Who Won This Round of the Battle of the Bath?

There comes a point when you must put your foot down.

Mine came after an astonishingly patient 3 1/2 weeks during which the closest Jake came to taking a bath was wading in some warm tub water while I used a funnel to rinse his privits, as I like to call them.  That’s 3 1/2 weeks of coaxing him into the bathroom with promises of coloring on the tub, not unlike the witch in Hansel and Gretel luring children to their doom with gingerbread.  Three and a half weeks of gritting my teeth every time I looked at my son’s hair and prayed it wouldn’t spontaneously sprout dreadlocks.  Three and a half weeks during which the mere mention of the word “bath” provoked as strong a negative response in Jake as it used to in my basset hound Roxanne, who, as a non-water dog, had a much better reason for despising the tub.

I kept it going through a combination of certainty in my parenting choice of giving my child his own choices and a good dollop of avoiding toddler tantrums whenever possible.  And then there was the time last week when Jake was sleeping beside me and suddenly cried out, “No!  No bath!”  How could I subject my child to a literal nightmare for the sake of my own sense of hygiene when a wet washcloth was available?

But by yesterday I had simply had enough.  It wasn’t the greasy hair or the sense that there is only so much cleaning you can do with diaper wipes and a quick rub of water.  It was the foam pit.

Yesterday marked a school-wide play date at a kids’ gym downtown, a place we’d visited a couple of times before on days when school was closed and it was too cold for the park and I was desperate for ways to tire my son out.  Although a warm, sunny day beckoned to us to skip it, I knew that at least one of Jake’s friends would be there, and I figured it would be good for me to spend some time with the other parents in the school.

Sure enough, Jake had a blast, and I had some pleasant conversations.  And one of the hit activities was bouncing down a long trampoline and then jumping with great enthusiasm into a pit of foam blocks.

A neighbor of mine had warned me about the foam pit, back when Jake wasn’t particularly interested in it.  “Don’t let him in it,” she said with a look of disgust on her face.  “Just think of all the dirt and germs.  You don’t know what’s in there,” she added ominously.

I certainly did as I watched children with runny noses take literal nose dives into it.  And I could only take a deep breath and pretend I didn’t notice when other kids were coughing directly into a pile of foam since other parents were kind enough to ignore my child doing the same thing.

But then we were home and Jake was too wound up to nap and was in the process of melting down anyhow, so I figured it was time.  If I was going to be subjected to a toddler tantrum anyhow, I reasoned, I should at least get to have it come from a child who’d had the foam pit washed off of him.

The Harder You’re Pushed, the Easier It Is to Hold Your Ground

It was far worse than I could ever have imagined.

Like the time I was three years old and jumped out of the moving car with a clear picture of my feet hitting the road and me running back to preschool.  Instead of a heroic dash for more playtime, however, I found myself lying dazed on the asphalt with the indelibly imprinted view of a man’s legs running toward me.  In that instance, according to my sister, the result was that I was not allowed to sit next to the door in the car for at least a year.

I don’t know what the consequences will be this time.

The thing is, I didn’t care about the consequences.  And while I cared about the animal screams erupting from my child’s throat, they didn’t deter me.  I had made up my mind.  This boy was not only getting a bath, he was getting a lesson that two-year-olds sometimes just don’t get what they want.  And that when a Mommy really wants something, she always gets it.  (Is “always” a bit optimistic?  Is it wrong to teach my child a lesson that I know is patently untrue?)

First he cried like it was the end of the world because Daddy was heading out to the library for a little bit of pre-Super Bowl work and he was locked in the bathroom with Mommy, where Bad Things were sure to happen.  Then he shrieked like I was coating his body with hot oil as each piece of clothing slowly came off.  (Work one arm out of sleeve.  Grab at it as Jake puts his hand back in the second I turn to the other sleeve.  Remind self of danger of breaking his arm if not careful.  Do not pause to feel proud at how good he’s getting at dressing himself.)  And then he was up to his mid-calves in the bathtub, still stubbornly gripping the diaper I had wrested from around his waist, and I heard sounds coming from him that I have never in his 25 months heard before.

