Daddy does it better

Grumpy took an extra shift at work this week. which meant, this morning I got to do the swimming lessons with the toddler.

I was, this time, given “plenty of notice”, however this term is all relative and objective. You see, although I had five days notice of the impending bathers-wearing occasion, I had but no time in which to even ring to organise a good old leg waxing, let alone attend one.

Did contemplate a German accent to get me by. Instead did a quick underarm wax home job in between Vegemite sandwiches, locating the toddlers other shoe (the one he will acutually wear) and removing wax from the bathroom mirror.

Don’t ask.

Squished self into bathers before heading out the door, remembering to pack knickers and bra for myself, but not a spare nappy for the toddler. Manage to leave home, quite unintended and much to my dismay, earlier than planned and end up in the pool 15 minutes before the start of the lessson. Which meant an extra 15 minutes in the pool, total.

Chippie, the youngest in the group by a few good months, is by far the best and has come such a long way.

I felt a pang of … something, that thing all mothers feel, about not having been there each week to see all of his progress and I’m “missing out” and blah blah.

(Course, I’m also aware of the whole “but it’s so great for dads to be more involved” argument, too).

Am quickly relieved of that particular emotion, when Chippie wanders out of the pool, before his lesson has actually finished, into the change rooms, where it is freezing cold, proceeds to make attempts to remove his wet bathers, which he has no hope of doing because a) they are wet and stuck to him and b) he is still at that age where he pulls his pants up to take them off. Like I said, “no hope”.

It is around this point that I appear to do something wrong. I take his bathers off for him, as this seems to be what the routine is; I’m just following his lead. He then screams at me, throws himself on the cold, concrete floor, throws his wet bathers at me, then tries to put them on then throws them at me again.

I still have no idea what he actually wants me to do, or what I’m meant to be doing. Obviously, the routine he and the Grumpy One embark upon is totally different to my total lack of anything.

I manage to get his slippery, writhing, kicking and screaming body clothed, and attempt to do same with mine, whilst chatting to lovely old lady who is quite obviously socially deprived, and stop my towel from sliding off due to me a) being modest (and unwaxed) and b) so my tits don’t actually freeze off from the chill in the room. Chippie is still not happy, and seems even less so at my endeavouring to get dressed. Attempt to pull kncikers up over damp thights with towel around bum whilst he is reaching up under towel in what can only be described as a gynaecological action to remove knickers.

I sitll have no idea why.

Finally, I’m dressed, everything is packed up and stuffed in swimming bag, I hoist him up as really don’t want him lying on the cold, wet floor again, wander out to reception, put him down and discover he is now extremely happy, quite possibly because he has exposed a majority of my right breast (thankfully bra clad) to the 17 year old behind the counter who needs to retrieve my car keys and look at me to accept the locker key I’m holding out to him.

Drop Chippie off at day care, feeling extraordinarily tired, return home and realise I haven’t yet eaten breakfast and it is now past official morning tea time. Need to eat. Starving. So whip up some toasted sandwiches and vacuum them via my oesophagus.

No longer hungry by lunch time, so am left to comtemplate whether the food I ate at 10.30 am could count, technically, as “lunch” and, therefore, if cake is acceptable to eat at what is technically considered “lunch time”?

Yes, yes I think I will …

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