So... remember last year when I blogged a pathetic tale about Jack's swimming lessons? I am happy to report that after hours and hours at the pool under the tutelage of many different, varyingly competent teenage professionals AND hundreds of dollars later, Jack can actually kind of swim. Mostly.
And I haven't really minded spending the last year at the pool too much. I have plenty of fond memories of going to my own swimming lessons at Willamalane Pool, coming in from the rain to inhale that warm and sticky chlorinated humidity. The echoes of voices off those cinder block walls in the locker room. Convincing my mom to let me leave my stick straight hair in braids afterwards so that I'd have "curly" hair in the morning.
(In hindsight I have to question her judgement on that one. Giving your kid bangs that start at the crown of her head is bad enough. Letting her think her apres-swim mass of kinked and green hued hair looks anything remotely close to curly is borderline child neglect, IMHO.)
Both boys have been taking swim lessons pretty much every session since last fall. They recently decided that they needed goggles, a la "every other kid in my class has goggles" etc. I suspect that kids in goggles are the bane of all swim teachers' existences, and so I put it off for as long as I could. I'd tell them, sure, we'll get you some goggles and then I'd just let them forget about it until the next time we came to the pool. And then it was like Groundhog's Day. Rinse. Repeat. Encore.
But then one day Sawyer and I were out shopping and he spied a pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles goggles for $3.99 and I knew the jig was up. And damn, who knew that those kids would get that excited about swim goggles? That night we were running late to swim lessons and so I didn't have time to adjust the straps or anything and just sent the kids into the water with their new goggles stretched awkwardly onto their faces. Jack took his off within a few minutes of his lesson, but Sawyer's stayed on the whole time. He emerged from the pool thirty minutes later with completely fogged up and water logged goggles. I pulled them off his eyes and released a small flood of pool water down his cheeks. "Mom, I really love my new goggles," he grinned.
So, I'd say our time at the pool has been a success. Jack can side breathe, he can dive, his backstroke is coming along nicely, and his cannonball off the diving board usually earns some applause from the audience.
Sawyer can paddle around with the noodle, he reluctantly jumps off the diving board into his teacher's arms, and it's been months since he's fallen off the learner's platform. Success in the pool is relative.
But there has been one little hitch: the locker room. Most nights I take the boys to swimming and Clementine comes along for the ride while Brent stays home and makes dinner. This means I am in charge of showering the kids after their lessons. There's a big sign outside the ladies' room about boys over five using the family changing rooms, but that means standing around for 10+ minutes with shivering, purple lipped kids and possibly a crying baby while you wait for one to open up. And even if you are lucky enough to finally get into one of those family changing rooms, it's cramped and muggy, every bench seems suspect of germs and suspicious liquids, and I've discovered I'm not so good at balancing a carseated baby on one hip while simultaneously shampooing someone else's hair.
So I blatantly ignore those laminated rules and drag my boys into the ladies' locker room to shower and change among the ladies, which actually works okay most of the time. There has been a lot of preteaching about not staring, giving people privacy, washing your boy parts quickly, etc. Unfortunately this last session coincided with a water aerobics class and the water aerobics ladies hit the showers each night about 30 seconds before we did. They are nice, sweet older ladies who smile at my boys, coo over Clementine, and then congregate in the showers to talk about the books they are reading and the quilts they are sewing. Nice, sweet older ladies who peel off those swimsuits right there in front of God and everybody and continue to prattle on about books and quilts, mercifully oblivious to the fact that my boys' jaws have hit those shower floors and no amount of redirecting on my part can get them to remember the no staring rule.
So that's been a bit rough.
But at least nobody's hair is turning green.
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That is so hilarious about changing in the bathroom! My husband goes to a gym early in the morning and says the same old guys are always there, and they just let it all hang out in the locker room, having full-length conversations in the buff. I guess you stop caring past a certain age and let loose? Though I think my hubby might need therapy b/c of it. Your boys are getting an education ;)
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