Oh, The Shame or How I Failed as a Toddler Parent Part #342

Dear Parent,

It has come to our attention that your child has shown up to school without some requested Learning Material. We understand you may be used to a home school environment, where you merely walked across the street in your pajamas and willingly dropped your child off with a mixed-age group of bandits to do God knows what with Nobody knows who.

We here at La Petite Academy* expect something a little different from our Parents. We have carefully laid out a curriculum to make your daughter a productive member of society. As such, we expect that our Parents not only participate in, but also embrace our philosophy of collective learning.

Perhaps you look at your child and simply see a teething diaper-wearing toddler on the precipice of discovering the potty and a big girl bed. You scoff: but she's not even two years old!

Well, Parent, we here at La Petite Academy expect just a little more from our Parents. We expect involvement in your child's curriculum. After all, do you think President Barack Obama got where he is today by having a Mother who simply ignored a calendar curriculum? Had she said to herself "Oh, I am so busy, my toddler is throwing tantrums today, I can't be bothered to bring in the required Learning Material," what would have become of the man we know today?

I think our point is clear, Dear Parent. We respectfully request that you reconsider your lack of participation in this matter and bring in your pre-presidential child's required Learning Material at your earliest convenience.

Thank you for your attention and cooperation in this matter.

Sincerely,

La Petite Academy Faculty, Toddler Director

*Names changed to protect the innocent
** Okay, here's what really was sent home, but the message is clear, no?

*** My shame knows no bounds.

You Don't Know Me! The Slap Heard 'Round the Churchyard

Since I have doubled my readership in the last few months (thanks for coming to see me!) I've decided to do a little experiment. On Thursdays I'll be posting some items from the first year of blogging under the title You Don't Know Me!


I hope that's not blog cheating. I'll still be posting my usual three times a week, so stop clutching your pearls and enjoy.

I’ve been on sort of an endless search for new parent friends since we moved to the boonies. Not to replace my existing friends (hi, guys, love you, thanks for being my only readers), but to supplement them so we have local people to talk to about schools, where to get the best deals on soap…or whatever the hell parent friends talk about, I honestly don’t know.

One of the brilliant ideas I came up with is church. I’ve never been much of a church-goer and I could bore you with all my philosophical and political reasons for that, but this isn’t that kind of blog. But religion is important to Scott and knowing he wanted to raise all the Wee ‘Burbs we manage to pop out in the church meant I had to find one I liked. And since the actual message didn’t matter a lot to me (again except for political ones I’ll keep to myself), I set off trying to find a church with a lot of young families.

So we found a great one near us with a 10:45 mass so on the blessed days when I can sleep in, we can still make it. And it happens to be a children’s mass, which means loads of young parents. So I spend most of my time in church scouting for potential friends. I’m aware this makes me both pathetic and a heathen, but there it is. You married me for better or worse, Scott! Love you.

Anyway, so when we officially joined the church to get Wee ‘Burb baptized, we were told they host occasional welcome dinners where they “pair up” veteran parishioners with new ones for a nice dinner at the priest’s house. Once I got over the initial “Oh my GOD…I mean gosh…we’re going to eat…at the priest’s house? Like talk to him one-on-one? Like he’s a person or something?” spaz, I agreed to go.

So we got in our finest “Priest’s House Casual BBQ” clothes (thank goodness I’ve become accustomed to being overdressed since I moved back here) and went to dinner. I’m not sure how much “matching” went into this particular gathering. Let’s just say there were repeated comments like “ohhh, I have a granddaughter your age.” I did bond with one woman who recently started working at home, and we did share our guilt over doing laundry between calls, but the conversation grew awkward when she said she had a daughter “not much older than me” who turned out to have a 18-year-old graduating from high school. Um, okay? Time for Stephanie to invest in Botox, apparently.

Anyway, I look over and see that Scott has found the only other couple there who are under 40. Jackpot! We’ll ignore the fact that the dude was wearing a cowboy hat…desperate times and all that. So I go over and schmooze the wife and find out they have an 8-year-old boy and are in their late 30s. They also didn’t know a ton of people outside of their family, having moved to the area only a few years ago. A few glasses of chardonnay, and I’m thinking we have found our soulmates, cowboy hat and all.

