Don't Throw the Baby out with the Bath Water

I guess there comes a time in this modern day when your children will stop wanting to share bath water.

I say ‘modern day’ because, once upon a time, the whole family shared the water on a weekly basis. It’s said this was at different times, starting with the men, then the women and finally the youngest being the last – hence the origins of the saying ‘Don’t throw the baby out with the (filthy) bath water’.

Heck, back in the very olden days it wasn’t even just families sharing – townships took their public baths annually. Apparently most people got married in June because they took their annual bath in May and still smelled pretty good the following month. However, to mask the whiff of a month’s worth of body odour, the bride carried a bouquet of flowers. Charming.

It’s possible this is a myth but ‘washing’ yourself in other people’s dead skin cells and liquefied sweat and grime, kind of defeats the purpose of taking a bath at all, don’t you think?

Fast-forward to today and, although my kids stopped taking baths together some time ago, they now screw their noses up at sharing water altogether. Which begs the question: at what age do you stop making them share bath water with their siblings and let them take showers?

I searched my memory and couldn’t recall the age I started to become a hygiene freak but, if hygiene was their reason, then fair enough. So the bath dried up and the Daddy longlegs made their descent and, come 9ishpm when the kids were all tucked up in bed, I stepped into my nice hot, steamy shower to wash away the day … when it ran cold.

Ice-cold water on your bare skin is not what you want at 9ishpm in the midst of winter. Because I had not anticipated this and was lathered up with soap, I couldn’t just leap out. Instead, I had to endure another few painfully cold minutes washing the soap off.

And so the following night I became the hot water police, yelling to them every few minutes to get out of the shower.

“But I’ve only just got in!” they yelled back. Or;

“I’m washing my hair.”

The following night, after another stone-cold shower, I performed random checks. Through the (frosted) shower door I caught one swaying and another drawing noughts and crosses in the mist of said frosted shower door. All the while the precious hot, water was running down the drain!

I became tired of being the hot water police – getting up and down off the coach was impeding on my Shortland Street time. Plus, I know cold water showers are supposed to be good for one’s complexion but they were not my cup of tea.

Short of returning to baths, I purchased an egg timer and placed it in the bathroom and what a difference it made! I’ve said it before but there’s something about timers and alarms that gets children’s respect. From my perch on the coach, I can hear the alarm go off, followed by the bang of the shower door opening and closing and I can relax knowing I will have a nice, hot shower later that night.

It’s just as well they have the respect of that egg timer because, with the water becoming murkier during football and rugby season, it’s highly-likely my ‘baby’ would’ve got thrown out with the bath water.

Return of the Music

I’ll never forget the last time I played the piano on stage. I was ten-year’s-old and my piano teacher’s suspected star pupil. But sitting up there on the podium at Forum North, I let my attention drift from the song I knew so well and, instead, briefly focused on everyone’s eyes boring into my back, waiting to hear what I did. I panicked.

My fingers tripped over themselves and the tricky song which I’d pulled off flawlessly countless times, slid into a downward slide. Mortified and bitterly disappointed with myself, I stood up, faced the audience and curtseyed before returning to my pew. I never went on stage again.

Well not playing the piano. Put me in a role where I’ve assumed another character, as the choreographer of a musical show once said after a rehearsal scene where all 40 cast members were on stage: “Who was the girl in the orange wig because she held the stage and I just couldn’t take my eyes off her?!”

That was me dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo. It would seem I had become one of those total and utter show-offs on stage, something I’m not in real life. I also had no qualms dancing on stage during my ten years of ballet and confidently danced my way across that same stage many a time.

But back to the piano. After that atrocity, I stuck it out another few months but my interest was waning. Mum said she wasn’t going to pay the exorbitant amounts of money for the lessons anymore if I wasn’t interested. I said I was too scared to tell my sweet, gentle elderly but overenthusiastic teacher, who hadn’t mentioned my on stage faux pas and still held high hopes for me.

This went on another few months until finally mum caved and was the one to tell her. She cried. Not mum, the piano teacher. It was dreadful.

Walking back up the drive to the car mum, ashen-faced, said to me: “Gosh, I can see why you didn’t want to tell her – I had no idea.”

I felt bad for years about letting my piano teacher down. But I felt free as well. And I had enough knowledge and songs to have a few party tricks up my sleeve and belt out tunes to entertain friends and family for years.

I didn’t realise what a great skill it is to be able to sit down at a piano and play. Until I couldn’t.

It was last year and we were at Paihia where the outdoor village piano attracted my attention. I took my pew, placed my hands on the keys … and froze. But this time it wasn’t from stage fright. My mind was blank. After all these years, my musical knowledge had gone.

I resorted to the one song I could remember – a simple one but it sounded impressive to the kids, and that has been my go-to ever since.

Last week we bought a new piano and I’ve been distracting myself from my lack of recall by teaching the twins the basics. It’s been satisfying for both them and me as they’ve learnt their scales and then their first song. It’s the upper octave version of my lower scale go-to song so now we can play a duet.

The trouble is we’re now all sick of it. So, I’ve enlisted mum to dig out my years of old sheet music and I am going to start back at the beginning.

Soon our house will be filled with music. But I’m thinking if I put on any performances in future, I might don a wig and assume an alias, Elton John-style.

Kid-Free and Fancy-Free

This week I found myself in the strange position of being kid-free. It is eleven nights in total of empty beds, too long really and something I’d been trying not to think about since their trip to Fiji was first booked last year.

Like most parents, we can’t wait to get our rowdy children tucked into bed so as to have a little down time at the end of the day. I have long held a ritual of doing the rounds one more time just before I go to bed to check all is well. Looking at their angelic, sleeping faces, all is forgiven and I find myself wishing I’d been more patient earlier.

On that last evening before their flight, I made the time to sit down with them on the couch and just hang. We didn’t do anything in particular but I could tell they loved having their mum’s undivided attention and, while the twins couldn’t stop hugging me, even the oldest, who stopped showing affection some time ago, sidled up.

I put on a brave face bidding them farewell, then turned away and burst into tears. This was the longest I wouldn’t see them, it was their first overseas experience and I guess I was feeling a little sorry for myself.

“Give the house a good clean, then sit back and enjoy it,” said a fellow parent when I dared to mention my situation.

But I seem to spend my life cleaning and, in the back of my mind was the memory of a family story I’d been told years earlier of the grandmother whose family had come to stay. Tragically, the plane went down on their return and, long after losing her family, she couldn’t bring herself to wipe away the handprint of her wee grandson on her ranch slider.

I realised I was being utterly ridiculous and my lucky kids would be having a ball. I allowed around one hour to wallow then told myself to get over it. This was an opportunity and I needed to make the most of it. I did clean the house. I also contacted several friends I have not caught up with for months and organised walking dates with them. I drummed up a whole lot of work, seeing as my hours of washing and cleaning and chauffeuring to hobbies had been dramatically reduced.

And then the best part of all – I booked a holiday. It was only brief and it certainly wasn’t in the tropical climes of Fiji, but I did the next best thing and sought out a luxury resort in Northland with palm trees!

Sitting there with the double doors thrown open, looking out to sea, I could almost imagine the heat pump behind me was a balmy breeze.

It did the trick and then came the call I had been hoping for – my kids’ little voices, sounding like they were just up the road. And, yes, they were indeed having the time of their lives, swimming and playing with the other kids, spending their pocket money at the markets and making the most of the all-you-can-eat buffets.

As I write this, there are four more days until they return and I will continue to make the most of it because, before long, it will be crazy-town around here once again. However, I admit I’ve had to pull their bedroom doors shut – their rooms are just too tidy.