Baby Squared : bathing twins

Babies and baths: A Rocky Relationship

Roper — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 15:34:00 GMT

I don't generally give advice on this blog. I like to think of myself as a friend and fellow-traveler to anyone who reads here, not some kind of big sister or "expert." But just this once, I want to send out a word of advice / reassurance to any parents out there with children younger than mine, who have reached the ripe old age of two and a half. And it is this: There may well be phases in your child or children's development when, for absolutely no reason fathomable to you, they suddenly HATE taking baths; when they will scream and flail and resist with vehemence your attempts to get them into the tub and to wash their bodies and/or hair.

Do not be alarmed. This condition generally will resolve itself within a matter of days or weeks for equally inexplicable reasons. All you can do is wait, try to make baths as quick and painless as possible, or -- if getting your child into the bath is completely impossible -- settle for swabbing her down with a washcloth or see if you can get her near a pond, pool, lawn sprinkler or other source of water with less drama than the bath inspires.

A happy bath period -- the girls at circa 15 months

We have had several bath "strikes" in the Baby Squared household since the girls were born. I wrote about one of them here, when the girls were a little over a year old. There have been others as well. Sometimes it's one child or the other, sometimes it's both of them. Lately, it's sort of both of them. Elsa doesn't want to get into the bath to begin with. (Which is kinda weird, given her penchant for getting wet in other circumstances.) When I try to get her into the bathroom, she'll run and hide behind her crib or curl up on the glider with her pacifier.

If I manage to get her into the bathroom and close the door, she'll squeeze herself into the tiny nook between the sink vanity and the wall. If I can get her undressed and wrestle her into the tub -- like, it's the second day without a bath and she's sticky with melted popsicle and dusty with sandbox sand and muddy from playing in the dirt in the backyard (ah, summer) and she really needs a bath, like it or not -- it's usually a screamfest. (Ever wonder if your neighbors think you're beating your children with a log chain, given the volume and intensity of their tantrums?)

Clio, on the other hand, has developed a bizarre phobia of things being in the tub -- washcloths, bath toys, the soap, nail brushes, etc. The only thing she wants in the bath is herself and/or Elsa. Even if Clio's not in the tub, she will freak out if any of the above objects are in it -- even if there's no water in the tub. I have no idea why. I guess I might understand feeling like it's creepy to have stuff floating around in the water that might bump up against you unexpectedly. But this takes it to a strange extreme. And the intensity of her object-in-the-tubs reactions can be unnerving.

The other night, she threw a five-alarm tantrum because after I'd taken Elsa out of the tub, she came back into the bathroom (I'd bathed them separately to try to deal with Elsa's reluctance) and saw that I'd left a washcloth in the tub. She was inconsolable for ten minutes. It was a little scary. I know todders can be weird in this way, and I suspect this is linked to her recent neat-freakness. But sometimes I worry that she might actually have OCD.

But I am going to take my own advice -- and reiterate it once again to anyone else out there who might be dealing with a bath crisis of their own: be patient. This, too, shall pass.

Squeaky clean and happy after a bath, watching Curious George.

Fancy PJs from China courtesy of Grandma Jaycee, who got them on a recent business trip.

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Dumb Parenting

Roper — Tue, 27 May 2008 00:02:00 GMT

I don't mean the stupid kind -- though I certainly do plenty of that. I mean the kind where I am incapable of speech (to use an archaic and, yes, I know, un-PC term for it). I've had a a strange sort of head cold since Wednesday, culminating in total laryngitis this weekend. My voice has varied from Kathleen Turner-esque (sexy!) to little more than a whisper (creepy?) with occasional moments of near-normalcy if I haven't spoken in a while.

You wouldn't think it, but not having a voice is a major handicap when it comes to looking after two madcap 17 month-olds. I feel rather like Mister Noodle, sans mustache and pseudo-Edwardian getup. (For those of you who are better parents than I am, and don't let yourself let your children watch TV, Mister Noodle is a mime character on Sesame Street, in the "Elmo's World" segment, played by the fabulous Bill Irwin.) I've been mastering the art of exaggerated expressions, mouthing of words, and modified prop comedy.

Mostly, though, I just feel powerless -- I can't say no / stop / don't / etc., nor can I effectively summon help. (Though I wonder if maybe I could do some kind of inaudible, high-pitched squeal, like Aquaman...) This afternoon, for example, all four of us were hanging in the backyard, and while I was helping Clio up the climbing structure, Elsa was over by the garden, coming perilously close to a garden rake. Normally, I would have said (to Alastair) "Baby, Elsa's about to step on that rake..." but instead, all I could do was wave my arms, advance a few steps toward him, point at the rake and mouth "rrrr-aaa-kke!" in hopes of averting Mr. Noodle-worthy slapstick comedy. (Baby steps on rake, rake handle hits her on head, birds fly in a circle over screaming baby's head, etc.)

