Drowning at Swimming Lessons

Summer has come and gone and Tiernan is back at school. The kids and I had a good summer at The Club. This year it was harder to navigate the dangerous waters of the Social Swim Club.
We have more friends in town, now that Tiernan is in school all of his buddies from school were there. Which is great. Our social circles are expanding. Also Tiernan is getting to be a big boy and big boys take simming lessons. Swimming lessons were at 10 and 10:30 every morning for a couple of weeks.
The Tuesday after July 4th, we had a birthday party to attend at 11 a.m. at the Memorial Pool in Fair Lawn, for one of his school buddies. We were up early to get ready for pool and day began with a 45 minute fight with Tiernan about going to Swim Lessons. He didn't want to go. "I already know how to swim," according to him. It was a full-on tear filled, foot-stomping, screaming meanie of a tantrum. One that would only be quelled by speaking to Mom via phone from work. We finally get him to agree to allow himself to be taught to swim. I get both kids in bathing suits and change Reagan's swimmie diaper for the second time, and lube them up with sunblock and we are on our way.
We get to the pool for the 10 a.m. class and I am informed that Tiernan cannot attend that class. There was a communcations mix up. Ok..no prob..we'll just head up to the party. As we are walking out the door, Tiernan's buddy Sal is walking in. Which results in another 15 min. fight about leaving the pool. I drag Tiernan out and we are on our way to the birthday party at Memorial Pool in Fair Lawn, with enough time to spare to stop at a Dunkin Donuts for morning coffee along the way. However, I don't have any money with me. My cash is in my pants. I try not to keep important things like wallets or money in my bathing suits. It always ends badly when I do.
So I pull into our driveway to run into the house to get my cash. "Ok, guys I will be right back. You guys hang out in your car seats for a minute." I am in the house for a few minutes longer than expected. It seems someone has hidden my pants. With pants and cash located I start out the front door to the car only to find both children out of their car seats and out of the car. The boy can free himself and took the liberty to free the girl from the bonds of car seat safety. And they are both running around the front yard. A quick assessment of the situation tell me that the children are older, wiser and more cunning than I give then credit for and I may no longer have time to get my coffee. Both conclusions displease me.
I scream at the children, extolling the dangers of getting out of the car without me or another trusted adult around, I may have also mentioned the heartbreak of a father who is in danger of missing his morning coffee.
With everyone strapped in the car, extra snug. We are off to the pool party. You may hear a rumor that I may have gotten a bit lost on the way, but I cannot confirm or deny such unsubstaniated rumors.
We find the Memorial Pool in Fair Lawn. It isn't so much a pool, as a man made lake complete with extra sandy beach. I hate sand. Let me clarify, I hate the beach. I love the ocean. I could go to the ocean and play in the waves all day. I could not spend more than a few hours on the beach. I don't see the attraction of getting sand in places that don't see Sunshine. Speaking of Sunshine, I don't tan. I turn red. I hurt, bad. I peel. I turn white again. I am not a good beach person. I don't want to lay on the beach. I don't want to sleep on the beach. I don't want to read on the beach. I have poor beach ettiquette. I get sand on everyone's towels, and blanets. I kick sand unintentionally. It is hot. It ends up in my car. It has things living in it. It is wet. It is full of cigarette butts. Crabs live in sand. Enough said.
While I don't think there were crabs living in the Fair Lawn Memorial "Pool" beach, the prospect of changing a sandy diaper displeased me greatly. As I have mentioned before, Reagan has a penchant for eating sand.
Speaking of changing diapers. The Ford Freestyle began to fill with a telltale ordor. Yes, Reagan pooped again. Once again in a swimmie diaper. Now, permit me to elaborate, not so much on the poop but on the swimmie diaper. Earlier in this passage I glossed over the fact that Reagan pooped in her swimmie diaper, during the "I Already Know How To Swim"-Tantrum. Scroll up if you don't believe me. The swimmie diaper is very different from a regular diaper and a training diaper or Pull-up. It wasn't really designed to handle poop. It was designed to keep the pool water out and the urine in. So that one does not become the the other. The jury is still out, when it comes the efficacy of the swimmie diapier's ability do this, but just as we are expected to make our beds everyday for no reason other than social norms, a toddler must wear a swimmie diaper. And I am the kind of father that wants my children to be accepted in polite society, I use swimmie diapers. Call me a conformist.
So...the swimmie diapers are very much like pull-ups but they are smaller. The collection area is a bit smaller. They fit a bit snugger. They go on like pants, they are not strapped on, like regular diapers. Another problem with swimmie diapers is they are usually worn with bathing suits. And in the case of little girls those bathing suits are often once piece suits, which creates even more of a problem when it comes to changing a dirty diaper. It becomes necessary for the child to be completely naked to make the change.
I must change Reagan's swimmie diaper in the parking lot of the Fair Lawn Memorial "Pool", and guess what kind of bathing suit she's wearing. A one piece. Another social norm I wish to instill in my children is not being naked in public places. Call me a conformist. So I am on the back of the Freestyle changing Reagan's poopy swimmie diaper, with Tiernan acting as a lookout. "Dad, here comes a car. I think it's a policeman, you better hurry up." It is not the optimum conditions for diaper changing. The only saving grace here is that it is that the swimmie diaper has not been swum in. It is dry, except for the brown stuff, and there is a good amount of brown stuff.
With Reagan clean and fresh, we head to the party. Which is fun, but uneventful. It was a very nice gathering of children and sand. The children made new friends and much of the sand went home in the children's pants. A good time was had by all.
