Bathwater

Freddy splashes in his bathwater. His tiny hands slap the surface sending droplets everywhere. A healthy puddle threatens to crawl into the adjacent room. He stops and smiles at me.

            At seven months he’s a big kid – 20 pounds and 30 inches long. He looks at me with round, blue eyes and an adorable smile. It is open-mouthed and all gums. I smile back at him just as his attention diverts to the suds and the dozen toys floating around him. He picks up a rubber duck with his chubby little digits and sucks on the bill.

            I experience a moment of envy.

            I am sorry to say that it is not the first time.

            I wish I was tiny again. I remember my baths, or maybe the comfortable feelings they evoked. When I was an infant I know I was loved and protected. I don’t know if Mom put me in a full-size bathtub at his age, but I know I was never bored. I too, sat in a lake of toys.

            As I grew, my baths evolved. The change in bathtub scenery involved two things – new tubs, of course, and new toys.

            Somewhere in my progression from infant to toddler the toys changed. The edges became sharper, the masculinity started to take shape, and interests began to be realized. In essence I was playing with action figures and boats in lieu of squeaky toys and teething links.

            I don’t know when it happened. Between being a kid and maturing into a teen the toys were put away and never pulled out again. I still remember their last resting place beneath the sink. I wonder what Mom did with them.

            Despite the years I never lost my love for baths. Blame that on an affinity for relaxing and escaping.

           

            In an instant my right pant leg is soaked. Freddy has just broken his own record. It’s the biggest splash yet. All I can do is laugh.

            He laughs back.

            We are both giggling at each other.

            He is laughing because I am. I am laughing at the fact that until four months ago my baths had been toy-free for well over a decade. Now I can’t help but step on a rubber duck, or a squeaky toy when I get in the tub.

            I rub my son’s head. He loves that. He has a skull like granite; hard and, if he follows the Haxby trend, impenetrable.

            I wonder how Freddy’s bathwater will evolve. I think I will record it for him. The days when his rubber ducks go out and a truck, or boat, or an ATV comes in I will write it down.

            I think he is a truck kid.

            He squeals suddenly and goes back to the business of exporting water from the tub to the floor. I hand him a duck and put a towel down to battle the flood.

            He’s having such a good time I can expect to sit here another twenty minutes. I don’t mind. He’ll play, he’ll talk, he’ll sing and splash and abruptly, he’ll be done. He’ll rub those beautiful baby eyes with his fists and complain to me. I’ll interpret that it’s time for a bottle and a nap.

            Often he’ll be asleep before I finish cleaning up, so I never say anything like, “I’ll see you in a minute!”

            I just tell him I love him.

            I look at my little boy playing in the bathtub. I wish for him to take advantage of these early years. I wish for him to be this happy all his life. When that little tongue of his finally gets itself around the English language it will be time to start chipping away at childhood and teach him responsibility. The time for accountability will soon follow.

            Then he will be grown.

            He latches onto my leg. He wants to stand up.

            He struggles and grunts. Standing there he looks at me.

            “Dad,” he says.

            I smile. It falters.        

            Time to get out.

            Time to grow up.

            The bathwater settles and cools, as if removing life from it takes its warmth. In my arms I can feel that the boy carries it with him.

            That gives me hope.