Soon, we’ll be headed for the Deep South where a beautiful lake, a storybook house, and a family with the drawl await us. In previous years, due to large class sizes and having to do that thing called “taking turns,” The Children have been slow to pick up the art of swimming. Of course, they have a pale-as-the-moon mother who has been instructed by her Dr. to stay out of the sun, and wear long sleeves and…you know…stay pale to avoid further bouts of skin cancer.
But the Deep South includes a lake, so I must charge into the UV rays and teach them how to make friends with the water.
I don’t do “traditional” well, which is probably why, when teaching The Children swim techniques, people stare. Whatever. I call my methods “unique”, and in three weeks, we’ve made more swimming progress than two years of formal swim lessons. The daughter is coming along quite nicely. She now doggie paddles, jumps into the not-quite-deep end of the pool, and rides the pool noodle like a western pool-swimming uncowgirl should.
I’m afraid I’ve developed the forbidden tan on my arms and shoulders. Oops. But my legs that stay submerged in the hobbit end of the pool are still nice and…bright.
The Son is fearful of the water, but we had a breakthrough last week and he will now bravely kick around on things that float and bellow noises born of indigestion. Boys.
In a week, as long as the laptop survives the plane, the rental car, and the reformatting of accents, I will report our southern adventure.
Maybe say a prayer or two, for the skin, the rookie swimmers and the parents who willflyonaplanewithakidafflictedwithirratablebowelandloudnoiseissues. Amen.