Water Baby

Have you ever tried to bathe a fish?  You know, give it a really good scrub, get its scales all gleaming and sparkly.  No, me neither, really it was a foolish question, but now that the idea is in your head let me give you a taste of bath night in our house.  It involves no fish, but a fairly good substitute.

Bath night is exciting, mostly for little Miss Jones (we have about a million things that we call our daughter, the vast majority of which are in no way related to her actual name, or any distinguishing features, they just tend to be the first things that pop into our heads.  Some stick, some fall by the wayside in the manner of someone that has just developed a cramp and needs to wait to let it ease off while the rest of the party goes on ahead.  Many of these names will crop up on the blog, I’ll try to flag up that it is the daughter that I am talking about, but sometimes might forget.  Just assume it is).

I think we’ll try that paragraph again, it having been hijacked somewhat. 

Bath night is exciting, mostly for little Miss Jones, less so for her two frazzled parents.  The cycle runs something like this.  She loves going in the bath, hates having her hair washed and then is absolutely determined never to leave the bath in her life once the hair is washed.  There is a very fixed routine for the bath.  Each of the various stages coming with their own particular challenges and dangers.

Four Hours

Have you ever tried ice-skating?  I wouldn't recommend it.  There's the moment, looking out over the unpolluted ice when the possibilities seem endless.  Your brain pictures you sailing unobstructed, with a grace normally reserved for soaring birds or swimming dolphins.  Then your legs take over, you step out onto the rink and all thoughts of birds in flight are swiftly dispelled by the fact that one of your feet has gone off in a direction which they haven't found a compass point for yet, somewhere between N and NNE whilst your other foot is doing some intricate dance step which falls loosely under the category of a rumba.  Swift, humiliating disaster ensues, closely followed by the desperation which comes from noticing that you have somehow ended up 25 yards away from the exit of the rink, facing the wrong way and a gossip of teenage girls is about to run you over. Now I’ve put that picture in your mind, perhaps my story of mine and my daughter’s first night together without mummy won’t seem so bad.