Bath Time

child on the trampoline in Edinburgh, red coat
This pregnancy has seen me take many baths. Resting, with the weight taken off for a little while has been helping me get through my busy days. The bath was one of my pre-requisits when we were flat hunting: No bath = No deal.
I recall a conversation a month or two back, with someone who commented that baths were good ‘me’ time, letting you shut the door on the world for a little while. Personally although I remember the concept of ‘me’ time and shut doors my baths do not represent either. They take place amidst the busy flow of my day, not outside of it.
This afternoon’s was not a ‘me’ time bath, though it did start out promisingly. I worked the morning shift and got home with a sore back to an empty house. I emptied the bath toys out of the tub, turned on the hot tap, put some bubble bath in and fetched a glass of water, a small packet of potato chips* and a book. I got into the bath before it was full and kept the temperature on the lower side of too hot as per my midwife’s instructions.
I breathed out, and let the hydro magic begin. Then I opened my chip packet and began to eat. I am aware that eating in the bath is possibly not for everyone, but hey, I’m pregnant and it was what I was in the mood for. I started to relax, though I was aware that my husband and son could be arriving home at any moment.
I enjoyed my first few chips and then I heard a cry that could only be Rafa’s coming from the base of the stairwell. My son sounded like he was in considerable distress. I ate another chip – not enjoying it quite so much. The wailing got louder, but did not seem to be getting any closer. Should I go into mummy panic mode? Why wasn’t my husband a) soothing the beast? or b) getting his ass up the stairs more quickly? Should I leap out of the bath and rush my seven month pregnant self out into the communal stair well dripping bath water and bubbles? Was there time to pick up my towel?
I did have all these thoughts but because I am a slummy mummy I sat in my bath and ate chips while my son screamed. I ate them without particularly enjoying them and slightly more quickly than I would have otherwise. I didn’t want to have to share.
Rafa trampolining, March 2015. Edinburgh.
Eventually Jon and Rafa made it up the stairs and inside. The cause of distress was not a violent bump to the head or a dinosaur having bitten off his hand, it was Rafa’s response to not being allowed to go out and play on the trampoline. My son was snot stained but perfectly healthy. I wet the clean face washer I had been planning to rest my head on when I got around to lying back in my bath, and washed Rafa’s face with it. Once inside his anguish was forgotten (by him at least). Despite my knowledge that his screaming was a tantrum and not a ‘real’ trauma, the distress still clanged in my brain like a burglar alarm.
As did the knowledge that I had sat in the bath eating whilst he screamed. Earlier in the day there had been a saccharine facebook post asking mums to repost something or other if you were a mum who thought about their children with every breath ect ect; I kept scrolling. Now I had to wonder if all this made me a second (or third) rate mum.
Did I want to be that person?
While I was trying to stop Rafa from throwing good Sherrin AFL footballs into my bath Jon showed me the jeans he had picked up for me from the mummy store. Once buying jeans was a highly personal task that involved mirrors and visits to different shops and your best girlfriends. This week with my current maternity jeans falling off me every three steps and sick to death of the skinny jean shuffle I went online and found some bigger, baggier, higher waisted mum maternity jeans and sent my husband to collect them.
How did I get to be someone who does not even have time to go shopping for herself? For jeans: the modern woman’s wardrobe staple and personal statement about who she is?
Did I want to be her?
I lay down in my bath and Rafa repeatedly drove his matchbox ute across my head whilst going ‘ne naw ne naw’. All cars make this sound, especially when they are repeatedly smashed into mummys skull. I closed my eyes.
Did I want to be here?
My husband was in the doorway. Over the sound of Rafa’s burble he told me about the rest of his afternoon. After the shopping errands he had been to the hospital. His work college and Wednesday night football buddy had missed a few games with a sore back. A few days ago he had emailed to say that he had been diagnosed with an aggressive tumour and was about to start chemo. As far as he had known, this forty something year old man with a young family had been healthy a week ago, and now he was bed bound without the use of his legs or his bowels. I had read his email and been struck by his brutal honesty about where his body and head were at.
The word was that he wanted visitors, so Jon and Rafa spent the afternoon visiting a man whose life has been knocked out from beneath his feet.
I lay in the bath with my own young family crowded around me and wondered did I want to be here?
*or crisps if you are from the UK.

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