B is for Bath Time & Brandy
“B is for Bath Time & Brandy,” is a chapter from my book, One More Sip of Whine. I had sent my book to one agent, an incredibly dope and off the charts agent, and as expected, heard nothing. I went too big for sure. I thought, “go big or go home, right?” was a good first step. It was not. I’ve been thinking about sending it out into the world again – actually, I’ve just been too fucking lazy to do it – until I have been obsessing over this book, “Crushing It!” – in which I mentioned in my previous post. I have SO much that I want to do in order to shift my life, my career, in such a totally major way that I may just self-publish this. I’m wanting to focus on all of the other awesome odds and ends that I need to push forward and pursue in a very serious kind of way. If anyone has any thoughts on whether I should self-publish, please feel free to leave me a comment! Also, if you want to read more chapters from this book, click on the tab at the top of the screen that says, “my books.”
“B is for Bath Time & Brandy,” is a funny chapter about the hells of bathing and/or showering your little one in their first two years on this earth. If you’re a momma or dadster, and are reliving these painful memories as you read, I implore you, crack open a lil’ somethin’ – somethin’ to numb the vicious pains of such horrid memories. Cheers, to all the moms and dads suffering with the bath time blues. I hear ya… the struggle feels real. 😉
*image found on Google Images via sillybunt.com
B is for Bath Time & Brandy
I WAS IN NEW YORK VISITING MY MOTHER a little over a year ago, and she was constantly volunteering to give Greyson a bath. I was so baffled by this. Then, when I finally told her she didn’t have to feel obligated to take on this horrible nightly duty, she said, “I love giving the grandkids baths! I’ve always loved bathing babies!” (She’s had 5, yes 5 children by the way.) “Eh-hem, what? Are you some sort of masochist? Have you taken some happy pills today?” I did not say these words verbatim, however, I most certainly was thinking them. Kids are squirmy and slippery, hate to get their heads wet, require about 6 hands to safely and effectively get the job done, and throw water out of the tub, and I don’t know about you, but I feel as though I need some sort of back-y-otomy after this torturous ritual is through. Alas, this is not the job for me. As Greyson got older, I thought maybe popping him in the shower with me would not only be easier, but more time efficient, as well. This newfound idea was as fleeting as a fairy. It went down like this:
Shower #1: I tried to shave my legs. No room. Jumping toddler. Shaving cream missing from my leg. Child licked said shaving cream off of my leg, only to say, “Mmmm…yummy!”
Shower #2:
G: Mommy, you have a penis?
ME: No, Mommy has a vagina. Girls have a vagina, and boys have a penis.
Shower continues. I wash my hair and suddenly scream, shampoo streaming down my face and into my eye. My child has poked me with his finger right into my va-jay-jay while joyously laughing. “VAGINA!”
Shower #3: Greyson thought that jumping up and down, trying to “stomp Mommy,” was fun. This was not fun at all. In fact, it fucking hurt! Also, he decided that helping wash me and eating soap off of his hands was the new shower time fashion… Fuck showers.
Night #4: Back to the hellacious nightly bath time routine. Surely this is better than poking, prodding, and licking me in the shower.
I decided I needed something else, something with the ability to help me relax and let the bath time blues just roll off of my tightened shoulders, something with a bit of a kick, yet with a smile. Something smoother than my baby’s bottom but stronger than his screaming shrieks. Ah-ha! And this was the “ah-ha” moment of the week, of the month, in fact! This is when “B” was not only for bath time, but for brandy. Bath time with brandy… ahhhh… and bath times have never been so very, very sweet.