Scott tells me later in the evening, about 5 minutes into the conversation, Cowboy Hat had already insulted him. Scott was discussing how he has every tool known to man and Cowboy Hat says “maybe if you relied on manual labor instead of tools, you’d lose some weight.” Um, excuse me? I should note that Cowboy Hat was NOT A SMALL MAN.

But whatever, I didn’t know this and Scott is nicer than me and didn’t tell me until much later. So, we’re gathered in a circle after the worst meal I’ve ever had (if you can call sausage stew and Skinny Cow ice cream a meal) courtesy of what the priest had the gall to call “the catering committee.” Sorry, but my God doesn’t look kindly on people who pretend store-bought cupcakes and lowfat ice cream sandwiches is “dessert.”

So we’re gathered in the circle and we’re instructed to tell everyone what brought us to the church. Most people have simple stories. Live in the area, heard about it, liked the look of the church, the usual. One guy rambled on how he knew the priest from seminary school, but then married a fiery Argentinian who got shot at when she visited the Mall of America. Yeah, I don’t know, either.

Then it’s Cowboy Hat’s turn. And he begins to ramble about how he hated the other churches, naming priests by NAME who apparently take too long to say the “Our Father” for his tastes.

People uncomfortably giggle and the priest nods a little and sort of clasps his hands, waiting for this to be over. But Cowboy Hat is just gearing up! He continues to go on about how it is his personal mission to put signs on the cars of everyone who is late saying “don’t bother to come in” because people stumble in about 5 minutes into service. Granted, he’s not wrong here, people are late in ways that make me anxious as a girl who attended church only on special occasions and was told “10 minutes early is 5 minutes late” and was forced to wear Sunday best while everyone else wore jeans.

Anyway, this goes on for like 5 minutes and then I have to follow him! And I am momentarily speechless, partly because I’m actually not 100% sure he’s done. But he solemnly nods at me like “good luck following THAT, sweetheart” and I manage to squeak out we wanted a place with lots of kids and we liked the sermons and the evening continues at a more normal pace.

Until about an hour, and (apparently) a few beers, later for Cowboy Hat. He is telling a story by the firepit to the priest about going to Easter mass with his nieces and nephews. He’s explaining to the priest that back in the day, if he was talking during mass, he would get a swift backhand to the head and then he PROCEEDS TO DEMONSTRATE ON HIS WIFE!

You could hear the smack followed by just total silence until Scott gasps to the woman next to him “did that dude just hit his wife??!!” and the woman nods and Cowboy Hat abuser has now realized what he’s done and pats her head and said something like “that was harder than the demonstration required.”

Um, it required NO demonstration!

I was waiting for the priest to get out his appointment book then and there for a little marital counseling, but instead they made their excuses that they had to go pick up their kid and we followed shortly thereafter. We were silent for the walk down the street to our car and when we were belted in, Scott looked at me and said, “seriously, did that guy hit his wife??!!”

Yes, yes he did. And with that slap went any hopes of parental bonding.

Walk This Way...PLEASE!

We had a long week last week in these here parts. Scott had to be gone for a week, and every time this happens, I have a mini meltdown. Single moms out there: you guys are just awesome. I have nothing more to say.

So Scott comes home and I welcome him with another meltdown. Once again about Wee ‘Burb’s walking. Guys? I want to be the enlightened Mom here that echoes what EVERYONE tells us, which is “she will do it on her own time.”

But now that we’re at 17 months, I’m not so cool with her calling the shots timing-wise. So Thursday she ripped holes in her jeans because she refused to walk even with her little car outside at daycare. She just crawled around…on the asphalt.

And the truth is, our doctor asked us to take her in at 17 months if she wasn’t walking. That was two weeks ago. Before we left for San Francisco, we were sure she would walk. When we got back from San Franciso, we were SURE she would walk. So we didn’t call.

