bubbles.

I live for the citrus-y scent of Ethan's "Overtired and Cranky" bubble bath by California Baby. The scent of tangerines and chamomile manages to fill not just the bathroom but the entire bedroom and side of the house. The calming aromatherapy works wonders on bringing forth sleep and relaxation on me, too, as I bathe Ethan. I feel rejuvenated. He mostly just likes the bubbles.

He's getting to that point where he'll tolerate the tub in general but will give in and crack a smile or two when we get to blow bubbles with the included bubble wand. The bubble wand comes in handy, especially when taking his mind off of trying to eat the bubbles. It's his newest quest to eat every last cloud of bubbles in the tub.

Is there anything better, really, than a freshly bathed baby? All bundled up in a warm, fluffy towel? I gave Ethan his post-bath lotion massage as he giggled and told me stories in his oh-so-cute baby talk. I picked him up and headed down the hallway to put on a fresh diaper and his pajamas.

"Here he is, squeaky cl--" The words didn't even finish fleeing my mouth when a mass outpouring of baby vomit dared me to forget that Ethan was a reflux sufferer. Maybe reflux only seldom wins but, oh, it was doing a victory dance at this very moment. I felt the sticky vomit cling to my hair and run completely down my back. The sound of vomit hitting the tile and forming puddles around my feet managed to undo any peace and tranquility the bubble bath instilled in me. Lovely. Ethan himself was completely soaked in sticky puke. "Back to the tub," my husband acknowledged. Yes, yes we were.

After round two, when Ethan was smelling fresh and new and baby-like again, we walked back out into the hallway. We passed by my husband who was busy mopping the puddles of puke from the tile. I was just about to lay Ethan down on the changing table when I felt it. This time it was pouring down my front. The little monster had opened the floodgates and began peeing all over me. I was standing in a pool of pee this time, clutching a baby who apparently just didn't want to smell like sweet orange and chamomile. He was feeling too rugged for that. I was feeling the pee seep into my clothing and the vomit harden in my hair. No amount of aromatherapy could undo the sheer yuck of the moment. None.

Once mopping Ethan's bedroom floor was complete, my husband took the baby from me and encouraged me to shower. Showering -- the wish-upon-a-star be-all-end-all of "mom luxuries" -- had never seemed so luxurious. I was waving my white flag on this one.

But somehow once I had finished showering, he turned into a perfect angel again.