The Club

Summer is here. Summer starts today. And to gear up for the summer, the kids and I have been going to "the Club," the club is our local town pool, which has nothing to do with the town per-se, it is officially, the Swim Club. And this year the O'Rourke Clan are full members of the Swim Club, with all the rights and privileges that go along with being full-members. Which means we had to pony up a boat-load more cash so we can swim any day of the week. Going to "the club" sounds a lot cooler than it really is. "The Club" carries connotations of cabana boys and fine dinning or exclusive oak paneled pubs where martinis, stock tips and locker-room jocularity fill the air with a sense of "clubishness."

Our "Club" is two holes in the ground -- one really big and deep and the other only about 1- to 1 1/2 feet deep-- surrounded by a nicely kept lawn and a bunch of tables and chairs. Amenities include, a basketball court, a swing set, three vending machines -- Ice Cream, soda, and snacks -- and a dinning area with picnic tables. The only servant is the pizza guy, who will delivery your pizza to the pool instead of your house.

It is what it is. It is a swim club. And when someone asks about my whereabouts, I respond, "The kids and I were at the club." I know it is pretentious and a bit of lie, but aren't all clubs? And for the last nine months I've been home watching a bald retarded whinny Canadian four-year old or Oooh and Ahh the gay monkeys with banana fixation on Disney. So, I want to project a fantasy of "clubiness" to friends and acquaintances deal with it.

Plus, this year, I am full member of that Club, which is an upgrade from previous years, when we were only partial members, allowed to sully the club waters only on weekdays. Now I feel like I am slumming when I go to the club on a Tuesday, with the riff-raff "partlies." I am kidding of course, it is just a bit of locker-room jocularity to fill the air with a sense of "clubishness."

Going to the Club this year is very different from last year, and it has nothing to do with my membership status. It is because Reagan is mobile this year. Last year she was still in the bucket, or car seat carrier. Tiernan would frolic in the water. Daddy would watch Tiernan and get sunburned, and Reagan would sleep in the bucket, strapped in unable to escape. It was relaxing. Those days are over.

Reagan will no longer be contained by the bucket, or the fence around the baby pool. Tiernan is great. He swims, he plays with the other kids, he is self-regulating to a certain degree. Reagan swims, but she is still only 16-months old, so when she loses her footing in the deepest part of the baby pool, she struggles to get back to the surface. There is the danger of the unthinkable happening, so there is a bit of danger. But the chances of that are slim, since I tend to hover over her in the deep part of the baby pool, and all the life guards know us and know they have to keep an extra eye on her because of her tender age.

If that was the only annoyance about going to the pool, it would be a great summer. But it isn't. Reagan likes the taste of chlorine and urine with a dead bug chaser. And will find one of the myriad cups/bucket toys strewn around the baby pool and chug pool water. I will take the cup away from her and put it on the back of the concrete and she will get out of the pool and go get it. As such I am forced to put the cup on top of the fence, out of her reach. Then she goes and finds one of the other various and sundry cups to continue her binge drinking of pool water. If they was a sandbox at the club, it would be Reagan's ideal surf and turf combo. To Reagan it isn't pool, it's a trough. It isn't a sandbox, it's a buffet.

When she's had her fill of pool water, or all the cups are impaled on fence surrounding the baby pool like the heads of my enemies, Reagan becomes a swinger. She wants to go to the swings, whether I am ready to take her or not. She will stand by the gate to baby pool, waiting for it to be opened by some other more mobile, less supervised toddler, and once it is open, she is gone like a Derby horse out of the starting gate at Churchill Downs.

Tiernan, one the other hand, just wants to swim and play in the pool. So, after I go collect Reagan and carry her back. I tell Tiernan to go up to the lifeguard and introduce himself. He does. I ask the lifeguard to keep an eye on him, and not to let him out of the baby pool area, while I go to the swings with Reagan. The lifeguard agrees, everyone is happy.

Reagan and I go to the swings and Tiernan hangs out with the lifeguard. After a few minutes, Reagan grows bored with swinging and we return to the baby pool. Or maybe she just gets thirsty.

So Reagan comes home from the club everyday, drunk on pool water. If they ever do put in an oak paneled pub, I am going to be in trouble.