Jan
25
We arrived at the kids’ first swimming lesson yesterday and the instant we entered the indoor pool area I remembered a critical piece of information about swimming lessons: the person not submerging themselves in water should dress appropriately for the sweltering air temperature. Which is to say, jeans and a sweatshirt are a bad idea.
Dylan, who until that very moment had been chattering nonstop about how excited he was for swimming, burst into tears at the sight of the sweet-faced young instructor. Our previous swim teacher had simply ferried Riley through the water, tears and all, distracting him with floating toys, but this girl blinked at Dylan’s sniveling downturned lip and informed me she didn’t think it was a good idea to push things.
There he sat on the edge of the pool the entire half hour while she interacted with the three other small children. Once or twice she approached him, he shook his head, and she shrugged and left. Soon he forgot what he was upset about and began kicking happily, then reaching down to splash the water. I stared holes through his back while sweat coursed down my forehead, waiting for the inevitable moment when he would fall in, and so at least it wasn’t much of a surprise when he eventually did and I was able to quickly race forward and snag one fish-slippery arm in order to haul him out as he bobbed back toward the surface.
The instructor raised her eyebrows sympathetically at me, then turned back to the other kids.
Eventually it was Riley’s turn for his lesson and I spent most of the time attempting to pull dry clothes onto Dylan, wondering just what sort of physics transformation takes place with children where their damp skin becomes like Superglue to fabric, then I had to keep Dylan away from the edge of the pool while we waited for Riley, then I helped stuff Riley into his own clothes, then I drove home where I staggered across the doorway and collapsed in a pool of sweat on the living room floor while the boys started running from one of the house to the other shouting “PSHEW! PSHEW! PSHEW!”
So obviously, my big plan for helping the kids siphon off some pent-up energy through swimming is going really really well. I don’t even know what to do now because jesus, I don’t want to spend two afternoons a week poised in a breathless, heart-hammering crouch by the edge of the pool, ready to save the toddler from drowning. I sort of want to tell this girl to nut up and just grab my reluctant whiny-ass kid because he’ll be FINE IN TWO MINUTES IF SHE DOES, but then again, I suppose it’s not technically in their job description to deal with reluctant whiny-ass kids.
Should I just get in the water with him next time, if he withdraws from her again? Sidle over and hiss death threats into his perfect shell-pink ear? Say fuck it and give up on lessons for him right now?
Trouble:
Mr. Easy-Peasy, comparatively speaking:
Jan
24
I was desperately craving something approximating sunshine and so I went to a tanning salon. Now, before you give yourself a cramp rushing to the comments to tell me about the dangers of UV exposure, be reassured that not only do I know this intellectually, I’m now reminded of it on a cellular level. I went strolling out of there feeling all warm and toasty and dreaming of lightly bronzed tropical skin, then two hours later my buttcheeks flushed like a boiled lobster and began to emanate a deep throbbing scarlet glow complete with Cylon-esque mwowm…mwowm sound.
Not only is my burnt ass about as attractive as a quivering overdone slab of veal, it itches. I keep finding myself involuntarily grinding against walls, snorfling and grunting. If only there was some sort of invention I could purchase, perhaps from that Balloon Boy guy . . .
So! Tanning salon = nonideal solution for seasonal sad trumpet, maybe especially when your skin hasn’t seen the light of day for several consecutive months.
In other ill-advised winter survival tactics, I’ve signed both kids up for swimming lessons. Not at the same time, because that would be too easy. No, one kid has a lesson at 4 and the other at 4:30 and I have no clue how I’m going to watch one while making sure the other doesn’t gallop cluelessly off the diving board and I’m pretty sure Dylan is going to lose his shit in a HUGELY DRAMATIC FASHION and we start today and man, I don’t even have, like, a beta blocker I can take ahead of time. I’d plan to get in the pool with them but 1) that’s not encouraged during lessons, and 2) my ass is so freakishly inflamed it can be seen not only through bathing suit fabric, but also via zoomed-out Google Map Satellite View.
(Mwowm.)
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