Wash, Rinse and Repeat

Once a week, I shower alone.  Porn stars aren’t seen naked as often as I am. When I shower with my small guest, I am either holding her or, she is sitting in between my feet, frozen in the official hopscotch placement of 3, 4 to make room for her small, yet everywhere, body. I lather my hair next to the shower wall perfecting the look of Quasimodo, head on shoulder, one eye open – keeping faithful watch over my splashing companion; allowing the soap to slowly migrate down fiberglass to avoid the risk of burning her delicate corneas. This process moves like molasses or a wagon on the Oregon Trail weighed down by too many sacks of flour and Cholera.

While posing in perpetual Awkward Facing Dog, I slowly crouch, like a cave woman, in a position that screams, “I have made FIRE!”; soap in eyes, I  blindly search for my washcloth. I consider my choices of body wash. I could use something fragrant with scrubbing beads that smell of empty promises to replenish and restore my skin currently serving a life sentence of dryness without possibility of parole. Instead, I grab the 3-in-1, no tears baby wash knowing that the best hope of completing this shower with moderate success is to allow my limbs to serve as soap sprayers and the vinyl mop strips found at the local car wash. My soapy seconds are recycled onto the hair, face and body of the uninvited guest at my cleanliness cotillion.

This is your shower on drugs.

On Sundays, I shower solo. On Sundays, while the world is praising their God or wearing foam fingers in celebration of their preferred suited victors, I am searching for any excuse, short of shaving, to stand for just two more minutes, completely alone, upright and perfectly still under water that has not been heat checked and rechecked for baby level Defcon-5 temperature appropriateness.

Then, something happens. Guilt creeps in like a guilt-mongering guilt-o-meter measuring my guilt at an all time high. Because, when your time is never your own, having a moment alone feels odd. And, tucked inside the happiness of having it, I start to plant and water that small seed of questioning in my core. Do I deserve this time? When, just downstairs, children are hungry and crying and asking and asking and asking, should I give this up too? For the greater good or to administer the perfect crust removal?


On Sundays, in the chaos of preparing for a new week, I find peace, restoration and humanity in my 15 minutes of watery solitude. My church of the Lady of the Indoor Plumbing and her patron Saint of Ives.

And, a choir of Dove soap sings Hallelujah.


  1. And one day may we all shower to our hearts content, using all the hot water as they prepare to clean up for weekend plans. Vengeance is ours, Mama!

  2. Anonymous says:

    Awesome. The funniest and truest thing I’ve read in years. I wish when my kids were little we’d had the internet, all those years I thought I was alone, an obviously poor mother who could have children considerate enough to let me bath alone, pee alone, sleep alone, BREATHE alone.

  3. Sad news is these weekly alone showers start to feel like a vacation, huh? Throw in a grocery store trip without the kids, and we’ve got a full-out blissful getaway going on. Keep enjoying your weekly escape!

  4. This *is* what it’s come to, isn’t it? We’re given a brief shower, sprinkled with guilt, to call our own.

    “patron Saint of Ives” = choked on my coffee. Hilarious and true, all of it.

  5. This is so true, I also shower alone on Sundays. It’s like were together at church feeling guilty about the parishioners we’ve locked out.

  6. Awkward Facing Dog. I think that’s how we conceived my son.

  7. I also look forward to my solo shower, sometimes also if I’m really lucky, a solo bath.

  8. If I didn’t shower alone now, my kids may be scarred for life! 😀 But then, they’re 5 and 9, so they definitely don’t need to see my naked body! 😛

  9. My showers continue to be interrupted with “why don’t you have a penis?”…..we’ve been over it a thousand times.

  10. Ditto the above comment! LOL My one year old likes to play in the shower, and it’s easier if he is in there when I am so I can keep an eye on him. But the Quasi moto thing – yeah, I get it. Hoping for a bigger shower in our new house!

  11. Bahahahaha!

  12. I love that I’m not the only one who sometimes has to use the baby wash! Loved the post!

  13. That is hilarious!! And so true. We must find a purpose for the mommy guilt that has been embedded deep within us. Then we will market it and get rich.

    Holy crap! That was a good idea. Somebody write it down!!

    • I want in on the bottling of mommy guilt serum. It could be called guilt be gone and it will smell like the beach and that artist you dated your freshman year of college. Yeah, we are going to be rich. Like, private jet rich. Making it rain.

  14. I have 2 a 3 yr old boy and a 4 month old girl so I make my son shower with Daddy because a few months ago he saw me run from shower to bedroom to get dressed (ya know all wet and frigid cold-like) and I heard this come from his mouth “ewwwww yucky!”.
    I just about lost it. So I asked him why he said that and he said “Cuz you nakie. Thas yucky mommy.”
    Husband cracked up laughing and I started my manifesto lol.

  15. I literally laughed out loud! And hard! Thanks

  16. When my daughter was littler she would walk into the bathroom when my husband was showering, perch herself on the edge of the separate tub, and chat with him through the sliding glass doors. I could usually hear her through the bathroom door. Usually she would share tidbits about her friends or rat on her brother while my husband would utter things like “uh-huh” or “Is that right?” while lathering, rinsing and repeating. But every once in a while I would hear my daughter compliment her dad on something he did right in the shower, along the lines of (said in an encouraging tone): “Good job washing your butt, dad!” There would be a pause, and then my husband would say, “Um, thanks.” And he would keep on showering and chatting with his little girl. That is how I know I married a saint.

  17. I remember doing that with my 2 older ones while I was pregnant with my youngest. After seeing a picture of myself with that planet sized pregnant belly, I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how I managed that.

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