We are very open about our bodies in our family. The kids love to be naked and while the adults don't generally strip down and dance around the living room with glee, we definitely don't hide our bodies from our kids. The words penis and vagina hold no more or less significance than the words head or elbow, because we don't play the shame game when it comes to anatomy or bodily functions.
Kelan has the sensibilities of your average 2 year old boy. Being naked is a source of joy and even has its own dance, the "nah nah boo boo". He knows the word penis and thinks butts are funny, but that is about as far as his interest in physiology goes. Minna, on the other hand, is full of questions about how bodies work. We talk about the nervous system, the digestive system, eyesight, muscles and bones, and yes, how babies are made. One night when we were chatting in her bed, she asked about how babies get into mamas. She settled back into her pillow and sucked her thumb while I told the story. Daddies have sperm, and mamas have eggs. The sperm and the egg have to connect to make a baby. The Daddies sperm travels from inside his body and comes out through his penis. Minna had to stop sucking her thumb at this point because her mouth was agape, and then said...."what the????" in the most incredulous tone. She had the same reaction when I told her that the Daddies penis had to enter the mama through her vagina.
The weird thing is not so much that she reacted the way she did, but that she's never ever commented with disbelief about any other topic we've discussed. She's been told the physics of how airplanes fly and all about how volcanoes work, which to me are way more fucking incredible than ejaculation, without even a hint of awe. So why, when it comes to talking about penises, vaginae, and sex is she weirded out?
If I had told her that babies are delivered by giant birds that wear delivery man hats I think she would have bought it, full on. Was my honesty, my need to keep it real, the wrong approach for a pre-school brain? Was she picking up on signs of discomfort I was unknowingly portraying? I don't know.
We'll keep dancing naked and answering questions honestly up in here, but I'll be mindful of the fact that the subject of sex carries with it cultural baggage that even a four year old can perceive. What the....???
Friday, September 11, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Fun Mom
I've got almost 4 years of mamahood under my belt and with that has come a bit of knowledge of self-as-parent, and gawdamn, I am a fun mom. I'm a regular party with a purse. I'm the mom who rents the double decker firetruck shopping cart at the mall and sprints down the aisleways making siren noises as I swerve to avoid collisions with regular stroller pushing moms and my kids scream "faster, faster". A couple of weeks ago at a 5 year old birthday party, I was the only mom to go down the water slide while Minna cheered me on. I'm the mom who takes my kids on naked walks (them, not me, I'm not THAT much fun) through the neighborhood and do not give a fuck what the neighbors think. I'm the mom who always says yes to the free cookies at the grocery store, lets the kids paint my face AND doesn't wash it off before going out in public.
I guess being the fun mom goes along with my general philosophy of not taking oneself too seriously. That has got to be one of my biggest pet peeves ever (that and pushing the seasons). I often find my self thinking "lighten up bitches" in regards to other parents whilst in group situations. I'm often the only mom (dads tend to have different funness thresholds) actually willing to get wet at the fountain park. I usually end up soaked by the end cuz I would spend all my energy trying to avoid getting splashed otherwise, and what is fun about that? Once, I actually saw a mom who was standing at the edge of the water area get super pissed after getting splashed by a kid at play. She huffed and puffed, grabbed her son and left in a hurry. Her cunty disposition and her fear of water had me scanning the skies for flying monkeys.
Being a fun mom is not all about the kids, either. It can definitely be used for selfish purposes. Example, if the kids want to play restaurant I can stretch the length of time they will be occupado by at least 50% if I let them use real food. So, I hook them up with crackers, raisins, apples, popcorn, pitchers of water, and let them have at it. They get a really fun experience, and I get 20 minutes of peace to dick around on the internet or whathaveyou. Of course, I'll pay for that bit of funness later when I have to fish raisins out from behind the bed, and vacuum crushed crackers from the carpet (decidedly not fun), but being able to loosen up enough to let them cause that kind of a mess buys me time when I need it most. Also, letting the good times roll can diffuse a tense situation or switch the trajectory of a whinefest with relative ease. Instead of getting sucked into the bad vibes that often accompany the pre-dinner hour, I put on some fun dance music and we all bust a movay. The kids love it because they get to get naked and jump around on the couch, and I love it because it gives me proper justification for popping open that bottle of wine. Hey, its a party, woot woot! and I'm reeaaallly fun with a buzz on!
I am grateful to the kids for letting me stretch my fun boundaries with them, and I hope they will thank me for being the only mom at the playground in the princess cape and wig at least once before they deem me totally embarrassing.
