Mr. Bubble

Left on their own, my children would be the dirtiest, most offensive children around. With time to relish in their own odor they would thrive, never to deal with the sadistic ritual known to many as "bath time". It happens almost every night, the water is turned on, the brightly colored bath bomb dropped into the tub, instructions given to disrobe and meet in the bathroom are then met with shrieks of terror...yes children, it's bath time. It's been my understanding that many children enjoy this time but I find this hard to believe, Mary and Kate are so purely pained at the thought of being clean, how could this be anything but torture to all children? The warm water stings their skin causing almost immediate screaming, and then mad splashing, at me, at each other, Eleanor Roosevelt. Our small urban bathroom not fully prepared for this madness, the yells reverberating from wall to wall, my ears begin ringing the minute they get in the tub. The phone is left within reach as the thought of one drop of water getting into an eye, well we must be ready to ring 911 immediately. There are no volunteers for the scrubbing, "Mary first!" "NO, Mom, Kate first". Kate first, it's code, I've deciphered it, volunteering your sister must mean you really want to be clean.

And then, hours and hours later, it's over. They are clean, we've survived, and we don't have to go through this again for another 24 hours.

Unless it's Saturday, they gleefully submerge each and every body part, over and over and over. The water not a method of torture but an enjoyable place to spend the afternoon. They actually volunteer to get in and once in, we can't get them out. Of the pool, Saturday afternoons spent at the pool, an amazing shift in water mentality. If only we had a pool in our tiny bathroom, if only swimming was an acceptable form of bodily cleansing, sigh, if only.