I’m taking my youngest child to his first swimming lesson on the weekend. I’m about as excited as one man can get when he knows he has to strip off at 8am and plunge into a tepid pool with his struggling spawn while other parents float about cooing at their own kids who've most likely laid a sloppy nard in their soaked swim-nappy. My son loves the water so I’m not too concerned that he'll be THAT child who sits on the edge of the pool screaming like a shaved piglet. I do worry about other parents though. I found with my eldest child that a lot of parents can get super competitive in swimming classes and some of them don’t mind gloating. I’m envisaging the following:
“My Taneesha can swim on her own and she’s barely 8 months old. How’s your boy doing?”
“He’s struggling with the whole ingesting chlorinated water thing but he'll get there.”
“I’m sure he will” says Taneesha’s Mum, pausing in between screaming at her floundering child like an East German swimming coach and filming her with a bedazzled iPhone. “We've been teaching Taneesha how to swim since the day she was born.”
“That’s awesome. I’ve been trying to juggle the whole work-life balance thing without causing irreparable damage to my sanity and my relationship with my wife and family members.”
“Mmm” replies Taneesha’s Mum as she floats away from the weird bald man who’s trying to keep his son’s face out of the water while looking out for errant floating turds.
Wish me luck.