Day 2, we meet again

So here it is, Day 2 of the great blogging adventure, and I’ve already hit a wall. A big goddamned brick wall is just smashed right up against my cerebral cortex. (And yeah, I had to Google where writing and creativity originate in the brain. Seven eighths of a Biology degree does not make me a fucking neurologist.)

I’m blocked.

I could write about politics, or the oil spill that ate the Gulf (seriously, quit bitching about BP already) or I could slap up one of the product reviews I have floating around in my head, but I don’t think I’m ready to swim in those big pools quite yet. So I think I’ll borrow Boo’s SpongeBob water wings and tackle….

Hrmm. Summer? Swimming?

It’s August. Just like every year, it’s hot. Like melt your eyeballs hot. And just like last year and the year before, everyone is positively losing their shit about the temperature. We constantly check the forecast (It’s 104 now! Jesus God on a cracker, how will we live?) and wait for a stray cloud to pass overhead to provide a few seconds of shade.

Smart people stay indoors, spread-eagle naked on the floor, and move as little as possible. Parents don’t really have that luxury. Being trapped in the house with a bored eighteen month-old is kind of like being caught in a wildebeest stampede. There’s a good chance someone will die. So what do we do? We go to the pool.

At the beginning of the summer, we bought Boo a tiny plastic wading pool. He loves that pool. Every morning, he gazes at it longingly through the window. “Mah poo! Mama! Mah poo!” It mocks him from the back porch, calling his name in a shrill dog-whistle call that only babies can hear. “MAMA! MAH POO!” he insists, jabbing a chubby finger at the window.

Mah poo!

Last week, I took Boo swimming in a real pool for the first time. And when I say ‘I’, I really mean my dad. This pasty body doesn’t ever need to be crammed into a swimsuit. EVER. AGAIN. But Boo loved the pool. I was afraid he’d throw one of his foaming-at-the-mouth-like-a-rabid-chipmunk tantrums once his (very nommable) toes hit the water.

Nope. Wrong. This kid is a fish in the making. And I think he comes by it naturally. When I was a kid, my whole family would load up approximately 600 pool toys and head down to the country club swimming pool to spend the afternoon baking in the hot Southern sun. It was how my mother kept her sanity until school started again. Oddly, I think the same pool will probably save my sanity in summers to come.

It's cool as you don't let me go, Nono.

Yep, summers are pretty great.


About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
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2 Responses to Day 2, we meet again

  1. Amy says:

    I remember going to the country club with our dads as they played golf. It was the best time, ever! You and J would be fighting in the pool, and she would eventually get so mad that she would scratch or bite you; and your awesome little brother would always do a cannon ball right next to us and totally make us look uncool. And then we would get hungry and get some food at the store and just charge it to our dad’s accounts, which we would later get in trouble for because we spent too much….. ahhhhh…..memories!

  2. Chelsie says:

    I know. I feel like I should break out in a Barbara Streisand song or something. When we were swimming that day, my dad had this weird deja vu moment. It hit him that he was really holding his grandson in the same pool where his children played when they were little.

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