Last week was a tough week, folks. Roni, God love her, fell in the bathtub and really hurt her lower back. She was pretty much laid up for most of the week. She normally gives Kevin his bath. He loves his bath.
Or he did.
I had to take over this duty because she simply could not do it. No problem.
Or so I thought. It went like this:
Day 1: I put him in the tub and all was well. At first. I then made the mistake of getting water in his face while trying to wet his hair. Mama Mia. That was the end of the good times that night.
Day 2: I put him in the tub and all was well. At first. I was very careful to not repeat the mistake of the night before. Success. And then. He reached for a tube on the edge of the tub and hit the shampoo bottle with it. The shampoo bottle, like a laser missile, shot off the edge and hit him in the forehead. Screaming ensued. End of good times.
Day 3: I put him in the tub. All was not well. Crying. Sobbing. And all manner of carrying-on ensued. Oy. Great.
Day 4: Roni takes him and puts him in the tub. Crying. Carrying-on. This sucks. I'm filled with guilt.
Days 5 & 6: I'm at work and Roni works with him on Saturday and Sunday to trust that she'll never allow Mommy to fuck with him again in the tub.
Tonight was day 7: Roni ran the bath while I played with him and undressed him for his bath while saying excitedly, "Do you want a bath?" When the water was ready, I put him on the floor to see if he'll crawl excitedly into the bathroom like he always has. Off he went. I stayed far, far away. Didn't want him to have flashbacks. Success! He had fun in the tub! Yay!