Little Fishy

Last night I was giving the boys a bath. Suddenly, as if some innate switch was flipped, Beanie has decided he wants to swim. He wants to put his face in the water. He wants to lay down and attempt a backstroke. He wants to be in and under the water as much as he can. This is a far cry from only a few weeks ago when he hated to get his head wet and had to be coaxed to sit down in the tub. This is also the same child who, at this summer's swim lessons, fought like a banshee to get IN or OUT of the pool. I sat by the tub last night, dumbfounded that suddenly the Bean had turned into a fish seemingly overnight.

He definitely did not inherit this gene from me, the person who detests the pool with every fber of her being. Although there must be some dormant swimming gene in me somewhere--my niece is beyond talented in swimming. My cousins on my mother's side are also fish and a few of them were literally Olympic caliber swimmers. But me? Not so much. I hate everything about it. I hate being in a swimsuit. I hate being cold when you first splash in the water. I hate how the pool can suddenly make me feel incompetent and out of shape. And mostly, I hate the thought of hair, pee and rogue scabby bandaids floating in the water. I am grossed out by all of it. I wish I weren't. It would be so good for me to swim, if only it didn't disgust me so.

Last night reminded me to once again, put the boys back in swim lessons. I can't let my dislike of the pool and all of its skeeviness reflect on them. I will just need to try my hardest not to look too closely at the pool or its scabby kneed, pee-pee diaper inhabitants.

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.