
The bath is warm and full of bubbles and the good part is easy, little one. Then comes the shampoo, and the little bottle, and the cup by the tap. Your shoulders climb all the way up to your ears, because you know what happens next: the water, over your face, and you never know exactly when.

Growy climbs over the edge and lands with a SPLOOSH that sends half the bath onto the floor. Then Growy sits in the bubbles and looks at you carefully. 'The hard part is not the water,' Growy says. 'The hard part is not knowing when. Those are two completely different problems.' You nod. That is exactly it.

'Tip your head back,' says Growy, 'and look up at the ceiling.' You do, and Growy pours, and the water runs down BEHIND you, all the way past your ears, and none of it touches your face. And then you hear it: the water drumming on your head sounds like rain on a roof, heard from inside the house. Warm, and faraway, and only for you.

'My turn,' says Growy, and forgets to tip its head back at all, and gets shampoo right in both eyes, and squawks like a startled duck. You hand Growy the washcloth. 'Head BACK,' you tell Growy, and Growy tries again and gets it right. 'Thank you,' Growy says, blinking. 'And listen: you cannot stop the water. But you are the one who says when. You say now, and I pour. Not before.'

So you say it. 'Now.' And the rain drums on the roof, and it is over before you finish listening. Growy wraps you in the big towel, which is somehow always the best part, and asks, 'So, little one... did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tomorrow,' says Growy. 'At the next bath, you say now. You pick the moment.' See you tomorrow, little one.
