It all started when I was a kid myself. My mom knew that I had the propensity to dilly dally in the shower for hours. I was quite imaginative and undoubtedly had some crazy nautical adventure planned out for me and my bath toys. So she turned my leisurely shower experience into a race by setting a timer for eight minutes. I'm not sure where she got the eight minutes from - maybe a military book - but that's what it always was. She said that eight minutes was plenty of time to get clean and anything longer would just be wasting water. Most of the time, the timer was kind of a fun game. And I really didn't want to waste water either. But sometimes, it got on my nerves, especially when the timer would go off when I still had shampoo in my hair. Talk about total panic for an eight-year-old!
The triangle on the floor is my dress, just in case that isn't clear.
The more I think about it, I really can't blame my mom for this "fast is better" bathing mentality. I can blame my grandfather. I remember him telling me that he could do the 3 S's in three minutes (shit, shower, and shave). As a child, I grappled with this concept. I tried to figure out how many seconds exactly he allotted to each task. As a parent, I know one thing for sure. He definitely was not trying to wrangle his four kids while performing his bathroom duties. Now THAT would really be impressive.
I would like to say that I've learned to let go of my childhood "traumas" now that I'm all grown up, but I haven't. I've just projected them onto my husband and kids.
Shortly after Robert and I got married (more specifically, 32 days afterward), I decided that it was time to start a family. And for those of you who know me well (or even only a little), when I get something in my head, I'm pretty set on it. I found this really nifty website that tells you your most fertile day of the month based on information you enter about your menstrual cycle. I jotted the date on my calendar, and didn't really think about it until that day came around the corner. And then I turned into the psycho, baby-crazed, "We have to have sex RIGHT now -- I'm ovulating" kind of wife. And Robert, being the generally agreeable kind of guy that he is, reluctantly agreed. And, as fate would have it, I felt that the shower was the best workplace for baby-making, hence confirming my "get 'er done" attitude when it comes to bathing. Might as well get clean AND get pregnant at the same time!!!
Guess what happened next?? Yes, I got the pregnancy of my dreams!! Except, it wasn't. It was a miserable pregnancy from beginning until end. It started out with me in nursing school, trying not to hurl all day from morning sickness to evolving into a mammoth water buffalo-type creature. I gained 70 pounds during my pregnancy with Max. My feet were so swollen I had to buy a size 10.5 double wide orthopedic shoe just to haul my large ass around all day. So what do I do?? Attempt the impossible. I turned to my old friend the bathtub to hope for a miracle.
This picture makes me look graceful, but it wasn't. I filled up the tub as high as I could, still allowing for displacement room when I lowered my enormous body into the water. I tried to float in the water without touching my belly to the bottom. I propped my head up on the side of the tub, and tried to imagine that I was weightless. Robert looked on, both amazed and probably a bit horrified.
I had quite the elaborate birth plan written out. I'm a huge advocate for natural births despite the fact that I endured four days of excruciating back labor only to have a c-section at the end of it. I really don't regret any of it except for one part: "I would like my baby to be born in the peacefulness of luke warm water." What was I thinking??? After living with myself for 28 years, hadn't I learned that bathtubs are not a peaceful place for me? My midwives diligently filled up the tub for me, I turned on our hypnobirthing meditation chants, and ordered Robert to don his swim trunks. As soon as we got settled into what I thought was my ideal birthing place, I realized that I had made a grave mistake.
Okay, fast forward a few years and two kids later. There is just one thing I really want to say: "Mom, can you pretty please set that eight minute timer for me??" I would do anything for eight minutes of blissful solitary bathing joy. Even if I start out a bath by myself, it never ends up that way. I hear little fists banging on the door, see their cute naked heinys, and welcome them in begrudgingly. Conveniently, Robert is nowhere to be found and is out of hearing range. Max instantly puts every single bath toy in the tub, and dumps in half a bottle of bubbles. Maeve sees naked boobies and thinks it's the perfect place to nurse. I try to have fun, but in the end all I feel is cold, wet, and exposed.
But at least I don't stink. I smell deliciously of wild strawberry Dora the Explorer shampoo.
Here are a few real pictures of happiness and sadness at bath time:
Now who wants a shower?!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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