I guess being the fun mom goes along with my general philosophy of not taking oneself too seriously. That has got to be one of my biggest pet peeves ever (that and pushing the seasons). I often find my self thinking "lighten up bitches" in regards to other parents whilst in group situations. I'm often the only mom (dads tend to have different funness thresholds) actually willing to get wet at the fountain park. I usually end up soaked by the end cuz I would spend all my energy trying to avoid getting splashed otherwise, and what is fun about that? Once, I actually saw a mom who was standing at the edge of the water area get super pissed after getting splashed by a kid at play. She huffed and puffed, grabbed her son and left in a hurry. Her cunty disposition and her fear of water had me scanning the skies for flying monkeys.
Being a fun mom is not all about the kids, either. It can definitely be used for selfish purposes. Example, if the kids want to play restaurant I can stretch the length of time they will be occupado by at least 50% if I let them use real food. So, I hook them up with crackers, raisins, apples, popcorn, pitchers of water, and let them have at it. They get a really fun experience, and I get 20 minutes of peace to dick around on the internet or whathaveyou. Of course, I'll pay for that bit of funness later when I have to fish raisins out from behind the bed, and vacuum crushed crackers from the carpet (decidedly not fun), but being able to loosen up enough to let them cause that kind of a mess buys me time when I need it most. Also, letting the good times roll can diffuse a tense situation or switch the trajectory of a whinefest with relative ease. Instead of getting sucked into the bad vibes that often accompany the pre-dinner hour, I put on some fun dance music and we all bust a movay. The kids love it because they get to get naked and jump around on the couch, and I love it because it gives me proper justification for popping open that bottle of wine. Hey, its a party, woot woot! and I'm reeaaallly fun with a buzz on!
I am grateful to the kids for letting me stretch my fun boundaries with them, and I hope they will thank me for being the only mom at the playground in the princess cape and wig at least once before they deem me totally embarrassing.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Weaner
Northern elephant seal(Mirounga angustirostris)females nurse their young for about 30 days. During this time the young quadruple their birth weight and the mothers fast, unable to leave their young to return to the sea to feed. By the end of the month, the "weaners" are robust and ready to begin their independent lives, while the females are depleted and starving. So much so that the even though they will have mated about 24 days after giving birth, the fertilized egg will not implant in the wall of the uterus for about four months... a rare phenomenon called "giving the poor bitches a break"...or technically speaking "delayed implantation". After 30 days, at risk of death, the females must leave their young, weaning them abruptly by desertion.
Any mother who has nursed a baby can feel a bit of sisterhood with the elephant seal ladies. The proud, satisfying feeling of being the fount of life...knowing that each ounce gained is an ounce transferred directly from our own resources. The deep and powerful connection experienced when we can satisfy our babies' most primal needs with the unbuttoning of a blouse. The warmth of the suckling infant connected to us once again as they were in the womb. The feeling of being trapped, and of being sucked dry as the little one drinks greedily of our time, our space, our person.
At some point the time comes for every mother-offspring dyad to end the nursing relationship. For some of us the need to do this presents itself with urgency, as if we risk death by starvation if we don't soon return to the sea. For others, it is a lengthy dialogue that requires thorough processing. Sometimes, its the baby that calls it quits, leaving these mothers vacillating between feeling wounded and relieved. Regardless of the nature of the transition, weaning marks a notable shift in the mother-child dynamic, and causes psychological and biological flux.
I'm presently weaning my 20 month old son. He is our last child. He is the last baby that will settle into the rhythmic suckling which, at its best stirred powerful feelings of euphoria, and at its worst stoked the embers of resentment. I can't desert him and head out to sea, so we are going through the transition together. I'm torn. Ready to know the freedom of not being needed quite so much and afraid of becoming irrelevant. I'm moody and irritable due to the crashing levels of prolactin, and the sore boobs that I have to hand milk in the shower. Why deal with feeling so freaked out and bovine when I know exactly how to easily remedy both symptoms? He asks me to nurse. I pause. I tell him mama's milk is going away because he is getting SO big. He asks to just "try it". I pause. I tell him no. He cries for a moment or two and then he is on to the next amusement. A couple of well-timed lollipops and he glides through the usual nursing times with very little drama. Me, I need something a little stronger. I'm mourning the end of the essential maternal connection with my children. Drying up the flow of love that can be tasted and can fill an empty little belly. Marking the end of my tenure as an actively reproductive woman. No wonder I'm a little bitchy.
