The first time I gave Ezra a bath, I was fully prepared to hear ear-splitting screeching on par with what one might expect from mythic beasts. I put it off for weeks before I worked up the courage to even attempt the task and even then I did so with much trepidation. Frankly, if you had told me that pouring water over a baby would make it sprout fangs and gnaw through your arm in rage, I would have said, I know, I've seen it happen.
Simply put, prior to that day, the most exposure I'd had to bathing babies was what I had seen of my niece's bathtime adventures which were, as one might say, less than enthusiastic. I steadied myself, convinced that I was about to experience the kind of wrath that brings down empires only do discover that all my worry seemed completely unfounded.
He didn't mind baths at all. Still, deep in my heart of hearts, I suspected that what I was experiencing was rare fortune. Perhaps he was okay with baths now, but if I were to ever get water in his eyes, the magic would fail, the bubble would burst, and the love affair would end in heartache and ruin for us all. I'm not the least bit melodramatic.
Anyway, after several weeks of uneventful baths, in which the baby relaxes like he just settled into a hot tub on each occasion, we decide to give him his first shower. Now this, I thought to myself, is sure to end in tears. He will get water in his face and lasers will shoot from his eyes to destroy us all; I am certain of this.
Nope. Okay, another theory dashed, I decided that it must be about controlled situations and warm water and yada, yada, yada, whatever crap I pseudopsychologied myself into believing.
The fact of the matter is, the kid likes water. Loves water. Can't get enough of water. As long as it wasn't cold, he would happily cross the Pacific with a snorkel and some water wings.
OR. Or maybe, he just likes proving me wrong.