Bath

Concern.

Concern may refer to:

– Worry, an emotion
– Concern (business), a German type of group company
– Concern (computer science), an abstract concept about program behavior
– Concern (horse), an American Thoroughbred racehorse
– Concern Worldwide, an Irish charity
– Concerned, a webcomic parodying the video game Half-Life 2

(From Wikipedia)

I would like to add this to that list:

– An emotion you would never expect to see on a 5 month old baby.

Bath times have not been the most fun, to be honest. Every week, our beloved son is lowered, kicking and screaming, into a mini bath of ‘Is it too hot? add some cold! now it’s too Cold! take him out! add some hot!’ Water, where he cries for the entire ten minute period myself and the wife wash him for. He stops on occasion, I imagine he’s wondering where the hell he is, why his parents are doing what they’re doing, why his head is wet, and if the water he’s in is too hot or too cold.

Upon finishing the bath, we take him out, wrap him in a towel and begin to dry him, while Ned keeps himself occupied by crying himself hoarse, kicking his legs, and ensuring we can’t wipe the collected water from under his chins.

Yes, it hasn’t been fun. And with Ned growing out of his mini bath recently, we’ve broken the bank and purchased what I can only describe as a bath recliner.

Sort of shaped like a banana, this thing sits on the floor of the actual bath, attaching itself with suckers. The bath is then filled to a level that covers the seat, save for the space where his head will be. Once we’ve decided on an accurate temperature of the water, Ned is plonked in the seat, leaving me hands free (I used to have to hold him in the bath) and ready to assist more in the actual washing of our son.

It must be hard, being our son. For a start, he’s teething, which clearly pisses him off to no end. Second, his parents, desperate to keep him is a costant state of not crying, move him from carrying to bed to breast to mat to book, which must confuse him as all he wants is for his bloody mouth to stop aching and not be shown a constant stream of teething rings.

Now, he has to deal with being wet, and sort-of-laying-down-but-not-quite in a smooth, blue, banana shaped seat. If he knew what a banana was, of course.

So I bring you back to the start of this post. It was at the point of being fully laid/sat in his seat that a new emotion played across his face. I looked down at Ned. A mask of concern stared back at me as a rubber duck floated past his face.

Son, if I were you, I’d be concerned too.

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