Nothing. In fact, she’s actually less interested in walking, which was what finally led me to my meltdown and the call to the doctor. Or, well it was that and the fact that I picked her up at daycare and a 10-month-old met me at the door and pulled himself up on the baby gate (yes, yes, I know you’re not supposed to compare, use the ruler and rap my bad mom knuckles, I’ll wait).

So Friday, I took Wee ‘Burb to our awesome pediatrician, who we call Mother Goose. I told her everything that Wee ‘Burb does on her feet and Mother Goose laughed. She said “ain’t nothing wrong with that kid.” That's medical jargon for "she's a stubborn donkey."

I got Wee ‘Burb to take a few steps with me holding her hands, and then she flung herself on the floor. I pointed at her like “SEE? SEE WHAT I HAVE TO DEAL WITH?”

Because I’m mature and rational like that.

Mother Goose told us that basically she saw nothing wrong, but did see that Wee ‘Burb had a wide stance and may benefit from physical therapy evaluation in terms of the strength of her hips.

I thought I would feel better, somehow. Like, okay, this isn’t catastrophic and I didn’t ruin her by not taking her in before. But I somehow felt worse because I want answers beyond the usual diagnosis we hear, which is my baby is a bit of a jerk. Oh, like you’re not thinking it!

Anyway, in the midst of this discussion the doctor asked if Wee ‘Burb had any sensitivity to textures to determine if there was any issue with certain walking surfaces. I laughed and said “only with her food.”

Whoooops.

Mother Goose got me to confess that I was still occasionally feeding Wee ‘Burb purees so she’d get the protein from the meat she refused to eat.

Mother Goose lovingly pokes Wee ‘Burb in the tummy and goes “you’re not a baby anymore!” And then looks me in the eyes and goes “you’re getting played, girlfriend!”

So the new rule is that we have to give her what we eat. And if she doesn’t eat it, she doesn’t eat. This has been met with mixed results in our very limited experience, though I can see the theory and how it works. When she’s hungry enough, she’ll eat what I put in front of her.

I’m sure there will be comments about this. I understand it falls in the dubious category of “crying it out” that some will feel is neglectful or psychologically harmful. But I do trust my doctor, she hasn’t led me astray thus far.

When I was a baby and a picky eater, my parents made the rule that if I didn’t eat what they ate, I had peanut butter and jelly. What they didn’t count on was I NEVER got sick of peanut butter so frankly, I was a picky eater until well into my 20s. I don’t want a food war with Wee ‘Burb, so we’ll see how it goes.

My first experiment with broccoli (I figured we'd start with veggies, which she's less anxious about than meat) hasn’t gone well with her. I’m putting the recipe on the bottom of this post if you’re interested. Even though I got it from a toddler recipe site, I have to say it was a hit with us adults, which was good b/c she didn’t touch them for 2 meals.

Speaking of food, we made our first fresh ham for Easter!

I didn’t get a picture of it actually done because I had quite a few Mimosas before the in-laws arrived. But it was beautiful and our house smells like herbs and meat. How can you beat that?

Do you or did you make your toddler eat what you eat? What was on your Easter plate?

Broccoli Bites

8 oz (1 cup) frozen broccoli florets
4 oz (1 cup) dry breadcrumbs
6 oz (1 1/2 cups) Cheddar, grated
2 1/2 tbsp water
2 1/2 tbsp olive oil
1 1/2 tsp baking powder

Heat the oven to 375 deg F, 190 deg C.
Cook the broccoli, then drain and chop well.
Combine with the remaining ingredients and mix well.
Form the mixture into nugget shapes and place on a greased baking tray, about 3in apart.
Bake for 20-25 mins, turning halfway through the cooking time.
Serve warm.

Where Do We Go From Here?

The other day with nothing to watch, I found some episodes of the old show Yes Dear on my On Demand. I’ve always had a fondness for Anthony Clarke, ever since I saw him perform at a comedy club in Boston where he was (in my humble opinion) high as a freaking kite and laughing so hard at his own jokes, he could barely get through a set.

