Swimming Lessons

When I was about five years old, mom drove my sister and me to the middle of nowhere every week for swimming lessons.  I remember driving for hours in who-knows-what direction, turning just past the second green house on the right, and then a long gravel road to the swimming center.  If I had been paying more attention, I'd have realized this was just the back way to the middle of town, and that the car ride there took no more than fifteen minutes. I remember our teacher being a scary old Japanese lady.  Of course, she may have descended from China, Korea, or any number of other East-Asian nations, but with a last name of Nelson, there was no way for me, especially a five-year-old me, to know for sure.  Maybe she was Swedish and just had dark hair and  a small skeletal structure for her family.  But this isn't the reason I'm writing.


My sister and I later took classes at the local YMCA, graduating to all the different aquatic animal titles like Minnow and Dolphin, all the way to Shark. We burned through classes until the only one left was lifeguard certification, which we were too young for.   My sister and I are very comfortable in the water.  I've always hoped my children would be as well, and was delighted when my wife decided she and my mom could manage taking the twinks to swimming lessons for a kind of "Mommy and Me" class when they were but the ripe old age of two.  While I was working, I of course could not attend classes myself, but was weekly updated with highlights on progress, setbacks, and anecdotes of shower shenanigans.  It's different for me now as I get to enjoy the entire experience for myself.

The weekly ritual of meeting mommy at swimming lessons with Grandma and Grandpa have become a much anticipated event for our family.  While mommy meets us in the pool after changing in the locker room, the responsibility of ushering the girls to the pool in proper attire has fallen to Grandpa and me.  This is in no way a terrible responsibility, but often a humorous one.

Let me start with the marvel of modern engineering that is the swim diaper.  After years of research and development, and further years of innovation and refinement, the industry has at long last come up with a design that looks and feels exactly like a diaper in every way, but performs none of its functions.  I owe this knowledge largely to the poor souls who have gone before me (mommy and grandma).  Apparently, swim diapers have no absorbency, which in all honesty makes sense (who wants to carry around half the weight of the pool in their pants), but which also means that tinkle (I say that word in the manliest way possible) comes right out through the legs.  So we dress the girls in their swimsuits over normal diapers, and change them at the last possible second so we can ensure we are in the pool when any normal business needs arise.  I have yet to witness a poop in one of these things, but there are only two possible scenarios in my head.  Either a soft gooey mess squishing out of the sides is my first indication there is poop, or there is a firm bulge to act as a warning, before it too softens in the water and squishes out the sides.  The first scenario of course immediately becomes an issue of containment, with me looking for the nearest ladder and making decisions about whose towel is most expendable.  The second scenario is a simple race against the clock, knowing every second in the water gets you closer to the first scenario.  With the second scenario, at least there are options, like getting out and running to the bathroom, cleaning out the pants, showering with the offender, installing a new swim "diaper," all the while struggling with the etiquette of returning to the pool with a kid who has just pooped her pants.  Or hand her to mommy before "noticing" the bulge in her pants.

Who am I kidding.  Our contract states that daddy takes care of the heavy stuff and the gross stuff, and this could quite possibly fall under both categories.

All the drama of poops aside, these weekly swims with the twinks have been a lot of fun.  On average.  On the surface, we are teaching our kids to swim at a young age.  More practically, the whole family has set aside a firm half hour each week to get together and play in the pool at the YMCA.  Sometimes, we follow along with the instructor and do our kicks and floats and jumping in, and sometimes we cling to daddy or mommy or grandpa, screaming bloody murder about having to kick a ball around with the group.  But it's mostly fun play time in the pool and we all cherish it.

Then we get out and head to the shower.  There has been some order to the process of getting the girls showered off and changed into dry clothes, and I don't feel that needs elaboration.  This past week however found me and one of the girls in a situation some may appreciate.  Lil A and I had showered off, me holding her on an arm, and were ready to walk around the corner to towel off and head to our locker.  As I'm standing trying to pull a towel off the towel bar, both of us dripping water from our wet suits and hair, the drips from A felt a little warm.  I asked her if she tinkled (again in the manliest way possible), and I carried a giggling A back in to the shower.  All rinsed off, we walked back to our towel.  I'd gotten it off and started wrapping it around us when I felt more warm drips.  Without a word, she starts giggling as we head back to the shower.  As soon as we left the shower area, before we got to our towel, A apparently decided she was done dragging this out and a gush of warm ran down between us.  I looked her in the eyes and asked her if she was all done, and she just giggled and hugged me.  Back we went to shower off again, then to get dressed, and the rest of the evening went smoothly.

It really has been a good thing for a our family and I'm glad we are once again taking swimming lessons.