Category Archives: Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream

The general insanity – father, children, brain – that sends me straight for the carton.

I just need a moment

Posted on June 11, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“Hello, I’m home.” Howard booms, walking in after a long day’s work.

“Hi!” I yell from the kitchen, preparing dinner.

“Hello!” he yells again, louder this time, since the only response he heard was mine, and the ones he really wanted to hear had their brains attached to the computer and could not be expected to form words until we pulled the plug, or threatened to.

“Hello!” he says, in their faces and they look up at him innocently, and sweetly say, ‘Hi, Daddy” before returning to their screens.

In the kitchen, he is a storm of frustration, and he’s been home all of five minutes.

“They can’t even look up to say hi.” He complains.

“I’m saying hi,” I say and put a plate of dinner before him.

“Do you guys want to go to the park?” He yells to the other room.

A weak ‘yes’ from my oldest can be heard in reply. He has learned to say yes, although his nature usually compels him to say no. My middle son already has his glove on and stands by the door shouting at my husband to hurry.

My husband rolls his eyes in annoyance, mainly because my oldest is not as excited as he’d like him to be. Still, he’s got their attention, and shovels the food in fast so he has time to play.

“Did you have a good day?” I ask. Oh my God, I sound like a housewife. A desperate one.

He is busy eating fast, skimming the paper. “Yeah. Uh huh.” He answers absently.

It makes me want to take the old striped dishtowel I’m using to dry the pot I just cleaned from dinner and throw it at his face. Instead, I resume washing the dishes. I’ll show him… with the cleanest dishes.

With barely a word between us, he finishes his food and hurries from the table to catch whatever daylight is left to give the boys batting practice and maybe do some fielding drills. With a quick peck, a grab for water bottles and a lot of rustling and schlepping of equipment bags out the door, they are gone. The only thing left are the dishes on the table.

And my five year-old.

“Mommy!” he runs in, eyes excited and happy, while mine are watery and down cast. “Can we do drawing? Will you draw me Pokemon?”

“Okay.” I say, trying not to look at him, knowing I’m extra sensitive today for some reason, probably hormonal, and not wanting to cry in front of him.

“I love you!” He squeals and wraps his chunky arms around my waist. “I need to hug you!” He exclaims and it is the most warm, genuine gesture of affection that makes me so grateful and for some reason, even more sad.

“Go play in the other room and I’ll draw with you when I’m done.” I say, and his return smile is love.

He turns to run from the room, but stops abruptly and runs back to hug me once more before jetting off.

“Go on.” I say to the empty room, “Mommy just needs a moment.”

54 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged i need some appreciation, love and marriage, marriage, needing a moment, not communicating, relationship troubles, taking your partner for granted, Yeah write. Bookmark the permalink.

Yeah, I’m Confronting Confrontation. What are you gonna do about it!??

Posted on May 28, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

As I dialed the number, I felt a pit in my stomach.

I hated this.

It was like the call I made the other day to my father’s doctor because they left him sitting in the waiting room for over two hours, and then the doctor had to make an unexplained departure before seeing him. I was angry but totally uncomfortable, and overcompensated by being too polite and eager to accept their apologies. I may even have apologized for calling. I know. I know. But just the idea of a heated discourse gives me palpitations. I have a long history of allowing people to wipe their feet on my back.

The phone rang on the other end.

I wanted to hang up. But I didn’t because this call was for my 8 year-old son.

He had complained on and off all year about a boy who seemed prone to trash talk and shoving in the school yard. I listened and kept a pink flag at half-mast. It’s hard to know what exactly is going on with 8 year-old boys when they’re not with you, and I don’t like to jump to conclusions. Until Friday.

Friday, Michael came home and said that the boy had cursed at him and punched him in the face. He told a teacher, and there had been a meeting with the boy where they supposedly hashed everything out and he apologized.

Good, but not good enough. I needed to call his parents.

Dread.

I’m back in seventh grade, unable to defend myself against Debbie who just shoved me in the halls. Or, Julie who ‘accidently’ blew saw dust in my face in Home Ec, again.

Ringg.

Dum dum DUMMMM

The last time I made a call like this a few years back for my older son, it didn’t go very well. The parents got extremely defensive.

Ringg.

Maybe they’re not home. It didn’t feel right to be relieved. But I was relieved.

“Hello?”

Gulp. Swallow. Breathe. Man up.