Anyway, the episode began with a joke about the main couple played by Clarke and the chick from Uncle Buck trying to shove videotapes and anecdotes of their little boy on a couple friend of theirs who had no children. The couple invited Clarke/Buck to a concert, and they confessed to already having tickets to a concert of their own: Barney and Friends.

You guys, the LOOK that passed between the childless couple…I’ve had that look. Even since I’ve had Wee ‘Burb, I confess I’ve rolled my eyes a time or two having to listen to a couple going on and on about the genius of their little booger-eater.

So imagine my shock and horror when I realized, I’m becoming one.

All joking aside, it’s been bothering me quite a bit. Recently I’ve been in several situations where there have been a few moms and then a single or childless (also, that word? Sounds stupid. It’s the most succinct word I can come up with for someone married with no children, but seems to suggest a barrenness that isn’t accurate) woman in the mix.

The moms, of which I am now a part, talk of development and share charming anecdotes, myself included. But inside, my gut is bursting to say “DO WE NOT HAVE SOMETHING ELSE TO TALK ABOUT??!!”

Again, seriously, I am just as much to blame. Because I don’t.

It’s like when you start dating someone new and you try, you really try to CONSCIOUSLY not mention his name at every turn, but the more you concentrate on it, the more you end up saying “well New Guy says this” and “the New Guy and I did this” and it’s so obnoxious and your head is screaming STOP IT, DUMBO! But you can’t, right? Because at the moment, it’s the all-consuming world you live in.

I keep wondering when did this happen? When did this become IT? When did I become the person who can only talk about her kid?

I’m noticing it with this blog, too. Having set out to eschew the “mommyblog” moniker, I avoided blogging about my pregnancy and kept going for awhile with only mentioning Wee ‘Burb in passing, as an intro or exit to an anecdote.

It’s like I want the option to not blog about being a Mom, and yet…well, I’m not sure where I’d be without that topic. Because that is my world right now.

I plan to do something about this, about it being my world. Scott and I didn't restrict talk of Wee 'Burb on our recent trip without her, but we did try to reconnect on topics outside of that I recently read our Community Ed brochure and found several tempting adventures. One was a Thriller Line Dance class, which, come on, is tempting.

And then even that is stereotypical in some way, right?

Sigh, we’re the couple who can’t do anything but talk and think about our kid, so we’ll just go sign up for wine tasting or cheese making or something as an excuse to have something to talk about. Incidentally, that’s where the episode arc took the characters: they enroll in a wine tasting class and find out they’re just fine with being the couple that only talks about and thinks about their baby.

The truth is, we’re not that couple at the core. Scott and I do have outside interests and discussions. Mostly about work, which is a relatively verboten blog topic and frankly doesn’t make for the best group topic either because it ends up turning into an unhealthy vent session when all the person asked was the equivalent of “still working?”

Cooking is something Scott and I talk a lot about. We’ve taken classes in the past, but (not to sound snotty) a bulk of them were a bit below our level, geared more toward people who needed to learn the basics like cutting veggies while your pasta cooks. And a few of my friends have this topic in common, so I am lucky there.

I feel like so much of my life and blog is centered around this one person. And I’m just not sure there’s an escape. And I am wondering if I am destined to not only never make new single or childless friends, but to lose the few I do have now. And that? Scares the crap out of me.

Okay, so weigh in! If you’re single or don’t have kids, do you get annoyed when you’re out with mommies who clique it up about their kids? Or as moms, do you gravitate toward women with kids? Do you slowly only end up with other parent friends, or is there a point at which you begin to develop other interests, too?

Where I Test to See How Fast You Can Hit the Unfollow Button

On Saturday afternoon it was like a gabillion degrees below zero. Deciding to stay in for the day (or well, not so much deciding as capitulating to a universe that allows weather to exist that prompts frostbite within, oh, say, 12 seconds after leaving your home), we let Wee 'Burb hang with us on the couch and watch some TV.

Yup, we’re bad parents, what of it?

