Pro

It's bath night, and immediately upon lowering Lyla into her little bathtub, she peed. We have a policy against biohazard baths, so I pulled her out and onto her towel and then emptied and refilled the tub. Luckily Julie was right there to assist. While on the towel, Lyla spit up.

"That's two orifices," I said while testing the new water's temperature. "Will there be a third?"

There was not a third.

I'm the bath guy; it just happened that way. A few weeks ago, bathing Lyla felt as foreign as bathing an emperor penguin, cute but very slippery. I was a klutzy bather at best and would've likely grown self-conscious had Julie been there to critique me.

But now I am a portrait of efficiency, deftly maneuvering around Lyla's peculiar bulges and folds--I can actually locate her neck, for instance--all the while keeping the soap out of her eyes.

I eased Lyla out of the bath and wrapped her into her towel with a flourish. Julie applauded. I'm now a pro at baths, just as long as Lyla continues to exercise bowel restraint.