Raise your hand if you've ever had an experience not turn out the way you'd pictured it.
Now raise your other hand if that experience had to do with kids in some way.
Yep, that's what I thought.
We have this weekly ritual of giving Zoe a nice little bubble bath on Saturday nights. And yes, maybe it's a little hillbilly to only wash your baby on Saturday nights, but honestly, she's 4 months old -- how dirty could she possibly be getting? I mean, you clean up the main areas of diaper and drooly face, and really you're good to go. It's not like she's been out digging in the back yard.
But I digress.
The bath. Hasn't quite panned out to be the Johnson and Johnson commercials I'd imagined. Man, there are just so many things people lie to you about when you're having a baby, but that's another story for another time. It's not the bath itself so much that's the problem -- she tolerates that fairly well. But who wouldn't? I mean, we settle her gently into a little tub that's just her size and filled with lavender-scented baby bubbles, and then we both tell her continually how beautiful and perfect she is while I scrub her back and head. It's basically paradise. Well, maybe not for an adult, because that would be weird. But I'm getting sidetracked again.
It's the after-the-bath part that just never pans out. I had in my head that I would wrap her up in her little towel, carry her to her room, and give her a lovely little baby massage that I'd read up on, softening her skin and settling her down for a night's sleep. And it would be this beautiful mommy-daughter bonding time.
Yeah, not so much.
What really happens is this: As soon as she gets pulled out of the bath, she starts crinkling up her face and sticking out her bottom lip in the expression that means there's a storm a-brewing. By the time she's wrapped up cozily in her little towel, she's turned beet red and is balling up her little fists, and by the time I get her to her room, Operation Screaming Meltdown is in full effect. Which means that I give my well-researched and relaxing massage to a baby who apparently feels like I am planning to run her first puppy down with my Jeep.
No changing of the environment, room temperature or procedure on my part seems to be able to fix this. It's bath, screaming meltdown, bottle, bed. That's just how she rolls. I even gave up on the baby massage and just focused on getting her into a diaper and some pajamas, because we do have to at least do that much.
What can I say? Apparently, the child loves the bath and does not wish to be separated from it.
She's naturally a very happy and pleasant little girl, so it throws us both off a little bit when all of a sudden she seems to feel that our house is basically Guantanamo Bay for babies.
But what's life without a few surprises, right?
Because while something as seemingly innocuous as a bath has her completely undone, the big transition of sleeping alone, all night, in her room, has been a snap. We snuggle her up in her little baby swaddler, lay her down, kiss her goodnight, and walk out. And that's all she wrote for about nine hours. It's heavenly.
Except for the fact that I still tiptoe in there at least four or five times before we go to bed and also a few times in the middle of the night, just to make sure she's OK and doesn't need me. At this rate, the only way this girl is ever going away to college is with me strapped to the hood of her car.
Just in case she needs me.
sharris@blythevillecourier.com