The O'Rourke children both fall asleep on the ride home. But that is not the only thing that happened. Reagan did it again. She pooped in a swimmmie diaper for the third time in five hours. And this was the piece de resistance. Did I mention that this was the Tuesday after Fourth of July? Which means that Reagan spend the entire weekend eating nothing but corn on the cob. She is the corn queen and cashews. And this was the diaper that contained the waste from this weekend's fare, now this is a wet swimmie. I know I can think of nothing more ewww/ooggiee inspiring that having to go poop while I am swimming. It is one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world. It makes my skin crawl.
I am faced with a child who is passed out but with a diaper full of cashew-corn-sand clusters. This is the perfect storm of disgusting diapers. All of the case scenerios have converged. Swimmie diaper, corn, cashews and sand. And don't underestimate the power of a few grains of sand to turn a run of the mill diaper into a diaper disaster. It clings to skin. It is immune to the baby wipe. I just doesn't want to come off. It also adds a certain something to the stench that would make a sewage worker vomit. And this had a stench, and world-class one at that. I gag my way through getting her cleaned up which included the need to put her in the tub and wake her up. Never a good thing. Eventually, I got her clean and both kids took long naps.
It was 1:30 in the afternoon, I was ready to jump in front of a bus. This had been my worst day as a stay-at-home parent. Until...
The next morning was another early wake up for Swimming Lessons. Lessons were at 10 a.m. and The O'Rourke clan was at the pool by 9:30. I had my radio, my sunglasses, and I was sitting at the baby pool watching Tiernan and Reagan frolic in the pool under a cloudless July sky. We were the only people at the kiddie pool at that hour. Dad is on his game today, after the debacle that was the day before. He's had his coffee and on top of things.
Tiernan is asking me a question about swimming lessons and suddenly stops mid-sentence and says, "What stinks?" he looks around and says, "Reagan stinks. She pooped and its running along the baby pool deck."
He called it exactly right. She did poop. It did stink. And it was running along the poop deck. She didn't poop in the pool, but on the concrete deck surrounding the pool. I knew I had a problem. My brain went into access the situation mode. And I knew my priorities. Clean the girl and alert the lifeguards of the Haz-Mat situation at the baby-pool.
I scoop up Reagan and order Tiernan to follow me and make haste. On the way to the men's room, I inform the pool manager and gathered lifeguards of the crisis. "Get the rubber gloves and bleach," one teenage guard yells. The manager turns to me with a small and says with a smile. "OK we'll handle it. And thank you very much for telling us." Which puts two very different thoughts into my head simultainiously: We are the only people in the baby pool, you would have figured it out... and... People don't tell you?!?!?! EWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!! I kiss my kids after the swim.
I shake that off and head to men's room to clean up the girl. It turns out that we are still working out the weekend's culinary delights. But now it is mixed with whatever may have been living in the lake water, from the party the day before.
I am not a novice when it comes to diapers. I don't need rubber gloves and mask to change a diaper. I have a strong stomach. I consider myself a pro when it comes to the diapering arts. I vomited in the mens room, after I go the diaper open. I am not proud of it but, I do consider it a benchmark by which all other odors will be compared to. And as far as I am concerned that smell ranks up there with Cal Ripken's consecutive games played record or the ratings for the final episode of M*A*S*H as records that will never be broken.
I get myself and Reagan cleaned up and we head home full of shame for closing the kiddie pool for a few hours. And depriving all the other toddlers of fun in the pool. I skulk home like a beaten man. Once home I throw Reagan in the tub and disinfect her as best I can. And I have to head back to the pool, because it is only ten minutes to 10:00 a.m. and Tiernan has swimming lessons, remember swimming lessons?
Reagan and I return to the scene of the crime, and by this time all the morning regulars are at the pool all lamenting the fact that the kiddie pool will be closed, not for a few hours as I thought but for 24 hours. They are all asking me, if I know what happened. "It was Reagan."
Now...I am faced with what to do with Reagan while Tiernan get swimming lessons. It turns out I had to chase her around the swim club, while she screamed and cried about not being able to swim. She woke the neighbors, and there are no homes nearby. She gave me more attitude that cornered rattlesnake. She screamed at me and did her best to get past me so she could jump in the big pool. It made no matter to her that she was in street clothes and not in a bathing suit.
I get her settled down a bit. I am still a shell of shame, despite the politeness of my pool moms, "It could happen to any of us" and the pool staff telling me that it happens all the time. My internal parental reputation has a black eye, and all can see that I am unfit to be around children, as is evident by my screaming, kicking daughter who will not stop crying and wailing, no mater how mean or nice I am to her. I am standing there in this pit of disparity and self-doubt, one of my neighbors from up the street, who I wave to but don't really talk to, ambles over. "This is a disgrace what happened with this kiddie pool."
"What do you mean?" I said, as I balled my fist to punch her in the mouth and thinking, "Where are you going with this conversation, lady?" I had a vision of her being taken from the Club on a stretcher, I also had vision of my being removed from the Club in handcuffs. The former was more pleasant then the later.
"They should clean this pool after hours at night, not during hours when people want to let their kids swim. You should write a letter," says, avoiding a hospital stay.
I inform her of the need to clean the pool and my delightful daughter's part in shutting down the fun for dozens of toddlers. She looks at me and says, "Oh." and rumbles back to her pool side chair completely unaware of how close she came to having her spleen eaten by an irate father, down on his luck.