Finally, Swim Lessons

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but my twin daughters have reached the age of 5 without ever taking swim lessons. My first child was a whopping 6 months old when I took her to the YMCA for a Mommy and Me swim class. My second daughter was around 9 months when I enrolled her. (I'm not exaggerating. I read once that infancy provides a tiny window of opportunity when babies instinctively "swim" and it's smart to get them in the pool before they lose their natural ability to hold their breath and use their limbs to propel them through the water, so I had them in the pool before the age of one.) But the twins? The mere thought of trying to wrangle them into swimsuits and usher them through a locker room into the pool area was too exhausting to actually attempt. Forget about trying to get them out of the water and then peeling off wet garments from their skin. I'm too old and frail.

After we spent Christmas break in Hawaii, I realized that I need to teach them how to float properly and to tread water. They've figured out how to hold their breath, dive under, and move like porpoises across the pool. When they come up for air, however, they don't know how to bob in place with their head above water. Time to get some real training.

The twins have completed two lessons now, and they're doing great. More than great. FANTASTIC. They have been waiting so long to learn how to swim correctly that they are listening and obeying and practicing. The problem isn't in the pool . . . it's in the locker room.

My daughters have no sense of personal boundaries, and will walk right up to a lady who is undressing to stare at her turbaned hair. "Cool! How do you do that?"

They'll comment loudly about an elderly woman with a thick middle, "Did you see that lady's tummy?! She's going to have a baby!"

Every naked person is announced to the world with shrieks of "She's NAKED!" Yeah, it's always a good time when my kids run through the ladies' locker room. But I most dread after the girls have showered and dressed and I get to comb their long, wet hair. They cry—no, make that EMIT BLOODCURDLING SCREAMS—as though they're being tortured, begging me to stop. "Please, Mommy! No! NO! NOOOOOOO! It hurts, Mommy! You pull too hard!" These protestations are yelled before I've even begun, so you can imagine the volume of their vocalizations once I actually start pulling a comb through their tresses.

I think the elderly lady who most certainly is not pregnant might secretly enjoy hearing their screams of pain.



Dinner last night: baked chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

Tomato, Tomahto

Exactly two years ago:

Just in Time for Spring Break . . .