I held him, I spoke soothingly, and, dear god, I washed his hair.  It felt so good that for all of the four minutes or so it took I doubt I even heard his banshee noises.  I can’t say if the neighbors did, but they all have young children, so they undoubtedly understood.

Then I hauled him out and wrapped him in a towel and held him to me.  The best part — better even than being able to casually yet proudly tell Mike that I never once lost my temper — was that he let me hold him.  He even let me put a diaper on him — a matter of some great dissension these past days.  (Again, I try to provide him with a choice:  “Do you want to go in the toilet?  No?  Then you need to wear a diaper.”  Jake does not appreciate the range of his options.)

And so we cuddled there, as I offered motherly comfort to my child whose distress was caused wholly and entirely by me.

It started all over again when I forced him into his p.j.’s.  At this point, I figured I was on a roll and it would all blend into one Mommy Is Boss lesson.

We cuddled some more on the couch watching Sesame Street, and I knew I was home free when he declared with a smile, “Grover funny.”  By the time we were singing “Elmo’s World” together, it was clear that all had been forgiven.  And when he fell asleep in my arms before Super Bowl kick-off, I smelled his clean hair and kissed his soft forehead and didn’t feel the slightest tinge of guilt.

Even now, as I ask whether I should have, I just don’t.

When Is It the Right Thing to Stop Going with the Flow?

One of the precepts of yoga that has been most important to my life is the idea that we aren’t in control.  I only cause myself more stress if I think I can make things the way I want them to be, I’ve learned — and a pretty universal lesson I’ll bet it is.  Try to change your boss’s priorities at work, and you’re likely to end up more frustrated than when you started.  Decide instead to switch jobs and you’re likely to find that, no matter what you do, there’s a reason you get paid to do it.  Try to change the habits of someone you live with, and, well — let’s just say that every time I close the cabinet doors that Mike habitually leaves open I remind myself of how lucky I am to have him doing things like, oh, all the yard work.

And so it’s been with a child.  Sure, we have certain parameters we need to set, things that we frankly do in our own self-interest because we have to.  For example, we have to sleep at night and at some point we make this clear to our babies, even if they aren’t so thrilled by the idea.  We eventually have to leave them with a sitter while we go out for those highlights last done a month before our now-five-month-old angel was born.  And, I acknowledge without yet having had the joy of experiencing it myself, we set curfews for teenagers and do things like take away phone or computer time when they don’t follow our rules.

But mostly I’ve tried to find a way to work my needs into my child’s.  I’ve tried to let him tell me when he’s ready for, say, solid foods (a month earlier than the recommended six, but I figured he knew better than the doctors on that one).  I’m taking the healthy approach that his sudden diaper-phobia is simply an indication that he’s getting ready to make the jump to the potty.  And, yes, I reasoned for a full 3 1/2 weeks, it’s better to let Jake decide when he’s ready to go back into the tub than to force him into it and make him resent me and it for years to come.

In other words, after seeing how well it worked in my life’s choices, I’ve fully imported the yoga philosophy of surrendering the illusion of control and flowing with the energy around me into my parenting choices as well.

The question, then, is how do I know it was right to put my foot down this time?

Making Choices Even While Going with the Flow

What I perhaps fail to recognize sometimes is that I am always making choices, even as I am honoring the flow of energy around me instead of fighting against it.  It’s just that I rarely have my own choice pointed out to me in such clear terms as Jake’s anguished bathtub cries.

We are, after all, sentient beings.  We have needs and desires, and while we may sometimes get confused about what they really are (rather than what we think they should be) we do have a right and a reason to pursue them.  If we just flopped around where the energy around us led, we wouldn’t have much in the way of a life, now would we?  After all, even Buddha ignored the naysayers and stuck to his beliefs.

The trick is figuring out when it really is time to put our foot down and when we are just setting our sights on something and sticking to it for no particular reason.

Take, for example, that morning in December when Jake insisted on wearing his Trick or Treat shirt to school.

“It’s not Halloween,” I explained to him gently.  Like he cared.

