You see? we’re not always at the beach. Lamb has been bugging me to go to the pool for months now. Like, literally every single day for months. But whenever she would mention it I would just groan, the mere mention of the possibility of going stressed me out. I would imagine all the time and effort it would take to get everything ready. I would have to smother everyone in sunscreen, make sure we had hats, towels, a change of clothes, extra sunscreen and a plastic bag to deposit all the chlorine soaked items into afterwards. Then we would get there and I’d have to wade through the questionable kiddy pool water, trying my best not to think of how many kids have piddled in it and trying even harder to not notice the dirty baind-aids floating past. Then, two hours later, I’d have to bribe them to get out because, not only am I bored out of my mind, I’m also fairly certain the chlorine is about to dissolve the skin from my flesh (or at the very least give me a nasty rash). And after I’ve bought them their overpriced ice-creams, I’d muster them into the showers, dry them and dress them. All the while they are screaming and running around, disturbing the elderly ladies just minding their own business and trying to get dressed, because the ice-creams have given them a sugar high. To top it off, when I finally get home I have to wash and hang out all the towels and swimsuits when all I really need to do is pass out from sunstroke.
All this flashes through my mind the moment anyone mentions the word ‘pool’. But on this particular day Lamb was particularly determined and I was particularly worn down and defenseless against her incessant nagging. And so I agreed. Turns out, it wasn’t as horrible as my mind had made it out to be. We actually had a semi-decent time. It wasn’t too hot, the kids played relatively well together and we had the showers and change room all to ourselves. And not a dirty band-aid in sight. Not that I was looking too hard.