Singing Opera in the Bathtub

I am truly grateful for my kids. They make me laugh, and sometimes that's really the only thing you need.

- The kids were watching Sesame Street, and a segment came on where Andrea Boccelli was singing an operatic lullaby to Elmo. They've seen this before, and once Aidan asked me why Mr. Boccelli's eyes were always closed. I explained to him that he was blind, and that even though he couldn't see he was blessed with a beautiful voice. The segment came on again, and I came into the room to watch it (I admittedly like it -- I enjoy his singing and kind of ignore Elmo, or at least as much as anyone can possibly ignore Elmo). When the song was over, the kids were laughing at me because I was trying to mimic the famous tenor, singing my own final notes of the piece.

Aidan decided to inform me of a fact that apparently I had overlooked. "You can't sing opera, because you're not blind!"

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- I had The Messiah playing and was enjoying my respite from Frosty the Snowman and the Veggie Tales Christmas CD's. Grace needed a new diaper, so I plopped her on my bed (which also serves as our changing station). As I went about my task I was belting out the alto part of "For Unto Us a Child is Born," enjoying myself immensely and glad to hear that my vocal instrument wasn't as badly out of tune as I had feared. I looked Grace in the eye as I cascaded up and down the runs beautifully, impressed with myself, when suddenly I saw her frown, thumb popped into her little mouth, expressing her distress.

"Mommy!" she declared. "No singing opera!"

Oops. I sense a theme here.

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- The other night I decided to take a bubble bath. It was my Calgon moment. I was tired, worn out, achy from shoveling that two-inch, 500-pound layer of snow, sleet, and frozen snot that covered our walkways. It was wet, miserable, exhausting work, and the thought of a hot tub made me drool. I love bubble baths -- I always have, and I have always used them as a means of relaxation and sanity restoration.

Three houses ago -- the home in which our children were born -- we had 2.5 bathrooms: a powder room on the first floor, a master bathroom, and a full guest/kid bathroom on the second floor. Many a night I would leave Don in the living room with Baby Aidan or, later on, both kids, as I ran upstairs to escape. Occasionally I could hear some noise from below, but I was able to ignore it in my steamy haven.

Two houses ago, we upgraded to "bigger and better." The house itself was huge -- three beautiful Victorian stories -- and again, 2.5 bathrooms: a powder room on the first floor, a full bathroom servicing us and the kids on the second floor, and another full bathroom -- complete with a vast, deep, beautiful claw-foot tub -- on the third floor. It was my dream tub, the perfect venue for a soak, and the perfect location for the ultimate getaway. No child would climb three stories just to pester me. It was my little corner of heaven.

This house, now, is a different story. It's an apartment, so there are no multiple floors to which I can escape. And the bathroom -- our one bathroom -- is right off of the living room, so there is no buffering of children's voices or hearty demands. In the 11 months that we've lived here, I have taken a total of two baths. It's sad for me.

But last night I was desperate. After my 2+ weeks of incarceration with sick children, rarely seeing the out-of-doors, I needed time for me. I needed to soak in a hot, bubbly bath. I knew the risks -- children who simultaneously scrapped and wanted to play, children who were loud, children wouldn't leave me alone. But last night the risks were worth taking. At 6:45 p.m. I walked into the living room and made my announcement:

"I am going into the bathroom to take a bath. Please do not pester me. Don, you are in charge of the children. Occupy them. Do not let them bother me."

I went into the bathroom and shut the door. I cleaned out the tub of all squirt fishes and rubber ducks. I found a bottle of exotic bath suds that had been sorely forgotten. I plugged the drain and turned on the water.

The door flew open.
"Hi, Mommy." It was Grace. "What you doing?"

"Doooooooon!" I yelled.

Grace was removed, kicking and screaming. "I want Mommy! I want Mommy!"

I shut the door again, and turned on the heater to drown out the noise. I poured a generous amount of lovely scented goo into the water, rose and chamomile wafting throughout the room, bubbles multiplying with a frenzy.

The door flew open. Again.
"Hi, Mommy." It was Grace. Again. "What you doing?"

"Dooooooon!" What the heck?!

More kicking and screaming. I shut the door -- loudly.
Finally my bath is ready, steaming hot.

The door flew open. Again. It's Aidan this time.
"I have to poop!" he exclaimed, clearly in an agitated state.

You have got to be kidding me! How I longed for my former 2.5 bathrooms!

"Fine. Just give me a minute." I got into the tub and pulled the curtain. OK -- come in.

My vision of a calm, relaxing soak, surrounded by nothing but silence and solitude and the hushed crinkly sound of billions of bubbles popping all at once, was very quickly disappearing as my boy chattered away.

"Let me see the bubbles," he requested.
I scooped up a handful of bubbles and held them outside the curtain.
"Whoa, fun! Can I take a bubble bath too?"
NO.

The chattering continued. Now the lovely aroma of rose and chamomile was quickly and viciously being usurped by another noxious scent. I was about to be pushed over the edge. I was not feeling charitable or understanding or patient. There was noise when I wanted silence; there was a cold draft from the open door when I wanted warmth; there was a nasty odor when I wanted a calm, peaceful, fragrant one. So much for my third bath in 11 months. Why bother.

"I'm done now," he informed me.
Good. Maybe this experience can be salvaged.

Then -- very suddenly -- the protective curtain, my last barrier protecting my sanity, was whooshed away, the metal rings gliding over the bar, my warm darkened corner now flooded with cold and light. I jumped, startled, annoyed. There stood Aidan, grinning at me.

"Ohhhh, wow! Look at you, Mommy! You look like you're in Hawaii, swimming in an ocean full of bubbles!"

Nothing prepared me for that.
I love my boy.
I laughed -- who wouldn't? How could you not laugh? Who ever says such things?

So much for privacy, for solitude, for restoration.
But somehow ... it's OK.
I'm smiling.