This pregnancy has seen me take many
baths. Resting, with the weight taken off for a little while has been
helping me get through my busy days. The bath was one of my
pre-requisits when we were flat hunting: No bath = No deal.
I recall a conversation a month or two
back, with someone who commented that baths were good 'me' time,
letting you shut the door on the world for a little while. Personally
although I remember the concept of 'me' time and shut doors my baths
do not represent either. They take place amidst the busy flow of my
day, not outside of it.
This afternoon's was not a 'me' time
bath, though it did start out promisingly. I worked the morning shift
and got home with a sore back to an empty house. I emptied the bath
toys out of the tub, turned on the hot tap, put some bubble bath in
and fetched a glass of water, a small packet of potato chips* and a
book. I got into the bath before it was full and kept the temperature
on the lower side of too hot as per my midwife's instructions.
I breathed out, and let the hydro magic
begin. Then I opened my chip packet and began to eat. I am aware that
eating in the bath is possibly not for everyone, but hey, I'm
pregnant and it was what I was in the mood for. I started to relax,
though I was aware that my husband and son could be arriving home at
any moment.
I enjoyed my first few chips and then I
heard a cry that could only be Rafa's coming from the base of the
stairwell. My son sounded like he was in considerable distress. I ate
another chip – not enjoying it quite so much. The wailing got
louder, but did not seem to be getting any closer. Should I go into
mummy panic mode? Why wasn't my husband a) soothing the beast? or b)
getting his ass up the stairs more quickly? Should I leap out of the
bath and rush my seven month pregnant self out into the communal
stair well dripping bath water and bubbles? Was there time to pick up
my towel?
I did have all these thoughts but
because I am a slummy mummy I sat in my bath and ate chips while my
son screamed. I ate them without particularly enjoying them and
slightly more quickly than I would have otherwise. I didn't want to
have to share.
 |
| Rafa trampolining, March 2015. Edinburgh. |
Eventually Jon and Rafa made it up the
stairs and inside. The cause of distress was not a violent bump to
the head or a dinosaur having bitten off his hand, it was Rafa's
response to not being allowed to go out and play on the trampoline.
My son was snot stained but perfectly healthy. I wet the clean face
washer I had been planning to rest my head on when I got around to
lying back in my bath, and washed Rafa's face with it. Once inside
his anguish was forgotten (by him at least). Despite my knowledge
that his screaming was a tantrum and not a 'real' trauma, the
distress still clanged in my brain like a burglar alarm.
As did the knowledge that I had sat in
the bath eating whilst he screamed. Earlier in the day there had been
a saccharine facebook post asking mums to repost something or other
if you were a mum who thought about their children with every breath
ect ect; I kept scrolling. Now I had to wonder if all this made me a
second (or third) rate mum.
Did I want to be that person?
While I was trying to stop Rafa from
throwing good Sherrin AFL footballs into my bath Jon showed me the
jeans he had picked up for me from the mummy store. Once buying jeans
was a highly personal task that involved mirrors and visits to
different shops and your best girlfriends. This week with my current
maternity jeans falling off me every three steps and sick to death of
the skinny jean shuffle I went online and found some bigger, baggier,
higher waisted mum maternity jeans and sent my husband to collect
them.
How did I get to be someone who does
not even have time to go shopping for herself? For jeans: the modern
woman's wardrobe staple and personal statement about who she is?
Did I want to be her?
I lay down in my bath and Rafa
repeatedly drove his matchbox ute across my head whilst going 'ne naw
ne naw'. All cars make this sound, especially when they are
repeatedly smashed into mummys skull. I closed my eyes.
Did I want to be here?
My husband was in the doorway. Over the
sound of Rafa's burble he told me about the rest of his afternoon.
After the shopping errands he had been to the hospital. His work
college and Wednesday night football buddy had missed a few games
with a sore back. A few days ago he had emailed to say that he had
been diagnosed with an aggressive tumour and was about to start
chemo. As far as he had known, this forty something year old man with
a young family had been healthy a week ago, and now he was bed bound without the
use of his legs or his bowels. I had read his email and been struck
by his brutal honesty about where his body and head were at.
The word was that he wanted visitors,
so Jon and Rafa spent the afternoon visiting a man whose life has
been knocked out from beneath his feet.
I lay in the bath with my own young
family crowded around me and wondered did I want to be here?
Absolutely.
*or crisps if you are from the UK.
