Bath time

My daughter is almost one year old.

Each day I bathe her chubby little body — most often first thing in the morning. I am tired from a night’s sleep clipped short and this is the first of my morning’s offering to appease what seems like a furious emperor who has soiled themselves overnight.

She does not care for the fact I bathe her in a stainless steel laundry sink. She is happy to spend hours in the fall of warm water with nothing more than an old rubber sink plug to play. I reflect on how precious and vulnerable she is and how mortal we all are. Life is fickle and our time here on earth is short. Death is indiscriminate, we may never wake up as the sun rises. We hope we will, but it’s no certainty. As I wipe her down and replenish her clothes for the next few hours I get my fill of her sumptuous thighs and skin as polished marble.

“I tickle and talk. She is a delight of giggles. I never want that moment to end.”

My heart beams. I feel a sense of appreciation, despite the face of the day that will mostly be spent in chaos and tears for both of us. I’m thankful for our good health. For the fact that we can scream with full lungs and be heard. In that moment, all problems out of my control become trivial.