About a month ago my three year old and I registered for a Parent & Child Aquatics class at the local swimming pool. Last Saturday was our first lesson together.
We were running a couple of minutes behind schedule despite my hustle, and as I approached the pool, already apprehensive about shedding my outer layers before a throng of previously immersed moms, it slowly dawned on me that there were no other parents in the pool. A group of more experienced kids were swimming laps, several fully clothed adults were sitting poolside, but the only other people in swim suits were tanned, sculpted and very young swim instructors.
I felt a little sick.
We approached the office to ask if we were mixed up about the start date and they knew my son’s name right off the bat. They were expecting us.
“Yes,” the office manager said, scrutinizing her list, “you guys are the only ones in the class.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
Just dandy.
Our personal instructor Joey, hopped easily in to the pool and looked at us expectantly. My darling son, slipped out of his sandals and looked at me expectantly. Behind me, at least five other conveniently dressed parents watched the scene unfold expectantly. From the pool office, even the other instructors now stood at the door watching and waiting.
I had an audience.
Awesome.
I took a deep breath, peeled off the skirt that was a little too tight at my waist, slipped off the flowered shirt which was more outdated than I cared to admit, crossed my arms over my chest like a petulant child and stomped my way toward the pool, wondering why I hadn’t opted for a wet suit instead of my several years old tankini which was not only unflattering but really, really unflattering. It clung to bulges, exposed dimpled skin, puckered where it should have been smooth, bit in where it should have hugged.
Sure all these factors existed when I squeezed in to the suit earlier that morning but I fully expected to be surrounded by other soft mom shapes, bodies lovingly marked by childbirth, time and an appreciation of cheesecake. The only other mom shapes in the vicinity were sitting on the benches, fully clothed and fanning themselves in the shade. “You are on your own, sister,” they seemed to say.
Indeed I was.
I plopped myself clumsily in to the water at the 4 ft depth and tried to avoid eye contact with pretty much everyone within a ten foot radius except my child who I was “helping” feel more “comfortable” in the water.
“I want my floaties,” he wailed as I lifted him under his arms and pried him away from the edge.
“Do you know how to make bubbles in the water?” the instructor asked him.
“Make some bubbles, baby, like this,” I dipped my face in to the water and blew.
My son put his lips to the water and sipped.
“We have to try to get him used to going under. Maybe we can sing ‘ring around the rosy,’” Joey offered. He was being helpful, I’m sure.
At “all-fall-down”, I held my breath and with my darling, trusting boy in my arms, I went completely under.
Of course it ended well…
If by “well” you mean both me and my youngest snorted down gallons of chlorinated water then came up gasping with our noses draining fluids, followed by him screeching like an injured baboon and accusing me of unintelligible crimes against monkey-kind.
“That was fun,” I assured him as I rubbed pool water out of my eyes, “that didn’t hurt you.”
“YES IT DID!!!”
“Where does it hurt?”
“IT HURTS MY FACE!!! IT HURTS ALL MY FACE!!! NO MORE RING AROUND THE ROSY!!!NOT AGAIN!!!”
Some people were snickering, others were awww-ing sympathetically. In his ire, my three year old was exceedingly adorable. To everyone else. To me it was like putting a fish hook through my open eye.
There was no convincing that kid, after the start we’d just had, that putting his face in the water would ever be a good idea. I’d have better luck talking him in to eating a live cockroach.
“But you’re a big boy!”
“No, I’m not a big boy. I’m only a little bit big. I’m not really, really big. I wanna go home.”
I’d like to say I appreciated the personalized attention that our instructor Joey was able to give us. He was very patient and considerate and tan, which are all traits that make for an attractive resume. But I almost wished they’d just cancelled the class.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will enroll late.
Maybe I’ll get smart and send my husband instead.
