At the weekend, I woke up with a really bad headache. I initially wrote it off as a terrible hangover before realising it probably wasn’t as I hadn’t drunk anything.
I can’t drink as much as I used to but alcohol-free hangovers would really be taking the piss.
My husband suggested I take a bath, which sounded good.
I could read one of the books I’d got for Christmas, and at the very least it would get me out of doing parenting for a bit.
Pre-children I used to have a bath a few times a week, much preferring them to showers. When I was pregnant I wallowed in the bath like an unglamorous hippo for days on end until my wrinkles had wrinkles.
Then, when I had very small kids, I would share their nightly bath (note; this is not relaxing, as suggested by the bizarre stock photo below, and is actually quite painful and occasionally disgusting, and kind of put me off).
I don’t often get the time these days, or perhaps I just have better things to do, so instead of a leisurely soak in the evening I opt for a more practical five minute shower in the mornings or a wet wipe and dry shampoo when it’s been that kind of a night.
But sometimes, when the opportunity presents itself, it is nice to have a bath.
I have a whole winter’s worth of yeti-like leg hair and thought I could take the chance to remove it. Plus I got given a load of bath bombs and melts for Christmas, and it would be a shame if the kids used them all like they always do.
So I removed all the plastic bath toys and placed them one by one into the 207 Ikea bathroom storage shelves. I ran the bath, putting way too much cold in because of course I’m used to running baths for kids who inexplicably don’t like their skin to feel like it’s melting off, and adding in the bath mat before realising I’m 35 and don’t need a bath mat.
With nothing better on offer I poured in some unicorn bubble bath and climbed in.
Aaaahhh, that’s the stuff.
Almost immediately, I could hear my kids coming up the stairs, like little heat seeking missiles intent on making sure I never have alone time.
In my haste, I had not thought to lock the door, and it was swung wide open as they made their entrance whilst all the warm air whooshed out onto the landing.
No reason for their visit; just wanted to see what I was doing and check I was OK.
Caring children they are.
I’d gone for a deliciously caramel-scented bath melt; one of those which you might even be tempted (if you were stupid) give it a lick just to check it’s not pure sugar (it’s not).
This turned the water a kind of murky brown colour, which meant that both of my children WHO CANNOT JUST LEAVE ME ALONE FOR ONE MINUTE started singing Mummy pooed in the bath.
I honestly hadn’t, I assure you, but that is the level of humour around these parts these days.
I told them in no uncertain terms to leave me alone, shut the door and go downstairs in that order.
One of them needed a poo; OF COURSE they did.
It’s not as if there are another two toilets in the house and one other adult who is fully able and trained at arse wiping (there are).
There is nothing quite like the scent of freshly curled out turd while you’re trying to relax.
Especially when accompanied by your delightful children poking your wobbly bits and then laughing as they wobble while you try not to scream YOU did this to me! This is all your fault!
Kids are the best.
Once more, I pleaded to be left alone.
But why would you go downstairs when you could set up some toys just outside the bathroom door?
And then fight, loudly, rapping on the now-locked door every few minutes to report the other sibling’s wrongdoing to your mother who already had a headache and has now re-read the same paragraph sixteen times?
Suffice to say, I did not read my book, my headache did not disappear, and my legs are still yeti-like. I’ll try for another one next month.