A Swimingly Perfect Day

*OK, this is a ridiculously long post (lots of spaces, though). A stream of consciousness post. I pledge to go on a word diet in the very near future . . .

You know, whatever your belief system is, you gotta believe that there is a higher power up there. Sometimes he/she answers your prayers/pleas and sometimes he/she, heck, let's just call the higher power HP, k?

Anyway, HP is out there workin' it all out for you. Sometimes life works in your favor and sometimes it doesn't. But, you know HP is out there . . . all the time. Watching. Working. And wondering what the heck you're doing.

Sometimes, HP likes to play with you, mess with you . . . just a little.

Here's the scenario:

I signed up J for swim classes last Friday. No, I'm trying to turn J into the next Phelps, but if it happens, well then, cool . . .

The classes started this morning. I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. Outside of the tub and sprinkler, J hasn't had a major experience with water. Do I need a life jacket, floaties, a vest? I forgot to ask. It's the weekend. The office is closed. And me, what do I do? I have only one swimsuit (that fits) and it is a maternity suit. The bottoms now sag down to my knees (sadly, the top is actually snug). I know, you think I should just change out the bottoms. Can't. The suit is a ONE piece that looks like a two-piece.

Not only have I been desperate to find a suit in a town with exactly 14 suits left (all mismatch and made for the body of a hot fourteen-year-old model), but now I have to figure out what a kid needs for a swim class. OMG.

I need a moment.

Friday afternoon. Mr. Husband and I head to the one and only mall in the area. I peruse the racks. He peruses the racks. Um, CLOTHING racks. Gawsh.

He pulls out several suits. I take the suits away from him and tell him to go fetch a pretzel with J. He leaves. Happily.

After trying on a dozen suits, I give up. Maternity suit here I come . . .

But, just as I leave the store I spy a suit on a rack near the exit. A black suit. Sorta sporty. I try it on. It fits. 75% off. I can't describe what is does for my figure, but let's just say that outside of eighty-year-old men, I won't be getting many stares.

Moving on . . .

On Sunday, Carrie and I headed to about a dozen stores. To find an infant swim vest. Again. This is a SMALL town.

We were digging, begging, calling trying to locate just ONE infant swim vest. After hours and hours of searching we find a package for the perfect vest. No vest. Oh, HP, you mock me . . . No vest in the end, but we did find a suit with at tube built in. Whatever . . . it floats.

This morning starts out perfectly. "J, guess what? You get to go swimming in a big, big pool today!" He beams. I beam. I'm super mommy!

We start to get ready. I shower. Put on my new suit. Pack our bags.

I can't find my keys.

J starts crying.

I go to comfort him.

WHACK.

"FUDGE BUCKETS!!!" I'm pretty sure I broke my toe.

I pick him up and get ready to put him in the car. Oh, dear HP, what the heck is in your diaper, J?

Change J (oh, if only it were that easy). Pack him in the car. Grab ice for toe. Look for keys.

20 minutes later.

We are so gonna be late.

It hits me. I have a crappy suit, a baby with no gear, a broken toe, lost keys, and not a clue as to what I am doing. And, I'm gonna be late.

I get grumpy. Really grumpy. Ready to scream. There they are. The keys. In J's dump truck. Of course! Where else would they be?

Twenty minutes later we finally make it to the pool house. Great, no parking. This is so not meant to be.

But, with great resolve I am determined to make it now. J will swim if it kills me.

I park a couple blocks away. I grab the bag, the baby, the tube suit and . . .

No stroller. I have THREE strollers but not even one in my car.

J can walk, but unless I want to get there in time for next week's lesson, I have to carry him.

I hoist him up on my hip and all the stuff on the other. I am a spectacle. I have no pictures, but I am certain the group of college guys standing at the corner do.

We make it in the pool. I know I will be late. I know the other mothers will stare. I know it will be a disaster.

I stumble through the door. J barely clinging to me as I drop the pile of stuff on the floor and wipe the sweaty hair from my eyes.

It is empty.

Well, except for the three elderly ladies finishing up their senior water aerobics.

Are you kidding me??? "Am I in the right place?" I ask. One lady responds, "Well, unless there is another pool in here, then my guess is right." Oooh. She's a smarty pants. I like her.

"Where are all the other babies? The mothers? I thought I was late!" I stare around the pool room.

"You're it!" exclaims the very young instructor coming up behind me.

What . . . I'm it? "I couldn't find a vest for my son."

"That's OK. We have a bunch here!" Huh?

It was me, a sweet little lifeguard/trainer, and three elderly ladies (who later turned into J's fan club).

HP. You just loved foolin' with me, didn't you? You loved watching me freak out for no reason. That perfect smile on J's face as he floated in the water, kicking his feet, paddling his arms . . . oh, you mock me, HP.

A perfect hour. A baby so happy that I forgot what I looked like. I forgot about the fruitless and ultimately pointless search for a vest. I didn't care about my toe. And carrying J and all that stuff two blocks. So totally worth it . . .

I have no pictures becaues I forgot my camera. And, my cell phone. Well. Apparently it isn't waterproof.

Next week. I promise.