Described by all the baby books as a calm, loving time to wind down before bed. The images show mother and child joyfully squeezing a yellow ducky together and giggling in unison, if you stare hard enough at the pictures your ears could probably pick up strains of Enya in the background.
It looks splendid.
It is a fabrication.
In fact I would go as far to say it is horse shit.
In fact let me correct myself once more, it is such an illusion I am going to term it rocking horse shit.
Bathing in this house is neither calm nor lovely, it is actually pandemonium with noise levels that threaten the sound barrier and water levels a tidal wave would be proud of.
Twin Boy adopts the slide and splosh position, he sits at the rear of the tub, leads forward grabbing the sides of the bath with his seven year old arms and then pulls himself forward sending his two sisters flying and an inordinate amount of Barbie’s, Ducks and Toy Frogs flying through the air.
The result: Screaming from the females, water attacking the floor, spreading like crazy through the house and a red faced mother who only left the room for a moment to get a fresh towel.
The no pain baby shampoo causes each child to cry in anguish whilst tearing at their eyes, the Moshi Monster bath soap creates an alarming red rash to start to prickle on each kids skin, and the ‘bath time crayons’ start to stain the tiles flaming hot pink.
It is stressful, it is wet, and it is in no way settling for anyone involved.
My worse bathtime moment was when I ran to grab the phone and returned to find Twin Boy sitting on his twin sisters head whilst they tested how long she could stay under. She had tried on her own apparently but wasn’t as good as he so she asked him to help; he obliged, obviously.
A second tearful episode ensured when BB wanted to smell like mummy and consequently used an entire Jo Malone Bubble Bath set to cleanse herself. I can tell you; Mummy has never smelt that good.
Then my favourite, the time every mummy dreams off, when you leave the bathroom for the briefest of moments and return to find the then three year old twins looking for the one thing that sets them apart. Hunt Molly’s penis was in full throw as my little angels greeted me with confused faces and multiple questions as they finally worked out why they are not identical twins.
Bathtime; we have it in the morning now…