But somehow, lost in the rush of water, minute after minute after minute floats down the drain. I start thinking about stupid things like, "How will I provide childcare for Bee when we have moved back to the United States and she is in elementary school?" That is indeed a very important question--but one I need to consider TWO YEARS from now. It's like this every morning. I think it's because I am so rarely alone that when I finally am my brain kicks into overdrive.
David knows only to bother me in the shower if something has gone seriously wrong--and we're talking flames or blood. Occasionally Bee will burst into the bathroom, startling me out of my reverie, but for the most part, it's my 15 minutes of the day.
When Bee was a baby, the shower was practically the only time I was away from her. I adored my baby, but those first few weeks after she was born were difficult. I used to hand the baby to her father, and go in the bathroom and turn on the exhaust fan and water. The white noise drowned out her mewling cries and I could relax. As a new mom with racing hormones and leaking breasts, my baby's cries were like a hot wire running through my body. If she was sleeping, I was waiting for her to wake up. The tension was constant, the shower my solace.
Nowadays, my baby is a little girl who sleeps through the night and wakes me with her sweet voice. Despite this, I still become so lost in thought in the shower that I will wash my hair twice, forget to shave some part of my legs, or just find myself standing motionless under the shower head--dreaming and soaking and steaming.
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