I couldn’t keep them out of the pool. This week, I can’t get my daughter Adelaide into it.
Earlier this summer I signed up (and paid for) all three of my girls to go to swimming lessons. They started this week. The older two are learning different strokes, how to dive and things of that nature.
Adelaide, who is four, was all gung-ho to start lessons so she would no longer be shamed by the dreaded "wearing of the arm floaties.”
But something (I don't know what) happened between last week when we were in the South visiting family - and swimming - and this week when Adelaide made her big debut at the community pool.
Last week, we swam every single day and there were no tears at all. There was no “I’m scared. It’s too deep. Water will get in my eyes. Someone will splash me. I will go under!”
There was no “My head hurts. My belly hurts. I have to pee. My leg hurts. I need my towel. I’m hungry. I need my goggles. I think I have to poop. I hear thunder. Do you hear thunder? I think my arm doesn’t work anymore. Look at my arm!”
There was no “I can’t swim in there. I can only swim next to Sadie and Josie. I don’t like that teacher. He looks mean. He looks like someone I don’t think I like. He has scary sunglasses. I need a girl teacher.”
I told her she was being silly. The teacher was nice and I would be right there at the edge of the pool.
“I cannot get in.”
I showed her all the other kids who were having fun and how the water barely reached their belly buttons.
“I am not going to do it.”
I showed her the games, the plastic rings, the foam noodles.
“Uh-uh. I’m not getting in.”
I pointed out that the water was only one foot deep. ONE FOOT.
“I am NOT.”
I coaxed. I reasoned. I pleaded. I got mad. I threatened. I yelled.
I wasted $30.
Last week, Adelaide jumped right into the pool and swam around like a fish. Last week, she said she wanted to be a dolphin when she grows up. Last week, she didn't want to dry off.
This week, she threw herself down on the (dry) concrete and cried.
Kids are so weird.