What Happens in the Bathroom, Stays in the Bathroom

Have you ever tried to give three babies a bath at the same time? And if so, have you ever pulled it off successfully? (he asked with hope) Because if you have, Caroline and I would like some pointers. All we seem to be getting are floaters. And as far as we can remember, there is no nursery rhyme that reads "Rub-a-dub-dub,a turd in the tub." The first time the aqua deuce reared its ugly head, my neat-freak wife nearly fainted before finally pulling it together and embarking on a thorough, house-wide search, but alas, not one single biohazard suit could be found.

"Who did it?" I asked, as I corralled the kids while Caroline drained the tub.

"How in the world should I know? There’s three of them." She had a point. Figuring out which of our triplets was the defecating daredevil was, at best, a crap shoot. (sorry)

The next night, it happened on my watch. Though I didn't see anything that would incriminate any of the three, I immediately ruled out Kirby, if for no other reason than the mere thought of my sweet baby girl taking a shit in the bath tub was enough to make me move in with my therapist for the rest of my life. So I focused on my boys. I had a feeling it was Sam. After all, his body of work was clearly that of a little joker. I tried to stare the truth out of him, but he just stared right back with a wise-guy grin that said Prove it, big boy. So I set my sights on Jack. And he…splashed me in the face. I had to come to grips with one simple fact — I had no leverage. And without it, I’d get no scoop on who dropped the poop.

Luckily for us, Sam, Jack, and Kirby love baths, and the abrupt conclusions of said baths due these unidentified efforts soon rendered such efforts obsolete. Relieved, I thought that our scatological nightmares were behind us. That is until the boys made a little discovery.

Ah, the penis. Fascinating extensions of both man and mankind, no? Without them, it'd be impossible to create any more of these intoxicating flaps of skin. But, perhaps even more importantly, without them, Sam and Jack would have nothing to relentlessly yank on during bath time. Kirby? She plays with plastic a rubber Dora toy. Sam and Jack? They play with their ding dongs. Delightful.

One night, much to my chagrin, one of our boys — child privacy laws prohibit me from naming which one — reached down and pulled the other’s crank with the force of an Olympian anchoring a tug-o-war team. (And I thought the image of Kirby pooping in the tub would require lots of therapy…) After the aggressor finally relented, the two seemingly made peace and spent a few more minutes in the tub playing (with toys) before we finally got them out. I dried off Jack as Caroline went to pull Sam out of his porcelain playground.

"Look at him," I said of our firstborn, his lips a never-before-seen shade of purple.

"He's just cold," said Caroline.

"I don't know, babe," I protested. "If my weenie was turned into Stretch Armstrong for thirty minutes? I'm pretty sure my lips would turn purple, too."

Eventually, even the tugging of wankers ran its course, and, wouldn't you know it? The baths became easier to negotiate, so much so that one night Caroline felt it safe to leave me in charge of manning the tub solo. Things were going smoothly until I realized that I had forgotten the diaper rash cream. It was in the kitchen. Fearful to leave Sam, Jack, and Kirby in the tub alone, I decided to get them out and dry them before dashing to the kitchen and back to retrieve the ointment. Ten seconds. What could possibly happen?

I'm sure you'll all be relieved to know that my harrowing bath-time experiences have not jaded my emerging and ongoing fatherhood career. But they have got me thinking long and hard about showers. I’m mean seriously, comparatively speaking, don't they sound like a lay-up?

Author: John Cave Osborne

•  
•  
•