A few days ago I wrote an entry about you taking a bath - well, I found this old journal entry from Nov. 10, 2009, in my journals (the actual event happened a few days earlier):
As the water fell from the faucet swirling into the pool below, you placed bath toys onto the tub's side, delicately examining each one as if it were some priceless ancient artifact. There is a monkey in a life raft, a rubber train engine, a plastic sailboat. Bubble bath clings to the monkey's face, and your eyes pause on it for a long moment, and a finger wipes off the foam. Your eyes suddenly brighten as you grin. You dip your hand into the foam-covered water and swooping up a mound of bubbles, pat them against your chin. Two fingers push some of the bubbles up around the mouth until you have a goatee of your own, white and fizzing. You gaze at your reflection in the bathtub faucet, let out a gleeful laugh, and continue to place the toys upon the rub's rim, the bubbles upon your face fizzing.
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