In true hippie fashion, my midwives and I didn't bathe my son after I gave birth to him. For them, that was an intentional choice: they always wait until a baby's cord stops pulsing before separating them after a routine birth, and try not to do anything that would interrupt their skin-to-skin time. For me, it was accidental: a bath just didn't occur to me, as I was preoccupied with my whole "don't kill the cute thing I just made" agenda. I chuckle when I imagine what my baby was thinking during his first bath, after a few weeks of being gingerly wiped down with warm washcloths whenever he needed.
I know what I was thinking, which was usually something along the lines of, "OMG, OMG, OMG. You're so teeny and delicate and floppy and can barely hold yourself up and how is it even possible that you exist outside my body OMG OMG OMG I really don't want to drop you and now I'm worried you're going to drown and did you just inhale some water? Is this how dry drowning starts? OMG you're going to die of bathwater and I'll never forgive myself OMG how am I even in charge of a whole other person this sh*t is crazy."
In hindsight, my newborn son definitely had it more together than I did. While I struggled valiantly to not drop him or give any obvious hints as to just how terrified I was, he first looked perplexed, then flashed his first, soon-to-be legendary side-eye. Based on the subsequent facial expressions, yelps, squeals, and sighs, if he could talk, I imagine the conversation would have sounded a lot like this.