The best time for a bubble bath

A note about unconventional joy-seeking.

One Saturday, after our morning coffee—mine caffeinated; hers with chocolate and sprinkles (yes, I’m a sucker)—my daughter decided she wanted to have a bubble bath. 

My immediate reaction was ‘You can’t have a bath in the morning.’ But before I said it, I wondered why couldn’t she have a bath at 7am? Sure, it's not super efficient as she’ll be covered in something sticky within the hour, but what’s the harm?

So we trotted off to the bathroom, and she delighted in a Sud-Bud-filled bath while I sat and wrote this. And it was lovely. She was distracted and happy; and I enjoyed a second coffee and forty-five blissful tantrum-free minutes. A new world record.

Afterwards, I made us smashed avo with an ‘eggie’ for breakfast, and we went about our day. As predicted, she was sticky by the end of breakfast—but she was content. 

That’s the great thing about being two years old—when you want to do something, you make like Nike and just do it. I assume the slogan’s creator had a toddler at home. My daughter wanted to have a bubble bath in the morning, so she did. She also sang Happy Birthday, despite it not being anyone’s birthday. And while inaccurate, there’s no law over when one sings happy birthday, is there? It’s a societal rule that dictates the mildly irritating song should only be sung on someone's date of birth.

Watching her in the bath, it dawned on me how many things I do—or don't do—because of an innate rule I no longer question. It’s always ‘how I’m supposed to’, or at the time ‘I’m meant to’. And why? Who cares? Who’s watching and taking note on whether I wear matching socks or use a steak knife to chop an onion?

Of course, we become adults and understand there is a good reason why we don’t just run amuck. Running on the road just because we feel like it isn’t the best life choice. (When do toddlers pick up this nuance, btw?) We rinse out our yogurt containers, even though large corporations generate more harmful fossil fuels in the time it takes us than we could ever save by doing so. We make our beds and vacuum underneath, even though no one ever checks. We do it because those things make us feel good on some level. But how many things do we do each day, in the moment, simply for the joy of it?

My daughter wanted to have a bath at 7am on a Saturday morning because she could and it would make her feel good, regardless of convention. She spends most of her days being lead by what interests her, regardless of convention or safety.

I’ve stopped doing that. Often, it’s obligation and responsibilities stopping me. But sometimes it’s nothing more than some innate rule about how I’m meant to do it, or when, or what I need to wear while doing it. I deliberate over whether there’s enough time, if it’s a ‘good’ time, or the ‘right’ time. I turn one activity in an epic production, rather than just painting when I feel like it, shirt be damned. I plan and plot and write to do lists I never check, rather than just drawing with the same pen. I do all the things I think I should, rather than being guided by what I could do to make me feel good in the moment.

At the end of the day, we can eat dinner for breakfast, have a bubble bath at 7am or spend the day make play-dough penguins—no one’s checking. We don’t even have to cook dinner—Cher survived just fine on canapés and antipasti platters. Sandwiches never told us they wanted to be solely a lunchtime food; that was purely our interpretation. 

When life feels heavy and overwhelming, embracing the joy and spontaneity of a toddler can be good for a worn-out soul—although I still highly recommend not running out onto the road. A day of no plans, deciding in the moment what will feel your cup, no matter how unconventional.