Mothers Day Special Guest Edition

In appreciation to the endless work of moms, this special guest edition post is the work of the NewmaMotha' herself. Not much else can compare to letting Mom write for this journal of enlightenment. Enjoy...

As a mom, I’m constantly trying to remind myself to have fun with my kid.  Sometimes that’s hard when the laundry is piling up, dinner ideas escape me, I need to take a shower and there are 137 emails in my in-box that scream for attention (I’m not actually that popular, but Amazon likes to tell me when new books by favorite authors are available and Bed Bath and Beyond wants to know why I haven’t redeemed my 20% off coupon.  Evil bastards.)

Anywho, tonight I planned for an early dinner and a trip to the neighborhood pool for Family Swim Night! The line coming out the front door of the community center should have been a give-away that a calamity was about to ensue.  It wasn’t until we got inside to pay and get our hands stamped that I clued in to the fact that it was $2 family swim night.  Let me tell you this right now; sometimes, paying LESS is not a good thing.  Because in this case when we paid LESS we got so much MORE.  Not in a good way.

Kids and people were everywhere.  There was nowhere to change or put our stuff and bodies were packed into the pool like minnows.  In fact some people that were at the back of the line never made it in.  They shut down admissions as the place was at capacity. We hit the wave pool first.  I was swept away following little G and Newms but soon we got separated.  A 10-year-old boy passed me awkwardly on the left and while I was getting out of his way, I got kicked, Michael Phelps style, right smack in the boob by some other kid.   Boob hits hurt.    I already knew this to be true because once I accidentally punched myself in the boob and it hurt so bad I passed out in the bathroom at work and was subsequently late to an important meeting.  But that’s another story for another day.  I sat out for a lap.  It was a war zone. 

The lifeguards were ever vigilant.  They paced and scanned from their perches blowing the whistle and pointing at kids who were pushing, shoving, rough-housing or generally being annoying (aka EVERY KID IN THE POOL) at 15 second intervals.  It was nerve wracking.  One whistle meant stop what you were doing.  Two whistles meant stop what you were doing and go find your parent.   Three whistles meant they wrote your name on a clipboard and gave your parent a final warning.  

Little G and Newms went down the big slide a few times and that was fun to watch.  I stood awkwardly in the middle of the melee protecting my boobage and waving.  Soon I decided my time would be better spent in the hot tub.  I settled in to the lovely warm water the lone female surrounded by 8 very large, very hairy and very scary fellas.  They did not appear to want to talk to me.  I know this because when I talked to them, they did not talk back.  The lifeguard standing above me overseeing both the hot tub and a portion of the shallow end looked a lot like Jim Carey in his SNL lifeguard role.  Turns, out he acted like him too.  Somehow a ding-a-ling parent wasn’t watching their toddler and the little guy attempted to enter the hot tub.  Toddler jumped in and before his little body was completely in the water, Jim Carey blew his whistle three times in my ear and leapt, hurdle style, into the hot tub to extract the kid.  He soared over my head.  As I looked up I saw Jim Carey’s junk.  Nuts.  Now I needed  a mind-shower.  He hit the water and scooped up the toddler in one move.  It was epic.  The parent was found.  A report was filed.  Jim Carey returned to his station which was directly over me.  The run-off from his swim trunks cascaded onto my head.  Before I could casually move, he jumped in for another rescue in the shallow end.  A kid, with a life-vest on being held by his mother got rescued.  It was intense.

About that time, a really really old, skinny dude, I’ll call him Frank, decided to hit the hot tub.  As he got in I noted he had two black eyes.  Somebody very recently kicked this scrawny guy’s arse. He was looking right at me as he descended the stairs and made a lot of ahhh and oooh noises as the warmth enveloped him.  I smiled.  Who doesn’t love getting into the hot tub?  But then I noticed that he was using both hands to massage his package while staring right at me.  Ah, I see now. Frank was a creeper.  Time to get out of the hot tub and find my family.  Just as I decided to make my exit, Jim Carey blew the whistle four times.  Now I know, four whistle blows means ……Turd. In. The. Pool.

We’ll never know who, (my money is on Frank) but someone really took the kids to the pool.  Jim Carey moved all the kids into the deep end (yes, this makes sense) while another lifeguard fished the debris out of the water with what must be a poop catcher.  This is about the time that I give the “abort” signal to little G and Newms, who were standing in line on the stairs to get one more run on the giant water slide.  In much the same fashion as we entered, an insanely large group of people left the community pool, a little less innocent than when they went in.

Bonus – they gave us free passes for our next swim.  So, it was a happy ending for all.  Except for maybe Frank.