Bubble Baths and Becoming
Writing about my family is reflective for me. And while the words tumble out of my fingertips like they’ve been waiting years in the queue, the real reason I write is to honor them in my heart and mind. They’re my favorite subject—probably because they’re my favorite people, but also because I’ve discovered I’m not really an expert on all that much except, maybe, telling stories about them.
Some kids inherit athleticism, or musical genius, or the kind of math brain that makes my less math brain hurt. My family’s gifts run more in the everyday absurd category—choreographed parallel-parking skills, sarcasm as a second language, and a collective intolerance for people who “chew wrong.”
What I inherited was Dad’s gift of gab and the itch to tell stories. Not just casually recounting things that happened, but documenting every ridiculous detail as if the world might collapse if no one remembered that time Mom inquired as to why there was a lone slipper in the dryer every morning. [A story for another time]. My familial tell-all feels less like a skill I’ve honed and more like a hereditary condition—as if DNA had a “sense of humor about family” marker.
These stories are for me, for them—and they are for you. Because throughout the years, anyone who has met or experienced my family has fallen in love with them. I think I know why.
I recently saw a video on IG where the guest quoted Virani, who once said, “Don’t grow up so much that you forget how to enjoy the simple things.”
That could practically be our family motto. And nothing conveys this sentiment better than my memories of our house’s hall bathroom.
I grew up in a house smaller than my condo in Austin, where six of us shared a full and a half bath. The full bath in the middle hallway doubled as Grand Central Station every morning. Locking the door wasn’t just inconsiderate—it was an act of war. Privacy was a luxury we couldn’t afford, but punctuality was like a religion. The unspoken rule was very clear—get in, get out, and for the love of God, leave some hot water.
Some of the richest moments in my life took place in our hall bathroom. It wasn’t just the busiest place in the house; it was the gravitational pull of our togetherness. Positioned right in the middle of the house, it was where we lined up, fought, laughed, and occasionally performed full-scale Broadway revues.
The hall bath often served as our very own urgent care. When I spiked a fever, my parents didn’t race to the ER or frantically dial the pediatrician. They opted for what I call a cold-water baptism. They’d draw a tub of chilly water, ease me in, and stay nearby while my body did what bodies are miraculously designed to do—heal themselves. Big Pharma hates families like ours. These days, people devoted to pills and pharmaceutical trials would gasp at the thought of my parents not rushing me to a physician. But I see it differently. Mom and Dad trusted nature, had faith (with a slightly Christian Scientist flair), and believed a fever wasn’t an enemy but a purge. The result? An immune system that still treats every bug by burning it out with fever (like the body was designed to do).
When I was very young, my favorite part of bedtime ritual was bath time. Dad would pull me from the bath, and towel my head into a nun’s wimple, beam with his broad smile, and announce, “Why, hello, Sister Bertrille!” (a.k.a. The Flying Nun)
I’d clasp my hands, bow my head, and reply, “Hello, Gene. God bless you.” It was our nightly vaudeville act—Catholic style. And then he’d ask, “What made you happy today? What made you sad? Did anything make you afraid?” The questions were simple, yet they allowed me an opportunity to relive my day thoughtfully with Dad as my storytelling audience. Dad was teaching me how to look inward and reflect. Most nights, though, my answer to what made me sad was my unruly bangs.
The bathroom also cemented my bond with Julie. We built sisterhood in that tub—with bubble towers of questionable engineering. We laughed, splashed, and produced skits that entailed bubble-bearded characters. We moved the shapes-in-the-clouds game inside, where bubbles became our sky and imagination (along with soapy water) filled the room. If our laughter could have been harnessed as energy, it would have powered the entire neighborhood.
Later, the hall bath became my stage. Armed with Mom’s cassette player, I belted Helen Reddy and Olivia Newton-John to an audience of damp towels, watching my every move in the mirror. I’m sure my parents wished lip syncing was my preferred performance style, but I would enact my one-woman show at the highest decibels—at constant risk of someone pounding their fist on the door and yelling, “Are you almost done in there?”
Privacy shmivacy. Genderless bathrooms made their debut in my household long before anyone created policy about them. It didn’t matter if you were an adult or child in whitey-tighties, a bra and panties, or fully clothed with the audacity to just want to brush your teeth. You were dodging curling irons, bashing elbows with whoever got there first, and praying you wouldn’t trip over the scale, which always sat in the exact “out of the way” spot, yet guaranteed that you’d stub a toe. The bathroom wasn’t about grooming so much as survival of adolescence and hearing Mom and Dad muttering outside the door, “For the love of God, some of us have to get to work.”
Sibling wars were declared and peace agreements were initiated in this tiny room, where blue eyeshadow staged its tragic demise on teenage eyelids. Where my brothers would laugh so hard together, we weren’t sure we wanted to know what was going on behind that closed door, and where my dad—at certain times of the month—likely reconsidered the joy of fathering daughters. Mom, Julie, and I treated the bathroom trash like it was an overflowing sacrificial altar for menstrual products, and for some reason, we left it for Dad to deal with.
The hall bathroom was cramped and chaotic—yes. But it was where we learned how to share, schedule, reflect, laugh, bite our tongue, and occasionally come back from a fever coma.
I believe people’s love of my family often stems from our collective longing to return to what is unpolished and deeply human—what is simple. My family epitomizes this, and proof of our joy-soaked life was never more evident than in the soul center of our house, where every mess, every meltdown, and every miracle was lived out in the most unglamorous square footage imaginable.