Most nights I get in the bath with the BUBs. Not every night, but most. I’m sort of aware that this might not be normal practice, but it’s just a routine we’ve got into and something that I consider myself fortunate enough to be able to do. And these are my reasons:
1) I am going to get wet anyway, whether I’m in it or not.
2) By 6pm I am usually covered in drools and dribbles of bolognese sauce, saliva, snot and yogurt. I need a wash.
3) Bath time without me getting in as well sounds like hard work. I need a lie down in amongst it.
4) It is the one time of day that I am completely focused on them, and their pink, warm, cute babyness and not what they are eating, or not eating, or chewing, or being knocked down by or destroying or crying about. I relish the time just soaking up how little and beautiful they are while they are still so little and beautiful.
5) I can’t take my phone into the bath so I’m not tempted to check emails, Facebook or research to within an inch of its life the next material object I am looking to buy.
6) The BUBs love it.
7) It’s the one time of the day that I’m not worried about what the hell I am wearing or what happened to my real clothes.
8) Despite Willy Wonka’s reminder that one, if not both, of them will undoubtedly wee in that bath, and the fact it means I am in my pyjamas, buffed, slouched and shiny most evenings when Willy Wonka gets home from work, it makes me happy. After a long and tiring day, just enjoying the fruits of your labour in all their glory is just what you need.
That and wine. If I could bathe in that alone, directly after, I sometimes, if not always, would.