One of our her favorite shows is Sid the Science Kid. What? She’s 14 months, she tooootally gets it.

The following is snippets of our conversation while watching with her:

Scott: Hey! I think they changed her dance!
Stephanie: Which one, the lesbian one? [Yes, we outed a PBS character, what of it?]
Scott: No, no. Wait, they changed the lesbian one’s dance, too!
Stephanie: Huh, hers is still pretty gay.

Suzie the Teacher: Data or dahta if you prefer.
Scott: Isn’t it just data?
Stephanie: I think it is. Dahta is annoying. It’s data.
Scott: I know it is because of Star Trek.
Stephanie: Huh?
Scott: There was a whole episode. The mean [language cleaned up] doctor kept calling him Dahta and he was like “that’s not my name” and she was like “what’s the difference?” and he’s like “well, one’s my name and one’s not.”
Stephanie: Ah. Interesting. [This is called choosing your battles, people. Were I to argue the merits of whether accepted vernacular should be determined by Star Trek episodes, I’d be entering a can of wormholes I am just not willing to deal with on a Saturday.]

Stephanie: Oooh is this the one with the chart song?
Scott: Yes, it is. I know you love it.
Stephanie: I do! That song turns me on.
Scott: Sing it, then.
Stephanie: I don’t remember the words! I just remember the message was that charts are good.

Stephanie: Did they just call Gerald a Mexican? Cuz that kid could not be whiter.
Scott: I think they said “here he comes again.”
Stephanie: Ah, that makes more sense.

What was Wee 'Burb doing this whole time you ask?

Did I Say That??

Apparently the image option isn't exactly working correctly, so turn your computer sideways or trust me that they're making out.

In the past week, I’ve said some things I never thought I would say to another human being. I don’t mean this in a regretful way, or that I had to tell hard truths or anything.

Well, maybe they were.

As a mom, I knew I would one day have to utter things like “because I said so” and “for your own good” and “I’m the mom, THAT’S why.”

But never did I expect to utter the following, on a continuous loop for, oh, like every 30 minutes EVERY DAY:

“Wee ‘Burb, we don’t French kiss the puppy.”

I'm Pooped!

So I may have gone into this whole parenthood thing with some false bravado. Whereas Scott has never even really held a baby before, I’d spent most of my teen and college years baby-sitting and nannying.

And it turns out, so far I can totally keep her fed and safe and more or less entertained. I think I do a pretty good job if I do say so myself. In fairness, she makes it very easy, she’s not particularly bothered by much.

And while I have read some articles or books here and there, for the most part, I’ve been parenting on instinct. I don't know how it's going, exactly. But she's alive. So, that's not bad, right?

It becomes infinitely harder when the kid is mobile. And when that mobility coincides with holidays, meaning you have to keep them fed, safe, and entertained for the ENTIRE DAY, no help from daycare and other kids.

Recent events had me doing the dreaded looking at a book.

For a stretch of days, Wee ‘Burb was not napping in the afternoons. I could tell she was exhausted, she was giving me all the normal signs: rubbing her eyes, pushing her head into the carpet, trying to use Cous Cous as a pillow. But I would put her down and she would squawk and talk and roll around for hours. Seriously, one day it was two hours!

So, naturally Scott is like “why are we forcing this?” And I’m all “the book says this can happen because she’s so mobile and social and wants to play and stuff. So we have to try to keep her on the schedule so she knows it’s not time to play.”

And Scott is all raising his eyebrows like “book says whah?”

So he can see how desperate I am. And when I’m desperate, I just keep repeating the new knowledge I’ve gained about toddler sleeping habits and at the end he’s like “just asking, didn’t need the dissertation. You’re saying leave her in the crib?” And I’m like “yup the book says leave her in the crib.”

To say these weren’t restful days would be an understatement. I start to wonder if this is going on in daycare and I just don’t know about it. I start to get resentful that she’s only pulling this crap with me to test my boundaries or manipulate me (more book theories).

