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.