The class formerly known as “Mommy and Me Swimming”
I’ve been looking forward to baby swim class at the Y ever since we knew that Kate was pregnant. The first class was about a month ago, in the superheated short pool. Lydia wore a swim diaper and a little bathing suit, and she took the water in stride. She likes to stick her tongue out and lick the surface of the water in a calm, contemplative manner. There’s a dirty trick they teach you where you blow in your baby’s face to make them squinch up their eyes, and then you dunk them underwater. She regarded this as a mild breach of etiquette, but really was pretty relaxed about the whole thing.
The first class (formerly called “mommy and me swimming”) was mostly moms and dads together (and the 16-year-old instructor, who passed out floaty toys and chirped “now, don’t let them put these in their mouths!”, indicating the chewed-up nature of some of the foam alphabet letters. At least, that’s what I think she said; it was kind of hard to hear her over the sound of seven babies noisily chewing on the toys. Lydia, Ruiner of Floaty Toys, can do a cookie-monster impression with the best of them: “UMMM-YUMM-ARMM-HOMF-HOMF-HOMF!”)
So anyhow, I took Lydia by myself to the next class, only to discover that the class was now entirely a daddy-and-baby swimming class. Apparently, all us dads had passed the test and received certification in not pissing off the baby too badly. After class, we all lined up at the changing table in the locker room, tearing off swimmy diapers and bundling the chlorine-scented babies back into their onesies.
After class, Lydia sleeps the sleep of the just in her car seat, and I drive in a holding pattern, circling West Chester.