Meredith’s Musings

WATERFALLS | article by MEREDITH MCKINNIE

I reach into the tub and adjust the knobs, more hot than cold, knowing my water pressure and the timing better than anything else in my household. I remove my clothes, and place them in the laundry basket, slowly absorbing each step into the luxurious, thick bedroom carpet the previous owners installed. I slightly glance at my postpartum body in the mirror before I dip a toe into the perfectly-tempered water, just hot enough to send a trickle up my spine and make my lips slightly smack in response. It’s bath time, my favorite, luxurious me-time of the day. Husband knows, I’m not to be bothered, that I might remain submerged for an hour at least with a book propped on my chest, my body reacting to each motion of the water that moves the heat pockets around and engulfs me. I love a bath; I love looking forward to a bath. I don’t understand those that don’t bathe in luxury.

Husband has attempted taking a bath once in our house. His six-foot frame prevents him from stretching out entirely, so he avoids the disappointment. My petite, less than five feet, stature allows me to maneuver at will, one of the benefits of being pint-sized. I don’t understand the bathroom models that only feature a stand-up shower, regardless of the intricate tiles or cave-like atmosphere. I get the allure, but not the removal of the bath option. Our master bath is nothing masterful, except that it’s ours. It’s small, an original to the 70-year-old house. The tiny room is only big enough for the average tub and toilet, the vanity a part of the bedroom itself, dating the entire space. But it’s where the water is, where I can soak my troubles into oblivion.

I sink deep into the water, as low as I can without spilling water outside the rim. I submerge, eyes closed, letting the soothing feeling wash over me like a glass of good Cabernet. I remain still for as long as possible, as long as the silence continues. Eventually some laugh or patter of tiny feet on the hard wood will awaken me from my near slumber. I grab the book of the day, and it usually is a book a day on maternity leave, adjust it on my chest, the thicker the spine the better, as I find my escape in an author’s imagined universe. The characters, language and genre may change, but my setting remains the same. My peace of mind is found in this place, this tiny space in the back of our house where everyone knows Mom goes for quiet time. It’s where I’m most respected, made human again. As motherhood often confines me to the house, it’s the luxury I can squeeze in with little disruption to my home life.

As mothers, we take our escapes where we can. I see memes of some eating in closets with little hands reaching under the door. Others pause at the trash can outdoors, again embracing the sound of nature as opposed to toddlers screaming. Some venture out for girls’ night, wherever their kids aren’t. All are necessary to refuel, to reclaim a bit of ourselves that gets lost in parenting. We adapt; it’s what we do best. No matter how averse to change we may be, life has a way of forcing it upon us.

So, after the birth of my second daughter, I was on strict orders, NO BATHS for at least three weeks. The C-section meant I couldn’t submerge in water until I was fully healed. And while it’s trivial and temporary, I was mourning my bathtime even before I gave birth. A week after we brought her home, I was adjusting the water temperature, preparing for my abbreviated ten-minute shower I had begrudgingly accepted as part of my relatively pain-free birth penance. I stood under the shower head, the fancy one Husband had bought years ago that acts more like a rain shower, when it occurred to me. Lie down. I carefully maneuvered my body on the floor of the tub, not as inviting absent of water, but I let the shower head rain down on me. The wide mouth ensured the water hit a significant fraction of my torso, and suddenly the feeling was back. It wasn’t quite as dramatic as full submersion, but it was something. Before I knew it, some time must have passed, because I was startled to find Husband standing over me, no doubt concerned at how long my “quick shower” was taking. He looked down and chuckled, amused as he often is by my antics.

So began a compromise, a cornerstone of motherhood. I couldn’t have my baths yet, but I had found an alternative. The rain baths became my purgatory, and while I counted down the days until I could return to normalcy, I knew my love affair with water was still semi-possible in the meantime. The little reprieves get us by when we feel like we’re getting lost. I find them where I can. And for those three weeks it was stark naked under a waterfall.