Buttercup Baby

There is nothing about this girl that I do not adore.

When my kids were babies/toddlers they didn't like having their hair washed in the bath. They cried and wailed and flailed. It's like they thought I had waited, patiently biding my time, until I found the perfect opportunity to do them in. To bump them off. To silently and cleverly drown them under the pretence of washing their hair. It's like they thought that it was only by the strength of their will to survive that they had ever lived through any bathtime. They knew that each time they were bathed they risked death by such deadly weapons as a cup full of tepid water and a bottle of no-more-tears baby shampoo.

I tried to comfort them and I respected their fear. I gave them a washcloth to hold over their eyes. I had them lay back in shallow water while I poured it carefully along their hairline. I used a cup and held my hands just so to block so much as a drop of water from flowing over their faces. I had them look up to the ceiling so that water could only flow down and back and never so much as dampen their eyebrows.

None of it ever worked. Eventually they grew up (despite all my murderous inclinations) and learned how to wash their own hair.

But this little grandbaby o' mine, whenever I bathe her, will lay back in the water while I wash her hair. She will look up into my face with an oh-so-slightly concerned expression and ask, "You'll take good care of your Buttercup baby?", and so reassured will relax and confidently enjoy the experience.

No more fears, and truly no more tears.