I should be embarrassed to admit this but we're pigs so I'm at peace with it: It's been more than a week since Annabel has had a proper bath.
Not that I haven't tried, mind you.
Most kids love to get into warm, soapy water and slosh around until even the walls are drippy. Not miss boo.
I think there may have been a brief time in the summer when bathtime wasn't a struggle, but it's so long ago that I think the memory may have been a dream.
These days when I say its time for a bath you'd think by her reaction that the toddler translation worked out to be: "I think we're sending you back. It's just not working out."
Perhaps its that the blue plastic baby tub - the only way we can turn our stand-up shower into a pool that collects water - is shrinking as she grows. And, of course, we never seem to get the temperature quite to her liking. I insist that it at least be moderately warm while she insists that it's burning her skin off even as her lips turn blue.
I won't even mention what happens when we wash her hair.
For now, I suppose, I shall have to be happy with sponge baths and just thank my lucky stars her hair is still just wispy little weeds.
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