The first time Brooklynn took a bath in the hospital (or got scrubbed down as the case were), she hated it. There was much crying and wailing and thrashing, and we just assumed that she didn't like baths. We got home and gave her a bath like they did in the hospital and she cried and wailed and thrashed and hated it. The best part was getting out.
Then Rhiannon's mom, the woman who raised five kids, has three grandkids, and has a way with babies that I will never approach, mentions, "Maybe she's cold; I always draped a towel over the babies and poured warm water on them."
And the clouds parted, the sun shined down upon us, and bath time is torture no longer. We think bath time is swell and we also try to eat the water that gets near our mouth.
Grandma isn't much of a drinker, but if she was, I would so take her out for a beer next time we see her.
Sometimes I think Brooklynn may already be one step ahead of me on the beer part.