I shouldn't be glad he hit the baby's head against the stove.
Maybe glad isn't the right word. Smug might be more like it.
We give Ryan his baths on the kitchen counter, you see. We do this because my back cannot handle the low tub with the high side. I tried it a few times and spent all of bath time trying to figure out how to get even the tiniest bit comfortable. I can't say for certain that any soap actually touched the kid's body because I was so preoccupied with where to put my legs.
So, the little swimming pool bath tub goes on the counter, and everyone is happy and soap is sufficiently used.
The counter is right under some cabinets, next to our stove. So we wrap Ryan up in a towel, carry him to the kitchen, lay him on the stove and then in one fluid motion, lift him out of the towel and swing him under the cabinet and into the tub.
It's important to be fast. If you're not fast, he pees on you. The kid has a real issue with fresh air. Fresh air hits the boy parts and pee shoots out. (I make no apologies for the fact that future girlfriends might read this. I have had enough pee shot at me to justify my telling the world, thankyouverymuch.)
So one time, a few weeks back, I had just finished giving Ryan a bath and I prepared to do my signature baby swoop out-of-the-bath-under-the-cabinet-into-the-towel move. Except I overestimated the amount of space I had by just a tiny bit and sort of, a little bit, knocked Ryan's head into the cabinet.
Just a smidge.
Mike, for whatever reason, was standing around just watching me give him a bath and saw it go down. It's important to note that Ryan didn't seem to care. He didn't hold the whole head-slam thing against me at all. He was like, "I just had a really nice bath, and now I'm getting wrapped up in my ducky towel, and as far as I'm concerned, life is good."
Mike was not so forgiving. I saw him flinch. I saw him give me the look. The one where I know that whatever he is about to say is going to be ten times nicer (read: condescending) than the thing he really wants to say.
"Meg... you have to be careful..."
Oh, do I? I should be careful with my five-month-old? Jesus, why hadn't anyone told me that?!
I shot him the look of death (every woman has one), made a snappy comment about how I didn't need his help, and went about my merry way.
Fast forward to a couple days ago. Mike giving Ryan a bath. Me standing around, watching for no apparent reason. Mike copying my signature baby swoop move, and successfully avoiding the cabinets (oh, kudos, my friend). Laying Ryan into the ducky towel and... slamming his head on the stove.
I waited a split second for Ryan's reaction, which again was "What? Did something just happen? That was such a good bath!"
Once I allowed for proper reaction time (eh, 2 seconds), sheer smugness washed down my entire body. At the exact same moment, Mike's shoulders drooped because he knew what was coming next.
"Oh, MIKE... You have to be CAREFUL..."
Blogging to maintain sanity at Phase Three of Life.
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