The bath is full of water and soft skin and softer skin and soft sound. It is full of coos and wobbly bubbles. It is calm. A sanctuary of quiet, of wind-down time, of the two of us. The white blanket of bubbles glides over chubby thighs and chubbier thighs. It leaves tiny circles of gleaming clean soap on our belly rolls. Tiny hands splish splash wash them away. Tiny hands flick the water onto wet porcelain walls. Tiny hands reach up and find slightly bigger hands and squeal into loud double laugher that breaks into the reservoir of peace. Slightly bigger hands covered in watercolor paint and ketchup and boogers grab the shower door to climb in and shake and we are thighs on thighs on thighs. A tub of legs stretched from one end to another, the bubbles halve, and the safety from noise settles at the bottom beneath them with the dirt. It is gone. There is peace with saying farewell to peace. The middle leg set shakes and wiggles. Kicks up flecks of less-clean water into faces. Faces one direction then another. Turn. Spin. Splash. Kick. Closer. Back up. Back. Forward. Sploosh. Can’t. Stop. Keep. Moving. Mom look. Mom look. Mom look. I am already looking. There is a bubble beard cackling two inches away from my face. Dripping pigtails flop like the wet ears of a basset hound and I can smell the dog. He is licking the cool inch of water on the floor from too-big splashes. The bath is less than full of water and full of more than water. The bath is full of soft skin and softer skin and softest skin and warmth and loud, happy noises.
They call me Spitfire. 