AUTHOR: Carolyn Savage | POSTED: March 10, 2014 | COMMENTS: 4 Comments
CATEGORIES: 1015 The River, From The Files of You Can't Make This Sh*t Up, Glass City Parent, Recipes, twins,
It all started out with the best of intentions. The twins are two, we have a pool in the back yard, and sometime…hopefully soon…swimming season will arrive. So, in the interest of safety, Sean and I thought it would be prudent to schedule Isabella and Reagan for swimming lessons.
Perfectly normal. Right?
Except there’s a glitch, which shouldn’t surprise any of my readers. There’s always a glitch. In fact, in retrospect, I probably should’ve named this blog (and our book for that matter), “The Glitch”. It’s cathchy and conveniently rhymes with bitch which is fitting because the “glitch” always results in “the bitch”…at least in our home it does.
Anyways, since this isn’t my first time at the toddler-swim-lesson-rodeo I knew they required a parent participant–which is a glitch—because Sean has always been the CEO of mommy-and-me swim lessons. It’s not that I don’t like to swim. It’s that I don’t like to swim in public pools. I have issues with communal bath tubs. Trust me when I tell you there’s not enough chlorine to kill the sceevy back-stroking critters of my imagination. But, seeing as how we have two toddlers, and in the interest of not wanting them to drown, I figured once a week I could swallow some extra anti-anxiety meds, squeeze into my bathing suit and endure thirty minutes in a public pool. So, I signed them up, gave myself a mental pep talk, and packed a swim bag.
Which is where things went terribly wrong.
Because I wasn’t just packing one swim bag. I had to pack four swim bags. One for Sean, because he couldn’t be trusted to pack everything needed. (See…glitch equals bitch. I admit it.) One for each twin because I couldn’t picture showering two slippery, wet toddlers on my own. I was going to have to sacrifice one to the men’s locker room with Daddy after the lesson probably to be traumatized for life—you know—in case she got a visual of some random Mr. Happy taking his own shower. And one bag for me. Which begs the question…
Why is it when mother’s have multiple people to pack for they tend to short-change themselves?
Because that’s what I did. I underestimated the amount of time it would take to prepare four swim bags and by the time I got to pulling my own gear together I was in a mad rush, the results of which were damn near catastrophic. How? Well, when I grabbed my bathing suit out of the drawer I hadn’t opened in months I failed to check that all parts of the suit were accounted for. Meaning, when I finally pulled my own suit on I realized—much to my horror—that the bathing suit I’d grabbed was missing its breast pads.
There I stood, in a YMCA that is clearly having budget issues as evidenced by the fact that the temperature in the pool area was hovering at what felt like 52 degrees. Which is a big problem because we all know what happens when it’s freezing cold and your sisters are shoved into a bathing suit.
Upon the realization that I was in danger of poking someone’s eye out, I rummaged through my swim bag for a solution. I was desperate. Could I stuff my suit with a sock? Toilet paper? Do I have any duct tape? Should I ask some other woman in here for duct tape? After a minute of sheer panic I relented. I had no solution and time was up. So, I did what any other woman would have done in my shoes. I connected my elbows to my nipples and vowed to stay that way for the entirety of the lesson.
When I exited the locker room my eager beaver husband was waiting for us. I must’ve looked off because he immediately gave me the what-the-hell side eye. I couldn’t explain, however, because before I knew it we were ordered into the water which I swear was covered with a thin layer of ice.
At that point I was accutely aware my problems were escalating.
Turns out mommy-and-me swim lessons require arms. Full, long, bending arms. For instance, you know when you have to hoist your two year old out of the pool and sit them on the side? Arms. You know when your toddler jumps to you expecting you to catch them before they drown? Arms. As the lesson progressed, I actually wondered if the instructor recognized my predicament and was screwing with me. Things got really bad when he pulled out a Little Tikes slide and instructed me to catch my kid. All the other parents were gently reassuring their children by holding their hands as they slid. Not me. Nope. My kid just looked at me and my T-rex-like appendages and I shot her daggers that said, “Sorry, Sweetie. You’re on your own.” The result was multiple unfortunate underwater plunges and probably a lifetime of trust issues for my girls.
By the end of the lesson we were all traumatized.
I’ll spare you the rest of the details that included an excruciatingly long version of aquatic “Wheels On The Bus” where the effing wheels kept going up and down, me repeatedly begging to move the lesson into deeper water and the absolute look of bafflement that continued to exude from my extremely annoyed husband. It was truly the longest thirty minute toddler swim lesson in the history of womankind.
And, you better believe that EVERY SINGLE one of my bathing suits is currently assembled in it’s entirety.
Live and learn.