Dear Wally 108 reflections in the (bath) water

Dear Wally 108

Dear Wally 108

Reflections in the (bath) water.

12/16/11

You swing a single chunky naked leg over the side of the claw foot tub,  and before even dipping a toe into the water,  declare with unyielding urgency (and tearing eyes),  that it is way too cold, or way too  hot.  The negotiations and stall tactics for avoiding the dreaded hair wash, which you have trotted out all day,  have almost been completely exhausted .  (“After breakfast, Poppa,  no, after lunch, no, no no, after playing, no, how about after dinner?”  and the most crafty parent-slayer of all, “after a book!”)   Ultimately the day , like all of them and all the slippery years,  has gotten out from under us.

The bathroom door is now closed , and with that goes your only chance of escape-- through my legs like a greased piglet, streaking and squealing ‘jail break’ victoriously, charging through the house , arms in the air.  It happens a lot and it’s a sight for sore eyes!  If you weren’t so darn naked, I’d post it on Youtube for the world to enjoy.

Except for the thermal objection  bleated  loudly  enough for Child Protective Services to hear, which will buy you 2 extra seconds while I triple check the tepidity of the water, the jig is up.  It is tub time for you, my little 4 year old sweetheart.  Nice try, though.  It’s time for you to toss toys in the water like a mad chef cooking up a fantastic stew by using everything in the kitchen.  And it’s time to face the music.

The fact that you need cleaning in the first place is a good thing, though you wont see it this way for years.  Life on a farm can be dirty business.   This hand-off of day to the night’s protective faeries is a good intersection for reflection.  

You woke me up with a terrific kick to the temple  at 7am after sneaking into my bed when I was fast asleep.   After that abrupt reveille,  we had  scrambled eggs fresh from your favorite hen ‘Bob Marley’ as well as  raspberry  yogurt, some good portion of which is still on your clothes, crumpled as they are now in a heap on the bathroom floor. 

After breakfast, we suited up and smashed through some driveway puddles filled with last night’s rain showers on our way to the barn.  We brushed and tacked up Holy Mac, the miniature pony you got from your adoring grandma.  The one you generously share with other young riders.   I snapped the chinstrap on your helmet together because your fingers aren’t yet strong enough to do it. Then after you climbed the mounting block by yourself and got on, I led you down the driveway and through the fields at the walk, a speed that somehow doesn’t feel slow enough.

You fought fiercely to get me to let go of the lead rope so you could ride all by yourself.  It didn’t sit  well with you when I objected, though I’ll always say it can’t hurt to ask, and I admire your moxie.  To say this was an apt metaphor for all aspects of your burgeoning independence is an understatement.  I see equal parts of your mother and me in your headstrong desires, and I honor that, albeit from the other end of a tightly clenched 3 foot rope that I will someday have to relinquish.

You see, it’s impossible to not want to be your friend.  You are smart, funny, kind, passionate, articulate, strong willed, athletic, clever, cute, sensitive, and important. 

You are also just 4. 

I want  to gently nudge you away from the life’s steep edges ,yet still let you see what’s on the other side so you can extrapolate and protect yourself when I’m not there to yank you back if you’ve gone too far.  I am there now,  but I wont be forever.

I want to  also to make sure you get a keen sense of right and wrong, as I see them  anyway, and that you get the tools to articulate your thoughts and creativity and frustrations.  I want to help you cultivate a desire to learn far beyond what they teach you in school.   I want  to make sure you treat others and yourself with respect.   And that you learn to not fear fear or even  fear change.  I want to make sure that you slow down once in a while in this world you are rushed through.  A bath is a good place to do that.

For a while anyway, I police what goes into your mouth, making sure the plastic toy parts ,  dog medications, boogers and Twinkies don’t, but the broccoli spears,  birthday cake and cups of water do.  It’s my job to try to make tooth brushing fun (a near impossible task).  And when I fail at that, it’s still my job to make sure those teeth get brushed.

It’s also my job and pleasure to make sure we get outside and get nice and dirty (sometimes really dirty) while seeking adventure, whether it’s in a play date or getting right down in the dirt with you.    It’s also my job to make sure after all that, and before I tuck you into bed with your assorted stuffed dolls and monkeys, that  you get clean, and that includes getting behind the ears and under the fingernails, just as  was done to me at your age.  Oh, and we can’t forget your hair.

None of this feels like work to me, by the way, though sometimes it is at odds with ‘friendship’ at least in some sense.   In fact, I have a fantastic time with all of these ‘jobs’  but they wont take a back seat to being your friend, or I will have lost the plot.  Later in your life, ideally,  friends that you get to chose  (not just kids your age whose cool parents I like hanging out with) will help you stay your course of good decision making and offer correction and support if needed while hopefully giggling and getting into mischief and helping you push back against whatever is in your way and or just push back against whatever needs it.    I hope I get to be one of these friends.  But for now, your friends get a pass on the gritty stuff.  That’s where I come in.  And that’s why your tears of protest , and cuteness,  won't work on me and get you out of tonite’s hair wash any more than they worked on the last one, or than they will on the next one.

But I’ll still do my best to make it fun and minimize the tears.

While you push a few rubber duckies through the bubbles and try to distract me from remembering the task at hand, I sit on the nearby toilet’s closed lid and pick up my guitar.  I’ve been singing to you for years now.  In fact, when I’m on key (hallelujah!) and you are not splashing me with water (double hallelujah) , it probably is somewhat soothing.  It is for me and you may someday even have bits of memories from this time of me and you singing during your bath.  You know  all the words to our favorite tunes  and I love hearing them in your singsongy, little girl voice as you play with articulation, pitch and tonality.

When you are done crashing rubber duckies into each other, and I move ominously closer with the shampoo, a look of simultaneous terror and resolve washes over  you.  You are petrified but you know you are safe.  It’s an interesting paradox.  I’m careful to avoid getting water in your eyes, and especially careful about soap, but there still is Almighty wailing.   My oh my.

 I run my hands through your hair,  pushing the soap away from your eyes and in so doing, massage your scalp.  Someday  I hope you will be able to give your own child a hair wash.  It’s a magical feeling.   If you read this as a parent, you will probably be amazed at how some things just don’t change over the years.

I will then scoop you out of the tub with a warm dry towel and give you the choice of being wrapped like a cheese burrito or a bean burrito.  You will say cheese, and then  immediately change your mind to bean, as if the world depends on it.   No matter.  Same yummy ingredients.

Then I will turn on the hair dryer and you will shriek loud enough for CPS (again!!) to hear that it’s too cold, or too hot.  You will yank it from my hands with righteous indignation and do it yourself, leaving  me only to brush your hair, a task that feels as primal and parent /child connecting as any in the animal kingdom. 

There will be a day soon when it will no longer be cool for dad to brush your hair, or even be in the bathroom when it’s tub time.   And when that happens, the chapter closes forever.  It’s no wonder I love bath time with an amplitude that perfectly mirrors your dislike of it.

So look at me with whatever puppy dog eyes you want, but you are not getting out of it.  Not this year!

I love you. And your squeaky clean hair!

(and remember that you aren’t necessarily the only one with tears in your eyes at bath time!)

-me