Sink or swim

I was treated, this afternoon, to taking the two older children to their After School Swimming Lesson. With Chippie in tow. And the bottoms of my bathers still AWOL. All fun.

We were slighly late leaving school, which resulted, inevitably, in arriving at the exact time there are precisly zero car parks available. This is a phenomena that lasts from the time you leave school 37 seconds later than normal for swimming lessons, until the exact moment you have parked some 3 km away, dragged the swim bags and screaming pre-schooler, and yelled at the Capable Of Walking Distances children to Hurry The Fuck Up arrive at the pool complex door and discover 5 parks, right there!

Am in luck, and find a park.

Getting changed is fraught with newfound 3 year old obstinance, whereby he insists he does not want to go in the pool, the has screaming fit becuase you say, nicely “ok”, and insists he does, in fact, want to go for a swim. This is followed immediately by a screaming and kicking tanty when I attempt to put his bathers on … and so on and so forth until someone says “If you don’t stop fucking screaming, I’ll throw you in the fucking pool, ok?” I’m not sure who that is, though.

Monkey Boy nearly wets his pants laughing when I don Grumpy’s far-too-big board shorts again, but is quickly shot down when I advise him I would have gone and bought myself a new pair if it wasn’t for little fucker children.

Stress levels are rising.

Enter wading pool, which is deliciously cool. Chippie has regained a heap of confidence and made some friends and is happy wandering around with his skate board, aka kick board, and yelling “Look, mum, I swimmin'”. Aka

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