Bathwater

Published in BYU-Idaho's Outlet, Journal of Art and Literature 2011:

Freddy splashes in his bathwater. His tiny hands slap the surface, sending droplets everywhere. A healthy puddle threatens to reach into the adjacent room. He stops and smiles at me. At seven months he’s a big kid – 20 pounds and 30 inches long. He looks at me with round, blue eyes and an adorable smile. It is open-mouthed and all gums. I smile back at him just as his attention diverts to the suds and the dozen toys floating around him.

He picks up a rubber duck with his chubby little digits and sucks on the bill.

            I experience a moment of envy.

            I am sorry to say that it is not the first time.

            I wish I was tiny again. I remember my baths, or maybe the comfortable feelings they evoked. When I was an infant I know I was loved and protected. I know I was never bored; I too, sat in a lake of toys.

            As I grew, my baths evolved. The change involved two things – new tubs, of course, and new toys. The edges became sharper, the masculinity started to take shape, and interests began to be realized. In essence I was playing with action figures and boats in lieu of rubber ducks and teething links.

            I don’t know when it happened. Between being a kid and maturing into a teen the toys were put away and never pulled out again. I still remember their last resting place beneath the sink - I wonder what Mom did with them.

            Despite the years I never lost my love for baths. They are my time to relax and read.

            In an instant my right pant leg is soaked. Freddy has just broken his own record. It’s the biggest splash yet. All I can do is laugh.

            We laugh at each other.

            I am laughing at the fact that until four months ago my baths had been toy-free for well over a decade. Now, I can’t help but step on a rubber duck, or a plastic donut when I get in the tub.

            I rub my son’s head. He loves that. He has a skull like granite; hard and, if he follows the Haxby trend, impenetrable. I take a small, blue cup from the edge of the tub and dip it in the water. I pour water over him to keep him warm. He turns his head and reaches for the cup, latching onto the edge with the surprising strength of an infant.

            He wants it. I can’t let him have it. He likes to dip the cup in the bathwater and drink from it. I am able to pry his tiny fingers from the edge. He cries, his mouth open and screaming, his eyes scrunched shut.

            I grab his favorite duck, one that looks as though it has hatched from a pumpkin, and squeeze it. Its squeaking distracts him from his tears and he takes it.

            The days when his rubber ducks lose their appeal and a truck, or boat, or an ATV replaces them I will write it down. He will know when he changed, when he grew. I see him driving a truck over the edges of the tub and around the faucet, making the noise of a rumbling engine in his throat, knocking shampoo bottles and soap into the water.

            He squeals suddenly and goes back to the business of exporting water from the tub to the floor. The duck is floating at the other end of the tub. I hand him a link and put a towel down to stem the flood.

            He’s having such a good time I can expect to sit here another twenty minutes. I don’t mind. He’ll play, he’ll talk, he’ll sing and splash and abruptly - he’ll be done. He’ll rub those beautiful baby eyes with his fists and complain to me. He can speak some words quite clearly, and in context. I’ll listen, and hear that it’s time for a bottle and a nap.

            When he is ready, I pass him on to his Mother, wrapped in a towel and happy.

Often he’ll be asleep before I finish cleaning up, so I never say anything like, “I’ll see you in a minute!” I just tell him I love him.

            I wish for him to take advantage of these early years. I wish for him to be this happy all his life. When that little tongue of his finally gets itself efficiently around the English language it will be time to start chipping away at childhood and teach him responsibility. The time for accountability will soon follow.

            Then he will be grown.

            He latches onto my leg. He wants to stand up.

            He struggles and grunts as he rises. Standing there he looks at me.

            “Dada,” he says.

            I smile. It falters.        

            Time to get out.

            Time to grow up.

            The bathwater settles and cools, as if removing life from it takes its warmth. In my arms I can feel that the boy carries it with him.

            That gives me hope.