“The Bathtub Battle That Changed Everything”
Hey everyone!! You are not going to believe what happened at my house last week. Like, seriously—I could write a book about this mess. So let me spill all the bubbly tea, because my husband Adam? He pushed me way too far.
Okay, so here’s the deal: Adam has this absolutely ridiculous habit. Every single morning—without fail—he takes a one-hour bath. Yes, you read that right. One whole hour. Not ten minutes. Not twenty. Sixty. Full. Minutes.
I’ve told him a thousand times, “Adam, this is too much! We have kids! We have responsibilities! You can’t just vanish into the tub like a mermaid every morning!”
But every time, he just smiles and says, “Babe, it’s my sacred escape. My zen time. My recharge moment.”
Usually, I just roll my eyes and carry on. But last week? Oh no, last week was different. Last week I had a super important job interview—like, life-changing important. I was already stressed, and I really, really needed Adam to help get the kids ready for school. Just this once!
So I asked him, “Hey, can you help the kids get dressed and pack their lunches? I need to leave early for the interview.”
And do you know what he did?
He looked me straight in the eyes—dead serious—and said, “Sweetie, my bath is my sacred escape from the kids and, let’s be honest, from YOU. You can handle things for an hour, can’t you?”
And then he just walked away! Humming! Like he didn’t just say the most insulting thing ever!
I stood there frozen for a second. My brain was like: Did that really just happen?
That was it. My breaking point. I was done being polite. I was done being understanding. It was time to show Adam exactly what my “sacred escape” looked like.
I muttered under my breath, “You wanna play games, Adam? Oh, we’re gonna play.”
I scrambled to get the kids ready—one couldn’t find a shoe, the other spilled cereal on my blouse, the baby cried every time I put her down. I was a tornado of chaos. By the time I dropped them off at school, my hair looked like I’d been electrocuted and my white blouse had a giant brown cereal stain like a target on my chest.
And yeah… I was late to the interview. Too late. They barely glanced at me before saying, “Sorry, the manager just stepped into a meeting.” Translation: Get lost, cereal lady.
As I drove home, all I could see in my head was Adam’s smug face floating in a bubble bath, while I was out there drowning in responsibility.
That night, as I stared at the ceiling with a thousand angry thoughts racing through my mind, I came up with a plan. Not a silly prank. A lesson. A tactical strike against his peace and quiet.
I knew Adam’s bath routine like clockwork. Candles lit. Lavender-scented bath oils. Chill jazz playlist. It was like a mini spa every single morning.
So the next day, I woke up early and got to work.
Step 1: I replaced his favorite bath oil with baby oil. That stuff is slippery as a greased watermelon.
Step 2: I swapped out his jazz playlist with the kids’ favorite: “I Like To Move It, Move It” on full blast. On loop.
Step 3: I turned down the hot water valve just enough so that the bath would be lukewarm at best.
Adam strolled into the bathroom like usual, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “Enjoy your hour, honey.”
Oh, I would, Adam. I definitely would.
Moments later, I heard it—“What the—WHOA!”—followed by a splash, then a chorus of angry mutters and thumps as he tried to get up without slipping again. Then came the high-pitched music blasting:
🎵 “I like to move it, move it! I like to MOVE IT!” 🎵
I was practically crying with laughter as I leaned against the wall.
When he finally came out, dripping, furious, and covered in baby oil, he shouted, “What the hell happened in there??”
I looked him dead in the eye and said calmly, “Just like you want your bath time respected, I want your help—especially when I have something important going on. Fair is fair, right?”
He huffed and stormed off. But I could tell—he was rattled.
Did he stop taking long baths? Nope. He just became sneakier. He started double-checking the water, hiding his playlist, even locking the door. I shook my head. “You wanna play hardball, Adam? Fine. Game on.”
The next week, I took things up a notch.
I ordered special bath bombs online. They looked totally normal—sweet, fizzy little spheres—but they were filled with glitter. Like, everywhere glitter. Think unicorn-explosion-level glitter.
The morning he dropped one in, I waited outside the door like a spy.
BOOM. Sparkles flew everywhere.
“WHAT THE—WHY IS EVERYTHING SHIMMERING??” he shouted from the tub.
He came out looking like a disco ball from the ‘70s. Even the dog looked confused. The kids screamed with laughter.
Adam yelled, “Why the hell is there glitter everywhere? It’s in my ears! It’s in my—UGH!”
I couldn’t stop giggling. “Oh, sweetie, I just thought your ‘sacred escape’ could use some extra sparkle.”
He spent two hours trying to clean it all up. But the best part? He still didn’t quit.
So I got the kids involved. We turned it into a whole operation.
One night, we snuck into the bathroom. I filled the tub with cold water and placed rubber ducks and tiny toy boats everywhere. Then I connected his speaker to a recording of a pirate ship battle—cannon fire, yelling pirates, the works.
The next morning, he walked in, whistling like usual. As soon as he dipped his foot in, he yelled—“COLD!!”
Then the pirates started yelling—“ARRR, MAN THE CANNONS!”
He slipped on a toy boat and landed in the water with a loud SPLASH.
He came out wide-eyed and furious. “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THIS HOUSE??”
I just folded my arms. “If you can’t appreciate my need for help, I can’t appreciate your need for peace and quiet.”
The kids were in the background cracking up. He stormed off, but I saw it in his face—he was starting to get it.
But not fast enough.
So I planned one last prank. The grand finale. The one that would go down in neighborhood history.
That morning, just as Adam was about to disappear into the bathroom, I screamed, “The kids are locked in the garage!”
He freaked out, bolted to the garage in his towel, and found the kids giggling behind the door. Meanwhile, I snuck into the bathroom and set up a motion sensor alarm in the tub that blasted an air horn whenever it sensed movement.
He came back, grumbled, and stepped into the bath…
BLAAAARRRRRHHH!!!
The air horn went off so loud, the dog started barking. The neighbor texted, “Is everything okay over there??”
Adam leapt out of the tub like he’d been electrocuted. “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THIS HOUSE??” he screamed again, soaked and stunned.
I calmly replied, “Welcome to my world, Adam. You’re finally living it.”
That night, he didn’t say much. Just sat at the dinner table quietly.
Then, finally, he looked at me and said, “Okay. I get it. You’re right. I haven’t been helping enough. I’ll do better.”
And you know what? He did.
From that day forward, Adam helped with the kids every morning. He shortened his baths to 30 minutes and made sure I had the time and space to do what I needed.
But… I had one last surprise.
I bought a bottle of temporary neon pink hair dye. The kind that washes out after a few shampoos—but still packs a punch. That night, while he was soaking peacefully, I quietly switched his shampoo.
The next morning, I heard it: “AHHHHHHH!!!”
Adam’s scream shook the whole block.
He came running out with wet, glowing pink hair.
“VIENNA!!! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY HAIR??”
I grinned. “Now we’re even.”
It took four days and five washes to get it all out. But by then? He was fully converted.
No more hour-long baths. No more disappearing dad act. Just a man who finally understood what teamwork meant.
And that, my friends, is how I earned the unofficial Nobel Prize in Chore Distribution. Who knew all it took was a little glitter, a few pirate ships, an air horn—and maybe a bit of pink hair dye?
Let’s just say… bath time will never be the same again.
