Making a splash
Shame of all shames, my kid has been busted down a grade in swimming.
Oh, the mortification.
I could see the writing on the wall as soon as the words “I don’t want to go to swimming lessons!” began in periodic wails this morning. They started softly, died down a bit after some jollying along, revived as the time drew near, reached full pitch as it was time to climb into the pool.
“Noooooooooo, Mammmaaaaaa!”
“Come on, Squid. It’ll be fun. You’ll love it.”
“Noooooooooooooo, Maammmmmaaaaaaaaaaa!”
It had already been glaringly obvious she was a mere two-year-old in with the more urbane four-year-olds (don’t ask me what happened to the three-year-olds), but the difference was even more stark as she hid behind my legs from her new swimming instructor. The pool was, of course, packed with parents. It appeared to be daddy’s day, with several fathers about the place and a full complement of two parents in with one of the kids in the class further down the pool. Today, we were the entertainment.
After several playful dunkings of her legs into the pool, the Squid let out a giggle and deigned to stand on the pool ledge. The smile turned into a frantic scrabble as the swimming instructor approached, and a trail of shrieks clean across the pool and back again as her instructor took her for an experimental spin.
Anxious not to appear the over-protective parent, I tried to retreat from the edge, but found myself oddly paralysed.
Her usual teacher, in with the littlies down the end, came sailing out of a sea of adoring parents to the rescue, scooped up the Squid and carried her back down to her old class. I caught a glimpse of a pale, panicked face before Squid realised she had been saved from whatever fate she had feared and, clasping her fat little arms around Deb’s neck, burrowed her face in her shoulder.
The next thing I knew, she was galloping along on the mat on the surface of the pool, giggling as she launched into the water, shooting me big smiles as she went.
Result: Deb handling the Squid, plus one half of the twins and managing four other sets of parents and squids for the lesson. I hadn’t put my togs on in anticipation of the Squid’s lesson with the big kids (it wasn’t her first) - no parent required in the pool.
Following a quick but serious post-lesson conference between old instructor, new instructor and embarrassed parent (myself), it was decided the Squid needed to be busted back to her old grade. She wasn’t “mature” enough for the next grade.
Final result: one immature (crikey, she’s two) but triumphant and happy Squid.
My thanks to the two very kind mums who, later in the paddling pool, helped bolster the Squid’s tattered reputation.
