I mean, I'm sure many mothers (or humans in general) might be excited about this--the whole going outside bit--but I'm bothered, overwhelmed, and completely unenthusiastic. With two non-swimming young boys, going to the pool feels like the equivalent of going on a game show titled something like, Let's Almost Die! Where the live studio audience is full of zombies and bobcats and spiders and snakes (my god, it's TEXAS) and somewhere out of the darkness, Rod Doddy's voice is bellowing from the depths of hell, "COME ON DOWN! DOWN....DOWN...DOOOOOWWWWNNNNN." I'd have just as much fun going to the mall and dangling my children over the edge of the balcony from a rope as I struggle to gain footing on those obnoxiously shiny floors, tugging on them like a frantic puppeteer.
I mean, JESUS.
Of course, when I share this perspective with my husband, he usually eyes me suspiciously and secretly dashes up to the bedroom to count the pills in my bedside drawer. Then he whispers a safe word to the children before turning back to me and saying something about "living life" and "going outside" and I'm like, what the fuck is wrong with lying in bed all day and waiting to die ANYWAY, dude?!
(Do you know he told me the other day that he doesn't even like pistachios?) [DRAMATIC SIGH]
I mean, I suppose the good thing is that the utter terror of listening to my kids swallow and choke up water all. goddamn. day. is that it distracts me from the fact that I am in no way ready for swimsuit season. In other words, I forgot to stop eating cookies. So, with little other options (I have this fleece feety-pajama number, but I fear it's prohibited poolside since it's already been banned from my bedroom), I'm forced to take mild comfort in the fact that I have a skirted bathing suit bottom. Of course, if all goes as I expect, this skimpy skirt cannot be trusted to, ah, perform. I'm sure rescuing my children from the deep end will require some sort of wild leg flailing. Or what if I just need to get up from the lounge chair without reenacting my last visit to the gynecologist? (It's much trickier than it sounds, guys.) Hell, what if I just dip my toes in the water and feel compelled to join the world in song with some synchronized swimming...the finale being that part where you dive down and do some scissor kicks with your legs? Worse still, I could be asked to upstage the other skirted-bathing-suit-wearing mothers by performing an impromptu gymnastics routine! I feel quite confident that any of these things could happen.
And with that, I'm off to Google "how to save your kid from drowning while simultaneously having a heart attack and hiding and unwaxed bikini line" ...
This is gonna be a goddamn blast.