With my heart skipping and galloping outside of my body, I heard my own controlled nervousness as I explained what happened. I almost winced, waiting for her tone to sharpen and turn hostile, but instead, we had a conversation. A good, productive conversation.

Reliefffffff.

Later, my son asked, “Did you talk to his mommy?”

“I did.” I said. “And she’s going to speak with him. You did the right thing telling the teacher and me.”

He nodded and accepted that. “I think he was sorry.”

I nodded back. “I’m sure he is. And I don’t think this will happen again. But… if he ever hits you again, baby, it’s okay for you to hit him right back.”

“Okay,” he agreed tentatively, wide-eyed. “But, I didn’t want to.”

“That’s okay too. You did exactly the right thing.”

He seemed appeased, but then looked thoughtful again. “What is it, honey?”

“Can I buy a new game on my iTouch because I did such a good job?”

I smiled. My boy is a master negotiator and manipulator, definitely more apt to use his words.

Still, I don’t want my kids to run from confrontation. I want them to stand up for themselves.

That way, I won’t have to do it for them.

Daily Prompt fight or flight

59 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged bullying, confrontation, dreading confrontation, standing up for your child, standing up for yourself. Bookmark the permalink.

Why I’d Never Home School.

Posted on May 21, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Reading with my 5 year-old is kind of like playing password.

credit: stevelundeberg.mvourtown.com

The sentence is… “Mac can tag Mag.”

“Okay,” I encourage. “Let’s sound it out. What’s the first letter?”

“M” He shouts with confidence.

“That’s right, and how does M sound?”

“Mmmmmm” He says, making a funny face.

“Great! Now what’s the next letter?”

“Mmmmm” he continues, totally amused with himself and the sound.

“Yes, yes.” I say semi-patiently. “But what’s the next letter?”

“A!”

“Right again!” My boy grins like he just bought a vowel and got four. But that’s a different game.

“And the last letter?”

“C. Cacacacacaca” He automatically sounds out.

“So we have Mmmm, aaa and cacacaca.”

He listens to me intently and repeats, “Mmmmmmm aaaaa ccccc.”

“That’s right!!” I say, bouncing a little in my seat with excitement. “Now put it together.”

“Mmmmaaaaccccc. Cat!” He says triumphantly.

“Cat?” I ask, incredulous. “Cat? Where the..” But I have to stop myself and regain my mommy composure. “Uh, no. What does cat start with?”

“C!” He says.

“Right! And what’s the first letter here?”

“M.”

“Right. And how does M go?”

“Mmmm” He says and starts with the silly face.

“Right again.” I say, ignoring the fact that he’s still mmmm-ing. “So let’s sound it out again. Mmmmmm aaaaaa ccccccc.. Say it with me.”

Together we say, “mmmm aaaaa ccccc” pulling it closer and closer together until we get…

“MAT!” He cries with happiness.

My face twists up in agony. “So close!” I say, gritting my teeth, “But the last letter is a C, remember? Not T. So it’s Maaaaaaaa…” I feed him the sounds and stare at him bug-eyed, nodding freakishly. He looks at me and then looks at the word, and then to me and back to the word.

Finally, with uncertainly he says, “Mac?”

It mocks me

“Yes!” I jump up and kiss his face. He smiles warily. I think he’s afraid of me.

I lean back in my chair and puff out in relief like we’ve just finished Homer’s Odyssey. Wow. We worked our way through it and got it!

Oh wait. I come down off my reader’s high, look at the book and sigh. There are still three more words on the page.

Gathering my strength, I return my attention to completing the sentence.

Mac can tag Mag.

“Okay. So we’ve got the first word.” I look at my son expectantly and point to it. He looks at me expectantly, eyes wide.

Please don’t say it. Please don’t say it. My brain whispers.

“Cat!”

Oh my God. Pass!

64 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged bob books, educating children, home schooling, learning to read, password, teachers, teaching reading to children. Bookmark the permalink.

Push me!

Posted on May 15, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“Push me!” Julius yells and with a weary sigh, like he’s asking me to work heavy machinery, I lift my ass off the bench and make my way over to the swings.

He waits patiently while I trudge my 30 pound bag that I shouldn’t even have brought out of the car, but for some unconscious reason always feel compelled to keep with me, even though the car is parked 20 feet away. I always think, but what if I have a moment and can read my book? Or what if we need a water bottle or a snack? Or what if I get a brilliant thought and need my pad and a pen? And wipes – you always need wipes. Okay, the back-up Kindle, the 10 pounds of change and the bag of coupons and receipts might not be necessary, but I can’t go organizing right now, can I?

