It is 4.15pm on Friday afternoon. We arrive at the childrens’ weekly swimming lesson late as usual. The children are tired after the long school week and the Toddler is furious at the prospect of being a spectator once again. The problem is swimming lessons are like gold dust. Like many others, we have spent months on a waiting list and when the phone rang with an offer of a place, albeit at the worst possible time, I had to grab it.
I try and drum up some enthusiasm as the children lag behind me with their swimming bags. The four-year-old has just woken from a deep sleep in the car and is adamant he will not be co-operating. Shoes and socks removed, we pad around the damp floor of the overheated changing rooms. I try not to think about the amount of other bare feet that have done the same thing that day. Five minutes late and £5 already wasted, I undress the children at record speed. On the poolside, it feels like we are entering a sauna and The Toddler and I are gradually overheating in our winter woollies. I am life guarding him and virtually pin him down as he periodically attempts to take a flying leap into the pool to join the others, or just cool down.
While on duty, my mind wanders back to when I learnt to swim. The swimming pool was never heated at school and we were forced to swim come rain or shine. With arm bands removed by my teacher, I began the mammoth task of doggy paddling across the pool, my head bent upwards to the sky to avoid gulpfuls of water. My teacher, wrapped in a warm parka, shouted, “Do not touch the bottom of the pool.” I remember wondering why anyone enjoys swimming and as a result, I have been put off it for life. My husband’s experience was even worse. He recalls being thrown in the pool and having to madly doggy paddle to the edge. At the point when he thought he would submit to the water and drown, he felt a tug on the back of his Speedos as the teacher hooked him up in the air above the water on a long pole.
So, why am I subjecting my children to the whole swimming lesson lark, when they are tired and hungry on a Friday afternoon. Because us parents have this strange distorted belief that the ability to swim, along with riding a bicycle, and playing a whole range of sport and musical instruments and all by the age of seven are all essential for our beloved super human children. Perhaps we would all benefit from spending our Friday afternoons sitting in front of the fire with a cup of cocoa, watching Jackanory.
