This is Felix’s first official bath *without* mum. He was so desperate to get in with the big kids! And Treva was desperate to wear her bathing suit in the bath! What a treat!
*
I think I really do have a different definition than many people do, of what is involved in really being “sick”. We did have a couple of days off last week, and we all felt pretty icky. I barfed, and so did Treva. but it honestly didn’t really occur for me as being “sick”. We didn’t seek medication, or advice, or the doctor. It went away, and we had our rest, and our misplaced sense of superhuman strength was appropriately shattered, and now we’re back, and suitably subdued…so everything is cool. I guess I’m pointing this out because I am pleased with myself: I think it is a rather sane approach to ignore illness, to will it away, to give it no credence or symbolic power. Please understand: my areas of full=on theatrics exist in a different realm. We are all fine.
*
But when I tried to drag the kids outside, in the midst of our little bout, so I could doggedly pile wood, it was clear within minutes that this wasn’t going to work. Treva was really earnestly upset, and sniffling, and then fully crying, and after I took her back inside and removed the snowsuit and boots, she explained to me that in addition to just not feeling “on” that day, her toe was hurting. Sure enough, it looked as though she had stubbed it violently, and the nail appeared to be slightly infected, and poised to fall off.
*
So, I accessed my maternal caregiver self, and I told Treva we were going to run a bath, with epsom salts, and that she and I were going to have a special soak.
*
I do think, that these little ceremonies of love have a tremendously positive effect. We ran the warm bath, and then ritualistically sprinkled the magical crystal salts into it, and held some salt in our hands, watching the flecks disappear. And then we lay next to each other, and we scrubbed each other’s backs, and I gave Treva a little scalp massage, and I kissed her toe, and it was just lovely.
*
I often bathed with my mother as a little girl (and I actually remember soaping up my little sister, in utero, and sliding down my mother’s pregnant abdomen when I was around Treva’s age! Hilarious fun!) and I am so grateful for my mum’s easy openness with her body. I remember the sense of her body as a landscape I inhabited. this is literally true, of course, but I felt it as an environment, a home, even after infancy. It was familiar. Her contours, beauty marks, scars. In fact, when my mother ran a bath, we (the three kids) took this as a signal for chatting time, and we would all congregate in the bathroom–maybe one of us would actually hop in with her, the rest perched on the seat of the toilet to discuss: ideas, concerns, convictions.
*
This was all very normal–it was normal for our family. Bu also, somehow, it made sense in the context of where we were. My mother had rejected a more conservative upbringing and West-side Vancouver felt widely leftish-liberal and liberated. Free, somehow of religious hangups, if not Spiritual ones. It was sanctimonious, a little bit, and correct. Relinquishing old-school body shame and the empowerment of children was in the air. It as not, in retrospect as diverse or liberated as I thought. But I was surprised to go out into the world and find that quite a few people might view this kind of relaxed approach as overly flamboyant. All I can say is that it wasn’t, and I don’t think it is. I have replicated my mother’s philosophical approach to the physical self with my own children, both by choice and, I suppose, inheritance.
*
Anyway. While Treva and I were in the bath, she touched the vertical scar on my belly and asked me if this was party of my belly button? So I told her the story of my scar, and of the hospital, and I promised I would do my very best to make sure she doesn’t get cut like that. And then she stroked my hair and counted my moles, and asked me why the hair on my calves is “sharp and spicy”, and then she said, “Mum, I have a yoni and you have a yoni!” Yes, I said. Aren’t we lucky? Isn’t it wonderful?! These beautiful bodies of ours. I saw her taking me in–synthesizing me as her mother, both hers and other. She parsed me, very sweetly, and then we got out, dried off, and got cozy, then went to read some books.
*
I used to swim a lot. I took swimming lessons as a little kid, and then went on to do preliminary lifeguard training, even swimming competitively (I was mediocre at racing, despite 5-day a week training sessions). We walked everywhere, and Lord Byng pool was just a few blocks from our house. And while I rarely ever lap-swim now, I’m really glad to be a strong swimmer, and I am grateful for having had the chance to spend so much time in the pool change-room. Which sounds deeply weird, I know! But thanks to that experience, I developed a conscious recognition early on, of the true beauty of our bodies–all bodies. Young, old, wrinkly, fat, thin. All these bodies that would walk on the tile floors, and wash under the showers after going back into the weightlessness of water for a little while.
