Walter hasn't had a decent bath in a while. He's looking a bit greasy and has a doctor appointment this afternoon. I place the roly-poly boy and a towel on my bed and quickly grab the infant tub and take it to the bath tub. I turn on the water.
I'm trying to squeeze in a shower toward the end of Walter's nap. Lily needs help with the potty while I'm in there. My shower comes to an abrupt end. In my haste, I forget to push down the little thingy that makes the water come out of the tub filler instead of the shower.
Water starts shooting from the shower head and landing on my head. Gratefully, I notice that only my already-wet hair got wet and not my clothes. Walter is still on the bed, so I struggle with getting the excess water out of my hair as I look to make sure he doesn't have a death wish. I'm glad to see that Lily is there to entertain him. That is, until I notice her peculiar posture. She is suffering from, for lack of a better term, Toddler Poop Problems, and sure enough, she's having an accident right there. I rush her to the toilet, admonishing her for going in her "shorts," when I realize the tub is currently filling with water that's far too hot. I look in on Walter again and empty the tub to start over.
Finally, I get the tub filled and I decide it's time to take out the little newborn seat part of his tub. He's not a confident sitter, but he's sitting well enough and he's too big for it anyway, so hey, let's try it! Hmm, not so much. I get him stripped and in the tub and he immediately starts kicking and thrashing. Not struggling, mind you. He LOVES the water. I try sitting him different ways, I try leaning him back, I try lots of things only to conclude that unless I keep a tight grip on his arm at the very least, he's going to thrash himself right underwater. Indeed, his face goes half under at least twice and he doesn't react except to keep trying to kick, thrash, and roll. I lather up his head and try to rinse it while Lily stands next to me making constant and ever-changing demands for cups to pour water.
I decide this bath needs to be over now when I realize I never brought his towel into the bathroom. Enter my helper monkey-in-training, Lily. I ask her to go get me the towel from the bed. She's off. Little did I know at first that she went to her own bed.
This morning, Lily stumbled like a zombie out of bed and informed me ten minutes later that she needed to use the bathroom. I take her and discover evidence of an overnight accident--both "numbers." Upon further study, I'm rather puzzled. She usually doesn't have accidents without waking up and making a fuss, and this had definitely happened hours earlier. I went to her bed to investigate the sheets, when I find something peculiar: almost totally dry sheet, on top of which sits a rather soaked (sniff: yes, urine) burp cloth. She can't tell me what happened, but when I ask if she had an accident and cleaned up with the burp cloth, she says yes. I leave it on her bed to deal with the laundry later.
Lily re-enters the room--with her urine-soaked burp cloth. "Here's the towel!" she cheerfully declares. I try to send her again to the right bed for the right towel, but she's not up for the task. Walter has calmed down slightly and I've made sure the water level is very low. I take 2.3 seconds and dash for the towel myself. Limb-by-slippery-limb, I get the slick little rubbery ball of rolling boy flesh out of the tub and wrapped in a towel. I take my first full breath in 15 minutes.
I hear greasy babies are all the rage this season.