By Amy Brown
People warn you about all kinds of things: the cost of nappies. The cost of formula. The mental load. Never pooing in peace again.
But no one warns you about the swimming lessons.
And for me, this has been the first real tangible expression of a mother’s sacrifice.
You have a pool. You have a baby. And you realise you need them to learn to be water safe. So you phone around, Google, ask mom forums for suggestions of good swimming schools.
And you find the right fit for you, and sign up. You’re gung-ho; ready to go. You enjoy picking out the cutest itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny swimming costume. You go shopping for swim nappies. The day arrives and you pack a well-stocked swimming bag, fit for any swimming eventuality.
But you’re six months post-partum and you are not bikini-ready. God, you’re not even full costume-swim shorts ready. So you dig around in the confines of your cupboard and unearth the most god-awful costume that’s stretched from ineffective post-swim washes, scrape back your hair into that messy bun synonymous with motherhood and find the slops that you lived in for the last 6 months of your pregnancy. But now you also need to find clothes big enough to fit over said costume, that are appropriate for public consumption.
You bundle up the baby: should I be dressing him there? Swimming nappies hold poo but what if he wees en-route? Will he be warm enough in just his cozzie traveling across town? You hope for the best, throw him in the car and make the pilgrimage to the swim school.
But you glance in the mirror, and the poor sausage has drifted off into dreamland minutes before parking outside. You’re stretched for time: it was a mad scramble getting ready on time. You don’t have a minute to spare before the lesson starts.
So you make the call. You wake him up with gentle cooing and hurry to the building.
You arrive flustered and the other moms are already in the pool with their little ones, watching you expectantly. One meets your eyes with a look that says, “I feel you, Mama.”
You strip off, now in front of an audience, with little time to spare a thought for your dimpled thighs and the potential of rogue bikini hairs that might be making a guest appearance. These are the things that have kept you off the beach in years gone by. But with a devil may care attitude, you submerge your whale-like being into the water, with baby in tow.
And he screams. He screams with the intensity of a woman in the throes of active labour. You’ve woken him from his slumber and thrust him into this new and unfamiliar body of water. Your motherly instinct is to scoop him out and wrap him up warm and skeddadle, but instead you persevere: you’ve already made enough of a spectacle of yourself.
You’re amidst a group of strangers, other mothers, and the weight of judgement, perceived or otherwise, feels heavy upon your shoulders.
So why not join in in singing an until-now unknown ditty to familiarize your Little with the routines and expectations of the pool?
So you think, “Bugger it!” and throw yourself into it because after all, you’re doing it for your Little. And he warms up and starts giggling again. And for a short time you forget where you are and enjoy this time with your Little.
I mean, he’s no Chad Le Clos but you feel confident that he’s learning the skills he needs and he seems to be enjoying it. But then it comes, “Wave in the water, wave wave wave and say goodbye!”
We all move toward the stairs. And there is no time to worry, but you’re very cognizant that you’re about to embark on what feels like a test: despite everyone being absorbed in their own struggle, you feel as though all eyes are on you as you navigate getting a squirming body out of a costume that is pasted to their body, dry them off and wrestle them into a nappy and warm clothes. All the while their lips are blue, you’re dripping water onto them because you’ve prioritized drying them off, and your generous-sized rear is exposed for all to behold.
Then they’re dressed: warm and ready. And now, now is time to prioritize yourself. But you’re poolside with a baby who is learning to move and noone to watch them while you do. It feels a little like that childhood game when you have to adorn yourself with hats, gloves and glasses and attempt eating a chocolate with a knife and fork and there’s a timer counting down.
You throw your clothes over a dripping costume, wave goodbye to others whom have had seemingly more success than yourself, scoop up your Little and your bags and shuffle back to the car where you negotiate the bags and baby, climb into the drivers seat, lean your head against the headrest letting out a sigh of relief.
You did it. You survived.
Until next week.