Mostly I wish I could bottle the milky smell of his breath after nursing. Oh, how it gives me an almost giddy feeling of well-being that I will sorely miss.
Thanks for the 38 months of active duty, boobs. You did an amazing job.
Any mother who has nursed a baby can feel a bit of sisterhood with the elephant seal ladies. The proud, satisfying feeling of being the fount of life...knowing that each ounce gained is an ounce transferred directly from our own resources. The deep and powerful connection experienced when we can satisfy our babies' most primal needs with the unbuttoning of a blouse. The warmth of the suckling infant connected to us once again as they were in the womb. The feeling of being trapped, and of being sucked dry as the little one drinks greedily of our time, our space, our person.
At some point the time comes for every mother-offspring dyad to end the nursing relationship. For some of us the need to do this presents itself with urgency, as if we risk death by starvation if we don't soon return to the sea. For others, it is a lengthy dialogue that requires thorough processing. Sometimes, its the baby that calls it quits, leaving these mothers vacillating between feeling wounded and relieved. Regardless of the nature of the transition, weaning marks a notable shift in the mother-child dynamic, and causes psychological and biological flux.
I'm presently weaning my 20 month old son. He is our last child. He is the last baby that will settle into the rhythmic suckling which, at its best stirred powerful feelings of euphoria, and at its worst stoked the embers of resentment. I can't desert him and head out to sea, so we are going through the transition together. I'm torn. Ready to know the freedom of not being needed quite so much and afraid of becoming irrelevant. I'm moody and irritable due to the crashing levels of prolactin, and the sore boobs that I have to hand milk in the shower. Why deal with feeling so freaked out and bovine when I know exactly how to easily remedy both symptoms? He asks me to nurse. I pause. I tell him mama's milk is going away because he is getting SO big. He asks to just "try it". I pause. I tell him no. He cries for a moment or two and then he is on to the next amusement. A couple of well-timed lollipops and he glides through the usual nursing times with very little drama. Me, I need something a little stronger. I'm mourning the end of the essential maternal connection with my children. Drying up the flow of love that can be tasted and can fill an empty little belly. Marking the end of my tenure as an actively reproductive woman. No wonder I'm a little bitchy.
Mostly I wish I could bottle the milky smell of his breath after nursing. Oh, how it gives me an almost giddy feeling of well-being that I will sorely miss.
Thanks for the 38 months of active duty, boobs. You did an amazing job.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
coffee people
I'm in the PDX airport waiting for my family to pick me up after a brief trip to Davis.
Being in an airport with a latte and my laptop is my kind of an outing. I can eavesdrop and peek into little snippets of people's lives as they stop for a drink or a snack before proceeding on to their next destination. For me, this is the destination. for me, this is a fix.
I get a comforting feeling being the voyeur. Present, but not accounted for. When we get together with old friends, there is always a time in the evening when all I want is to become invisible and listen. Sneak away to a spot unseen and follow the conversation of my dearest friends as if listening to them on the radio. Laughing along quietly, making comments to myself. Interaction takes an energy I can't always spare, but observation is restorative.
I find the normal business of strangers compelling as well. Bearing witness to the details of a mother lovingly folding each tiny onesie as she reorganized her carry-on in search of her daughter's small stuffed penguin. Imaging the conversation between the two bohemian guys, dressed in black, as they pick at lomein and orange chicken for breakfast.
I fucking hate reality tv, but I could watch and listen to ordinary people doing ordinary things for days. If I had super power it would be invisibility and I would sneak into your house and watch you prepare supper....follow you to work and listen to you bullshit with your co-worker about your weekend....uh...am I starting to sound creepy? Don't worry, I'm not in your closet or your trunk...I'm here at the airport stealing small moments from strangers and savoring them like sugar cubes.
Being in an airport with a latte and my laptop is my kind of an outing. I can eavesdrop and peek into little snippets of people's lives as they stop for a drink or a snack before proceeding on to their next destination. For me, this is the destination. for me, this is a fix.
I get a comforting feeling being the voyeur. Present, but not accounted for. When we get together with old friends, there is always a time in the evening when all I want is to become invisible and listen. Sneak away to a spot unseen and follow the conversation of my dearest friends as if listening to them on the radio. Laughing along quietly, making comments to myself. Interaction takes an energy I can't always spare, but observation is restorative.
