If my eyes were closed, I’d feel like I was on my side porch in the summer, listening to the rain, the swing gently swaying front…back…front…back…
And as I watched her, I think she was thinking the same.
The Queen has had a few weeks of absolute astuteness (is there such a word?) She’s been awesome in letting me know what she needs & wants. Fuzzy socks. Her sunglasses cleaned. The car window down because she smells a dead skunk.
No worries, chinquapin, we rollin’ all four down!
She’s also seemed wired up, as I say. Full speed ahead. Rare form. Active.
Not bad things, mind you. Just “on” things.
So, I accommodate.
Night time routines
This evening, I readied her for bed. I collected her pj’s, a fresh towel, washcloth, and changed her bed sheet, while she sat on the potty reading a 13-month-old edition of my Harvard Business Review.
It was bath time.
Every time for the past few decades, I’ve had two methods of bath time: let the water run to warm, lift her into the tub, and remove the wand to rinse her while she sits in the tub; or fill the tub, add Epsom salt, baking soda, and lavender oil, and hold my arms under her to give her buoyancy to aid in the relaxation, then rinse accordingly.
But tonight…tonight I was going to let her experience something new.
A shower.
I stood her and stepped her over into the tub, the shower head spraying a rainstorm (that’s the setting) into the tub. Instead of sitting her down, I let her stand. Back to the spray. Water pitterpatterpitterpattering on her, warm water running down her head, to her back, shoulders, to her arms, and exiting out of her fingers that positioned themselves in front of her, tip-to-tip on each hand, as if instructing the droplets where to go.
Stillness.
She tilted her head slightly back and closed her eyes. I just knew she was relishing the feeling of the water cascading down her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. She stood silent. Motionless.
And I let her relish.
I was, too.
The power of water
We stood for 3 minutes. Then 5. Then 8. I worried that the water would turn cold. Or my arms would grow weak. Or her legs would give out. The water seemed to turn into tiny, rubber beads that bounced off her now caramel-colored hair. They ricocheted in unison. A cadence formed as we stood, her with her eyes closed, hands out with palms facing toward her, my hands and arms holding her weight…so she could experience what we all (at least most) have. I noticed her eyes closed, and a contented smile on her face as she soaked in her standing-shower experience. And I….became lost in the moment…my shirt soaked…my jeans now stuck to my legs.
It was bedtime.
I turned her, sat her down, and bathed her like I’ve done the past three decades. She was pliable, mellow, smiling, and what I perceived as happy for enjoying her first shower. Once finished, I stepped her over the side of the tub, dried her, lotioned and powdered her, combed her hair, sprayed it with Pravana (how’d she become so bougie??) and donned her in her cozy pjs—a combo of a t-shirt/sweatshirt and long-johns/fuzzy pants. And fuzzy socks. Have to have fuzzy socks.
To bed she goes. Teeth brushed. Drink of water. Monkey bear presented. Prayers said. Kisses given. Obligatory photos & videos…
“Yes, you’re beautiful,” I tell her. She feels prissy, and fresh, and relaxed and calm and Zen-like.
And I’m all emotional.
Thirty-one and-a-half years and she has her first shower. I’m thankful that He shows me the “little” things that can make a huge difference. The “little” things that bring huge joy.
I know I’ll never see mine the same….
Thank you, God, for making the seemingly insignificant so significant. It really does matter.