“The Bath” — A Creative Writing Prompt with my Writerly Pals

I’m not sure how I got myself into this, but some “friends” (and I use that term loosely because, honestly, what kind of real friends would subject me to this kind of pain), have included me in a weekly fiction writing group.

Seriously though, I’m honored and touched to be part of this. These are all writers I totally bow down to (I mean, to whom I bow down). No doubt it’ll be worth your while to check out what they’ve done:

• ClearlyKristal
• BuLaMamaNi
• Susanne’s World
• It’s a Dome Life
• DeBie Hive
• Grass Oil by Molly Field

Each week, we’ll be writing a piece of fiction based on a writing prompt from Molly Field over at Grass Oil. So you can blame her if you think this sucks. I’m going to tell you right now that I basically don’t do fiction. The closest you’re going to get from me is “creative non-fiction” or “historical fiction” — you know, euphemisms for making real life sound more interesting. And also the B.S. that got me into grad school (and no, I don’t mean “Bachelor of Science”).

So here’s this week’s prompt: “Your character thinks he/she is good at something, but he/she isn’t. Something happens that makes your character realize this. What? What does your character do about it? Write the story.”

And away we go…

******

It was pretty clear he didn’t want to take a bath.

Not that this was anything new. But then you never could tell. The infuriating part about my son was the “Never could tell.” On certain days, a bath was better than Christmas (actually much better than Christmas since he had zero interest in opening presents, going to see Santa, or putting up ornaments on trees). On other days, the bath-time fits would come when it was time to get out. On this day, it was all about getting in.

“Okay, Booba, time to take a bath,” I said in my happy-scappy, sing-song voice — just the way they were teaching me at his super-hippie Waldorf school. The theory was that kids responded better when you sort of sang to them instead of barked out orders. And at this point, I was trying anything.

Newt didn’t help me get his clothes off in the bathroom. He never did. Dressing and undressing were not in his repertoire. I pulled his shirt over his sandy-blond mop of hair and took off his pull-up. At more than 4-years-old, he still wasn’t potty trained. A failing of ours for sure, if you asked any parenting expert. Fortunately for us, the only parenting experts’ opinions that we really cared about were ours.

Just about a year before, Newt had been diagnosed as having high-functioning autism. Or maybe Asperger’s Syndrome. The psychiatrist couldn’t make up her mind, which was our first reason to start doubting the “experts.” Newt had been “challenging,” to say they least, but we were good parents. Really good. We knew what we were doing, right? We were educated. Smart. Patient. Dedicated. Suddenly the idea that other people knew what was best for him sounded. . .wrong.

Getting Newt fully undressed was like some old Vaudeville act where one guy takes the hat off another guy and puts it on a monkey, and then the monkey flips it back to the other guy and steals someone’s cupcake. By the time Newt was ready for submersion, I was already exhausted.

The wrestling match began. I grabbed an arm as he bolted for the door. Pulled him back in. Kept up my sing-song voice, my notes getting higher and higher at the end of every sentence.

“Come on! It’s going to be fine! You need to take a bath!”

I tried laughing it off. Tried to get him to understand the idea of joking around. But Newt could go from zero to Mach 5 in ten seconds. There was no joking with him — only his way and not his way.

“Newt, you have to take a bath,” I said, completely forgetting any of the “You may get in the bath on your own or you may let me help you” crap that I was supposed to be using. My patience and stamina were waning. I wanted to scrap the entire mission but this was part of “The Plan.” Don’t let him get away with anything. Don’t let a meltdown be his out.

Unfortunately, the plan was also to be the adult in the room.

Newt was screaming. Thrashing. Pushing. I grabbed him and stuck him in the tub. He screeched like it was acid. He stood up. I sat him down. He stood up. I sat him down.

“Newt! You are taking a bath! You are taking a bath!” I was enraged. I couldn’t keep him in the water. He clamored out of the tub, and I caught him around the middle. Stuck him back in. Poured water over his head.

The bathroom sounded like a storm. The water tumbled out of the faucet, still filling the tub, and Newt only stopped yelling to catch his breath or close his mouth when I poured water over his head. He was standing in shin-deep water, refusing to sit, as I washed off as many areas as I could get to. My clothes and hair were soaked from him jumping at me.

Finally, I yanked him out of the tub and stuck him on the bath mat. I roughly dried him off, my hands clenching his towel — the one that was embroidered with his name and a little red truck carrying a dog with its tongue hanging out. I yanked on his pull up and struggled to slide his robot pajamas over his still damp skin.

I picked him up under the arms, his back to my chest, and hoisted him into his bedroom. It was like carrying a hot, damp sack of angry.

“Stop it! Just, stop it!” I tossed him onto his bed. In a moment of roughhousing it would’ve been fun. At that moment, it was all I could do to keep from. . .

To keep from hitting him.

I wanted to hit my child.

Why?

He hardly ever said that word. Why. Maybe didn’t even know what it meant. But his face said it now. His eyes, which so often looked through me, not at me, locked onto mine.

And they wailed.

And they doubted.

And they feared.

Because mommy failed, honey. Because your mommy failed.

 

 

Read more about Newt’s Story here.