It never fails--I step into the shower each and every morning and The Daughters show up and are ready to have a conversation.
They've asked me to braid their hair, make a sandwich, tie their shoes, settle arguments, find a DVD. That's right. I'm standing buck naked in the shower and they're standing perfectly dry outside of the shower wanting me to do something for them. Even Brian gets in on the act sometimes barging in as I stand under the steady stream of water waiting for the hot water to run out before actually ending my shower.
I think, however, it might be my fault. I think that something I did immediately before becoming a momma and immediately after might have set me up for this life of communal showering.
It was the day before Daughter 1 was due. My belly was six-feet in diameter. Brian and I finished breakfast and headed to the mall to walk. I was having regular contractions--not bad, but every 6-7 minutes, my uterus would contract and make me feel like I had to go pee. That night we called Brian's folks (who lived four hours away) and told them it was happening. We were going to have a baby.
We headed to the hospital where we apparently interrupted a nurse's late-night TV viewing or something. She checked me, declared I wasn't in labor, gave me a sleeping pill and sent me home.
I'll say that again: She gave me a sleeping pill.
I went home with my crossed eyes and my belly that moved and rippled at will. I fell into bed around one-ish. I'd periodically wake up and attempt to raise my head as the urge to go poop got stronger. I needed to wake up or I'd end up with a baby in our bed with us. (That was foreshadowing.) I woke Brian up and told him I was in labor and I needed to wake up.
Aside from going back in time and refusing the sleeping pill, there really wasn't much I could actually do. Since I wasn't thinking straight, though, I decided to hop in the shower. I stood as the hot water beat my body and immediately had a pretty big contraction. As soon as it waned some, I closed my eyes and my head dropped to my chest as I grabbed at the shower caddy. I called out for Brian and then fell asleep with my face in between the shampoo and conditioner bottles.
"Honey," Brian shook me awake, "You okay?"
"Just fine," I muttered as I came completely awake with another contraction. Then immediately fell asleep, grabbing the shower curtain on the way to dreamland and pulling the entire rod off the wall.
At some point, I actually managed to get shampoo in my hair. At another point, Brian actually rinsed managed my hair. I don't remember drying off; I don't remember getting dressed; I don't remember leading him in a sing-along of Abba's "Mamma Mia" (but he swears I did it); I don't remember driving back to the hospital at shift change.
At three that afternoon, we had a beautiful Daughter 1.
But really, that shower with Brian was not what prepared me for never showering alone again.
What prepared me was a nine pound, six ounce baby, a stage four episiotomy, two days of stool softeners catching up with me while I was visiting with a lactation consultant, a recovery nurse, my OB-GYN, two co-workers, my own momma, Brian, and a janitor.
THAT'S what prepared me for communal showers.