Give family a warning that you are leaving for the pool in 10 minutes, threatening that anyone not in the car will STAY HOME. When older son points out that he WANTS to stay home, tell him you will make him stay longer at the pool if he doesn’t move his tushie. Now!
Check out bathing suit drawer. Marvel at the myriad of swimsuit styles collected over the years based on your state of fatness each summer. Recognize that you will never throw any of these suits away because your state of fatness from year to year is always unknown. Go with middle of the road Land’s End halter tankini with skirt bottom so you don’t have to worry about your bikini line.
Argue with husband about how many towels are appropriate to bring for 4 people. You suggest six; he suggests two. Settle on four. Sneak an extra two towels in pool bag when he is not looking. Pack green and blue goggles.
Spray kids with sun tan lotion SPF 7500 in the driveway knowing that they will not stand still for several hours upon entering the swim club. Roll eyes when they squeal like pigs when you spray the backs of their knees. Ask husband to “do me?” Roll eyes in disgust when he smiles and raises his eyebrows as if you just offered to actually “do him” in the driveway. Hand him bottle of spray instead. Squeal like a pig when he sprays the backs of your knees.
Arrive at swim club. Deny son’s immediate request to visit snack bar, pointing out that he just ate lunch 15 minutes ago. Secretly pat self on back because you do not subscribe to the ridiculous rule of waiting 30 minutes until after you eat before you swim. Remember how hard that was as a kid. Remind yourself how cool of a Mom you are. Stop mid thought to break up fight over who gets to wear the green goggles.
Dip toe in water. Shiver. Look at air temperature to determine if it is officially hot enough for Moms to swim. 90 degrees. Still borderline– with union rules not requiring Mommy entry until it reaches 110. Relish the fact that your children are old enough that you don’t have to go in to keep them from drowning. Settle in lounge chair with magazine.
Look up from magazine. Search for children. Marvel at the number of skinny little wet bodies running around. Look for brood by color of bathing suit. No luck. Do a quick scan of bottom of pool. All clear. Monitor teenage lifeguards to make sure they are doing their jobs. Spot boys in line at diving board. Notice husband is also in line at diving board. Slink further into lounge chair. Cringe as son number 1 attempts flip…successfully Cringe further as son number 2 attempts ball buster…successfully. Watch as husband shows off his back flip. Silently critique his form, telling yourself that your back flip was is better. Vow to get on the diving board once this year. Just not today.
Start to sweat. Realize that you might actually have to get wet today. Begin to get committed to the plunge. Embrace the plunge. Walk over to the edge of the pool. Dip toe in water before taking the plunge. Marvel at how much cooler you feel simply by dipping your toe in. Walk back to lounge chair. No plunge.
Count the number of Mom’s clad in Land’s End halter tankinis with skirts. Stop at 14.
Give in to snack bar requests. Twice. Constantly hang soaking towels on back of chair throughout the afternoon. Break up argument #2 over who gets the green goggles. Make boys switch goggles. Be accused of crimes against humanity. Gloat at husband when he asks for a dry towel and you pull out towel number 6 just for him.
Give ten minute warning before leaving. Pack up random items strewn within 10 yards of the lounge chair. Urge son to put his shirt on or the seat belt is going to scald his chest. As you are walking out, feel strange sunburn sensation near arm pit and in cleavage.
Leave green goggles on side of pool by diving board.