If you believe the media, the bath is the last retreat for mothers. Tired? Have a bath. Stressed? Have a bath. Kids driving you mad? Have a bath. Housework getting you down? Have a bath. Having trouble juggling work/home/family/life? Have a bath. There is nothing, it seems, that cannot be cured by closing the door and pouring an essential oil upon troubled waters.
I like a bath. I do. I’m just out of one right now. No essential oils – the best we stretch to in the Fibro at present is the one-litre economy-sized Space Bubbles mix. Lots of bubbles. Kid friendly. Smells like bath water. Still, it’s not like I didn’t make an effort. But I do have one bone to pick with the ‘a bath will solve all your troubles’ brigade.
How is a mother supposed to relax in her bathing sanctuary when she is sharing head-room with a small flotilla of dank boats? How is she supposed to light a candle and lie back and think of nothing (and we all know I’m not that great at that bit anyway), when there is a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figure poised to leap down on her from the tap? How, oh how, is she supposed to get into the whole relaxation mode when she has to clear four aeroplanes, a Batman figure, three cups of assorted sizes, a couple of bubble blowers, a water pistol or two, Ben 10’s skateboard and a plastic syringe from the bath before she can fill it?
Everything but the duck.
We have tried many methods of corralling the bath toys. We have strung them up in a net affixed with suction cups. Not enough suction. We have stashed them in plastic boxes, from which they quickly escape. We have culled and re-culled and culled again. Still they breed.
So, yes, here I am, fresh from my bath. Am I relaxed? Am I feeling ready to juggle the work/home/family/life conundrum? No. I am too tired from juggling bath toys.