Bathtime Fathering Fail - Dedicated to Jody Steverson

There are many utterances from the mouth of my beloved that fill me with dread. Although, I could quickly come up with a top five list without much reflection, the phrase at the top of the list is as follows: "Go put the kids in the tub and just watch them. I need to do (fill in the blank) and I will be right there."

For some reason, I continue to fall for this. Even though I know that intellectually, right there never means what you would think it should mean. Most of the time, I could have them both bathed and dressed by the time right there happens. But as a Dad, bath time is my most dreaded chore. After a busy day at work, I come home seeking quiet, order and rest. Bath time is the most chaotic time of night. The girls seem to get their second wind and there is usually loud screaming and splashing, water going everywhere, shampoo in eyes, kids standing up and sometimes slipping, wet feet running on hard tile. It's a nerve rattling experience for a tired Dad. My mother-in-law, in her infinite love and giving, always gives them a bath when she's here, which is very much appreciated by me.

Of course, there is the other scenario that occasionally happens at bath time. It's worse than any of the above. It epitomizes chaos and disorder, and it happened the other night.

It is necessary for me to point out, at this point, that I have a come a long way in my relationship with poop. Lauren is not bothered at all by it, but she will tell you that the first time I cleaned up poop from our new puppy 5 years ago, I struggled to make it to wherever I was going with it. There was incessant gagging and face redness. Now, I am not at all bothered by dog dropping. The first diaper I changed nearly killed me, and now, it's nothing. Likewise, the first time I cleaned Cate up after she became potty trained, I was traumatized. For whatever reason, whenever I am introduced to a new form of waste, I am a basketcase. Yet, even though this is not new at our house, I will never get over a code brown.

Code brown is our word for when a kid goes in the bathtub. Cate did it a few times a couple of years ago. What I remember about that is that she was so horrified by it that it was pretty short lived. Ava is now on a bit of a streak, and she doesn't seem to care. I'd say that it happens once a month. When one of us yells "Code Brown," the other one comes running. It's a two person clean up job.

Since Ava has gotten so prone to doing this, Cate is learning to recognize the signs. Last night, as we were waiting on Lauren, at the first sign of any squat, Cate would frantically yell "Ava's gonna poop! Ava's gonna poop!" I would look at Ava, and I couldn't detect anything. After the second time this happened, I got Ava out of the tub and put her on the potty and encouraged her. This actually worked for Lauren last week. No such luck for me, and she wanted back in the tub. Satisfied that we were ok, I went to hang up some clothes in the adjacent closet. Cate's scream sent chills through my veins. I walked into a scene that no parent wants to see. Sparing the detail, Ava was looking relieved and satisfied and Cate had scurried up on the side of the tub and was huddled in the fetal position.

I called "Code Brown," and my wife came in calmly. I corralled Ava and took orders, as Lauren faced the strange visitor. Cate shivered and commented how gross the situation was. She would occasionally look down into the tub and gag. "Don't look down," I'd say. She was worried that her bathtub toys would be covered in fecal matter, especially her water gun. As I went to get some type of cleaner, Ava wandered into the bedroom. I came into the room to see her standing in a puddle of baby pee on our new hardwood floor. Lauren came and cleaned this up as well. I was kindly admonished for my role in the matter.

Soon, the bathtub was clean and both girls were back in. Ava was relieved, Cate was calm. I quickly bathed them both and got them off to bed.

Dads aren't made for such.

-Joe