Oh my poor little neglected corner of the internet, I have forsaken you.
I have broken just about every rule of blog maintenance in existence, but rules were made to be broken, right?
I blame my lack of posting on the weather. In fact, I am blaming just about everything on the weather these days. It is too hot and humid to do anything except lie around, and even typing seems to work up a sweat.
I am grateful that we made it to August before this heat wave struck, and most of our summer has been cooler than normal, but the fact remains that I am completely useless in this weather.
My darling mother came over yesterday afternoon and we ventured out to the pool again. I really appreciate her help, but the kids appreciate it even more since there would be no pool without her. At least not with the kids at these ages/swimming levels.
The real truth is that Bun is a loose cannon. When he's not plunging himself in the pool, he is busy climbing out and running along the pool deck. He's a heart attack waiting to happen.
But trips to the pool aren't just exercises in exertion; for me, they are a sweet taste of my own childhood.
I grew up in medium sized city, about an hour from where I now live, in a cozy row home on a street packed with row homes. In the summer, the sizzling streets rang with children's voices, the bells on the ice cream truck, and lots of eighties music from the PA system at our neighborhood pool.
It was a big day when I passed the swimming test and earned my yellow card, which meant I could go to the pool alone. That was huge, because as soon as my chores were finished, I could grab my towel and pool card and slip down the alley for a day of swimming. I often went barefoot, which I am sure is horrifying my mother as she reads. (Look, Ma! No tetanus!)
I would spend most of the day completely submerged, with only a few breaks for snack bar stops and the dreaded Adult Swim -- where my eighteen year old neighbors would lord it over the rest of the kids while they swam around to the awesome sounds of Night Ranger.
If floating in the water and making out with your boyfriend can be called swimming.
Standing in the mile-long snack bar line with Francie took me right back to those days. Even the food they serve is the same. It's like some kind of public pool time warp.
The only difference is that I am now the mom with the spider veins in the skirted swimsuit, chasing a baby all over the pool deck. And I am good with that. Really good.
Although a little Night Ranger would make it even better.