When Grace and Sam were little, I still read parenting magazines and books. I took them to the library and the park and we maintained an annual membership at the local children’s museum. (Note that I rarely indulged my younger children with such luxuries. I took them to Grace’s soccer games and Sam’s t-ball diamond and occasionally, under duress, to the grocery store). Somewhere along the way in these eager, earnest early years of parenting, I read or heard that empty spice containers made remarkable bath toys. Even though Chad and I have always had good jobs and our kids have always had generous grandparents and aunts and uncles to keep them amply supplied with legos and stuffed animals and virtually every other toy available in the early 2000s (even the educational ones—I was so precious). But, although there was never any shortage of toys available, like most littles, my two older kids adored empty plastic food containers, cardboard boxes, rocks, sticks, and remote controls. We would stack empty yogurt containers for hours, and empty spice containers do indeed make exceptional bath toys. When did I actually throw away the last of the plastic bath toys from upstairs? They remained a staple bathroom decoration for more than a decade, and child after child adored the sparkly ribbons of water that could be made when pouring water out of an empty spice container. Not crying.
I admit that many of Graces milestones were overlooked in the frantic bustle of the next kid, next kid, next kid, next kid. I may have stopped to take note of the last time Clay took a bath instead of opting for a shower, but did I notice when Grace stopped inviting me into the bathroom to help her get clean? Or did I just celebrate one less little fanny to wipe, one less head to comb, one less precious body to clean and dry and kiss and tuck in? I bet I noticed. I’ve always been a mom not prone to crying over such milestones. But why cant I remember now? Not crying.
As I sit here reminiscing on plump baby bodies in warm bathtubs, I suddenly vividly recalled an early bath for Grace. I was heavily pregnant with Sam and alone at home on a random weeknight. Chad was working nights and I spent the first year of Grace’s life home alone with her in the evenings. Bath and bedtime were exclusively my domain. I remember her in the tub, watching me intently with those blue eyes that almost never left my face when we were together during her first year of life. She studied me, watched every move, absorbed everything. I remember I eased her gently backwards into the warm, soapy water. She watched me trustingly, and I gently poured water over her silky, sparse golden curls. (With later children, I took the promise of tear-free shampoo far more confidently and unceremoniously dumped water over little heads, laughing at the sputtering shock and hustling too quickly onto the next thing). And then I took her ducky washcloth and quacked it vigorously against her round little belly. She exploded in giggles, her eyes wide with surprise. I did it again. And again. And again. She laughed and laughed, never tiring of the trick. I called her dad at work and we saved the precious sound on his voice mail. I called my grandpa and she repeated it for him. It was a joyful moment and one I’ll remember forever. I feel sentimental about my baby girl as I immerse myself in this memory, of course, but I’m also unexpectedly tender toward that scared and earnest young mom—heavy with the promise of a next child, fathoms deep in love with the bathing baby beauty in her bathtub, pausing, for a moment, to celebrate the giggles of an adored first child. Did Grace play with empty spice containers that long ago fall evening? I can’t remember. I remember a ducky washcloth and bubbles of baby laughter. And anyway, it’s just bath time and makeshift bath toys. Not crying.
One year, I wrapped up a whisk and a set of measuring cups and a spatula and a turkey baster and some empty yogurt containers for my nephew for his birthday. At her confused look, I assured my sister that these would be his all time favorite toys (she later confirmed that they were—and remained so for years, until he hit an action figure phase that no little boy hero can be distracted from). But I didn’t wrap up any spice containers, because these empty infrequently and make the very best bath toys. These I saved for Gracie and my own precious bathing babies. But they are just recyclables, now, and nothing to cry about. They take forever to empty out and these days you can probably buy some brilliantly better bath toy on Amazon anyway. It’s just a silly household object that is finally empty and nothing at all to cry about. I’m not crying, you’re crying.
No comments:
Post a Comment