swimming pool dads

As I drive home from swimming lessons, instead of praising my wonderful children for their efforts, I find myself ignoring them and trying to thing of apt nicknames for the mums and dads I see in the changing rooms. This is what I came up with last week.

First is rugby dad. When he thinks no one is looking he is perfectly nice and normal towards his kids. But when anyone is close by he feels the need to display what excellent control he has over them. Barking out one word commands he has the whole room on tenterhooks to see if they do what he says.

“Max! Shoes! Now!” 

Max, unperturbed, takes his time. Dad breathes through his nose and pretends he is answering an urgent message on his iphone. Then he ties the laces on his huge, huge shoes.

Then there is blow dry dad, who spends a minimum of forty minutes drying his daughter’s hair. When they finally leave, giving the rest of us a chance to get at the dryer, her hair is salon perfect.  Gleaming, smooth, shiny and bouncy without a flyaway in sight.  Actually I have to hand it to him, he does a fantastic job. I'd say something if he didnt look so smug.

Next, parenting book dad.

For starters he is a show off. For seconders, his hair is cut in a pageboy style, which I am definitely narrow minded enough to judge him by. He arrives nonchalantly swinging his daughter’s teddy.

“Look at me! I carry a teddy without a thought for my own image. The safety of teddy is my first priority!”

Then, when the lesson is over and they are ready to leave, he gets down on his knees in front of the children to very slowly and carefully explain the day ahead. Following the usual parenting book advice (I can imagine the pile on the bedside table) he makes eye contact and outlines exactly what is going to happen next. Both to the children and to the rest of the people in the changing room. All of us are of course, closely following the whole exchange. Then they all skip happily out. Him flicking his pageboy and giving teddy a swing. First to Daddy’s office to check something, then to Marks and Spencers to meet Mummy and then to the restaurant, for a yummy lunch with ice cream for desert!

This leaves us, looking for socks and turning coat sleeves the right way out, wishing we were meeting Mummy and getting ice cream too.

bikini wax!

I’m not bad at complaining. After decades of saying nothing, regretting saying nothing, saying it all to my husband when I get home, I am finally complaining at the right time to the right person.

For example, last week I noticed my two younger sons being moved to the beginners group at swimming lessons. I sat for a minute (beside a dad reading a kindle, which I found myself hoping would get splashed) and then got up to ask the teacher why they had been moved. He said that there was an instructor missing and he would give them different exercises to do. Then I pointed out that the next class up had one boy in it. Why not put them there instead of with eight little splashers? Anyway, in the heel of the hunt he gave my boys training, swimmish things to do and the rest of the group fun, gamey things to do. They threw daggers at me from the water hissing “what did you say to him?” until the third teacher eventually turned up.

My problem was that after I had said my piece I didn’t know how to finish up the conversation. What came most natural was to walk off in a huff but obviously I couldn’t do that. So I said “thank you” in a prim way. That too seemed pathetic. Then I had to arrange my face as I walked back to the bench where the other parents were sitting. Torn between keeping my head down and concentrating on not tripping and keeping my head up in a haughty don’t-mess-with-me manner, I ended up going for something in between. So I either came across as a mother who is reasonable, firm, no nonsense and nice or a complete oddball.

Usually once the kids are settled in their lessons I have a swim myself. There are three lanes sectioned off so I can do lengths and still keep an eye out to be on call if anyone needs to go to the toilet. This means wearing my navy Speedos, the least flattering item of clothing EVER. But the feel good factor I get from the swim is worth it.

So there I was, Mrs Smug, arguing my case, swimming my lengths. As I climbed out of the pool the instructor came over to me. Dear God, I thought, I’m going to have to talk to him in my togs. I will allow myself be seen in Speedos. I have to, not owning a pool. But usually it’s only a quick run between the shower and the water. The idea is that I move fast enough to be a blur.  

I don’t think he realised how much of an upper hand he had. That I would have agreed for the kids to be put in armbands in a toddler group if only I could get quickly past him and back to the changing rooms and privacy. He just wanted to let me know that he had them in the right class, I think. It was hard to take in the words when the only thing that came into my head was “bikini wax!” which thankfully, I didn’t say out loud.  At least I don’t think I did.

Tiger Mother

“You are going”. 

My ten year old was incredulous. I hadn’t asked his opinion, we hadn’t had long pep chats about new swimming lessons, we hadn’t even worked out a reward scheme. But I had just finished reading the Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother and told him, it was Chinese parenting from now on. He was a strong swimmer and coming with the family and splashing with his brothers once a week was not enough. Proper training and an end of year gala was on the cards. Why not? He had always been comfortable in the water. Well, he could think of plenty of reasons. The teacher would be cross, it was after six in the evening and he would be tired, I hadn’t even bothered to ask him, I couldn’t make him, his leg was sore. The list went on. The tears came and voices were raised.

Parked outside the pool I found my inner tiger and got him into the changing room, left him with a classmate and found the viewing gallery. There were chairs for parents and I found one but realised that I couldn’t actually sit. I was so tense, my legs wouldn’t bend. The previous class was finishing and I could see a teacher talk sternly to a little boy who was shivering. Another mother sat beside me and started chatting so I moved to seated position but found my bum didn’t actually touch the chair. I hovered until I saw him line up with the other children and get into the pool. He looked ok.  She was chatty and told me her son was in second class and I said mine was in fourth.

Below me the children were being tested to see what level they were at and I could see him being moved out of the beginner’s class. He didn’t seem to understand though and lined up again with the little kids. I was behind glass and tempted to vault it or bang on it but controlled myself and saw him being put right. I finally breathed out. Then he did another width. Beautiful over arm with great breath control. 

“The boy in the black cap. Move over here.” the teacher said (I was lip reading) but he stood behind his friend and three times the wrong boy stood forward until I saw his little hopeful, tear stained face say “Me?” and he was moved up again, to the next level. I found myself able to turn my head to the mum beside me and we chatted. She was telling me about her son’s second class teacher and I suddenly thought, second class, that sounds familiar? And realised that my eight year old is in second class too. For the previous twenty minutes I had actually forgotten that I had other children!

When the class was over I stood by the door of the changing room and he appeared, looked very pleased. I said, in an unprecedented magnanimous act “what do you want from the machine?” indicating the snack dispenser beside me. Never one to turn down food he acted as if this was perfectly normal, asked how much money I had, I said a euro and he quickly chose something for one fifty. I let the tiger sleep and handed him the money.