Phobias: Baths -or- The Reason I Shower

Daddy and Me.
My parents should have produced
fatter children.
Then all of this could have been
avoided . . .

I loved baths.

Loved them.

In fact, once Mom got me into the tub, it was a major chore to get me out.

I would swim and play like a little fish, till the water cooled to the point that it was tepid.

And I was shivering.

I know. I know.

Makes no sense to me, either.

But I was four.

Little that one does, makes sense when you're four.

Moving on . . .

One day, Mom discovered a technique that shot me out of the tub quicker than a wet, slippery little bar of soap.

She pulled the plug.

While I was still in the tub.

Eeeeek!

What were we saying about making sense?

The water started down the drain.

Gurgle.

Gurgle.

Gurgle.

And suddenly, I knew that I was going to go down with it.

Oops. There goes Diane.

I knew what my parents would say . . .

“Darn! Lost another one! Guess we'll have to get us another little girl!”

Okay, so even at four I had a lot of imagination.

After that, all Mom had to do was reach for the plug.

It was like she put a current of electricity through the water.

Zip!

I would be standing, shivering on the bathmat.

Clean.

But whole.