To which Alastair replied, "It's OK. I'm watching her."

To which I would normally say, "Yeah, no, just move it." But, having an inoperative larynx, all I could do was bug my eyes out in exasperation and shake my head. And by that time, he'd returned to planting tomatoes. (Elsa, fortunately, did not step on the rake. She found some empty plastic plant pots to bang together instead.)

I also didn't have it in me to protest too vehemently when Alastair suggested that we hose the girls down in lieu of a bath. I did manage to make the point that, while it was warm, it was also breezy, and therefore not the right day for all-out garden hose fun. So, in some kind of weird compromise, he ended "misting" the girls with the hose instead. It wasn't clear whether they liked it or were just confused. Really, they were more focused on putting cedar chips into empty flower pots and pouring dirt on themselves.

Taken several weeks ago (note jacket) but the same basic idea.

Anyway, the upshot was I ended up in the house afterward with two grimy, shirtless, barefoot little girls, hungry for dinner. The twentysomething tenants in the house behind ours were drinking beers and grilling, and Alastair was out front washing the cars, and things felt generally summery and Memorial-Day-Weekend-esque. So I turned on the classic rock station and poured myself a glass of white wine, and the girls ate ravioli with their fingers, topless and bibless (what would be the point?) and we all rocked out to Jethro Tull's "John Barleycorn." I still couldn't talk, but the gals seemed to find my air-drumming hilarious. They both ate, like, a zillion strawberries. And then I took them out of their high chairs, and more dancing ensued. Picture it: two adorable, half-naked, pot-bellied baby girls holding hands and grooving and giggling on a sunny evening. Anything I might have said -- even if I could -- would have been totally superflous.

The Bath Is Back

Roper — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 22:29:00 GMT

As mysteriously as it left, it has returned -- the girls' love of their bath. As I described in a recent post, bathtime has been a scream-fest for the past few weeks. We tried everything: bathing the girls individually, getting in the tub with them, bathing them at different times of day, bringing all manner of toys into the tub. We tried the coddling "pacifier bath" and even the indulgent "bath with bottle." No luck. The gals were determined to be miserable. Ironically -- all the while -- they still seemed to get excited about taking a bath before it happened. When we said "Let's go take a bath! We can go splash splash splash!" (big, maniacal smiles plastered onto our faces) they smiled back and started flapping their hands -- their little sign for "splash splash splash." But as soon as they hit the water....meltdown!

It started to get a little bit better. Over the past week, we were able to get about a minute or two of tear-free bath time before they started. And then, suddenly, last night, it was just like old times:

They even let me do shampoo sculpture on their heads:

We're all very happy with this new development. Bathing two babies is enough of a production as it is. Speaking of which, a question, to satisfy my own curiosity: do you / did you bathe your bambinos every day at this age? We generally stick to a bath every other night, unless it's been a particularly messy day. A lot of baby books and web sites reference a nightly bath, but we've never done it. I guess some people like to keep their bedtime ritual super-consistent, so I can see that logic. As for actual need -- well, I tend to think we're a little cuckoo in this country when it comes to bathing frequency. But this may just be an instance where I'm happy to cry "twins!" and take the more lackadaisical route.

We've recently added another item to our (semi-consistent) bedtime routine: dental hygiene. Or, "brush brush brush" as we have, for some idiotic reason, decided to call it. Our pediatricician suggested that we get each of the girls a toothbrush and start getting them used to the idea of brushing, even though there's precious little to brush. (Two teeth for Clio, two complete and two half-emerged for Elsa.) They seem to love it. Elsa thinks it's hilarious to pretend to "brush" mommy and daddy's teeth, while Clio really seems to have the hang of it, and actually gets a little bristle-against-incisor action going on. It's pretty fun.

As for mama's blues, well, they're still there. Some days are better than others. But I'm taking good care of myself (as is Alastair), and with any luck (and maybe a little help from Dr. Eli Lilly?) things will improve soon. Stay tuned.

Terror in the tub!

Roper — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 14:11:00 GMT

Something strange is happening. Until recently, Elsa was our little waterbaby. She loved taking baths. Or as Woody Allen might say, she more than loved it. She lurrvved it. She would get all excited when she heard the water running, and, once in the tub, would splash and laugh and generally have a good time, playing with bath toys, giggling with Clio, letting me make shampoo horns in her hair, etc. But the past few times we've tried to bathe her, she's been miserable. Not just whining or complaining, but all-out screaming, standing up and putting her arms around us, desperate to get out. This, of course, sets the empathetic Clio off, and she starts screaming, too.

