Oh look, says everyone, another post about taking your kids to the pool. Never been done.
Lies. But, seriously, I can’t not write this. I have to and you’re going to bear with me. Because you love me and because you hate the pool too.
I took the two littles to the pool today because it’s pre-Independence Day and because I’ve been a royal bitch. I’ve been complaining about doing laundry as I angrily shove load after load into the dryer as if the sheets are bags of wet, angry cats.
I’ve been sweeping the floor and mumbling about how I wish floors were still dirt and then lamenting the fact that dirt floors would still be cleaner than my kitchen laminate and there are the daily, 4:30 p.m. guttural low shouts of, “GET OUTSIDE NOWWWWWWWWWW!” where I channel a combination of a wookie and Danny Torrance’s Redrum finger.
I’ve not been fun. The kids are starting to look at me in “that” way. The way that says, “I hope mom enjoys living under the town bridge in her 80s.” I had to do some summer reconciliation and how and quick like.
So, the pool it was because I had 5 dollars, half a sandwich and two mostly recently washed towels. I was ready.
But, I was not ready for the assault or the asphalt or the absolutely knock-down, drag-out gladiator stylings of the public pool. Holy Shit, y’all. I’m glad I lived in Georgia for several years. Hold my earrings because it just got serious. Bless our hearts.
I walked in. It was pandemonium, but, not the fun kind. Not the early 90s MTV Spring Break kind. It was the other kind. The, I’m lost at Disneyland because my invisible dog on a leash toy led me away from my family kind and p.s. I dropped my ice cream. Maybe this happened to me. Ask my inner child later.
It was a lot of splashing and bad choices and random/sudden nudity and it was much, much too late for me because they were awake when we pulled into the parking lot. Oh Shit.
Three hours later, I was almost chlorine blind and tired and I think, limping, and I suggested we go to the Snack Shack because they have fries and, bonus, it is located on the OUTSIDE of the pool gates. I allowed their hunger to sucker them away from the pool. You dangle a popsicle and the kids will follow. Like a donkey’s Field of Dreams.
They were seated at the bench. I got everyone settled. I took their orders. I grabbed my wallet. I HAVE THE POPSICLES and the heavens shined down upon me and it was good. 10 seconds later, they were covered in popsicle and stomping back toward the pool. Oh Shit.
My only options were being beat to death by several child-sized Crocs or, I could return to the pool.
You can guess what happened next.
That’s right, I played the vomit card.
“Mommy is going to throw up. We have to leave right now!”
You know what will get you out of going back to the 8th ring of watery hell? Saying you’re going to puke in front of a lot of kids and, if you station yourself next to the kids who look really cool, your older kids will even help pack up your stuff so you can leave faster.
I hope that those few hours at the pool have at least upgraded my retirement community from bridge dweller to the level of unfinished basement. If not, there’s always next week and the week after and the week after and come pool with us, BPM, forever and ever and ever and…