People either love baths or they hate ‘em. A hot bath to me is a little piece of heaven. I love almost everything about it – warm (hot!) water, refreshing scrubs, wonderfully scented soaps and body washes, fluffy towels. Most of all, it is a little bit of “me” time I can look forward to that caps off my day.
So spending the first few weeks of Summer of Cast without my nightly bath was not fun. Sponge baths and quick showers with a cast bag were not met with the same amount of enthusiasm, especially since I got the bathroom incredibly wet and slippery every time, making more work for my sweet hubby.
We both thought that the walking booth I got ten days ago would return our nightly routine to normal. That was before my first bath attempt. Even though it is called a “walking cast”, I was given explicit instructions NOT to walk on it, since my ankle break had not yet healed. Even so, I hobbled between the bathroom counter and a chair placed by the bathtub, trying to prepare for my return to the tub.
And I couldn’t get in.
Being one legged, slightly off balance on the edge of a tall oval tub doesn’t exactly make you feel secure. I have no handrails, nothing even remotely sturdy surrounding my tub. My tub slants nicely so you can recline, but it also means that when you’re injured, you can slip faster down the incline and crash into the side of the tub near the glass shower.
Hubby had to be called back into action. For me, having to ask for help is similar to going to the dentist – I’d rather suffer through the pain. But, dang it, I wanted that bath. So every night, my sweet hubby helps me get out of my clothes, the brace, the walking boot, and he hands me gently into the bath.
I would expect most men to then go about their business and wait for the call to come reverse the process of hauling their woman out of the tub. At least that’s what I expected the first night.
Not my sweetie. He turns down my bed, gets me some water and retrieves a towel, sometimes fresh from the dryer.
And then he sits down by the tub and we talk about our day.
It is one of the most romantic things I’ve ever encountered in my life. He isn’t preoccupied with going back to his video game, and he doesn’t rush me through my warm bath. We laugh and talk – mostly about nothing. Sometimes about how lucky we are to have each other. And sometimes, we have conversations that no one else in the world would understand, like this past Wednesday.
I was telling him about a conference call I had that day with a vendor in London whose name was Alastair Digby (how English is that?). And how, all through the call, I couldn't help but sing the guy’s name to myself, always to the tune of the Beatles “Eleanor Rigby”.
So we both finished out my bath that night talking to each other in an English accent – or maybe it would be best to call it “our” version of an English accent, complete with subtle Texas twang. My husband does it so much better than me – he sounds exactly like the cartoon Wallace and Grommett, if you’ve ever heard of that one. I remarked that ”Perchance one could relieve the rubbish pail of its contents?”
He turned around to look at our overflowing bath trash can and gave me a sideways glance “no, mum, I don’t believe one would like to partake in that”. But I persisted, since the last thing I placed in there was a shampoo bottle and the can was so full the lid was standing up a good two inches above the rim – yuck.
He walked over and ever so gently tipped up the trash lid with his toe. Unfortunately, when he brought his foot back, a long piece of toilet paper was now stuck to the bottom of his bare foot and trailed out over the floor. He didn’t break from the English accent.
“Now, that was exactly what we had wished would NOT happen, wasn’t it”?
He leaned over and grabbed some fresh paper off the roll, then scooped the offending paper off his foot, all without losing his balance or putting his foot down.
“There now, all chipper again. Right. Are you ready to get out of the bath, my love?”
My cup (and my heart) runneth over.
So spending the first few weeks of Summer of Cast without my nightly bath was not fun. Sponge baths and quick showers with a cast bag were not met with the same amount of enthusiasm, especially since I got the bathroom incredibly wet and slippery every time, making more work for my sweet hubby.
We both thought that the walking booth I got ten days ago would return our nightly routine to normal. That was before my first bath attempt. Even though it is called a “walking cast”, I was given explicit instructions NOT to walk on it, since my ankle break had not yet healed. Even so, I hobbled between the bathroom counter and a chair placed by the bathtub, trying to prepare for my return to the tub.
And I couldn’t get in.
Being one legged, slightly off balance on the edge of a tall oval tub doesn’t exactly make you feel secure. I have no handrails, nothing even remotely sturdy surrounding my tub. My tub slants nicely so you can recline, but it also means that when you’re injured, you can slip faster down the incline and crash into the side of the tub near the glass shower.
Hubby had to be called back into action. For me, having to ask for help is similar to going to the dentist – I’d rather suffer through the pain. But, dang it, I wanted that bath. So every night, my sweet hubby helps me get out of my clothes, the brace, the walking boot, and he hands me gently into the bath.
I would expect most men to then go about their business and wait for the call to come reverse the process of hauling their woman out of the tub. At least that’s what I expected the first night.
Not my sweetie. He turns down my bed, gets me some water and retrieves a towel, sometimes fresh from the dryer.
And then he sits down by the tub and we talk about our day.
It is one of the most romantic things I’ve ever encountered in my life. He isn’t preoccupied with going back to his video game, and he doesn’t rush me through my warm bath. We laugh and talk – mostly about nothing. Sometimes about how lucky we are to have each other. And sometimes, we have conversations that no one else in the world would understand, like this past Wednesday.
I was telling him about a conference call I had that day with a vendor in London whose name was Alastair Digby (how English is that?). And how, all through the call, I couldn't help but sing the guy’s name to myself, always to the tune of the Beatles “Eleanor Rigby”.
So we both finished out my bath that night talking to each other in an English accent – or maybe it would be best to call it “our” version of an English accent, complete with subtle Texas twang. My husband does it so much better than me – he sounds exactly like the cartoon Wallace and Grommett, if you’ve ever heard of that one. I remarked that ”Perchance one could relieve the rubbish pail of its contents?”
He turned around to look at our overflowing bath trash can and gave me a sideways glance “no, mum, I don’t believe one would like to partake in that”. But I persisted, since the last thing I placed in there was a shampoo bottle and the can was so full the lid was standing up a good two inches above the rim – yuck.
He walked over and ever so gently tipped up the trash lid with his toe. Unfortunately, when he brought his foot back, a long piece of toilet paper was now stuck to the bottom of his bare foot and trailed out over the floor. He didn’t break from the English accent.
“Now, that was exactly what we had wished would NOT happen, wasn’t it”?
He leaned over and grabbed some fresh paper off the roll, then scooped the offending paper off his foot, all without losing his balance or putting his foot down.
“There now, all chipper again. Right. Are you ready to get out of the bath, my love?”
My cup (and my heart) runneth over.
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