Charlotte’s first time in the big pool.


For Memorial Day, the family had a little shin-dig.  We got there early, for Charlotte’s first time actually getting into the Big Pool.

She’d been in on my shoulders last year, but she didn’t get into the water.  Friday, I held her on the side before I left for camping with my Dad, and she kicked her legs in the water and laughed herself silly.

Good, she’ll like swimming, I thought.

Now this child is (I might have said this before) legendarily only afraid of the vacuum cleaner — nothing else.  Not dogs, trucks, other kids, loud noises — nothing.  Mama and I are both scared people, and we’d like to keep Charlotte from getting that way ahead of time.  I figured that she would get into the water, cling to me and just chill.

I got her in like a grown-up gets into a slightly cold pool: by just jumping in!  She giggled.  She smiled.  She didn’t claw my neck or freak out.  She didn’t just mellow out in the water.

She kept trying to drink the water.  She kicked her legs.  She tried to float.  She went bonkers when I would pick her up and then dunk her.  She got into the shaded and very pink floaty that Grandpa got her and stayed there all by herself.  She had herself a ball.  When I held her up by her little belly, she kicked and swung her arms like a beginning swimmer. My little fishy. I thought we should limit her to a half hour in the water and sun, and I was sad to have to take her out.

She’s a happy little swimmer, and I’m excited about the idea of taking her to swimming lessons within the next year.

She got back into the Small Pool after that and played with her Uncle Tom, Grandma and Grandpa. Her diaper (this time a non-swim diaper) ballooned like a white beach ball.

Of course, being a toddler, she got hungry and cranky after that.  Drank bubbly water and ate veggies and cheese snacks.  Totally orange face.  She fell and hit her head on the sidewalk, but she didn’t get very upset by it.  Instead it was naptime (she always hits her head at naptime), and she fell asleep with me on the couch at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house.  We sweated all over one another. I got up groggily from too much beer and sun and not enough coffee and water.

Now we’re sweating in the Old Apartment, thinking about the central air that will be ours in 2-3 weeks, the hope that keeps our window units in their boxes.

Another thing I learned today: Charlotte sweats a lot, like her parents. When we fell asleep on the couch, that wasn’t all my sweat.

Our little Hotbox.

I think the pregnancy is making me braver?

Or, at least, less afraid of everything?  Or maybe so afraid of the BIG THING that everything else seems trivial.  Or maybe I’m more comfortable with not caring about stupid things like my appearance.

Examples:

Calling someone a bad name that included the word “ugly” and a reference to her height because, well, she deserved to receive some grief.  This was followed by a night of shame over freaking out like that.  And a morning of being angry about being treated condescendingly that replaced any shame.  Tip: Don’t be condescending to people just because you have the time to be.

Digging through piles of clearance stuff at a store where I saw really need wooden toys in the same place a few months ago.  I was manic and didn’t care but still only found a busted doggy and ducky, neither of which were worth buying.

Wearing polo shirts/Tevas to meetings where I should be wearing at least at tie, if not a suit.  Also wearing a thick beard to said meetings with high-ranking university officials (high enough to get my fired).  At least I tucked my shirt in.

Leaning back in my chair with my hands over my head at meetings, staring out the window.  I probably did this before (ADD), but now I know it.  And drawing cartoons of the people present that they can probably see.

Actually threatened to break my still not fully function right hand over someone’s head if he attempts to break a certain banishment (long story) of which he himself was the author and which it is not my place to break or occlude said banishment — but where it is my place to support the banished party.

Ate breakfast with my luxuriously-round belly out because I didn’t feel like walking to my bedroom to get a shirt.  I never ever ever do anything without a shirt except sleep and swim, and I don’t do either much lately.  My 20s and my belly have not been friends.  (Although apparently this makes me awesome?)  Maybe my impending 30s and my belly will like each other more.

I have acquired the habit of yelling and waving at pedestrian-ignoring cars.

My non-healed injuries from this spring don’t worry me as much as annoy me.  So what if I still can’t make a fist with my right hand, put weight on my left wrist or walk/cycle to much before my toe starts killing me?  The thought of toe surgery is less scary and more of an annoyed case of, “Wait, how much longer will I be in crutches because of that stupid driver?”

These are probably not big deals to some people, but I’ve discovered that I am extremely fearful and anxious, despite my coffee-zen demeanor.

Hate crimes on the rise.

Since Obama was elected, stupid racist people are getting a little more…active.  Read more.  Schoolchildren shout “Assassinate Obama!”  Okay, so kids are being taught by someone to be so full of ignorant hate as to call for the murder of a President-elect.  If they still yell that after he’s in, should that be, something you get arrested for? I mean, you can’t go to jail and stay there for something you say.  I would never want that.  But is it to be construed as a threat worth of at least a look?

Maybe I sound like an advocate of the Patriot Act or something.  But come on.  Will we really tolerate kids yelling that? I may just be speaking out of an unspoken fear that one of these racist assholes will actually act on their hate.

If black kids in New Orleans in 2005 yelled “Assassinate Bush,” that would not have been tolerated, even if it wasn’t necessarily and entirely racially motivated.

If the kids are not being taught to be so hateful by someone else and are in fact that bad on their own, this is doubly true — we can’t tolerate this.  We can’t control someone’s heart and their hate, but we can discourage the expression of it.  Can’t we?  Should we?