Sitting on the couch mindlessly browsing the forums of a parenting app — is this my life now? I ask that question several times a day, but I know it’s not what it seems, not me being consumed and dulled and hardened by this new role of mother, not me losing my curiosity and enthusiasm for life, just me feeling drained after a particularly hard day that required a hot bath (my first since giving birth), a hot bath and an expensive bath bomb that I did not, for once, hesitate to use up on such a whim but dropped under the faucet with abandon, watching the warm, oatmeal exterior dissolve into a surprise of deep, deep red, unbelievably rich and dark, alarming even, a delicious shock to the eyes (not used to seeing such a furious, passionate color in the bathtub, not used to seeing anything at all out of the ordinary these past few weeks), grainy and silky on the skin, fizzing and frothing and fragrant, and I thought about how I went nine months without caffeine or alcohol and felt no need to pick them back up afterward until she was born and I realized how indispensable both substances are to survival with a newborn and how a glass, now and then, of wine as rich as this bathwater would take the sting out of a day like today, relentless in its demands, a raw wound. How drastically better I felt after that bath, how much better equipped to handle the rest of the night, how much more forgiving and soft and slow in my thoughts, not the frantic, hopeless thing I was earlier, and I wondered which interpretation of the day was the true one, if there was a true one. Or do we rewrite the truth with every shifting mood? Or is it whoever we are when the sun sets? Or is it whatever we believe at our most optimistic? I don’t know, I don’t know. But a bath is a good thing, a welcome and rescuing thing for tired limbs and weary minds; I do know that.