It's Friday, when all the work-based small talk shifts into Weekend Plans. There are those whose lifestyles are a bit less fraught than mine. Who like the Night Life. Who like to Boogie. These are the Free People who triumphantly go nuts all night and sleep until sundown. Fridays are pretty tame for me, though, because Saturday mornings are spent at the pool, where stamina is the only currency.
I like the idea of my kids knowing how to swim, because every kid should know how to do it. It's a gateway skill for boating, and water parks, and Marco Polo. Also, my children live on an island that will one day be overcome by melting icecaps.
The boys and I did a lot of pool-hopping last summer; Robert practiced keeping his head under water for as long as one whole second, and TwoBert fell in love with jumping onto my head. Then Robert started classes last fall, and when TwoBert saw all the thrashing and splashing going on he demanded inclusion. So now, every Saturday, we scuttle off to the Y with the poolaphernalia on my back, TwoBert on my shoulders, and sleep on my mind.
TwoBert's Little Dipper class is run like any other group activity for 2-year-olds, except 1) the kids are all trussed up with floaties, and 2) the parents are nearly naked. We sing songs, we splash, we play with squirty toys, and toward the end we swim a lap or two. TwoBert's favorite ritual is climbing out of the pool and jumping back in, because jumping on Daddy's head is still the best thing ever. For me, the experience is kind of like being attacked by a giant, flailing wolverine--especially if it's been a while since I've trimmed his nails.
Class ends. We shower, we dress. Robert fulfills his duty as Chief of Staff for Drying the Suits in the Big Buzzing Thing. We kill about 20 minutes around the corner at the bakery, where Daddy gets his second crucial infusion of caffeine. And then we return for Round II.
Robert is a Sea Horse, so I get to sit off the side and watch him ignore the teacher's instructions while his exhausted brother dozes on the floor. Then Robert practices diving, whereby he carefully joins his hands over his head, bends down, and hits the water on fours like a coffee table. Toward the end there's play time, when the splashing gets a little intense, but I can always pick Robert out of the crowd because his tinted goggles make him look a lot like Roy Orbison.
This is easily the best four hours of my week, even though when I get home I really really really want a nap. But it's no big deal, because swim classes will end at the end of March--just in time for T-ball.
