More splishing and splashing...although, to be totally accurate, it was a Friday night.
We emerge, oh so slowly from the cabana of comfort and calm, to stow our bag in one of the huge and colorful cubbies outside the giant wall of windows. Super Toddler returns to the exact same spot he smeared earlier, only this time he puts his mouth on the window and blows up his cheeks like a puffer fish. Guess someone is ready to go swimming, so we make our way into the pool area. The air is balmy, they aren't lying about this 90 degrees stuff. We step over to the shower section, where the water is amazingly warm and gently falls from nicely spaced rain-shower-heads. No ice cold streams jetting out at you, fire hose style, here. I am starting to feel down right spoiled. Free swim is well under way; a teen flies by us and hurls herself into the middle of the pool, a la cannonball. She is quietly reprimanded, once her head finally pops up, by one of 3 lifeguards lounging on the perimeter of the pool. All seems very well organized and safe; let's get this show on the road.
We are momentarily thwarted in getting our show road-bound when I can not find the shallow end. A quick peek into the pool alerts me to the fact that there is no shallow end. The pool is about 4 feet the entire length of the pool. OK....that is fine, I'll just hold Super Toddler the whole time. Just when I have resigned myself to this and sit down on the edge to slip in, my feet bump up against a ledge about a foot under the water. Seems there is a shallow end; it just runs along the whole rim of the pool. I sit Super Toddler on it, and the water is lapping his chin. I stand him up and the water is at a more manageable waist level, so I leave him there and bounce into the water....the 90 degree water. Oh Readers, I could get used to this. I float around in a circle, making sure to adjusted my swimsuit for minimum flashability, and return to Super Toddler just in time to see him step off the ledge and into the briny deep.
Fabulous; 30 seconds in and I have drowned my son.
I lunge after him like a deranged seagull and haul him up by an arm. He spurts, sputters, and spins around; skittering up the ledge like a frantic crab trying to get away from a deranged seagull. Oh no, I have ruined water for my little water baby! Now this goes well beyond awkward. I am contemplating my utter failure as a mother when he turns around, face bursting with happiness. He waves at me to back up. I cautiously acquiesce, checking around for judgmental glares first. He points at the water, laughs, and then, affecting a look of complete nonchalance, walks off the ledge. On purpose! Yes, you know that this game goes on for the better part of a half hour.
Once Super Toddler tires of pretend drowning, we float out to the middle of the pool to explore the toys. Now, how did I know that the toys here were going to be fancy? They are huge; roughly the size of small boats. There is one in the shape of a car, except the tires are sharks. 2 benches rest within this Sharkmobile and I plop Super Toddler onto one. At first, he seems slightly put out to be removed from his beloved water, but once he realizes that he can dangle his feet in the water and "drive" along the pool, he is quite content to be pushed along. We have a near collision with a passing dolphin-cycle but escape unharmed. A upside-down canoe with what appears to be 3 giggling mermaids underneath it, passing us on the starboard side, and Super Toddler gives them a wide berth. He is no fool. However, he does lean over and snatch an oar that they left in their wake. (Liking my nautical word prowess, Readers? Just give me an aye...or an ugh...) Super Toddler's rowing leaves something to be desired and after being hit in the face for the fourth time, I decide to abandon ship.
Hey Readers, Uatu here, just wanted to give you a heads up. Finish eating before reading any further. Trust me.
I am throwing Super Toddler up in the air and letting him splash around hard-core, given that Free Swim is ending in about 10 minutes. After a particularly vigorous throw and splash, I catch him and feel a splash of an entirely different nature coming from the diaper-region. Now, I have a very clear view on swim diapers. I want them to be like air bags in my car; I like having them, but I never really want to see them work. I clamp a hand down on the small of Super Toddler's back (the weak link in diaper design) and run to the edge of the pool. Except we are in the pool at the time, so my running resembles the slow motion beach running from Chariots of Fire, only slower. And instead of cool synth music, I am listening to Super Toddler scream at me for removing him from the water.