I become obsessed about when my kid became such a jerk! And then finally I go in and check on her on day 3 of no afternoon nap. I take her out and change her, all the while faking the cheerful “hello, my love” while really thinking “you suck so hard”…but you can’t say that, the books tell you only say loving things, the books say kids can hear you and read you and one false move will guarantee she’s on the next season of Intervention talking about how she goes around giving BJs for smack because her mommy told her she was a jerk for not napping.

So I am putting all my energy into changing said diaper the way you fake having a good time on a really bad date, just to pass the time with as little awkwardness and horror as possible.

When it hits me.

She’s had a dirty diaper the last three days when I’ve picked her up. Each time. I’ve been so focused on pretending I don’t think she’s a big fat meanie, it never occurred to me! So I change her and put her back down and she squawks for five minutes. And she’s out.

Um, where is the chapter that says “it’s really hard to sleep with a load in your pants, MOM!”

Teen Mom: The Spank

I don’t normally blog about TV shows because there are people out there who recap and do this way better than I ever could hope to. Also, sometimes it’s embarrassing how much time and thought I put into TV. Like I have dreams and wake up thinking “I could totally write an episode based on that dream!”

Anyway, I definitely don’t usually think that much about reality TV. But do any of you watch Teen Mom? I’m riveted! It’s one of the few reality shows where you’re like “hmmm, maybe they’re too stupid to just be putting on a show.”

The one couple I really struggle with, though, is Amber and Gary. I don’t know what the rules are of putting in pictures I didn’t take, and the idea of being near enough to these two to take a photo gives me hives, so
here's a link to them.


Yeah, they’re not a cute couple. They’re also the most dysfunctional human beings on the planet. Which would be amusing…if they didn’t have a little girl who isn’t even 2 witnessing the window-rattling screaming matches these two get into every day.

As I may have mentioned, I love me some Dr Phil and he says something that has always stuck with me. “When you have a child, you write on the slate of who they are every day.”

Well, if that’s true, Amber and Gary’s kid’s slate is covered in expletives, smeared with Dorito dust.

The screaming and the fighting and the kicking out and the on-again/off-again nature of this doomed pairing is bad enough, but what I witnessed on the most recent episode left me speechless, and seriously physically ill.

Amber had kicked Tubbo out for, oh, the 15th time this season. This time his flagrant foul came because he had the NERVE to get up early for work (it should be noted, I don’t think the man has worked a day in this entire season. Last season he traded in a video game system to get Amber an ugly pink “engagement” ring for $15 at Wal-Mart) and in the process, wake up their daughter.

This won’t shock anyone who has kids…the baby didn’t want to go back to sleep. But, you see, Amber did.

So she screamed at Gary, and Gary screamed back at her, and then the baby started screaming…and that pretty much set up a crabby day for all involved. Especially the baby, who would not stop crying. And who cried harder when Amber continued to yell at Gary later when he got home, saying the months this child was home with Gary, he had clearly neglected to discipline her at all.

Please keep in mind this child is not two years old. Let me set this up with a story. I baby-sat for a family in college who didn’t believe in telling their child no. EVER. She would throw food, she would tear the house apart, she would go near the hot stove…and repeatedly they would catch me saying no and lecture me that saying no would inhibit her creativity.

I tell this story to prove that I have ZERO problem with discipline and saying no. I think it’s one of the most important ways you can keep your child safe and healthy.

But there has to be an age-appropriateness to the discipline, right? I mean, there are only a few things I say no to for Wee ‘Burb. Most of them are safety issues: don’t try to take the bone out of Cous Cous’ mouth, don’t try to grab mommy’s hot coffee cup. The only one that maybe isn’t safety related is when I tell her “no” when she takes her diaper off. Cuz that just bugs me, and often ends up in a mess.

When I say no, about 90% of the time I am greeted with a blank stare. Basically it’s a pause long enough for me to distract her. It’s about as age-appropriate as I can get, I think, for a child who doesn’t speak. Or, you know, really understand words in general.

So I was SHOCKED when I heard Amber yelling at her child to stop her screaming when she finally kicked Gary out. And then the camera went dark and we heard some serious smacking, and saw Amber exit the baby’s room with a satisfied look on her face.