I find the normal business of strangers compelling as well. Bearing witness to the details of a mother lovingly folding each tiny onesie as she reorganized her carry-on in search of her daughter's small stuffed penguin. Imaging the conversation between the two bohemian guys, dressed in black, as they pick at lomein and orange chicken for breakfast.
I fucking hate reality tv, but I could watch and listen to ordinary people doing ordinary things for days. If I had super power it would be invisibility and I would sneak into your house and watch you prepare supper....follow you to work and listen to you bullshit with your co-worker about your weekend....uh...am I starting to sound creepy? Don't worry, I'm not in your closet or your trunk...I'm here at the airport stealing small moments from strangers and savoring them like sugar cubes.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Love hard
I think we need to love one another harder. Not deeper, not sweeter, not with more confidence or faith. But harder, louder and with more gusto.
How to do that when the love faucet is on 24-7, and the well is threatening to run dry as the thirsty babies (all 3 of them) beg, open-mouthed, for more.
Habits developed in acts of innocent self-preservation become status quo. Retreat becomes comfort in contrast to the dissonance of attention. Locks need to be unlocked, but the babies, the babies, they are always on our jock.
Rusty bits and pieces rough starting each day. Annoyance is an easier gig than compassion, and the score is never settled. Even at day's end the specter of the need fouls the quiet. The click of the keyboard is the serenade.
There is love. Quiet and compact. Woven and tangled and sinewy from stasis.
Stretch, breathe, yell, laugh, fall. Shake, shake, shake it off. Breach the protective shell without scrambling the contents. Reveal, make raw, and heal.
How to do that when the love faucet is on 24-7, and the well is threatening to run dry as the thirsty babies (all 3 of them) beg, open-mouthed, for more.
Habits developed in acts of innocent self-preservation become status quo. Retreat becomes comfort in contrast to the dissonance of attention. Locks need to be unlocked, but the babies, the babies, they are always on our jock.
Rusty bits and pieces rough starting each day. Annoyance is an easier gig than compassion, and the score is never settled. Even at day's end the specter of the need fouls the quiet. The click of the keyboard is the serenade.
There is love. Quiet and compact. Woven and tangled and sinewy from stasis.
Stretch, breathe, yell, laugh, fall. Shake, shake, shake it off. Breach the protective shell without scrambling the contents. Reveal, make raw, and heal.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Bragging rights
People compliment me all the time about the kids. In music class, at the park, in the food store, on the street. Its a regular thing. I would say normal, but its not really normal. My kids attract a lot of attention and no, its not normal.
Since Minna was little, I've been a bit perplexed as to how I should handle these situations. For some reason there is this unwritten, unspoken rule of public politeness that says that when complimented, we should do the following:
1. appreciate
2. self-depricate
3. reciprocate
So it goes a little something like this.
Them: "Oh my, your daughter speaks so well. She has an amazing vocabulary"
Me: "why, thank you" (1). "its great, but really, you just can't shut this girl up!" (2) and "your son just has the greatest hair" (3).
This bugs. Why isn't step one enough? Why can't I just say "thanks" or even (gawd forbid)..."I know, she was incredibly verbal from a very early age". I find that the three steps are particularly necessary with other parents of similarly aged kids. Try to get away with just step one and you'll find yourself ostracized to the outskirts of the playgroup.
So is it somehow bad/conceited/deluded of me to be pretty confident in the fact that my kids kick ass? I asked Dan about this once and he said..."well, I guess it depends on how much you think that reflects on you...." Well helltothefuckingyes I think that reflects on me. These kids have been my main focus for the past 6+ years (if you count trying to conceive and pregnancy, which I do), so yeah, I take pride in and take credit for their awesomeness. There I said it. My kids kick ass and I made them that way. Whether by nature or nurture, I (and of course all the other amazing people in their lives, particularly their father) kick ass at kids.
Before you get your panties in a wad at my outright conceit, let me just say, that I also take ownership of all the time they are Shitty McShitheads. Seriously. I aint saying they are perfect...yes the little one has zero table manners and the big one can't keep her hands out of her pants...Ok so the little one hasn't slept through the night more than twice in 20 months and the big one has a tendency to lose her shit when she doesn't get her way. BUTT BUTT BUTT...they are gorgeous, happy, affectionate, brilliant, capable, trusting, caring, funny, amazing kids and every ounce of what I have to offer has been funneled into these two beings with satisfying results.
So go ahead tell me how pretty, strong, musical, coordinated, sweet they are. I know and I'm happy to get the positive feedback. But oy, are they a handful at bedtime...and did I mention how I love, I mean really love, your kid's hair??