I think I levitate out, emergencies bring out the latent Super Mom in me and this one feels like an emergency. After 347459438 diapers, I do have a 6th sense about these things. We rush pass the lifeguards, who sweetly urge me to slow down. We bypass the delightful showers. We breeze by Super Toddler's smear. We race past the cubbies and I snatch our bag without even slowing down. We round the corner to the cabana as I start to feel the ooze pushing through the fingers I have death-gripped around Super Toddler's back. I slam the door with my foot, swinging Super Toddler onto the (still dry!) bench one-handed, while I rummage in the tote bag for our wipes. Wipes. Wipes. Wipes that are in the diaper bag. At home.
Oh. No.
Oh. Yes.
Well, I have a towel.
Oh no.
Oh yes, Readers.
The less said the better, I suppose. It is vile. Some creative folding, a liter of hand sanitizer, and a couple ziplock bags keep things from getting too out of hand, literally. (Ew! Awkward Mom, I thought you were going to have less said!) Super Toddler recovers with his usual aplomb; dancing naked in front of the porthole shaped mirror while I endure clean-up. I feel incredibly guilty throwing the swim diaper into that sparkling clean garbage can but I sure don't want to take it home. I already have this poor bedraggled Buzz Lightyear towel, smashed up and stuffed into a plastic bag like some bizarre souvenir. It is seriously the worst diaper change on record, but I am counting my blessings as I slip my suit down and dig through the bag for my clothes. At least, I didn't have to do it on the hard cement floor or in front of Perfect Mom in some damp and scary locker room. I turn to admire the locked door behind me and come face to face with a man on his way to the hair drying station, which, by the way, is all very glamorous and salon-like. Not that I am thinking about that as I haul my suit back on and dash out the door to keep a naked Super Toddler in my sights. No, all that is in my mind is a mental reminder to always lock the door first, exploding diaper or not.
We might also suggest that Awkward Mom not have such lofty goals for pool-time. It appears that flashing folks just comes with the territory, whether the pool is fancy or not. Catch you later, Readers! You may now resume eating.
We emerge, oh so slowly from the cabana of comfort and calm, to stow our bag in one of the huge and colorful cubbies outside the giant wall of windows. Super Toddler returns to the exact same spot he smeared earlier, only this time he puts his mouth on the window and blows up his cheeks like a puffer fish. Guess someone is ready to go swimming, so we make our way into the pool area. The air is balmy, they aren't lying about this 90 degrees stuff. We step over to the shower section, where the water is amazingly warm and gently falls from nicely spaced rain-shower-heads. No ice cold streams jetting out at you, fire hose style, here. I am starting to feel down right spoiled. Free swim is well under way; a teen flies by us and hurls herself into the middle of the pool, a la cannonball. She is quietly reprimanded, once her head finally pops up, by one of 3 lifeguards lounging on the perimeter of the pool. All seems very well organized and safe; let's get this show on the road.
We are momentarily thwarted in getting our show road-bound when I can not find the shallow end. A quick peek into the pool alerts me to the fact that there is no shallow end. The pool is about 4 feet the entire length of the pool. OK....that is fine, I'll just hold Super Toddler the whole time. Just when I have resigned myself to this and sit down on the edge to slip in, my feet bump up against a ledge about a foot under the water. Seems there is a shallow end; it just runs along the whole rim of the pool. I sit Super Toddler on it, and the water is lapping his chin. I stand him up and the water is at a more manageable waist level, so I leave him there and bounce into the water....the 90 degree water. Oh Readers, I could get used to this. I float around in a circle, making sure to adjusted my swimsuit for minimum flashability, and return to Super Toddler just in time to see him step off the ledge and into the briny deep.
Fabulous; 30 seconds in and I have drowned my son.
I lunge after him like a deranged seagull and haul him up by an arm. He spurts, sputters, and spins around; skittering up the ledge like a frantic crab trying to get away from a deranged seagull. Oh no, I have ruined water for my little water baby! Now this goes well beyond awkward. I am contemplating my utter failure as a mother when he turns around, face bursting with happiness. He waves at me to back up. I cautiously acquiesce, checking around for judgmental glares first. He points at the water, laughs, and then, affecting a look of complete nonchalance, walks off the ledge. On purpose! Yes, you know that this game goes on for the better part of a half hour.
