So I'm pretty sure I mentioned once or twice or fourteen frillion times that we signed up for a family membership at the YMCA, mostly so we would finally get off our butts and get the boys some swimming lessons.
HOW'S THAT ALL GOING?, asks absolutely no one in the world.
GREAT! LET ME TREAT YOU TO A PAINFULLY DETAILED RUNDOWN, responds boring, self-centered mommyblogger.
Noah is doing well. I was nervous that we'd waited too long for swimming lessons, but now I'm glad we waited until he was past his fears of the water and a bit more coordinated with that whole vestibular system thing or whatever, because he LOVES swimming. He's much braver about getting water on his head and face and you know, not clinging to our necks in fight-or-flight terror. He can at least do a pretty decent dog-paddle on his own and do something vaguely approaching proper swimming form with a little assistance. Between swimming and karate, he's packed on a good two pounds of solid muscle in just two months.
Ezra is...well, EZRA. In what I'm beginning to sense is going to be the theme of this child's life, he has already -- in the span of three classes and a handful of recreational swims on the weekends -- completely leveled out of the under-three swimming class, skill-wise. He doesn't want to be bobbed around in the water by me while we squirt water on his head with bath toy froggies and sing the Wheels on the Bus, he wants to SWIM. He wants to do the arms-over-head "rocket ship" move that he sees Noah do before jumping in, he wants to use a kickboard and paddle the length of the pool, and dammit woman, I'm just going to climb out of the pool, walk around to the other side and jump the hell in, WHEREVER YOU ARE NOT, if you continue to thwart me with this baby-swim-class nonsense.
Last night we got out of the pool to dry off, and after I retrieved his towel I turned around and saw that he'd promptly dashed back, jumped in the pool and was about halfway down a lap lane while looking over his shoulder at me like, YEAH? AND? (He was still, thankfully, wearing his little float-y backpack.)
I see a lot of private lessons in our future. Either that, or a string of fake IDs.
Meanwhile, I signed up for a prenatal water aerobics class. I am the only person currently signed up for this particular prenatal water aerobics class. Which...is weird. The instructor is a 65-year-old woman who has been teaching swimming at the Y for 30-plus years now, and the solo sessions just include SO MUCH SMALL TALK, and there's no buffer zone of other people, and so I feel expected to chat and be all perkily personable the whole time we're doing semi-ridiculous things involving pool noodles, and I'm not talking small talk like the weather. No more than 10 minutes into my very first class I learned all about the restraining order she currently has against her husband of 40+ plus years and how her current class schedule interferes with her domestic violence support group meetings, OH MY GOD WHAT DO YOU EVEN SAY TO THAT.
Other things I've learned include:
1) Horseback riding gives you very strong inner thighs.
2) Her last baby was a surprise because she got drunk one Christmas.
3) But she has always suspected that her no-good husband liked to poke holes in the condoms or something, so WHO KNOWS.
Plus, you know, we're both in bathing suits. It just makes everything so much more awkward. One time I think she moved in like she was going to hug me before class and while I usually self-identify as a total hugger (just ask anyone who's met me at BlogHer), I learned that this is NOT THE CASE when we're talking poolside hugs and my winter-white thighs are hanging out, because I will kind of jump back and squeak helplessly at you instead.
(I should also mention that there's a specific mix CD she brings for the prenatal class. The first song is the theme from Titantic.)
But honestly, I'm about five minutes and one more anecdote about The Christmas She Got Drunk And Knocked Up away from declaring her the most awesome person on the entire planet. Plus it's a pretty decent workout. So.
Let's wrap this up with some Friday Beefcake: