It’s Launch Day

It’s 4 AM. My son is asleep. My dog is asleep. I’m drinking coffee from my Thatcher Hates The Bath mug, hoping it brings some good sales mojo for the official launch of my book.

I’ve spent the last month and a half promoting this book. Some PR people would say that wasn’t enough time. Even as I sit here typing, knowing that today is the day my book becomes available to the world, I can’t help but wonder: Have I done enough? What more can I do? I’ve written countless emails trying to drum up exposure, sales, etc. I’ve posted more on social media in the last month than I have in the last five years. And yet, I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t more I can do.

Any new adventure in life is both an opportunity and a learning experience. I’ve learned so much from this process: trim size, layout, bleed, front matter, interior spread, back matter, ISBN, LCCN, and so much more. Overnight, I became a creative director and producer of this book. If it fails, it’s on me and me alone. Yes, I had a book designer, and she was great. Yes, my illustrator was amazing, but at the end of the day it’s my imprint, my idea, my words, my execution, and frankly my ability to market this book that decides whether it lives or dies.

My illustrator and I went through several passes on every single illustration. We traded countless emails. I emailed my book designer with text changes over and over again. And then came the day when I told both my illustrator and my book designer, I’m ready to finalize this book.

Of course, nothing ever feels final in the eyes of a creative person. You can always make revisions. You can always think you should have done this or that. But at some point—and that point is now—it’s in print.

If you asked me what part of the book I loved most, I’d still say the story. Why? It’s personal to me. It was inspired by my son.

In July of 2021, my son was born. He was—and is—perfect. I used to get asked a lot, “Is this kid always this happy?” The answer was yes… except at bath time.

As parents, we all struggle with something. No parent is spared from meltdowns—though some are harder than others. Whether it’s mealtime, naptime, bedtime, or bath time, we all deal with screaming, kicking, hitting, out-of-body meltdowns. When children are so little and can’t talk yet, all they can do is scream. And what they lack in words, they make up for in strength.

I dreaded bath time. Other parents loved it because their kids enjoyed splashing in the tub while they read or listened to music. Not me. My son went from a smiling, happy baby to a possessed lunatic. He went full rigor on me—soaking wet, strong as ever, as he tried to escape. He was drenched. I was drenched, and I wasn’t even in the tub. I worried that in this soaking wet, fight-or-flight mode, he’d slip out of my hands and get hurt.

This was back when I bathed him in our sink. I tried everything to make it better: playing Cocomelon on the iPad (the bath episode, of course), putting up smiling pictures of him behind the sink, giving him his beloved binky. Nothing worked. He screamed.

I bought a new bath seat—no change. I gave him toys, bubbles, even a rubber ducky bathtub with a toy whale that spouted water. I put on The Lumineers—because who doesn’t love The Lumineers? Still, he screamed.

I sought advice from everyone: his pediatrician, his occupational therapist, friends, family. And almost all of them began with the same suggestion: “Have you tried toys?”

Toys? I had bought Amazon. And I didn’t just buy toys—I bought ten different bathtubs. Nothing worked. Not toys, not bubbles, not music, not cartoons, not piggy and ducky tubs, not even happy photo reminders of happier times.

Now, you might be thinking, What’s the big deal? You’ve got a happy kid, so he hates the bath.

But when my son was born, he spent 11 days in the NICU. We were in the hospital for 14 total. He had some feeding problems, his sugar levels were high. And while these were scary times, there were newborns in the NICU struggling with much worse. Early on, the feeding specialist suggested I get him tested for services. At four months old, he qualified for California’s early start program. For the first three years of his life, therapists came to our home weekly—occupational, stim, later speech. He ended up hitting all his milestones and tested out of the program at three with only one concern—his speech was delayed. We later found out this was due to fluid in his ears. His speech is now great. During that time though, everything felt like a lot. As a new mom, you just want to give your kid the best. You want to be able to fix it all. I took the help because I knew how important it was to make sure he was on target age-wise, but I struggled with not being able to improve his vocabulary on my own.

So I wasn’t just worried that he hated baths. I worried why he hated them. Could it be a sensory issue? I tried explaining the epic scale of his meltdowns, but I felt no one quite understood. I continued to search for help—I Googled all the reasons my son might hate the bath. I continued to try all the suggestions that were in front of me. Nothing was working.

Then it hit me: I was trying too hard.

I thought back to the NICU, when they first had me give him a bath. He stayed in his little reclining tub with his diaper on. We quickly washed him with a wet cloth and soap—never pouring water over his head.

So, I pulled out that same recliner tub I had shoved aside. I put it in the sink, turned on the water away from him, grabbed a small washcloth and bath gel, and washed him that way. No pouring water. Just a cloth, quick rinse, and done. Essentially, I gave him a sponge bath.

And guess what? He cried less. The bath became more tolerable for both of us. Because guess what? You, as the parent, are in there too. They’ll forget they screamed at the top of their lungs. The second you pull them out of the bath, they’ll start to smile. You will live with it. You will feel afterward like you need a break. So, while a lot of people say, “Poor baby,” when they hear about your struggle—take a minute and say to yourself, “Poor you.” Do not forget yourself in the equation.

For months, the sponge bath became our routine. My son still cried, but it wasn’t the ear-piercing screams of fight-or-flight panic of before. And I realized something: he didn’t need to love the bath. He just needed to get clean.

Eventually, I revisited a conventional bath with him. He tolerated it better, but the second I poured water over his head, the screaming came back. “No hair! No hair!” he’d beg. The first time he was able to say, “I’m scared,” my heart broke.

Now he could tell me—but I still couldn’t fix it. Telling a scared child “Don’t be scared” doesn’t erase their fear. Reasoning doesn’t always help either. Sometimes they just need time.

And that’s what I realized: my son didn’t have a sensory issue. He was just scared. He needed time.

All the advice—bubbles, toys, music, cartoons, even me pouring water over my own head in solidarity—none of it worked. Sometimes, there is no fix. You can burn yourself out trying.

That’s why I wrote this book. I wanted to poke fun at the village of suggestions, but also capture the stress parents feel when they try everything and nothing works.

There was even a line in my book I had to cut for pacing. Everyone’s suggestions pile on—“Maybe he’s hungry? Maybe he’s bored? Maybe he’s lonely?”—and the mom finally thinks: Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I just suck at this.

Because that’s how it feels. I’m not good at this. I’m doing something wrong. I’m not able to give my child what they need. I’m not able to comfort them. And it might not be bath time that’s the struggling. It might be meal time. Other parents get their kids to eat chicken nuggets—why can’t I? Other parents get their child to hear “no” and mine continues to throw themselves on the floor of a department store, kicking and screaming. As my son’s director at his Pre-K once told me, “Kids are like popcorn kernels. They don’t all pop at the same time. Some need more heat before they really get going.”

My biggest takeaway from our bath drama was this: sometimes the only thing that works is to stop trying so hard. Not giving up—but easing the pressure. Don’t force the square peg into the round hole. Just get through it. Revisit when the time is right.

As I say in my book: sometimes the only thing that works… is time.

And while I wanted to poke fun at the chaos and the “helpful” suggestions, I also wanted this book to be a comfort. When you lay in bed at night with your child—especially after a tough day—I hope you see yourself in its pages, take a deep breath, and remember: you are not alone. You’re doing a great job. We are all struggling in one way or another with our child. And you want to know the real kicker in all of this? My son is four. He loves showers!