Once Super Toddler tires of pretend drowning, we float out to the middle of the pool to explore the toys. Now, how did I know that the toys here were going to be fancy? They are huge; roughly the size of small boats. There is one in the shape of a car, except the tires are sharks. 2 benches rest within this Sharkmobile and I plop Super Toddler onto one. At first, he seems slightly put out to be removed from his beloved water, but once he realizes that he can dangle his feet in the water and "drive" along the pool, he is quite content to be pushed along. We have a near collision with a passing dolphin-cycle but escape unharmed. A upside-down canoe with what appears to be 3 giggling mermaids underneath it, passing us on the starboard side, and Super Toddler gives them a wide berth. He is no fool. However, he does lean over and snatch an oar that they left in their wake. (Liking my nautical word prowess, Readers? Just give me an aye...or an ugh...) Super Toddler's rowing leaves something to be desired and after being hit in the face for the fourth time, I decide to abandon ship.
Hey Readers, Uatu here, just wanted to give you a heads up. Finish eating before reading any further. Trust me.
I am throwing Super Toddler up in the air and letting him splash around hard-core, given that Free Swim is ending in about 10 minutes. After a particularly vigorous throw and splash, I catch him and feel a splash of an entirely different nature coming from the diaper-region. Now, I have a very clear view on swim diapers. I want them to be like air bags in my car; I like having them, but I never really want to see them work. I clamp a hand down on the small of Super Toddler's back (the weak link in diaper design) and run to the edge of the pool. Except we are in the pool at the time, so my running resembles the slow motion beach running from Chariots of Fire, only slower. And instead of cool synth music, I am listening to Super Toddler scream at me for removing him from the water.
I think I levitate out, emergencies bring out the latent Super Mom in me and this one feels like an emergency. After 347459438 diapers, I do have a 6th sense about these things. We rush pass the lifeguards, who sweetly urge me to slow down. We bypass the delightful showers. We breeze by Super Toddler's smear. We race past the cubbies and I snatch our bag without even slowing down. We round the corner to the cabana as I start to feel the ooze pushing through the fingers I have death-gripped around Super Toddler's back. I slam the door with my foot, swinging Super Toddler onto the (still dry!) bench one-handed, while I rummage in the tote bag for our wipes. Wipes. Wipes. Wipes that are in the diaper bag. At home.
Oh. No.
Oh. Yes.
Well, I have a towel.
Oh no.
Oh yes, Readers.
The less said the better, I suppose. It is vile. Some creative folding, a liter of hand sanitizer, and a couple ziplock bags keep things from getting too out of hand, literally. (Ew! Awkward Mom, I thought you were going to have less said!) Super Toddler recovers with his usual aplomb; dancing naked in front of the porthole shaped mirror while I endure clean-up. I feel incredibly guilty throwing the swim diaper into that sparkling clean garbage can but I sure don't want to take it home. I already have this poor bedraggled Buzz Lightyear towel, smashed up and stuffed into a plastic bag like some bizarre souvenir. It is seriously the worst diaper change on record, but I am counting my blessings as I slip my suit down and dig through the bag for my clothes. At least, I didn't have to do it on the hard cement floor or in front of Perfect Mom in some damp and scary locker room. I turn to admire the locked door behind me and come face to face with a man on his way to the hair drying station, which, by the way, is all very glamorous and salon-like. Not that I am thinking about that as I haul my suit back on and dash out the door to keep a naked Super Toddler in my sights. No, all that is in my mind is a mental reminder to always lock the door first, exploding diaper or not.
We might also suggest that Awkward Mom not have such lofty goals for pool-time. It appears that flashing folks just comes with the territory, whether the pool is fancy or not. Catch you later, Readers! You may now resume eating.
Don't let him fool you. A lock-picker and a streaker, this one.
Ok, your secret is out: you really ARE Super Mom! I knew it all along!!! :)
ReplyDeleteI certainly have my moments, but a full-out Super Mom? Nahhhh....I trip too much.
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