Julie Jay: Four bathrooms, two small boys, and an inflatable bath — what could possibly go wrong?

We have had to endure the absolute carnage of inflatable baths up to this point — and carnage it is. You would be forgiven for thinking we have been subjected to a flash flood, such is the level of saturation

Julie Jay: "The truth is, I’m here more often to do bathtime, and as a result, can spot the signs that the ship is about to go down."

The house we are renting in Dingle has four bathrooms, which I’m sure instantly conjures up in your mind a palatial-sized Georgian mansion — the kind of house that plasters over its somewhat problematic history by hosting festivals in the summer where people can pay €10 for a crepe and pretend they’re having a great time.

In fact, the house is very modest in size, a perfectly ordinary cottage, so at least two of these bathrooms are superfluous to requirements. Most days we have more loos than people, which is definitely one loo too many.

My husband loves nothing more than using all the bathrooms on a rota basis, just for the craic of it. I find this hobby infuriating, so much so that for a while now I have considered cordoning off two of the bathrooms to prevent him from using them when he takes a fancy.

Despite having four bathrooms, we don’t actually have a bath, so I have made do with an inflatable one, which we placed in the kids’ ensuite. Even as I write this, I am conscious that the words ‘kids’ and’ ensuite’ might possibly be the most middle-class pairing I’ve ever penned. Children need an ensuite like they need a bow and arrow, that is, not at all.

For the last couple of years, despite my yodelling about the merits of a stand-up wash, Number One has resisted the lure of the shower.

This meant that we have had to endure the absolute carnage of baths up to this point — and carnage it is. Despite my pleading, most of the water ends up on the bathroom floor and very little stays in the inflatable tub, so much so that at certain times the tub and the floor have merged
completely, and we’re all just holding onto a door handle for dear life.

You would be forgiven for thinking we have been subjected to a flash flood, such is the level of saturation. The place is always like the scene of a natural disaster, particularly if Daddy is left in charge. 

This is not to cast any shade on my husband, whose playdate entertainment skills and ability to commit to the character far outshine my own.

The truth is, I’m here more often to do bathtime, and as a result, can spot the signs that the ship is about to go down.

It’s hard to be annoyed at my husband for not reining them in when you open the door to find him ashen-faced, telling Number Two to stop drinking the bathwater and imploring Number One to put down the water gun.

Getting them out of the bath is even more chaotic because nobody wants to be the first to leave a party, so we quite literally have to pull the plug to hurry things along.

Both children will then scamper off in opposite directions, clearly having planned this, in a bid to avoid the horror of getting dried.

However, their wet footprints immediately give the game away, so it is easy to track the fugitives in their attempt to escape the inevitable towel stage.

Usually, I will corner one of them and wrestle them into what is a mostly dry state before turning my attentions to whichever one of them has eluded me and is now, no doubt, soaking and wrapped up in our bed. Yes, our kids love nothing more than diving beneath our sheets, still soaking.

Recently, I asked Number One why he always legs it to mammy and daddy’s bed and not his own after bathtime, and he informed me that he ‘didn’t want to get his bed wet'. Fair enough.

But last Thursday, a miracle happened. I suggested a shower, and Number One announced he’d give it a whirl.

So impressed was Number Two with how much his older brother was enjoying his stint in there that he also insisted on a shower, much to my delight. I had thrown my togs on, just in case I needed to jump in there and coax them into hanging out long enough to scrub the permanent marker off, but I needn’t have bothered, as they were quite happy in the concentrated drizzle.

It was one of those moments as a parent where I didn’t want to appear too jubilant, for fear of jinxing the whole thing, but I think I have finally converted Number One to the ease of showering, and this could potentially change our lives.

We are now in and out in no time, and the opportunity to arm yourself with a water gun has been greatly reduced.

The fact that we can jump in without needing to heat water in advance has added a degree of spontaneity to our very mundane lives, with Number One requesting a shower at lunchtime today just purely for the heck of it.

Of course, I refuse him, because the temptation for me to put on their pyjamas afterwards would probably be too great, and as much as we are loving leaning into a more relaxed summer schedule, nightwear at 2pm might be a step too far.

Upon his return home after a few days working away, my husband was thrilled to hear I had finally converted the boys to the shower, which is just as well, given that he will soon find out he has lost access to half the bathrooms in this house.