*
Once, I was at the pool and a mother and daughter, Chinese, and speaking Mandarin, I think, shared an extended shower. I watched them chatting and scrubbing each other’s naked bodies vigorously and utterly un-selfconsciously for a good half-hour. It was one of the most poignant things I have seen. Very matter-of fact, and also very warm and just exceedingly loving, and I remember being mesmerized. There was just such an easy realness about them, and an intense familiarity with this ritual of bathing that in itself was fascinating. They were so present to each other, in the moment of washing and being washed, and so, by extension, was I.
*
After my recent bath with Treva, I thought about the fact that it has been years since I have seen my mother naked, and that while I probably will again, when I visit Vancouver (because my mother is still who she is, and comfortable with her body), it may be that the next time I am truly in a physical space of intimate care with my mum, she might be quite old, and I might be washing her, like she did, with her own mother, Grandma Stacey, the day Gramps called to say that something was not right, and we drove out to their 5 acres, and we found Grandma in bed, in a mess, having been unable to function or get out of bed for several days.
*
On that day, my sister and I stood in the doorway of Grandma’s bathroom, while my mother gave my grandmother a bath, washing her like a baby, before the ambulance arrived.
*
Lee’s grandmother, big Treva, is near the end of her life now. My grandmother, Margaret Stacey, died 15 years ago today. I was 17.
*
I hope I am raising children for whom taking care of their mother’s ancient body, in whatever state it may end up, will not simply be considered a given, but a privilege.
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This is so beautiful, it brought tears to my eyes. Your daughter is very lucky to have you as her mother.
Katie: Thank you so very much! I feel so lucky to be surrounded by such strong, beautiful women!
mmm yes. this. this is IT.
the memories of slipping into a hot bath with my mama, her baths so hot that her skin would be bright red- waiting for it to cool down so i could dip my toes in and scrub her back, practising my letters in soap across her skin.
the memories of being in the big porcelain tub of my grandmother.. her bringing in pots of boiled water to add to the cold bath- washing my hair with her wrinkled hands. getting out of the tub and letting her lovingly rub lotion all over my body before putting me in one of her white cotton night gowns..
and then just moons ago, sitting in the bath, my full belly and my girl between my legs, washing her hair while her unknown brother swam around in my belly- kicking as he did each time i was in the bath..
adore these memories.. and carrying them on
Oh Erin, your magical words transported me! Thank you for this lacy, enticing poem-painting. Ah. So warm. So good. Very very best to you! 🙂
This is really beautiful. A joy to hear stories about you as a girl with your mother, and about you as a mother now with your little ones. Thank you for writing about this.
Thank you so much for this message, Elsa. Take good care, and all the best to you.
What a wondrous and beautiful post. I so wish more people were raised and familiar with this outlook on our bodies.
I am a mum of twin boys (now 15) and a 12 y.o daughter. I have always been very open with my daughter and still am to this day – although she will walk in on me during/after a shower like it’s nothing, but freaks out if I even catch a glimpse of her wrapped in a towel!! I was similarly open with my boys when they were younger, but around the age of 7 ‘I’ began feeling uncomfortable because my husband thought I was too open and would ‘damage’ them…
Even with my daughters recent ‘Don’t look at me’ attitude, I am proud to say that all 3 of my children trust and will come to me with any questions or concerns they have about anything, including their bodies and sexuality, despite my husbands influence. It’s quite something when 15 year old boys will come to their mum instead of their dad to discuss issues like these.
How I wish I had someone like you to relate to and help bolster my parenting mindset when I was a new parent. <3
Thank you so much for this lovely message, Tracy. It sounds like you have done, and are doing, a wonderful job with your kids. My own teenage years were fraught with angst and conflicting feelings and…conflict with my poor Mum! I’ve really come full circle, and I’m sure that in a few years your kids will reflect back with gratitude. Lee definitely comes from a more zipped up, conservative background than I do. It is quite something that your son goes to you on delicate matters! A testament to the benefits of openness. Good for you, and take good care! 🙂