We have no idea what's going on. The water isn't any colder or hotter than usual, and neither is the room temperature. She doesn't have any diaper rash or cuts or anything that might be irritated by the water -- not that we're aware of, anyway. It's just like all of a sudden she does NOT want to be in that bathtub. The only thing I can think of was one possibly, slightly traumatic bath event that occurred a week or so ago, when Alastair was away: after I'd taken both girls out of the bath and was putting Clio's diaper on, Elsa leaned too far over the edge of the tub and fell forward into the little inflatable tub inside, which was still full of water. I caught her right away and pulled her up, so she got only the briefest dunking, but she was frightened by it (as was I). She calmed down quickly, though, and I bathed her one or two other times after that without incident.

What gives? Can a toddler suddenly develop, for no apparent reason, an intense fear and/or loathing of the water? I felt like I was torturing the poor girl last night by not letting her get out of the tub. But her hair was quite crusty with banana and oatmeal and god knows what, and really needed washing. She'd also performed one of her trademark explosive poops earlier in the day, so she needed a good scrub. But hoo boy. Not happy about it. Maybe she's reverting to her newborn days, when she also didn't like baths. (Despite how completely different she looks now, the facial expression of bath-agony is remarkably similar):

I wish I knew why this was happening, so I could respond accordingly. Maybe she saw that brochure about lead content in our water that the city sent us recently? Or maybe she's initiated some kind of politically motivated hygiene strike? ("I refuse to bathe until babies are enfranchised!") Anyway, several possible solutions come to mind: 1.) Bathe the girls earlier -- not right before bedtime -- when they're not quite as cranky and tired. 2.) Try getting into the bath with them and see if that helps. 3.) Sponge baths and crusty-haired babies until further notice.

Any other ideas?

Out with the old

Roper — Tue, 11 Sep 2007 14:13:00 GMT

Recently, it seems, we've been getting rid of a lot of things where the babies are concerned. I just sorted through a big bag of the clothes they've outgrown (some of which they never even had a chance to wear), designating some things to keep for sentimental reasons, others to donate or give away, and others to sell at my MOT club's upcoming sale. A few weeks ago, we returned the co-sleeper we used for the first few months to the friends who'd lent it to us, and this weekend we returned the folding swing to some other friends. I recently bought an excellent little inflatable tub to put inside the bathtub, rendering the old baby tub we propped in the sink obsolete. We won't need the bouncy seats much longer, either -- Alastair uses them to give both girls their bottles simultaneously, but they're both getting pretty good at holding their own bottles now.

Each time we get rid of something, I feel a palpable sense of relief (less crap in our house!) and excitement for the forward progress; It's really fun, for example, to be able to put both girls in their new inflatable tub together and watch them splash and giggle. At the same time, I can't help getting a little wistful. No more gingerly bundling babies up in towels laid out on the kitchen counter. No more putting them in the "magic swing" (oh, how it could pacify them) and watching them stare at the blinking colored lights and bat at the little dangling toys. No more tiny, swaddled babies sleeping next to our bed in the co-sleeper, making those funny grunting, snorting newborn sounds.

Not that I particularly miss the exhaustion and thanklessness of the newborn phase. I find this older stage of babyhood infinitely more interesting and rewarding, and it seems to just keep getting better -- and easier. But what can I say. I'm a sap. When our friends Mark and Polly were here the other night with their 5-week old, it was so sweet to watch him sleeping, tiny and bundled, making little snorts and sighs. I found myself wishing I could go back and relive the early weeks and months with our girls, but with the super-powerful bond I feel with them now, and the knowledge of what their personalities are like. Alas, life has to be lived forward. Who's the genius who came up with that idea?

Anyway, tonight, we will attempt to bid farewell to another institution of our LWB (life with babies) up until this point: the 10:30 feeding, AKA the "dream feed" for you other Baby Whisperer devotees out there. Alastair has generally done this feeding, which is meant to "tank up" the babies just before we go to sleep, to get them to sleep as long as possible. For the past couple of months it's basically been their only nighttime feeding, and most of the time they don't even wake up for it anymore; we end up feeding them in their sleep. Alastair has been gradually decreasing the amount of breastmilk or formula he gives them, and I've been pumping earlier and for less time, and sometimes not at all. So, tonight, we're going to try to forego the feeding (and pumping) altogether. If/when the girls wake up in the middle of the night we'll (gulp) ignore them and hope they fall back asleep within a few minutes.

How will our heroines fare? Will they be able to go the full 11-12 hour stretch? Or will they wake up angry and miserable and screaming bloody murder at one a.m.? Will their mother be able to resist going to them, or will she cave and whip out the boobs? Tune in tomorrow -- well, more likely Thursday or Friday -- and find out.