Now I’m not using this as a forum for the pros and cons of spanking. It’s none of my business how people choose to discipline their children. But babies??? I mean is there any common sense reason to spank a baby? They don’t understand, the baby didn’t stop crying! She cried harder.

I’m just going to picture Dr. Drew in his dreamy black t-shirt taking Amber to task at the reunion. Because I have to say, I have thought about this so many times since I saw the episode. It has to be brought up in that forum, right? To at least discuss the intelligence level of infants and their inability to understand real discipline.

I talked myself out of blogging this a few times, because I didn’t want it to devolve into the inevitable “to spank or not to spank” issue. It just made me realize how much more selective I have become, and probably will become, in what I can watch. I used to devour Dateline and 48 Hours and all those juicy crime stories, and now I find myself turning the channel the second it has anything to do with a child. So maybe I’m just oversensitive now that I’m a mom. But it left a bad taste in my mouth and I really hope it’s addressed at some point.

Have you ever seen a TV show that has made you think afterward, even when it’s generally a silly one you watch for fun?

Ice Age: The Meltdowns

Guess what? Wee ‘Burb just got her first official diploma! Yup, my girl is wicked smart, getting diplomas before she even turns 1. It’s totally cool that she has zero interest in crawling and still tries to stick her bottle in her eye, because my little genius has passed her very first parent/child swimming class.

I confessed here that I was doing this largely to make new mommy friends. The other impetus, though, was to make sure that when we head to oceans East this summer, Wee ‘Burb isn’t terrified of the water. Because Mommy likes to get her beach on, People, and I can’t have a kid who refuses to leave the safety of their umbrella and towel.

We got to the first lesson super early, which will surprise nobody who knows me. I have a very “10 minutes early is 20 minutes late” philosophy that requires me to travel with reading material and a charged cell phone to kill time while I wait for people with normal internal clocks that allow them to show up places on time.

The lessons are at a middle school, and can I tell you, the first whiff of barely hidden B.O. and ammonia and chlorine brought me back to the torturous years of middle school so much so that I had to check my teeth for braces, and felt the snap of a bra strap like a PTSD flashback.

I see that there are two…kids? I don’t know, they’re out of high school, I guess. Teenagers? What do they call them now, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell a “tween” is. Anyway, they’re young’uns being instructed by a very pregnant older lady on how to prepare the pool for the kiddies after a middle school swim team apparently created bad baby swimming juju by putting the ropes too close together.

The “teachers” are not inspiring a lot of confidence. They’re kind of shuffling around, looking at each other, looking at the parents who are starting to file in. The pregnant pool feng shui advisor is long gone. They’re not really saying anything to us.

The dude finally hands me a piece of paper that gives the “rules” of swim class (okay, it’s really hard not to write “the first rule of baby swim class is don’t talk about baby swim class!”), which are basically common sense things like this class doesn’t promise your kid will never drown, you need to hold on to your baby, etc. And one that I thought was super common sense, but proved not to be was that your kid will pick up on your cues to determine how to act in the water.

The “teachers” finally introduce themselves and confess what is now obvious: they’ve never actually taught a parent/child swimming lesson (and, I am sure, will never engage in any activity that may result in being a parent with a child after seeing the ensuing meltdowns, which only echo in a pool that size).

So it’s time (10 minutes late, thanks) to finally get in the water. And I am psyched. Only now I am starting to realize that Wee ‘Burb is, by far, the littlest one there. All of the other kids are walking, talking little people and my drooly howler monkey is staring at them, then at me, like “what did you get me into here, Mom?”

It turns out they had combined classes and instead of the 6 months to 2 years class, Wee ‘Burb was now in the 6 months to 4 years class. And by the stares as we tried to maneuver getting in the water when Wee ‘Burb could barely sit on her own on the side, I realized most people were thinking I either had some baby with a growing disease, or I was insane.

