Swimsuit Season

Summer - warm breezes blowing the scent of BBQ's; the shrill whistles from the life guards punctuating the afternoon; children screaming and screeching in the park; long afternoon naps; warm nights; and swimsuits.

I took the kids to the pool today.  I slathered them down with SPF.  I put on their hats, their rash guards and their sunglasses.  Joseph pulled on his flip flops and filled the beach bag with towels while I reached into my drawer and pulled out my swimsuit.

I struggled into it.  Do you remember the swimsuit?  The one I drove to LA to find? The one that promised to take off ten pounds, which I assumed meant that it'd take off ten years and fifty pounds?  Yeah.  That suit.

I pulled it on and made the horrifying mistake of glancing in a mirror.

Bearing two children has not been kind to my body.  There's still a lot of baby weight hanging out - mostly on my upper torso.  And in this suit, "hanging out" was quite literal.  Appalled that I might be arrested for indecent exposure, I resorted to the tried and true extra-large T-shirt - a look that adds fifteen pounds and is not in the least attractive.

But this was not about me.  This was about taking my kids to the pool and letting them cool off.  This was about helping Joseph overcome any residual fear of water before swim lessons on Monday.  This was about me filling in the hours after naps and before dinner with an activity that would wear my children out.

I wrapped a sarong around my waist, grabbed my purse, kids and beach bag and went to the pool.

I arrived an hour before the pool closed.  I walked over, Elizabeth on my hip, to the kiddie pool.  I walked through the little gate and saw that there were a dozen parents and almost twice as many children.  I glanced over at the other mothers to see if I knew anyone and realized that this, this was why living in California sucks.

Every woman there was tanned, toned and sporting a two piece.  I take that back.  There was one pregnant mommy - tanned and toned and sporting a two piece.  They lounged lazily back, their flat tummies exposed to the sun, their feet dipped in the cool water.  At first, I told myself that their children were all at least two or three, while I had an under one baby.  But then I saw an adorable infant nestled against her mommy.  And then a toddler who looked only slightly older than Elizabeth pulling at her mother's string bikini top.

I walked to the benches and took off my sarong, swiftly getting in the water, sitting down and telling myself that I was not going to be so cliche as to feel self-conscience.  I played with the kids, helped Joseph walk away from the wall - yes, he's that uncertain in the water - and lay Elizabeth down on her tummy while she kicked and splashed.

Then the whistle blew.

The mommies all languidly stretched and got out of the water.  They sauntered over to their clothes, pulling on adorable cover-ups.  I stood up, water sluicing down off my body in a torrent.  I walked to the edge of the pool and - in a move that was pure grace - heaved myself out of the water.  I walked back to the bench, realizing as I did that I couldn't rush to wrap myself in a towel when I was holding a shivering baby.

I wrapped Elizabeth in a towel and then tossed one to Joseph, finally able to wrap myself up.  Glancing around at the corner of my eye, I saw the other mothers look my way, making judgments, noticing my dripping shirt, maybe telling themselves that they'd never let themselves go.

And I realized that there's still a teenage girl in me, hunched over and self-conscience.  She's been mostly in hiding the last fifteen years or so, but every now and then, she comes out.

Usually during swimsuit season.

So I did what any other normal, red-blooded American woman does.  I came home and scooped out a small serving of banana ice cream for Joseph and then a scoop for myself to share with Elizabeth.