“You’re going to look silly,” I said, a tad less patiently.  Jake looked at me like that was my problem (which, I fully acknowledge, it was).

“Okay,” I finally sighed in one of those horrible, adult, condescending puffs of I-know-better breath.  “I don’t care if you wear your Halloween shirt to school at Christmas time.”

Sure enough, as soon as we walked in the door — the glow-in-the-dark properties of Jake’s Trick or Treat shirt highlighted by his pink polka dot boots — another parent said unironically, “I like your shirt!”  “What a great Trick or Treat shirt!” added one of his teachers.

Jake had the grace to take the compliments in stride and not throw them back in my face.

The point of this story is that I became fixated on my need to have Jake not wear a Trick or Treat shirt in December.  As if anyone would for a second think it meant anything more than that I was letting my child exert his independence in a perfectly acceptable way.  The same way I let him wear his pink polka dot boots every single day no matter how much they clashed with the rest of his outfit (until he started at the big kids’ preschool and learned the edict No Boots in the Gym, which he still repeats frequently as we put on his tennis shoes).

So, for a week or so of bath-aversion, there’s no reason to force Jake into the tub except my own desire to will him into loving it as much as he did such a short time ago.  As if his life will somehow be much, much better if he doesn’t miss a few weeks of happily playing in the bath.

At two weeks, I have a choice.  I can force him into the tub or I can recognize the triumph in getting him naked and standing in warm water as I use a washcloth to rinse him off.

But by 3 1/2 weeks, the balance tipped.  It wasn’t about my mind’s fixation on what I wanted.  It was a true concern about foam pit germs and a legitimate personal limit to how bad I could let his beautiful hair get.

And it was something else — a real gift to me when I think about it.  It was being ready to take a big step in parenting.  Because sometimes a parent just lays down the law and brooks no compromise.  No wheedling, no figuring out clever ways to accomplish your goal (like letting Jake climb into the carseat on his own so there is no longer a daily struggle, a solution of which I’m particularly proud).

The most beautiful part of the lesson — beyond even trusting and honoring myself — was how Jake showed me that he knew I didn’t love him any less for being firm with him and letting him cry like he was all alone in the world.  Instead, he snuggled into my arms and fell asleep with his head resting against my heart.

Pincha Mayurasana (Forearm Balance) — A Balance Between Mind and Body

The natural choice of a pose to offer here was plainly an inversion — a pose that involves turning upside down.  While we all have our poses that throw up mental blocks, going upside down is the almost universal one.  On the one hand, our minds simply resist, unwilling to accommodate the sudden change in perspective.  On the other hand, there are legitimate concerns — am I strong enough? flexible enough? balanced enough in my ninth month of pregnancy?  (Nope, didn’t quite make it upside down in my last yoga class.)

I chose pincha mayurasana, or forearm balance, because it truly does require flexibilty and strength — legitimate concerns — as well as trust — letting go of a false sense of not being able to turn upside down.  It also offers several stages of set-up, places to stop and get in touch with our hearts, to gauge how much we’re willing to trust.

Don’t attempt this pose until you have warmed up with some standing poses, and ideally some sun salutes to warm and open your shoulders.  Then take it in stages, at each stage noting how your hands and forearms are rooted firmly in the floor supporting you, especially the space between your first fingers and thumbs:

1)  Feet on the ground, focusing on opening your shoulders.

2)  Looking at the place where the floor meets the wall to assure yourself of how close you are as you swing one foot up and let the other jump just an inch or two off the floor.

3)  Taking a breath, believing you can do it, and swinging that leg all the way to the wall with your other leg following.

4)  Working on balance as you move one leg, then the other away from the wall, pressing your hands down with trust and belief as you lift your legs from your core and energetically let your inner thighs move back toward the wall and more energy flow out the soles of your feet toward the ceiling.

Wherever you stop, you are finding your blend of surrender to the energy around you and exerting the choice you trust yourself to make.

Pincha Mayurasana Instructions

Tagged as: parenting choices, toddler baths, yoga and motherhood