My arm sighs as I drop the bulky bag in the wood chips, ensuring I will find a few of them later ensnared in my hair ties and tissues. “You don’t need me to push you. You know how to push yourself.” I say, and give his little butt a shove.

“I know I don’t need you to push me.” He says, exasperated. He’s only five and already I’m the mom who doesn’t get it. “l want you to!”

My child is a genius, I think, and absent-mindedly propel him to the sky. He knows what he wants.

Which started me thinking – always dangerous – what do I want?

What do I want? Such a simple question, and yet so difficult for me to answer.

To redo my kitchen? Yes, but I misplaced the plans that we had made up, and without them seemed to have lost the incentive as well.

To lose 5lbs? Sure, but not if it means giving up ice cream, or wine, or sushi lunches or any of the little extras that I absolutely deserve.

To get a book deal, an agent, or to be paid for the essays that I so lovingly write? Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But what am I really doing to accomplish any of those things? Not much. And, by not much, I mean nothing.

When am I going to start going after what I want, instead of waiting for it to just fall into my hands? When I am going to find the motivation within me to accomplish the things I want? When am I going to stop taking the easy way out and work harder? When am I going to want it enough to go and get it?

“Higher!” Julius orders, and I send him flying to the stars.

He might want the push, but it turns out, I’m the one who needs one.

58 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged goals and aspirations, motivation, need a push, reaching your goals, unmotivated, what do you want?, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

Mother’s Day? More like Other’s Day.

Posted on May 14, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Yesterday had all the makings of a typical Monday only I was more… cranky. Yes, even more than usual.

It started right from my jeans feeling tight to we are out of frozen pancakes. So, in between the lunch making, the backpack checking and the children out of bed dragging, I whipped up a batch so that my boy who doesn’t sleep and barely eats didn’t blow away on his field trip. Since, I am no longer the mom who is whipping up fresh anything on a school morning, I expected a little woo-hoo from the crowd. Instead I heard, “Do we have Mini Wheats?”

And my ‘fajita wraps’ at dinner? One child suggested, we “wrap them up and give them away.”

Smart ass.

All in all, the day was typical. There were the usual Monday chores to get through, but I did them just a little frazzled. The nice checkout girl at the supermarket had no idea what was wrong with me when I snapped after she asked me if I if I have a discount card. “Are you kidding? I live here. Yeah, I have a card.”

Doing the laundry, I was extra aggravated and instead of searching for the missing socks, I just threw them all into the garbage in frustration. It was my most satisfying moment of the day.

Right now, my son is whistling on his computer next to me and it’s driving me insane.

I was trying to figure out why I was extra sensitive, but then it hit me like a box of crappy chocolate. It was Mother’s Day backlash.

“How was your Mother’s Day?” was the general question all day. These were some of the laments, I mean, answers, I heard…

Woman at the gym: “Was it Mother’s Day? I spent the day doing the same crap I always do, only I had to host my entire family as well.

Woman at the school: “I’d call it more Grandmother’s Day.”

Women everywhere: “Fine.”

Not that yesterday wasn’t nice. Oh the sweet cards from the kids shoved in my face at 6:30am. Oh, the fabulous family gathering. Yeah, yeah, it was all great, but… it certainly wasn’t ‘my day’.

All hail the mother who was smart enough to get a massage, hook up with some friends, and get away from her family. That’s what I’m talking about. But what does my yesterday have to do with today? Mother’s day has come and gone and here I am, back at the sink washing the dishes, schlepping the laundry, fulfilling all the ‘mommy can you get me’s” and doing all the stuff that needs to be done. Nothing has changed. Not that I expected anything to change. I’m just as unappreciated today as I pretty much was yesterday, and now I guess I’ve got to wait another year for Hallmark to sanction some more appreciation! I mean come on! Let’s just call it what it is. Mother’s day is not about Mothers. It’s about my children. It’s about getting gifts for my mother and mother-in-law. It’s about us all hanging out together, one big mosh pit of screaming kids and laughing, drinking, arguing, eating adults! My son is still whistling!! OH MY GOD!

I think we need a secret Mother’s Day after Mother’s Day; when all the expectation and the hoopla have gone and we can relax and do a little something nice for ourselves. That’s it. I feel much better now.

