’s fake, right? Whatever. Your choice in TV sucks.) He also loves to dump large quantities of water out of the tub with anything that will hold water. I’ve tried to shift him to entirely flat, non-vessel-like toys to see if that helps, and it doesn’t. He’s an evil genius and he just uses his hands.
So there I sit wrapped in the shower curtain, which might as well be made of toilet paper for all of the good it does keeping me dry. By the time the bath is all done, I’m drenched from head to toe and The Beast is thrilled with his success.
The other day when I was giving him his bath (Had to, Daddy wasn’t home and a wipe-down wasn’t going to cut it. I’m a big fan of the wipe-down, by the way), The Beast started telling me he had to go potty to get an M&M. This is entirely theoretical. He’s never peed in the potty nor received an M&M for it, but he knows that once he starts peeing in the potty, he’ll start getting M&Ms. Anyway, I pulled him out of the tub and held him suspended over the toilet since he’s too short to get his penis over the edge of the potty and I was too lazy to get a step stool. So he cackled and then started splashing his foot around in the potty.
I yelled a profanity (Yes, my child is going to start swearing at his teachers. I’m aware of that. I’m getting quite tired of you judging me.) and put him back in the tub so that we could start the fun all over again.
Next time he does that I’m just going to let him get e-coli feet.
I have decided that when my husband and I are old and senile, that if The Beast wants to receive an inheritance (which will probably consist of a box of wine and half-empty bottles of Xanax), he will be responsible for bathing our old, wrinkly bodies. And since we’ll more than likely be incontinent by then, we’ll probably pee on him every chance we get.
Hakuna Matata, Baby. Circle of life.