The baby can’t hold her head up on her own, especially not in a bath of water, so I have my hands under her neck and back. For a few moments it seems that she might get used to the bath, but then I submerge her further and she starts screaming again.
‘Right, that’ll do,’ says Lynne.
‘You’re joking aren’t you?’ I say. ‘You haven’t even washed her face!’
The baby continues screaming. Lynne rubs the cloth quickly round her cheeks and forehead.
‘There,’ she says.
I shift my hands to get one free and splash some water gently over my daughter’s chest. Her eyes are screwed up, little face puckered crimson, shrieking at the top of her tiny lungs. I laugh.
Lynne gets the towel. ‘Come on. That’s it,’ she snaps. With the baby crying like that, Lynne can’t handle it. Me, I have gone all the way through unconcerned and deep into cackling callously. The towel has a little hat in the corner, and Lynne put it on the baby’s head as I lifted her out. Lynne lays her down and delicately dabs her dry. My daughter has stopped making that horrible noise, but still looks aghast at the depth of our betrayal. Then she pees all over the towel.
We had left it ten days; the baby had had only one bath until now, in the hospital the afternoon after she was born. The midwives did that. We weren’t worried about our smelly baby, the community midwife told us not to worry about it, babies’ skin is very delicate and if you bath them too much when they're tiny its not good for them. The West End is full of babies with dry skin and eczema from being bathed daily by fussy mothers, while more, ahem, working class areas are full of healthy, dirty kids.
We have a wee baby bath and I filled it with a few inches of warm water, using my elbow to test it, making sure it was blood temperature, so I knew her dismay at being bathed didn’t come from the water being too hot. I leave flinging babies into boiling tubs to Attila the Hun. I think she just didn’t know what was happening to her, poor mite. Just when she thought she was beginning to work out how things worked, we take off all her clothes and dump her in all this weird stuff. Ha ha, I think. You'd better get used to it. We are going to do it again on Sunday.
‘Right, that’ll do,’ says Lynne.
‘You’re joking aren’t you?’ I say. ‘You haven’t even washed her face!’
The baby continues screaming. Lynne rubs the cloth quickly round her cheeks and forehead.
‘There,’ she says.
I shift my hands to get one free and splash some water gently over my daughter’s chest. Her eyes are screwed up, little face puckered crimson, shrieking at the top of her tiny lungs. I laugh.
Lynne gets the towel. ‘Come on. That’s it,’ she snaps. With the baby crying like that, Lynne can’t handle it. Me, I have gone all the way through unconcerned and deep into cackling callously. The towel has a little hat in the corner, and Lynne put it on the baby’s head as I lifted her out. Lynne lays her down and delicately dabs her dry. My daughter has stopped making that horrible noise, but still looks aghast at the depth of our betrayal. Then she pees all over the towel.
We had left it ten days; the baby had had only one bath until now, in the hospital the afternoon after she was born. The midwives did that. We weren’t worried about our smelly baby, the community midwife told us not to worry about it, babies’ skin is very delicate and if you bath them too much when they're tiny its not good for them. The West End is full of babies with dry skin and eczema from being bathed daily by fussy mothers, while more, ahem, working class areas are full of healthy, dirty kids.
We have a wee baby bath and I filled it with a few inches of warm water, using my elbow to test it, making sure it was blood temperature, so I knew her dismay at being bathed didn’t come from the water being too hot. I leave flinging babies into boiling tubs to Attila the Hun. I think she just didn’t know what was happening to her, poor mite. Just when she thought she was beginning to work out how things worked, we take off all her clothes and dump her in all this weird stuff. Ha ha, I think. You'd better get used to it. We are going to do it again on Sunday.
Here is a picture of a shark. It's too big to fit in the bath, so it's a pretty tenuous illustration really.
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