Enveloped in deep, steaming water. Luxurious silky bubbles. The fragrance of lillies and almond oil. The soft, calming tones of Enya. Restful, rejuvenating, pores open, hair swirling like a mermaid…
Then, the sound of doom: footsteps. Stomping, rushing, size 7 bare feet. The door crashes open, extinguishing the Yankee candle, the CD skips. There she is, all ninety centimetres of her. Sticky fingers, painted face and matted hair. Before you can protest, call upon back up in the form of your husband, she’s joined you in the tub.
Naturally, I’m at the plug end, cold taps pressed into my back. We’re also joined by the frogs in various sizes, the duck that squirts and the plastic jug, perfect for saturating the bath mat. The bubbles disintegrate around us as the bar of soap is chased from one end to the other. Teeth must be brushed, unruly hair scrubbed and tamed, the white flannel now a dodgy shade of gray. When at last the toddler is sufficiently cleaned and ready for pajamas, the water is tepid and most likely diluting urine. Grateful there’s not a floater, I shave my legs in record time and call it a day.
There are many ways in which my bathroom could be perfect. An antique roll top bath, with one of those fancy things across for my handmade soap, embroidered flannel and loofa. An economical toilet with a flush on a chain. A shower with a head big enough you’d feel as though you were standing under a waterfall.
But the things that would make a bathroom perfect for me? A toilet that flushed right first time, one without a plastic seat on the top of it. Maybe it could even clean itself? Shower glass that never collected limescale. Perhaps a bath with a plug that didn’t have a raised knob as pointed as a knitting needle. One that filled itself, to the perfect temperature. One that never went cold, even if you had to put your child back into bed twenty times over. The entire room could be encased in a sound proof box. There’s nothing more irritating than hearing a child throwing a hissy fit when you’re trying to look at all the design ideas you wish you’d thought of in Country Living magazine.
In reality, my bathroom is pretty perfect already. It may have a dated cream suite and grubby grout. It’s kind of a garish turquoise and is always littered with wet towels and discarded socks. There are magazines by the toilet circa 2009. But it does what it needs to do. We’ve had some fun times in the bathroom. The bubbles have been so high the child couldn’t be located. Two pink lines appeared on a pregnancy test in that room. We splash and play boats and draw on the tiles. It’s everything a bathroom should be, just how I like it.
Although a poo in peace would be nice.
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