There’s been a lot bath-talk swirling around the interwebs of late. Claire Goss, a mommy blogger, sparked the debate when she admitted to only soaping down her three-month-old every week . . . or two. To her credit, there are many sources from The Mayo Clinic to Dr. Sears that support the idea of minimal bathes for young babies, most recommend two to three baths a week.
Admittedly, I am in the Frequent Bathers’ Club. Back in the sleep-deprived days of my own girl’s babyhood, we didn’t use soap during most baths and we did use post-bath lotion to keep dry skin at bay. And we’ve continued our daily (or every other day, or …) tradition, referring to a no-soap bath as a “play bath.” Now those in the Occasional Bath Camp may say, “what is the point? (for babies, not sticky stinky big kids) Baby wipes can do it all in half the time.” But I argue that they don’t. Sure they can wipe away the majority of the offensive material (dirt, sweat, whatever that is that collects behind their ears, seriously I didn’t realize “behind your ears” was actually necessary until I had a baby). But, if you have to wipe all the cheese out of all those folds, be they neck, thigh or elbow, why not just make the job easier, strip the kid down and plunk them in the tub. And I feel, especially with lady babies, a thorough rinsing of the downstairs is a great idea. If I had spent any portion of the day sitting in my own poop, a wipe down, no matter how thorough, would not suffice. But that is my preference. That said, I’ve been surprised by the vitriol that this topic has produced online.
That lovely blogger, poor inoffensive Claire, has been paraded through the cyber town square and put into ether stocks all because she’s playing fast and loose with el bebe’s hygiene. Now I am one of the more opinionated people around, but I’m not sure that public shaming, though apparently the internet’s main function besides porn, is appropriate here. I think the impossible (and fictional) idea of the perfect parent should only ever be perpetrated in the privacy of our own homes when our kids do something ridiculously amazing (talk, walk, write their own names, hug us in front of their friends, tell us that we aren’t the worst parents), then yes, let’s have a round of self-congratulatory high-fives, back slaps and general “we got this” talk. But let’s keep it to ourselves. No need to turn on our computers. Give it twenty minutes and we’ll feel like a crappy parents again. Chips and salsa for dinner tonight, kids!
Sarah Moriarty is a writer, editor and adjunct professor teaching composition and literature classes at The College of Staten Island. Sarah’s writing has appeared in such hallowed places as her blog, her mother’s email inbox, the backs of Value Pack envelopes and a waist-high stack of mole skin journals. In addition, Sarah has contributed to F’Dinparkslope.com and edited fiction for Lost Magazine. An excerpt from Sarah’s novel, The Rusticators, is forthcoming in The Brooklyn Writers Space 2013/2014 anthology, The Reader. A resident of Brooklyn for the last eleven years, Sarah lives with her husband, daughter and a dwindling population of cats. Check out more of Sarah’s work at sarahmoriarty.com.