The Good, the Bad, and the Grimy

Bath time. A rapturous time. A time in which mother and daughter share a slew of emotions together, including but not limited to: frustration, defiance, tearfulness, disdain, animosity, chagrin, despair, distress, agitation, fear and loathing (not in Las Vegas, in Las Bathtub). Alright so some of these are physical rather than emotional states but you say potato. and I say potato too.

Here's the rub a dub dub: Jordan loves the water. Loves it.

Ocean Water? Check.

She's mostly naked too, so it's like a humongous, salty, freezing cold bath.

Lake Water? Check check.

It comes with a huge floating couch - what is not to love, pray tell.

Sink water circa age 1 month?

Soothing, comfortable, paradisiacal - check, check, check.

But bath time these days is a veritable battle of wills. We start off ok if Jordan's left to her devices. Her devices are named Rubber Ducky, Rubber Seahorse, Rubber Blowfish, and Rubbermaid Tupperware. They all get along swimmingly if you'll excuse the pun, but I don't blame you if you won't. It used to be that I would let Jordan play leisurely for twenty, twenty-five minutes at a time while I sat cross-legged on the bath mat making my blog rounds. Only after she and her bathmates had tired of Marco Polo would I pull out the dreaded shampoo and get down to the business of making clean.

Then, It Happened One Night.

If you're a mom I'm pretty sure you can handle this story, but if you're included in the clan of easily nauseated I'll let you see yourself out. I was minding my own business. I was poring over my stories. Jordan was filling her Rubbermaid with bath water then dumping it out repeatedly and without losing enthusiasm. She sweetly started sing-songing her favorite phrase "uh-oh." But Jordan doesn't know too many phrases and this one is applied to most situations, including the one where she chucks her binky the length of the room (she hasn't figured out the connotation of "unintentional" that is usually attached to the expression). So I kept on with my affairs with nary a glance up, while mindlessly repeating back "uh-oh" to her. Until. One of the uh-oh's was accompanied by a something landing on my lamb-appliqued pj bottoms. My daughter had flung poop on my lambjamas.

There was an emergency evacuation from the tub. The rubber bathmates were subjected to a bio radiation decontamination soak in a sinkful of hydrogen peroxide. We lost Rubber Hammerhead in the Event, as his tail was used to corral toxic waste down the drain. After a vinegar-baking soda scrubdown of the tub-potty - all carefully supervised by a very naked Jordan - the Offender was plopped in a fresh vat of the bubbly and aggressively and effectively washed by the Offendee.

I'm sure you can understand why bath time is no longer fun and games around here. We're in there to degermify, and fast. These days Dirty Harry greets both bath and bather as such

Don't come at me with that Aveeno, bro.

And I sneer

You've gotta ask yourself one question: Do you feel clean?

Well do ya...punk?

For a good fifteen minutes after each disinfection, Jordan and I aren't on speaking terms. She flirts with Sean, tries to make me jealous, shoots glances in my direction to make sure I'm paying attention, and it's all very convincing until I pull the milk carton out. The "baba" makes all things new again; we kiss (Jordan kiss = foreheads bonk) and make up, I give her a little extra toothpaste on her brush by way of an apology, and we turn in for the night amicably.

In true toddler fashion: one millisecond you're in, and the next...you're out. I'll just keep the milk handy.