Next year, I’m so in. Call me. Please.

Save me, after Mother's Day Day, save me.

Save me, Mother’s Day after Mother’s Day, save me.

38 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Mom and tagged disappointing mother's day, mother's day, mother's day aftermath, mother's day stinks, The day after mother's day. Bookmark the permalink.

My Call of Duty

Posted on May 7, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

He’s waiting for my call.

I can see him, crouched over on his bed, trying to rouse himself out of his stupor; hoping a call from me will do the trick, maybe give him some reason to wake up.

I don’t want to call.

I haven’t wanted to call in years. Decades, maybe. But it’s not about what I want, it’s about what he needs. And what he needs is for me to check in on him daily, just to show him someone still cares, that someone is interested in whether he lives or dies. And that someone is me. There is nobody else.

He had his home health aide there earlier but he slept through her entire shift, and now he’s woken up alone. The table is covered with medications of all colors and sizes. The room is littered with books and papers and boxes of clutter. Ash from the cigarettes he shouldn’t be smoking dusts the room.

Getting from the bed to the bathroom is a dangerous escapade with his weakened legs and broken body. Through heavily medicated eyes, he considers his path. It is all so overwhelming, he allows himself the pleasure of closing them. Sleep is a beautiful thing.

By the time he opens them again, it is over 20 minutes later, but he doesn’t feel the passage of time. He generally doesn’t feel anything, but of course, the pain. And a nagging urge for the bathroom. He considers his walker a few feet away. He should use it for support. He has fallen at least three times this week, and his body is sore from the damage. He can’t fall again.

He wonders if it’s his body that breaks down and then he falls, or his brain that loses focus causing him to fall. Probably both. More than once, he has been woken by his home health aide on the floor, where he fell. The effort to get back up is too much. The frustration unspeakable.

He eyes the walker. In this crowded space, it can be as much an asset as a detriment. Is he strong enough to go it alone? A heavy, head drooping sigh causes him to look down at his feet and notice the rash creeping up his legs. Problems, everywhere he looks. His glance focuses in on the ice cream he took out hours ago, melted on the counter. Oh well. He can pour cereal in it and have it for breakfast, if he ever gets up.

He begins to close his eyes again, telling himself he needs just a little more rest before he makes the attempt, but really he’s just unable to find the motivation to move himself.

The phone rings, distracting his thoughts, waking him a bit, taking him to a more hopeful place.

He’s waiting for my call.

67 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Dad and tagged aging, call of duty, chronic pain, depression in parents, family obligation, older parents living alone, support for caretakers. Bookmark the permalink.

Ain’t Nothin Gonna Breaka My Stride

Posted on April 23, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Downstairs making lunches for my children in the early morning hours, it was already apparent that there was something special about this day. The hard boiled eggs easily shed their skins. The peanut butter had a lovely oily sheen. I had enough vanilla yogurts to go around. Making lunches was never this enjoyable. Even waking my kids and watching them drudge themselves from their slumber took on a rose colored hue. They looked young and gorgeous. Even I didn’t look half bad as I gazed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Okay, the lights were off, but whatever.

Maybe it’s because today is my birthday. I am 43. Wow, that sounds old. 43 is a woman with short hair and 10 extra pounds in mom jeans, not me. Although, I can’t say the gym clothes I’m sporting on a daily basis will be seen in Vogue anytime soon. And I have recently gained a few pounds. Crap.

Well, I certainly don’t feel 43. I mean, sometimes I feel 100, but certainly not 43. On most days, I think I settle in nicely around 31, although for the record, 27 is the age to be… not so young as to still be in some back alley throwing up your fourth margarita and accompanying nachos on your borrowed overpriced shoes, but not so mature that you limit the potential of your own possibility. But 43… Wow, again. I seem to be stuck now obsessing over the number. I can’t move on. I can’t look away. I need to get it out of my head. 43434343434343434343434343. That’s better, for some reason now all I see is 34. I’ll take it.

Something about birthdays make you feel very young and hopeful, like there’s a surprise waiting for you around every corner. They also can make you feel very old, like when you realize, there are no surprises anymore, only kids who couldn’t bother to even make you a card and a husband who didn’t take the early train home, and spent the night watching the Yankees.

But that was last year.