Since Minna was little, I've been a bit perplexed as to how I should handle these situations. For some reason there is this unwritten, unspoken rule of public politeness that says that when complimented, we should do the following:
1. appreciate
2. self-depricate
3. reciprocate
So it goes a little something like this.
Them: "Oh my, your daughter speaks so well. She has an amazing vocabulary"
Me: "why, thank you" (1). "its great, but really, you just can't shut this girl up!" (2) and "your son just has the greatest hair" (3).
This bugs. Why isn't step one enough? Why can't I just say "thanks" or even (gawd forbid)..."I know, she was incredibly verbal from a very early age". I find that the three steps are particularly necessary with other parents of similarly aged kids. Try to get away with just step one and you'll find yourself ostracized to the outskirts of the playgroup.
So is it somehow bad/conceited/deluded of me to be pretty confident in the fact that my kids kick ass? I asked Dan about this once and he said..."well, I guess it depends on how much you think that reflects on you...." Well helltothefuckingyes I think that reflects on me. These kids have been my main focus for the past 6+ years (if you count trying to conceive and pregnancy, which I do), so yeah, I take pride in and take credit for their awesomeness. There I said it. My kids kick ass and I made them that way. Whether by nature or nurture, I (and of course all the other amazing people in their lives, particularly their father) kick ass at kids.
Before you get your panties in a wad at my outright conceit, let me just say, that I also take ownership of all the time they are Shitty McShitheads. Seriously. I aint saying they are perfect...yes the little one has zero table manners and the big one can't keep her hands out of her pants...Ok so the little one hasn't slept through the night more than twice in 20 months and the big one has a tendency to lose her shit when she doesn't get her way. BUTT BUTT BUTT...they are gorgeous, happy, affectionate, brilliant, capable, trusting, caring, funny, amazing kids and every ounce of what I have to offer has been funneled into these two beings with satisfying results.
So go ahead tell me how pretty, strong, musical, coordinated, sweet they are. I know and I'm happy to get the positive feedback. But oy, are they a handful at bedtime...and did I mention how I love, I mean really love, your kid's hair??
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A lukewarm bowl of people soup
We have a love hate relationship with public pools. The kids love them and I, well, hate is a strong word, so let's just say they make me a bit queasy.
Growing up we rarely frequented public swimming pools. On Long Island, backyard pools were relatively common and while we didn't have one, it wasn't that hard to wrangle an invitation to swim at someone's house on a hot day.We also had the beach really close by and could get our swimming fix in the ocean or the bay. I have one memory of going to a public pool with my 3rd grade teacher, Mr. B., and that's about it.
In Portland, backyard pools are few and far between. In fact, when looking at real estate they are often considered more of a detriment than an added value. We don't know anyone with their own pool, and both kids LOVE the water, so we hit the public pools on about a weekly basis. When we had just one kid, Dan covered most of the pool visits. My experience with public pools in Portland was limited to the water aerobics class I took when pregnant with Minna. Me and ten other ladies rocking to the oldies and pushing around foam "bar bells" while the teacher yelled upbeat commands from the pool deck. Embarrassing.
But now we have 2 kids, so my draft card has been called and I have to report for public pool duty. Look, don't get me wrong, public pools are a great community resource blah, blah, blah, but the bottom line is that they are essentially a lukewarm bowl of people soup and that just grosses me out. Not to mention the pee. Yes, virginia, people (all people) pee in pools. If you tell me you have never peed in a pool, I will pretend to be impressed, but deep down I will know you are lying. I remember my friend Amy W. had a sign in her bathroom that said..."we don't swim in your toilet, please don't pee in our pool". Well, come on over Woytusik family, the water in my commode is just fine. I also remember this rumor at camp that if you peed in the pool a red cloud of would form around you. I tested it. I still do, but always in a group of people so if it did happen the culprit could not be readily identified. Red clouds never appear. But I do wonder why not? It seems like this would be easy enough to make happen. Probably because entire public pools would just be red from all the people peeing and trying to blame it on their kids or their friends... and swimming in a RED lukewarm bowl of people soup is just straight up nasty.
