This is J right now, a little Grubby Gus. You see, taking him in and out of the bath involves some serious staging and planning. You cannot just say “okay bath time!” and leave it at that. The bathroom has to be prepared, the toys laid out, and then he happily gets in the tub.

Getting out is where the warfare begins.

Let me tell you, almost forty pounds of chaotic three and a half year old can be as powerful as an elephant when he gets mad. Getting out of the tub makes him so very mad. I think you could throw all his Thomas trains and stuffies into a bonfire and get less a care out of him than the ire ending a bath draws.

So I have Grubby Gus, hair going seventy-two ways from Sunday while I mentally dread preparing to help him bathe again.

Please note my words, though. He is slowly learning how to bathe himself, which is good, but he’s all boy. Expecting him to do a good job washing his hair and face and self is just slightly outside his realm of care. Care, not possibility. Little kids are in part made of dirt after all, he just doesn’t care to change that.

Now please pray for me, as I put on my battle armor and get ready to run a bath.


A random note: J’s teacher reported at least one (maybe more) of the staring episodes having occurred in school. This is the first time someone outside the home has definitively seen him do it. I’m awaiting details as to what was going on, etc. and will be keeping a log. Never a dull moment.