Bath time...

Bath time is not my chore. Not my job. It never has been. From the time B and I figured out how to properly bathe two tiny infants without them slipping through our hands like a bar of soap it has been daddy's job. The way we see it is that he has very little time with them during the week. And I am just not man enough for the task.

G cannot get into the tub without first scraping his boy bits on the edge. R cannot stand to have her hair rinsed. C will not sit down. G feels the need to dump water on everyone. Including daddy. Oh, lets not forget the floor.

The entire time they are in there, I am in the kitchen smirking as I sip my Diet Coke (wishing it were something stronger). At least they hate him too.

He has tried washing the girls first and then G but that only works 50% of the time. Sometimes G will hop in before his turn. B has tried doing C alone. That works. As long as you can keep the other two out of the tub.

Our bathroom is the size of a closet in an average sized house. A walk-in? No. A standard closet. Not one of those giant houses that a lot of people end up mortgaging to the hilt. Just a closet. Big enough for a bath tub a sink and a toilet. In fact, because of the way the door opens, one has to nearly turn sideways to get by the sink. Clearly not designed well. We could turn the door around so it opens into the hallway.....eh.

My husband is a big guy. So bathing them is not exactly like spending the night on a Tempur-pedic covered in down pillows and blankets while being fanned by the breezes of a tropical island at night. It is more like being stuck in one of those bad horror movies where the big-breasted chick is in a room and the walls keep getting closer threatening to squeeze the silicone right out of her.

But he does this every bath day. Without hesitation, no grumbling. He muddles through and produces squeeky clean children. He even lotions them up and combs their hair. And for that I am thankful.