Have I ever told you the story about the boyfriend who sent me a bouquet with a card that said: “For a Piscean who doesn’t like water … some flowers to put in it”?
It was an unexpectedly romantic gesture considering he’d recently discovered a jiffy bag filled with a rainbow assortment of condoms in my flat (for a story I was writing on prophylactics for Cosmopolitan magazine, I swear) … but I digress …
Anyways, the bloke in question was my revenge romance after ex-Husband left me in the mid-90s to “find himself” in South East Asia. He told me not to wait for him and disappeared for 8 months. So I followed his advice and pounced on the first man in sight. It was a terrible mistake and the poor fellow was christened “Happy, Slappy Mal” by ex-Husband upon his eventual return (not for me, mind, but because he was best man at his brother’s wedding, but we dovetailed back into romance anyway).
Sorry, I digress again …
Back to the hating water bit. I don’t like drinking it and I’m not keen on swimming in it, which is odd for a fish.
About the only time you’ll tempt me into the stuff is if the water temp is around 30 degrees. Or the outside temp is around 35.
My parents spent thousands of dollars on swimming lessons throughout my childhood to no avail. It was considered a triumph when I was finally taught to dog paddle 5 metres.
I developed a stomach ache (of sheer terror) at every school swimming carnival I attended and successfully begged my mum to take me home before my age race.
OK, I’ll get to the point: I spent yesterday at the kids’ swimming carnival and was totally blitzed. The 10-year-old went in every race she could, from the 100m freestyle to the 50m butterfly. The seven-year-old went in the 50m freestyle and has vowed never to do it again because it almost killed her.
Aside from coming second in her 50m freestyle heat, the eldest didn’t dazzle with her speed – though her stroke was beautiful – but she finished every single race. And I walked up and down the pool alongside her each time, snapping photos and cheering madly.
Only 6 other girls her age (in a school of 1000) did the butterfly. I was SO proud of her. SO proud.
She’s not a sporty girl – she’d rather paint or read – but if she sets her mind to a physical activity she sees it through, no matter how hard it might be.
It was a gorgeous day at the pool. My first-ever swimming carnival with the kids. Fellow school mums and dads lounged on the grass, chatting and cheering their kids on. Such a lovely atmosphere.
The kids and I were so enamored with the place that we decided to swap over their weekly swimming lessons to the pool and marched up to the counter to make the switch when the carnival ended.
Ex-Husband subsequently got an email informing him that I’d cancelled the kids’ swimming lessons at the previous place (but not one announcing I’d commenced them at the new one). He may have been tempted to think I was taking a stand … he’s rather particular about the kids having weekly swimming lessons … and I WAS … but not the one he might have gnashed his teeth over.
We’re starting a new girls’ tradition: a splash at the pool every Tuesday afternoon (the previous swim school was too small for “free” swims), followed by lessons at 5pm then dinner at a nearby restaurant. Ironically our first dinner will be at the restaurant where I went into labour with the eldest, after a spot of curry and roti.