Mike and I have been taking Nathan to the pool at our gym every day for the past week. I had been reluctant to take him to the gym because of germs, even though I’ve taken him to every other germy place in Seattle: stores, bathrooms, landfill, etc. But last week, Mike dashed my dreams of protecting my baby from the microbial cesspool when he leaped through the door yielding a package of swimmers and said, “Let’s go, family!”
At first, Nathan hated it, the way he hates baths and other crap we put him through because we want him to enjoy it (Why are you crying, child? I SPENT $12 ON THIS CD, SO YOU HAD BETTER LOVE BABY EINSTEIN, YOU HEAR ME?). A look of sheer terror seized him when we slowly dipped him in, but now he just clings to us, wide-eyed and wondering what the hell is going on.
The biggest obstacle however has been the mouthy lifeguard, who puts down her self-help book and follows us while filling our ears with what we should do with Nathan in the water. I know it comes with the territory of having kids and all, but I do not enjoy unsolicited advice when it’s pushed on me instead of offered kindly. I’ve been accosted by strangers who are quick to tell me how to hold my baby, but I can handle them since I can just nod, pretend I’m listening, and then quickly forget it once they’re out of view. With this lady, I can expect that she will see us waddle toward the water and then intercept our walk with some stupid make-sure-you-do-this lecture. I know she means well, but it’s just annoying.
Yesterday, she perched herself on the edge of the pool and started singing! “This is the way we swim at the pool, swim at the pool, swim at the pool…” When she noticed we weren’t applauding her American Idol audition, she said, “Don’t you have any songs?”
“I have songs,” Mike shot back. “I have lots of songs.”
This was a much nicer response than I had in mind. “We’re singing ‘Smoke on the Water’ next, lady,” I would have said had I grown some steel-toed balla bollas* instead of biting my lip. “We don’t need any accompaniment. My eyes are rolling for a reason, woman. Buy a ticket for the clue train!”
*balls, the male kind.
Ha! I wrote balls after posting a picture of my innocent, non-swearing son. Hip hooray for my maturity!