(I’m learning to post to my blog via email to get around the site blocking whims of Borg Incorporated. Excuse me if my posts look funny or something for a few days as I am not used to doing this by email and the feature gives me less control of how my posts look.)
Yesterday was the first swim practice of summer. Ahhh.
I can’t say I like the endless hours sitting in the sun waiting for my kid’s three minutes to swim, but I still like swim team season. I like the chloriney smell of pool water when mingled with the faux-tropical scent of sunscreen. I like the bracing cold slap of the first jump into the water on a hot day. I like playing catch with water balls across a big pool. I like the cute little contraptions the babies wear to allow them to swim and keep upright. I love how the pool tires out the kiddos so that they go home and go to bed without the “But it’s still light outside” summer bedtime protest. I love cold drinks in coozies, reading in lounge chairs, and the sound of little legs industriously splashing.
Most of all I love the Swim Mom. The Swim Mom is a close cousin to the ubiquitous Soccer Mom, but rarer and therefore more alluring. Soccer Moms are basically seasonless, but the Swim Moms come out of hibernation only for these few months at the beginning of Summer. Sure, you can catch sight of them at other times, but the viewing is best in swim team season in late May and June.
And oh, the beautiful pear-shaped women! All clad in the Swim mom attire — one piece bathing suit, shorts, and a cap or visor. They come with juice boxes and crackers in tow to satisfy their little tadpoles. They come bearing womens’ magazines and Summer Pulp Fiction. They come sipping Iced Tea and Crystal Light and diet soda. Forced into a situation where they must feed, entertain, care for, and track the whereabouts of each little member of their brood at the pool, they are at their most organized, their most prepared, their most sexy. But they don’t know how sexy. Brainwashed by the ads in the women’s magazines they carry, they have no idea how beautiful they are. And that adds in a poignant way to their allure.
I can’t remember the poet who wrote a line about his wife — “The woman through whom all women must be loved.” But that’s my wife. She is the one Swim Mom through whom all Swim Moms must be loved. Seeing her in her Swim Mom uniform makes me want to send the kids off with with a juice box, throw away that damned women’s magazine, set down the iced tea, and put my hands on my favorite thing about summer.