This baby thing is still pretty new to me, and I'm often surprised at the little things I discover (or re-discover) that will make our lives easier or more fun. Case in point: it took me a full year to remember the joy of bubble baths for a kid. A FULL YEAR! Something so simple had been overlooked all this time when we could have been making little Van Dyke beards and bubble mohawks on our small son for months.
So yesterday I bought some bubble bath. I was excited, and the bun was doing a bang-up job of covering himself in nut butter just so we could have a fine excuse to give him a nice, fluffy dunk in the suds after dinner. My husband undressed him as I ran the water and tried to get a good head of bubbles going (which were pretty disappointing, really. Maybe it was because I got nature-bunny bubbles instead of sticking with the classics and filling the tub with ol' Mr. Bubble himself). The bun was delighted in his naked form; he's a big fan of the bath now, and loves to share his excitement by splashing the H2O on everyone. The bubbles grew and I told my husband to bring in the bun for his ceremonial bubble-baptism.
The joy on the bun's face crumpled into a look of questioning suspicion as he spied the tub from his airy perch in Dad's arms. When my husband bent over to dip him into the bath, the bun more and more vigorously tried to climb up his body like a monkey in a tree, trying to flee the tub, grabbing at anything that would get him further from "the white menace."
Eventually, like scraping off a barnacle, my husband plunked him in. He looked like he was being threatened by piranha that were lurking just under the fluffy innocuous surface of foam and grappled at us to get him out, scrambling up the porcelain sides, his mouth making the shape of the perfect 'O' scream in slasher movies.
We panicked. Was the water too hot? Was it too cold? We both dipped our hands in, then just our wrists. It was a balmy tidepool temperature, perfect for his tiny hiney. We were mystified.
I pulled him aloft and we decided to drain the tub of its bubble-fun, refilling it just enough for a quick dip to get the leftover suds and almond butter off him. My husband rinsed the sides, and I stood there, holding a deeply insulted and suspicious baby. The drain took forever, and the bun clung to me like rubber cement, watching as the Bubbles of Malvolio drained away. I set him in the empty tub and he screamed again, seeing some residual specter of terror which was invisible to all but the most sensitive. Resigned to a bathless, bubbleless evening, I set him on my hip again and he peed in relief.
I don't get this baby-business. He hates bananas, too.