I am the bathtime expert, I am, there’s no beating about the bush; there’s no room or need for modesty – when it comes to baths, I’m your man.
Ok, enough of the flannel (excuse the pun) that’s how it was supposed to go. In the October of 2007, our precious daughter was born: Bethany Grace (B). Sarah (DW) was going to take extended maternity and, therefore be a stay-at-home mum; chief executive of Waldram Towers and all round expert in our child. That she was, and still is. We thought seriously about something that could be mine, something that I could be the expert in. My mammaries aren’t designed for lactation, I had to work and my understanding of babies and small things is (or was) minimal to say the least. So, I became the bathtime expert. I would bath B, do the night-time routine and put her to bed.
I loved it. After a tough day (or an easy one in the sandpit if you believe Andrew Barker, Nigel Woodings and Matt Waldram tell you), it was encouraging and delightful to bathe my girl, wrap her up in lavender-soaked towels and have a special cuddle. Precious, precious times that I will remember forever.
Let’s spin on 4 years!
Distressed dad still loves bath time, especially on the rare occasions he dips in with them, but, alas, gone are the Mozart-playing, lavender-smelling days. Distressed dad now deals with ‘too many bubbles’, ‘not enough bubbles’, a two-year old boy who loves to run around naked and, as he did tonight, urinate on Distressed Dad’s legs. Bath times now are chaotic, frantic, exhausting but still fun. They are definitely still fun. Am I the bath time expert? No. But for B&S, I guess I am.
Pass the bubbles…