Worse Than a Baby Ruth

This past weekend, on Mother’s Day, we took the Detective to his second swim class of the year.

It’s his second year in such a class; his first went well so we were looking forward to this one. This year we’ve been twice, and it’s not going quite as well – a year older now, he is a lot more aware of what he’s doing and a lot more aggressive in letting us know when he doesn’t want to be doing it.

We assume he’ll be okay after a few sessions, but such expectations are being thwarted by the fact that the second class was cut short, by something out of Caddyshack.

Are there any candy bars that look like vomit?

In the middle of the year’s second swim class, with our son enjoying things about as much as a person being held down in cold water while wearing a swim cap tightly around his head can be expected to enjoy something, we were suddenly assaulted by a loud, piercing whistle shriek and immediately ORDERED – with prejudice and by a fifteen-year-old supervisor – to evacuate the pool.

Sitting courtside with the other spectator parents, I immediately assumed someone had urinated in the pool. I scanned the water for the telltale yellow residue, but saw nothing. Which made sense, as every kid in the pool should have been wearing a diaper, and if a diaper can’t contain urine, then what hope do we have as a society. But my wife wasn’t wearing a diaper, and as we had had a late dinner the night before during which many drinks were enjoyed, I wasn’t ruling out the possibility that it had been her.

But urine was not the issue.

My wife, who, to reiterate, totally hadn’t pissed herself and was enjoying a Mother’s Day dip with her unhappy child in a sea of tainted water, dutifully carried our suddenly chipper son (his face: “I’m free!!!”) to the side of the pool. I shifted gears and started looking for a floating Baby Ruth, but I saw nothing.

It wasn’t until later, as we were leaving, that we were informed that a child had vomited in the pool, presumably after screaming for twenty straight minutes and, having lost his voice, needed to expel something to illustrate his displeasure with the morning’s activities.

We escaped unscathed, our party having avoided being assaulted either physically (touching) or psychologically (seeing) by the floating vomit. To be honest, the possibility of throwing up in a swimming pool had hardly even occurred to me before Sunday and I’m just glad I didn’t spot the stuff and can live the rest of my life without that image haunting my dreams.

Unfortunately for us, our son lost an opportunity to acclimate himself to the pool, so we can likely expect more histrionics come next week’s class. On the plus side, our son didn’t throw up on Mother’s Day.

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