After every dinner, in the calming dusk of night, I run a bath for you while Mama tidies up the kitchen.

It is a simple routine. It signals to you that sleep is imminent and provides Mama at least ten minutes of precious alone time. With the bath slowly rising, you lean over the side of the tub pointing at the steady flow, always eager to get in. Before I can get your clothes off, you look up at me, big blue eyes, curled lip, stern look and say, “Dada. Wah-wah”. It is amazing how those two syllables, ‘da-da’, uttered countless times during a day, played with and re-shaped off your lips, can provide so much meaning in each form. The thrill of excitement in a ‘da-daaaaa’; the sense of concentration in a rapid ‘dada’,  the yearning for comfort in a ‘dahh- daahh’. At this moment though, with the tap running, my name has a strict tone to it. Surrounded by two different types of boats, a duck, a frog, plastic bowls, a strainer, a bucket and bath mirror, I place you into the wah-wah. I sit on the floor, arms leaned up on the side and watch you. My daughter.

One of the hardest things as a father is trying to cope with the relentless global, national and local catastrophes that feel as if they are ever creeping into your child’s space. Global Warming. Increasing Inequalities. Nuclear War. Gun Violence. Robot Apocalypse. Epidemics. Trump. But this tub, its four walls, perfect white square tiles and a spout feels like an impenetrable layer to the external world. A sanctuary for you to splash, grab bubbles and explore the beautiful physicality of water. More than the theoretical world-ending problems, this space is free from sharp corners, choke-able objects, heavy furniture and other every day hazards that always occupy at least a portion of a parent’s brain. I love bath time.

You are using one of the boats as a vessel to transport water into the bucket. There is a meticulous method to the way you push the boat downwards, submerging it before you use all your strength to wobble it over the red bucket. It takes about five minutes of Buddha-like concentration for you to get it full. Once it begins to overflow, you grab the top and spill your hard work back into the bath and begin over. Purposeless work. Mindful exploration. I take notes.

You point to the spout. “Wah-wah”, you say. “You’re right my baby. That is where the wah-wah comes out.” I turn on the tap so we can watch the water flow down. It is quite amazing thinking about the design system of pipes that intersect beneath our lives, quietly and thanklessly functioning to give us this precious substance at the twist of a knob, I think to myself. You stick your hand under and smile. I try and explain to you this thought, not necessarily wanting you to understand, but to relish in the wonder that I am feeling. But to you, the simple pressure of water hitting your hand, splitting off around it, droplets smacking your face is more joy than logic can muster. I take more notes.

After making quacking noises with your duck, squeezing liquid out of the cloth, realizing the joy in splashing and a reggae version of “Wheels on the Bus” (written and performed by yours truly), you hit a point where you have had enough with bath time. “Ahwl Dahh” you say, hands twisting back and forth in front of your body. You are signing to me that you are “all done” with this activity. I grab the towel, lift you over and wrap you up. “Mama” you say and point to the open door. My alone time with you comes to a close. I give you a quick rub to get as much water off as I can before letting you go to carelessly walk into the kitchen, naked, free and clean, into the big ,scary and beautiful world around you.