We were ten minutes late this morning to Lyla's first swimming class. It was completely her fault.
Once there, I noticed two things right away: Lyla was the youngest in the class, and I was the only dad. As I lowered us into the pool, fully aware of the befuddled dad stereotype I had reinforced by being late, the singing began.
Yes, the singing. Apparently each class begins with the welcome song. I'll do my best to recall the lyrics: "Welcome to the swimming pool! Join us now! Swimming pool! Come into the swimming pool, and let us eat your souls!"
Today's lesson was how to hold a baby in the water so the baby might feel compelled to kick. Lyla's buddy Anja and her mom, who I teach with, waded over to practice with us. It was obvious (and a little embarrassing, I might add) that Anja and Lyla had far more raw talent than the other kids in the class. Not to take anything away from those other kids, but their kicking lacked precision. It's like Anja and Lyla were Michael Phelps, and the other kids were Michael Phelps in the bong picture.
"Is he kidding?"
"I'm offended!"
"How can Lyla even kick with those thunderous legs?"
Hush, voices. Seven classes remain, and in the final test next Thursday the kids have to work together to rescue a drowning Elmo doll. Or something like that. We'll try to be on time.
1 comment:
It's so true! Joshua's mom was talking to me in the locker room about how bad she feels that he's almost 2 and is in a class with Anja and Lyla. I wanted to tell her that I agreed - he was holding them back! They really should look into tracking for swim lessons - like AP Infant Swimming.
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