the day you swam in plastic pants

   So, lately I've noticed my little fish is becoming... less fishy.  Ever since you learned to sit up, you've done so in the bath.  I must have neglected to dip your head back in the water after that, because I was surprised the other day when trying to lie you down on a whim, that your eyes popped open wide in fear, then squeezed shut as water tickled your cheeks.  You used to lie down in the bath all the time!  I don't want you to be afraid of the water, so I thought a trip to the pool was in order.

  
   Yesterday was the day.  Your father was off of work, we had nothing to do after your morning nap, and it just felt right.  I looked up a local indoor aquatic center's website and the schedule looked clear.  It only mentioned the classes that were happening in the big, 25 m pool, so I figured the separate, childrens pool must be available all the time.  We briefly discussed calling ahead, but for some reason, we decided not to call ahead.  Always call ahead.  Carting three overflowing bags and one squirming toddler, your father and I stood at the pool's front desk only to discover that we were an hour too early.

   In lieu of throwing a tantrum, begging the lifeguards to make a slight exception, or tossing out the whole plan and driving back home, your father and I decided to kill time.  Yes, despite the fact that we all had bed hair and I was sporting flipflops beneath my pajama pants and winter coat, it was worth it to look ghetto for an hour to give you a much needed aquatic experience.  I swallowed my pride and vanity as we walked around Toys R Us, letting you explore the aisles, test out the loudest toys and pull their books off the shelves.  I imagined employees rolling their eyes at the disheveled parents allowing their equally rag-a-muffin offspring to run a muck.  Then I told myself to get over it and focus on the big picture. 

   Finally 2 pm arrived.  We arrived at the center's front desk.  Again.  I pulled out my wallet.  Again.  At this point I need to state that this specific pool requires babies to wear not only a swimming diaper, but also a plastic-bloomer-looking thing over the diaper, underneath the swimming suit.  As I sifted through your diaper bag, it hit me that I'd remembered everything but your actual suit.

   Really?  I mean, really?  That morning, I had cheerfully paced the house, picking out every little thing we might possibly need, even checking off a mental list out loud.  Deoderant for me, check.  Clean, dry set of clothes for all three of us, check.  Extra diapers and towels, check.  Even an underwater camera, for heaven's sake!  How in the world did I forget your swimming trunks? 

   Humiliated and frustrated, I looked at your father.  He shrugged his shoulders.  And that, Lincoln, is how two humbled yet undefeated parents carried their plastic-diaper-clad baby into a public swimming pool.

   But by golly, by the end, at least you weren't crying when the water touched your face.  Mission accomplished.

Mama