This year, I’m taking control of my birthday and not leaving it in the hands of amateurs. I’ve scheduled my annual physical this morning. I thought it was a positive way to start the year. After that, I’m heading straight to the gym. Then I’ve got a massage appointment, followed by lunch with friends. I love it already.

My husband walks in the kitchen where I’m finished with the lunches and have started giving the boys breakfast. “Happy birthday, Mommy!” he booms. “Did everyone say happy birthday?” Three sleepy heads lift. A muted chorus of unenthusiastic “Happy birthday, Mommy” dutifully follows.

“That’s it?” My husband bellows. “That’s all Mommy gets?” That woke them. Immediately, three bodies attack me with hugs viscous enough to suffocate a small animal. I beam. That’s more like it.

I’m totally feeling the glow, all warm and happy. I add pick up ice cream cake to today’s to-do list. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t, but I’m old enough to know not to put my happiness in anyone’s hands besides my own. It’s a gift.

I wish. 😉

90 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Every Day Scoops and tagged Birthdays, happy birthday, middle-age, Yeah write. Bookmark the permalink.

The Brother in the Middle. #Imsorry

Posted on April 16, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

He was soft now, but he used to be wild.

Back before he moved to this new place, this new family, this new life. Back when he was just a six year-old, with energy as untamed as his hair and freckles that danced happily across his face; but never touched the stitches in his chin from falling off the back of a bike, and the ones by his lip, for falling off a chair, and ones on his head, where a crazy lady hit him with a broom for sneaking into her yard.

His smile ran wide and mischievous, dashing through the streets of Brooklyn, without boundaries. Because it was home. Because it was safe. Because his parents were in the middle of a divorce and we were barely out of the free-living 70’s.

He had grandparents who’d walk over with a banana and a hug, and a block that watched over him with a smile.

But now he was in the suburbs with two step-brothers who sandwiched him on both ends – one a year older and one, two years younger. His new brothers, just as lost and scared as he, with the infiltration of two new siblings and a new mom in their home, space, lives; tossed him out, instead of taking him in. They were so young. We all were.

At eleven, I was the oldest and the only girl, finding my way in a dark new maze at the worst time in a young girl’s growing life. Outside, was the jungle filled with mean girls and aggressive boys competing for dominance. Inside, where we lived, was the lion’s den.

The union was not good from the beginning. The husband and wife struggled in their new marriage. The children struggled in their new family. But the fighting was still there, a constant, familiar background noise, with a stronger male lead.

We four little heads often lined the top of the stairs, listening to the voices below, filled with anger, mistrust and disappointment. It was when we were closest, sharing in the uncertainty, waiting for the end of them, of us. When the voices came too close, we scattered in fear, afraid to be caught snooping, even if they could probably be heard from across the street. We knew, getting caught would bring more anger instead of less.

I did nothing to help my brother or ease his transition, because as difficult as mine, or our new brothers was, his was worse.

From every hand, fingers pointed at him.

So, he trudged through each day, slowly losing his spark.

This was not his home. Not a safe place.

The houses here were bigger and more spaced apart. The neighborhood kids, not so neighborly.

He gained some weight.

He lost his smile.

They called him Sloth.

He was soft now, but in a few years when he grew older, he would be wild again.

Back when he was wild, in a good way

62 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged blended families, brothers, divorce, divorce and children, re-marriage, siblings, step-brothers. Bookmark the permalink.

Sorry, There are no Buns Left in this Oven. Check Down the Street.

Posted on April 9, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

For years, since my last son was born, my head and heart still pounded loudly in my ears. “I want another baby!” They screamed. As I neared the age where another baby would be almost impossible, the pounding grew louder, drowning out all reason.

When my husband, the logical one, whose biological clock was not ticking in panicked booms, found me sniffing my children’s old newborn clothes, he threw some cold water on my baby fever. Repeatedly, he pulled me, okay, dragged me, by my flattened, no longer lactating boobs, back from the ledge of the baby cliff as I tried to dive off ‘unprotected’. (Wink wink)

“No more.” He’d reprimand, as I clutched baby booties and took to sucking on an old binky for comfort.

Slowly, I emerged from the procreation cocoon and began to appreciate my family as it was. That we were, and are, in a really good place. That there were good reasons to quit while we were ahead.

We are old and tired.
We sleep at night.
We can tell the kids to go away – and OMG – they do!