And then there is the poop. On my last visit to a public pool, some kid (I am really putting my faith in the public pool population here and assuming that the pooper was underage)dropped the kids off at the pool (see?? there is a reason for the saying) and set off a hilarious (if it wasn't so gross) procedure involving about 8 teenage lifeguards, a reeeeeeaaaaallly long pool skimmer, latex gloves, masks, and collection vessels. There were whistles, announcements nobody could understand and general confusion. Could we go back in the pool? Was the haz mat contained? Minna asked me why someone would poop in the pool, and as I was trying to come up with an answer, a life guard who had overheard the question said..."oh, it happens a lot...its because when people (little kids, please let it be little kids) sit on those water jets over there...things happen". Hmmmmm.... here's a thought....turn off the fucking enema jets people!
So are you feeling me now? I've not even mentioned all the humanity!...there are some seriously poor bathing suit choices being made out there and I really dislike the fact that I have to be subjected to this type of flesh display. C'mon sister, tuck that flabdomen in a one-piece, would ya? (yes, I have a flabdomen and yes, I practice what I preach). And gents, easy with the heedeous tats, ya dig? Teenage mutant turtles on the back and woody woodpecker on your chest? You are a cartoonish enigma and you are giving me a headache.
So, that's that. Public pools are my cross to bear until Dan either makes it big and we can afford a pool and a pool boy. or until I can convince the kids that the bathtub is really just as good despite the lack of enema jets.
Happy swimming.
Growing up we rarely frequented public swimming pools. On Long Island, backyard pools were relatively common and while we didn't have one, it wasn't that hard to wrangle an invitation to swim at someone's house on a hot day.We also had the beach really close by and could get our swimming fix in the ocean or the bay. I have one memory of going to a public pool with my 3rd grade teacher, Mr. B., and that's about it.
In Portland, backyard pools are few and far between. In fact, when looking at real estate they are often considered more of a detriment than an added value. We don't know anyone with their own pool, and both kids LOVE the water, so we hit the public pools on about a weekly basis. When we had just one kid, Dan covered most of the pool visits. My experience with public pools in Portland was limited to the water aerobics class I took when pregnant with Minna. Me and ten other ladies rocking to the oldies and pushing around foam "bar bells" while the teacher yelled upbeat commands from the pool deck. Embarrassing.
But now we have 2 kids, so my draft card has been called and I have to report for public pool duty. Look, don't get me wrong, public pools are a great community resource blah, blah, blah, but the bottom line is that they are essentially a lukewarm bowl of people soup and that just grosses me out. Not to mention the pee. Yes, virginia, people (all people) pee in pools. If you tell me you have never peed in a pool, I will pretend to be impressed, but deep down I will know you are lying. I remember my friend Amy W. had a sign in her bathroom that said..."we don't swim in your toilet, please don't pee in our pool". Well, come on over Woytusik family, the water in my commode is just fine. I also remember this rumor at camp that if you peed in the pool a red cloud of would form around you. I tested it. I still do, but always in a group of people so if it did happen the culprit could not be readily identified. Red clouds never appear. But I do wonder why not? It seems like this would be easy enough to make happen. Probably because entire public pools would just be red from all the people peeing and trying to blame it on their kids or their friends... and swimming in a RED lukewarm bowl of people soup is just straight up nasty.
And then there is the poop. On my last visit to a public pool, some kid (I am really putting my faith in the public pool population here and assuming that the pooper was underage)dropped the kids off at the pool (see?? there is a reason for the saying) and set off a hilarious (if it wasn't so gross) procedure involving about 8 teenage lifeguards, a reeeeeeaaaaallly long pool skimmer, latex gloves, masks, and collection vessels. There were whistles, announcements nobody could understand and general confusion. Could we go back in the pool? Was the haz mat contained? Minna asked me why someone would poop in the pool, and as I was trying to come up with an answer, a life guard who had overheard the question said..."oh, it happens a lot...its because when people (little kids, please let it be little kids) sit on those water jets over there...things happen". Hmmmmm.... here's a thought....turn off the fucking enema jets people!
So are you feeling me now? I've not even mentioned all the humanity!...there are some seriously poor bathing suit choices being made out there and I really dislike the fact that I have to be subjected to this type of flesh display. C'mon sister, tuck that flabdomen in a one-piece, would ya? (yes, I have a flabdomen and yes, I practice what I preach). And gents, easy with the heedeous tats, ya dig? Teenage mutant turtles on the back and woody woodpecker on your chest? You are a cartoonish enigma and you are giving me a headache.
So, that's that. Public pools are my cross to bear until Dan either makes it big and we can afford a pool and a pool boy. or until I can convince the kids that the bathtub is really just as good despite the lack of enema jets.
Happy swimming.
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