“Time for swim lessons!”
The call produces instant action from Link, Gleek, and Patch. They all run for their swimsuits. Four days in, swimming is still exciting and new. Will they be laggard and whining by week six, or will they still scramble into their swimsuits at the mere mention of lessons? Only hindsight will tell me if six weeks of daily lessons were a good idea or a bad mistake. The climb into the car is peaceful. We’ve already weathered seating negotiations. The result is a complex schedule of who gets to sit where for which part of the trip and on which days. Fortunately I only had to help negotiate. The kids track the schedule themselves.
Link has the front seat today. This means the trip is mostly quiet. When Gleek has the front seat, I am called upon to acknowledge her observations about the world and answer her questions about how things work. She does not ask simple questions and I frequently find myself mired trying to explain the intricacies of such things as credit cards and payday loans. I am glad that Gleek is so interested in everything, but it is far more relaxing to ride in silence with Link next to me.
The kids always dash ahead of me to the pool building. They run along the top of the low wall next to the sidewalk. My repeated injunctions to walk only slow their feet for moments. The pool beckons and they can’t go slow. Excpet for Patch. He likes to walk next to me. Sometimes he even holds my hand. Gleek is handed off to her teacher and the boys accompany me to the observation deck. I could have registered them all to attend during the same half hour, but I staggered the lessons deliberately. Link and Gleek are in the same swim level and I did not think it would promote familial harmony to have 11-year-old Link out performed by his physically precocious 8-year-old sister. With them in separate classes the comparisons are obscured and they can simply try their best.
During the half hour that Gleek is swimming, the boys and I read. Link has his own book. He’s read it before, but he likes it. If he doesn’t want to read, he’ll simply put it down and watch quietly. Patch sits next to me and we do a lesson out of the big yellow reading book. Each lesson has him practicing letter sounds, blending words, and reading a little story. We’re about halfway through the 100 lessons even though we started it last summer. I was not as diligent with helping Patch practice as I intended to be. But here we are at swim lessons with nothing else to do for 30 minutes. We might get through the rest of the book before the end of the six weeks. Sometimes Patch is eager and willing to do the reading. Today he slumps. He’d rather walk along the benches. We muddle through anyway and reading practice is done.
It is time to go retrieve Gleek and drop off the boys. The boys like this moment. Gleek does not. She does not want to get out of the water. I beckon her with my finger and start counting down from five on one hand. She swishes and dips one more time, but makes sure that she is out of the pool by the time my last finger disappears into a fist. We had a very thorough discussion about the consequences of not getting out of the water when swim time is over and Gleek does not want to lose tomorrow’s swim lesson. Each day she pushes on the rules a new way and we have further discussions about what is acceptable and what is not. It is not that she wants to disobey, it is just that her love for water is almost stronger. Fortunately she is headed for the water of the showers so that eases the pain of leaving the pool.
We spend the entire 30 minutes of the boy’s lessons in the locker room. Gleek showers and splashes endlessly. Other than interrupting to make her use shampoo and conditioner, I just let her play. At first the room is busy, full of other mothers showering their children and leaving. After they are gone it is just Gleek and me. Letting her play in the shower is far better than taking her up to the observation deck where she would fight boredom by making friends with other kids and encouraging them all to run with her along the benches like hoodlums. It is also better than endless circular discussions about how she wants to get back into the pool and why we can’t let her. So she splashes and I sit down. Today I write, but some days I just let my brain wander. It is a peaceful few minutes and I know what will come next.
The kids are always cranky after swim lessons. They’ve had fun, but they wanted more. They’re a little cold and definitely hungry. It is lunch time. Today Link is a little shaken because his teacher tried to get him to dive off the side of the pool. The thought is scary to him. I know that he’ll get used to it, but he won’t believe that today, so I don’t bother to say it. I just give him a hug around his shoulders and let him hold my arm as we walk to the car. Gleek has the front seat on the way home. She is holding a little yellow and green squeaky ball that she found in the parking lot. In Gleek’s hands this little balls has acquired an entire personailty and a gender. The ball is female. Gleek keeps squeezing. To her ears the various squeaks convey meanings and express moods. “See she’s sad. She didn’t like the chlorine.” The sounds just pierce my ear drums in the confined space of the car. It takes three increasingly grouchy orders to get Gleek to put the ball away.
We pull into the driveway and I say the standard entreaty that they change and hang up their swimsuits before coming to lunch. “We know!” they answer back grouchily. But on the days I don’t say the words, they forget. So I say them and get grouched at. It is a long term mystery to me why my kids will linger in the car upon our arrival home. I stop the car, get out, open the sliding door and they just sit. It is an irremovable safety drill in my brain that I must usher all the kids out of the car, lock the car, and get them all into the house. So I stand there and wait impatiently. I don’t want to stand in the rain, or the sun, or the cold while they decide that maybe they’d like to go inside. So I coax, or harangue, until they move. We then are treated to door slamming and arguments while three kids, of two genders, try to change and hang up swimsuits in one bathroom. Peace is only restored once they begin eating.
We’ve survived another day of swim lessons. Tomorrow we get to do it again.