March 12th, 2009
In sickness and in health, but not during times of public embarrassment
Okay, so after YEARS of near-crippling anxiety and copious amounts of tears shed, it finally clicked in my children’s minds a few weeks ago: swimming is FUN!
And now they want to go swimming every single day.
Tuesday night was no exception; the kids really, really, REALLY wanted to go to the pool. The last thing I felt like doing was traipsing on down to the community centre after having eaten a whole whack of veal parm, but my little darlings were fucking relentless very eager to go. Before I’d even rinsed the dinner dishes, Dave had them strapped in the car and the swim bag in the trunk.
The kids were jacked the fuck UP. We got to the centre and they jumped out of the car, all, SWIM-MING! SWIM-MING! and Dave and I were all, Settle down or we’ll take you home! Once we got inside we went over to the little booth to pay and were quite surprised when the nice lady behind the plexiglass informed us that there was no swimming that night.
“Do you have a copy of our schedule?” She reached across her desk, grabbed a piece of blue paper and held it up in the air.
Dave was chagrin; he was the one who’d brought two copies of that very schedule home last week to pore through. He’d checked out pricing and lesson times, but somehow got it in his head that there were open swims each weeknight.
He turned to the kids, apologized and said they couldn’t go swimming, and both of them promptly burst in to tears. LOUD, DRAMATIC TEARS OF DEVASTATION. As we herded them out the doors and back toward the car I could hear Dave alternating between apologizing to them and hissing at them to stop crying.
I was annoyed – that we’d rushed to get out of the house, that Dave hadn’t checked the schedule beforehand and that my children putting on a scene worthy of a Best Dramatic Performance nod. I walked ahead of them once we were outside, but when I heard Dave make a strange sort of laughing/choking sound and call my name, I stopped and turned around.
And there he was, standing at the doors of the community centre flanked by our two crying children, with about fifteen panty liners scattered at his feet.
Seems the front pocket of our swim bag had a hole in it, and the multitude of feminine hygiene products that I’d stuffed inside chose that exact moment to bust on out. And of course, several people happened to be walking out of the community centre at that very moment. One guy looked over and chuckled, “I think you dropped something there, dude,” and I watched my husband’s face turned a shade of crimson I’ve never seen before.
So, naturally, I did what any other wife would do in that situation: I burst out laughing and kept walking. I laughed so hard I had to pause to cross my legs to keep from peeing at least once, and I think I may have pointed at him a few times. Blatantly.
Because I am nothing if not supportive, and because yes, I vowed to have and to hold in sickness and in health, but there was nothing in those vows about rushing to help my betrothed when he finds himself standing amidst a multitude of panty liners on the front steps of the community pool.
