Right in the Heart

A few weeks ago, my baby began showering by herself instead of taking baths at night.

I remember giving her her very first bath. In a hot-ass bathroom we steamed up before stripping her down in the middle of December, my own Mama guiding my nerves and incompetence. She screamed her tiny lungs out. I remember propping her up in that blue bathtub I got as a shower present and giving my infant rubber duckies to chew on. I remember as she learned to crawl, how she would book it for the bathroom when she heard the water running, signaling tub time. I remember the countless nights I perched at the edge of that bathtub, soaked to my elbows as my daughter splashed and choked and blinked and splashed some more. I remember how much taking baths, even at age four, soothed her little soul right down no matter the day.

And now she taking showers at her own volition. Her Bestie takes showers, naturally. The idea for her to take them, too, was all her own. At first- I had to facilitate the entire event. It was too much for my girl to handle, the downpour, keeping her eyes open but not full of water, opening shampoo and body wash bottles, and not spending 40 minutes singing. She asked if she could wear sunglasses in the first few times. But now, she's got it figured out. All I have to do is make sure the liner is tucked into the tub and hand her towel over.

That light pink, hooded butterfly towel her Fairy Godmother gave her when she was four weeks old. The one that used to envelope her four times, now stops just above her knobby, bruised, girl knees.

She's as self-sufficient as all get out. She crosses the street solo, requests to stay home when Daddy runs to the corner store for milk, picks out her own clothes, buckles herself into vehicles, and opens the Mac Book and finds her own websites to surf.

But this giving up on baths thing hit Mama where it hurts: right in the heart.