It was bath day. It had to be bath day. Someone had to get clean. The children smelled like a combination of chlorine and sunscreen dusted with a fine layer of dirt from the backyard. Several days worth of deodorant have accumulated in my armpits, and my front is sticky with milk drips. Then, there’s the baby, Benny. He’s got milk and sweat in his neck rolls, as well as a paste of baby powder beneath his diaper.
Benny is chosen.
While the children are at school, I scrub down the kitchen sink and fill it a few inches with warm water. I gather the sponge, baby soap, hoodie towel, clean diaper, and lotion, and wonder why I don't keep these things under the kitchen sink to make this procedure faster. However, because I can’t think of how to make room under the sink for these supplies, this idea falls by the wayside.
Benny does not appreciate being chosen for a bath. I acknowledge that I shall appreciate it more than he. However he poops in his bath, doting the water with bright yellow floating blobs. And shortly after I dry and lotion him, he spits up down his chin and neck and onto the collar of his clean polo shirt.
Tomorrow, I shall bathe myself, although the fact of the matter is I would rather organize a bookshelf or sort through my unused clothes than cleanse myself. In the meantime I will smell Benny's hair frequently and enjoy the soapy clean scent.