Swimming Lessons

I read an article awhile ago in Newsweek that cited some new findings about the "myth" of overscheduling kids. According to the piece, "the more activities they do, the better kids stack up on measures of educational achievement and psychological adjustment". Apparently there is no such thing as a five year old being too busy.

I see this phenomenon everyday at preschool. I am amazed at the sea of minivans that are lining up 20 minutes before pick up time at school so as not to be late for the next activity. My passat wagon (I am trying to remain somewhat cool) is always in the back of this line no matter how early I get there. They're lined up, Sienna and Odyssey doors slid open, ready to scoot off to dance or karate or advanced algebra after school lets out.

So as not to be left behind, and because The Five Year Old did not have a full enough social calendar, I signed him up for swimming lessons on our one free day of the week.

Unfortunately, his enthusiasm for swimming in an indoor pool waned as we approached the Swimming Club. To add insult to injury, The Baby is in the magical stranger/room/any-new-place anxiety stage where he cries hysterically whenever we enter a room. As if on cue, he howls and clings to me like a monkey around my neck the minute we walk into the building. At the very same moment, The Five Year Old decides he doesn't want to go into the pool room after all so he tugs at my other arm trying to pull me towards the back door. Not only do I have two kids hanging on me, but I am also heavily laden with a backpack and tote bag containing The Five Year Old's swim gear, and enough toys and snacks to keep The Baby occupied if, in the rare event, we (God willing), do manage to get The Five Year Old into the pool. The laws of gravity work against me because the next thing I know we are all in a big pile on the floor. Damn, this floor is cold. And hard.

The Baby is still screaming with green, gooey snot running down his face (I think he also bumped his head as we hit the tile floor). I hand him a sippy cup only after noticing the large sign on the wall written in big, bold letters: "Absolutely no food or drink allowed in building". Surely that does not apply to a sippy cup of water for a hysterical 18 month old. The Five Year Old has gotten up and is standing in the hallway with arms firmly folded.

One by one, other mothers walk effortlessly into the pool room with their kids who appear happy (giddy even!) to be starting swim lessons. Eventually, we manage to open the pool door and actually walk into the 90 degree room. Hallelujah. We see the other kids in their bathing suits sitting quietly on the bench waiting for class to begin. I am given a "look" from one of the teachers when she sees The Baby with his sippy cup. I work very hard at not giving her an obscene gesture in return. I drag The Five Year Old over to the bench where he sits, reluctant and fully clothed. The Baby is still wrapped around my neck hiccupping with tears. The Five Year Old refuses even to remove his goose-down winter vest that he has zipped up to his chin, despite the beads of sweat that have begun to form on his forehead. The other kids and moms sit on the bleachers. Staring. At us.

Class starts. The kids get in the water (smiling! eager! waving to their moms!) in their small 4:1 student - teacher ratio classes. The Five Year Old is firmly planted on the bench. Not going in. Not even a chance. I resort to bribery (what choice do I have?). Dunkin' Donuts? Some TV this afternoon? A light saber? The deed to the house? Nope. Not budging.
So we left.

He played happily at home with lego Star Wars ships for the rest of the afternoon. Which is exactly what he should be doing.