Swimming is More Fun than the Aftermath

The family changing rooms at our swimming pool should really be lined with rubber, rather than tile. The tile is too slippery, too hard when you drop one of the babies you’re juggling and too un-evocative of an insane asylum.

The entire experience of getting my three kids and myself showered and changed after swimming lessons makes me want to slam my head against the wall repeatedly and the tile is just too unforgiving.

Magoo is still 5 and technically young enough to join me in the women’s changing area but he has an extreme curious streak and zero filter on his mouth.  If he sees a big fat lady with amazingly long mammaries, he’s gonna make sure everyone else gets the chance to see her as well.  I find it easier to wait in the long lines for the family changing rooms.

There are 5 family changing rooms, each with its own shower, a small bench just high enough off the ground for Wanda to take a dive and incur permanent brain damage while I’m changing her out of her swim diaper, and a large wet slippery floor.

I like to store my purse on the wet slippery floor next to Magoo’s towel which he then complains is wet.

“How does everything get wet in here?” Laylee asked today.  Even my clothes are wet.

“Really?  Your clothes are wet?  Well your body is wet.  I am wet.  The ground is wet.  The walls are wet.  The bench is wet.  Our bag is wet.  The AIR IS WET!  It’s your job to find a way to keep your clothes dry if you prefer them that way.  I think wet is super awesome.”

All three kids are in swimming lessons and I join Wanda for hers because she’s such a baby.  There is no class available for 10-month-olds to learn to swim by themselves.  When we’re done, we rush to the family change rooms and spend several hours locked inside getting to know each other better, probably better than any of us would like to.

The big kids take turns keeping Wanda from plummeting to her demise while I take turns shampooing them and myself.  We use the soaking wet towels to wick the water away from our bodies and then squeeeeak our slightly-less than soaked clothes up our legs and down over our heads.

When we finally emerge, luggage hanging from every limb, water and sweat dripping from my face, a giant towel turban on my head, the kids ask for snacks and I can’t find them.  They’re hiding in one of the bags, probably under the wet swim suits, probably on top of my car keys.

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