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Jeff's Life
Archive
Jeff Stimpson, 39, has been a working journalist for 15 years. He lives in New York with his wife Jill and sons Alex, 3, and Edwin, four months. He maintains a site of essays, Jeff's Life, at:
JEFF'S LIFE
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Monthly Column... |
by
Jeff Stimpson
The bottom of my tub is alive with pink skin: writhing, squirming, limbs intertwined, a miniature orgy on porcelain. Shrieks ricochet off the tile of the walls and straight through my head.
It is 6:30 to 6:45 on a weekend night, or on an evening when our babysitter had to leave early. The last of the water has swirled and gurgled down the drain completely unnoticed by Alex or Ned, who are the sources of the shrieks piercing my mind.
This stops right now or I'm ending this bath! I told them a few moments ago, my nose dripping bath water, their palms slapping like rays. I'm ending this bath! I proclaimed, and yanked out the plug like pulling the switch at Sing-Sing.
There. I am in charge in this bathroom. I need a mop.
My proclamations pass through both boys at bath time these days. Alex is on the rim of the tub, trying to climb into the sink on which, moments ago, I conked my head. Down, I tell him, down now. He holds the rim of the tub and lifts one leg. He stares ahead and shrieks. Shrieks shrieks shrieks. He turns around and around, his arms pinwheeling farther and farther until he threatens liftoff. Then he sits and remembers he has to try to stand on his head in the bottom of the tub.
Ned gazes at Alex, studying the angle of big brother's arms and legs, rapt as a fresh ballet student. Then Ned is on the rim and trying to climb into the sink. Down, I order, down now! He holds the rim of the tub and lifts one leg, glancing at Alex to confirm his technique. He shrieks. He turns around and around and sits, then tries to stand on his head in the bottom of the tub, but this is too advanced and his effort dissolves into giggles.
No one can stop them. Not the babysitter, not Jill, not dad.
Dad who? Ned thinks, as he plops down on the sloping end of the tub and, to his amazement, slides the length of the bath until he stops at Alex's feet. Ned hurries back to the sloped end of the tub; I see his brow crease as he tries to re-create the slide over and over, never quite hitting at the right angle. I'm almost laughing. I hide my face, because to let them see me smile is to snap the unraveling thread that is my control over this bath.
Alex climbs the sink. Ned discovers he's behind on his slashing. I end this bath now, I announce, and pull the plug.
Water pools a quarter-inch deep in some spots of the floor. I've already whipped one of Jill's hand towels to the rack above my head, where it drips with overflow. Without this towel, the bath water they expel would leave the black and white tiles awash, and maybe lap onto the hardwood of the hallway beyond. It's been all I can do with this kind of headache -- Alex be quiet! -- to keep ahead of the water. I've also stripped. I used to stay dressed for their bath, until Ned learned to pour water on my sleeves and marvel at cotton's absorbency.
Stop it now!
Mostly they use their hands to splash. Sometimes their feet. They sit and face each other and bicycle-pedal. Then they flap their hands like Rebecca Howe on "Cheers" after she gets fired. Ned likes to submerge a toy fully, then fling it over the side of the tub with as much water as possible. You'd think the Elmo Dump Truck would carry the most bath water with it. But the big green ball seems to splash out more. I wouldn't have thought that before I had kids.
I've tried to teach Alex how to throw the ball to Ned. No, Alex, don't bite the ball. Throw the ball to Ned. Throw the ball to Ned, Alex. I place the ball in Alex's palm, extend his arm, and help him throw. Alex giggles. Ned laughs and shrieks, and picks up the ball and flings it at Alex's head. Alex tries to understand this. Sometimes Ned throws the ball at my face.
Alex bites Ned. It starts with a hugfest, pink arms ensnaring each other, Ned laughing and Alex laughing and sinking his mouth on Ned's ripe, ripe flesh in what looks like love until Ned's face explodes into wails. Alex, no! No! Never bite! Never bite!
"Nevah bye-tee!" shrieks Alex, then he moves in for another hugfest. Ned backs up. He's going to be a fast learner in school. "Noo ... noo ... " says Ned. He retreats until his bum touches the faucet. Alex advances. Ned picks up the Elmo Dump Truck.
I end this bath now!
Copyright 2003 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
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