But, we’re resilient, Wee ‘Burb and I. I jump in the water and it is COLD! Not lake cold, I’m talking polar ice caps cold. But all I can think about is if I start screeching, it’s over, Wee ‘Burb will not come in. So I smile, clap my hands and pull her in.

The look of SHOCK that came over that baby’s face! I thought for sure I was killing her, or at the very least making sure her insides wouldn’t thaw out until she was the age of our “teachers.” But after a minute or so of moving around, she was good to go and I was less blue, so we were ready.

Two other mommies follow me. One is a rather large woman with what I assume to be a large 4-year-old in an ill-fitting pink bikini, who actually turns out to be a very large two-year-old with an ill-fitting pink bikini and, let’s face it, a cruel mom. Anyway, the mom gets in and immediately starts squealing and Pink Bikini immediately grabs on to the railing and refuses to let go. Meltdown #1.

The other mom behind her is a very polished looking Suburban Working Mom. She oozes poise and I am immediately jealous of her and her very fit body and her lovely (though impractical for the pool) diamond earrings, and carries her tow-headed daughter in a perfectly cut little pink princess bathing suit, hair done in two symmetrical ponytails (here’s where I confess that our daycare ladies LOVE to play with Wee ‘Burb’s hair and I have given them free rein to do so, so that night she was sporting what we like to call her Wee Who from Whoville look, which was two very short ponytails on top of her head, closely resembling a little alien). She is there with Suburban Working Dad who has their tow-headed son in a polo shirt and trunks remarkably similar to his own.

She gets in and immediately shoots a warning look to Suburban Working Dad that he is not to allow either of their perfect children near this glacial abyss known as the middle school pool. She immediately looks at the “teachers” and declares it “far too cold for children to enter.” Aaaakward, as right then Wee ‘Burb puts her feet in her mouth and floats right on by Suburban Working Mom’s super judgmental stare.

The little boy actually WANTS to go in the water, but Suburban Working Mom refuses to let him. Meltdown #2.

Two other little kids see that Suburban Working Mom isn’t making HER kids go in the water, and refuse to go in themselves. Meltdowns #3 and #4.

This whole time, Wee ‘Burb could not care less. She’s happily frog kicking and smiling at all the parents who are now torn between their fears of hypothermia or curing their kids’ fear of water.

The bottom line was this, according to the “teachers,” the pool was at 78 degrees. It would get into the 80s when classes progressed, this was just early and they were still playing around with the temperatures, etc. And most of the class was then spent trying to coax parents, and then their kids, into the damn water.

I don’t see Suburban Working Mom at the next two classes. She shows up to the fourth class and immediately tells the “teachers” that she had phoned the Community Education office and given them a piece of her mind that 78 degrees was totally inappropriate for children and she was not about to subject her kids to that.

I swear she looked right at me and Wee ‘Burb, who was now happily following a Dora the Explorer ball around the pool and screeching her delight. That day it was supposedly 83 degrees, which Suburban Working Mom felt was okay enough to allow her darling children in, but only for 20 minutes of the 30-minute class.

She didn’t show up again to the rest of the classes, after complaining 83 was still too cold for the full class and her darling dears were not going to swim in that.

At first I felt guilty for allowing Wee ‘Burb, clearly smaller and more fragile than Suburban Working Mom’s toddlers, in the pool in those temperatures. But she never turned blue, she had a great time, and most importantly: she lives out in the world! I mean, what lake or ocean maintains a constant temperature of 83 degrees or higher?

Incidentally, I was looking something else up in one of my long-put-aside Mommy Books and I saw an entire chapter on swim lessons that might as well have been titled “Stephanie: Reason #400 you are the Worst Mom Ever” or “Call Child Services Now” for short.

Because, according to the very practical doctors and mommies and other people keeping their kids in bubbles all their lives, 83 degrees is in fact the optimal temperature for babies to swim in. But you probably shouldn’t take them swimming, anyway, because they’re liable to have their ears or bowels explode, resulting in little baby pieces that are very rough on the pool filters.

Whoops! And now we know why Stephanie didn’t make any new mommy friends at parent/child swim lessons. But we do have this nifty diploma!