Although knowing and accepting I’m done, do not always co-exist in my sappy, emotional psyche. Maybe because admitting that my fertility days are over, would mean I’m older (see bullet point 1) and that I’ll never again be pregnant (I loved being pregnant. Sigh.), or have all of those cute, little baby things (Wait…I hate the crap I have.). It means I’m moving on to the next stage. (Uh, menopause? Grandma? Hmm, let’s just take the decade and not label it.)

But then my sister-in-law had a baby (yeah yeah, my brother-in-law too). After nine months of expanding (actually 9 ½ in her case), and then a few hours contracting, my sister-in-law (yes, him too) has a beautiful, new baby boy.

I took one look at this fresh, bundle of delicious, and felt my old eggs start to sizzle inside. “Ohhh” I thought, holding his warm weight in my arms. “Ahhh” I sighed, sucking in his sweet baby smell.

Ohhh Ahhh has the perfect little face. He will wear the cutest clothes and is so little and sweet. Can I have him? Please? Mmmmm. The smell of new baby is a fountain of youth. Ohhh, I miss baby cuddling. I gaze into the sweet face of possibilities and see the future… Giggles and eating of feet, lulling to sleep, green peas on the face and a soft mouth saying Mama…. Clinging to my legs when I want to go out to dinner, or walk from the kitchen to the living room, or go to the bathroom alone for just one freaking moment. Screaming “I want a COOKIE!” and “Poopie in the pants!” Crying for ices, crying for attention, crying for a blue crayon instead of a red one. Waaaa. Waaaaa. “Mommy gimme! Gimme!”

Nooooooo!

I gently hand him back.

It turns out, I’m thrilled to be the aunt, but it’s official, I’m done.

ooh, my ovaries are hurting.

85 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged life cycles, menopause, new baby, next stage, no more babies, pregnancy. Bookmark the permalink.

One…Two… Three! Get Out Of The Pool!

Posted on April 3, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I was taking my time, shuffling through my suitcase, trying to figure out my strategy. Two of my three boys and my husband were already at the hotel pool for some night swimming. My middle son, Michael, and I were milking it. He hadn’t decided if he wanted to have a stomach ache, and I hadn’t figured out how to get out of going to the pool.

I usually never even bring a suit, since I have a general dislike of all things water – pools, beaches, my body in a bathing suit. But, for some reason, on the same mini-vacation where I had forgotten to get a pedicure or bring a razor, I had shoved a suit in my bag last minute. Once Michael declared himself fit to swim, I had to make a choice – to wear or not to wear. After some mental tennis, I decided against the suit, instead throwing on a cover-up dress to give the illusion of pool ready, without showing any reality.

Once there, I immediately remembered why I hate indoor pools; the chemical smell, the contrived heat, my children playing in a tank of wet doom. I could never find any true comfort, just an agitated impatience. I sat next to my husband and checked my phone. It was already after 8pm. That was the gift of night swimming. It didn’t last too long.

We rotated our eyes from boy to boy to boy; one a good swimmer, one decent and one new. It was monkey in the middle. One. Two. Three. One – My oldest, playing with a blue ball in the middle of the pool; pushing it under water, then watching it shoot up out of the water and retrieving it. Two – Just a bobbing blonde head and orange goggles, doggie paddling toward the far edge. Three – Right in front of us by the stairs, practicing his swimming.

“Mommy, watch this!” he squealed, his dark curls matted against his head, his dark eyes alight with excitement. Dramatically, he climbed up two of the steps, readying himself, and with one mischievous look back at me, jumped.

That’s when the lights went out. Complete and utter darkness engulfed the pool area.

I stood, both immediately and in slow motion, surrounded by blackness and the unreal echo of water and people freaking out. Mute and drowning in fear, I reached for my husband. My worst nightmare was this second. My children were in that pool. We needed to jump in. Now.

But before we could, the lights flicked back on.

My heart pounded wildly, and my head whipped around. One – Still in the center of the pool. Two – Hanging on to the edge. Three – On the steps.

The whole thing lasted maybe five seconds. Probably less. I took a deep breath, relief filling my lungs. Then, finding my voice, screamed for my kids to get out of the water.

I knew going to the pool was a mistake.

When I'm on duty, there's only daytime swimming

Yup, you’re cute. Nope, not coming in.

53 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged danger, fear of water, Indoor pools, life well blogged, parenting, swimming with children, water safety, Yeah write. Bookmark the permalink.

Icescreammama