Splish Splash, Nobody is Ever Relaxing Again

Atlanta has had a pretty rough winter. Judging by the news reports, school closings, and SNL skits mocking us, I am pretty sure it is the coldest, cruelest weather that has ever hit any metropolitan city in the history of the world. This is hard enough to bear when, like most Southerners, the warmest coat you own is an unlined North Face (the horror), but it becomes a new type of brutal when you are also hanging out with a toddler all day long.

B likes to base her wardrobe choices off of Christmas
movies from the 80s set in the 50s. 

With B, it would be one thing if it was just cold. We can wrap her up Christmas Story-style and go on with our day. The wet has ruined us, though. We have been trapped inside for the better part of the past umpteenth months.

So, in order to stave off an Atlanta reenactment of The Shining cabin fever, we have been exploring indoor, wear out the toddler activities. Once Catch Air lost its charm (i.e. I was no longer able to tolerate chasing her through ball pits), we looked for an alternate method of entertainment. Luckily, her swimsuits for the summer (and no, there aren't too many RB) had just started to arrive and served as a source of inspiration.

For the past several weeks, we have been spending every afternoon at a close by pool that is like a toddler's wonderland. There is a lazy river, fountains, and it doesn't go deeper than 3 ft 6 inches. The pool is only open during odd hours, but since we are currently on the nap schedule of no momma, never, and nope, we are pretty flexible with our schedule.

Summer 2013:
When B was easy to contain, and
living was easy.

For the first few days, it was perfect. A wonderful way to wear us both out during those long afternoon hours that seem to stretch on endlessly between lunch and when RB gets home. It didn't take long, though, until she was fearless. It was as if the long, pool-less months of winter had never happened. Every chance she could, she was running towards the side, trying to jump in before I could catch her. She climbed the playground area in the middle of the pool as if it wasn't actually made for five year olds twice her size. In the lazy river, she used every ounce of strength she has to try to push off me and float all by herself. During our Mommy Group playdate there, the other moms relaxed while their babies stayed in their laps or ventured only a foot or so away. Meanwhile, I can't even tell you for sure who was there - I was too busy chasing the wild child. I believe they called her "spirited." I think that is Mommy sympathy code for "exhausting."

Our biggest obstacle has become the slides. On the far side of the pool is a 40 ft covered slide accompanied by a giant sign that says "Must be 46 inches to ride." Unfortunately, this is not a deterrent to B... possibly because she can't read yet or because she has no idea what measurements are. Either way, every time we pass it all I hear is "Mine? Momma? Mine?" Needless to say, we avoid that side of the pool.

There is a smaller slide in the middle of the pool made for younger kids but is still the stuff of nightmares for me. It is covered, it lands in water, it is 12 or so feet high. Adults aren't allowed in it, but of course RB the rebel rides it with her all the time. I am a wuss and a rule follower to the core, so when I take B I just shake my head and tell her "no." This usually goes over as well as me telling her it is nap time.

This last trip to the pool, an older lifeguard was on duty. It was a nice departure from the usual crowd of young, hipster lifeguards who seem like they are just counting down the minutes until they can go back to American Apparel. This lifeguard was actively engaged with the kids, helping out the moms, acting as an all around asset to the crowd. He watched the repeated cycle of B climbing up the stairs, fighting her way through the gauntlet of bigger kids and water hoses with enough power to knock her backwards only to see me shake my head and say "No slide, B."

After round 1,000,000 of this, he helpfully comes over. "Listen, you stay up there with her and put her in the slide. I will stay down here and scoop her out of the water when she gets down here. She will love it!"

I stared at him for a minute and every apocalyptic scenario of how this could end ran through my head:
1) He could have a heart attack catching her. (Seriously. He wasn't young)
2) She could freak out and ninja attack him. Anyone who has been on a playdate with her is well aware that she is not into strangers.
3) She could decide the slide is the greatest thing that has ever existed and then I am doomed to slide paranoia and oversight for the rest of the winter/spring.

But before I could finish the movie reel of awful outcomes in my head, she looked up at me with those big green eyes and just said "Slide. Please." We aren't big on verbs yet, but she knows how to get straight to the point. And my heart.

So, against my better judgment, I sat her at the top of the slide, gave her a little push, and watched as she disappeared into the tunnel. As soon as she was out of sight, I headed down through the water tunnels and over to the ever-helpful lifeguard waiting at the bottom for her. I thought surely by the time I made it over to the, she would be down and out of the slide. Possibly fighting him with every ounce of stranger danger fear she has, but down nonetheless.

Nope. I get there and the lifeguard is inching ever closer to the slide. Closer. Closer. Closer. He makes eye contact with me and I can tell he is considering his next words very closely.

"Um, where is my daughter?"
"Well... she hasn't quite made it down yet."
"What? She could have gone down three times now."
"Yep. She is not down yet. I think it is okay though."

If there is one thing you don't want to tell an already paranoid from watching too many Law and Order episodes mother, it is that you "think" her daughter is okay.

At this point, I am a crazy person, calling for her - shouting into the slide. The lifeguard is standing next to me also shouting her name. Well, actually he was shouting "Bonnet," but at this point there was no time for corrections. I can feel the walls closing in as I try to figure out where the hell in this slide she is and, quite literally, I can feel everyone in the pool area close in on us as they come to watch the spectacle.

Another lifeguard sprints to the top of the slide and lays flat sliding half of his body into the slide to see if he can see her around the bend of the slide. I am half way up the slide now, looking for her at this angle, while the older, totally his fault because it was his idea, lifeguard hovers over me saying "Bonnet? Are you in there? Come down now, Bonnet."

Suddenly, above all the commotion we hear "Mommie? Hi, Mommie." B's sweet little voice... not scared. Not anguished. Not reaching higher and higher decibels, cartoon style like me when I panic. Just nonchalant. Hanging out in a slide of death and destruction.

The lifeguard at the top comes out of the slide and shrugs his shoulders. He can hear her but can't see her so, you know, his job is done. At the foot of the slide, we keep calling her and slowly start to hear a loud, squeaking noise. Again, my panic, worst case scenario thought process goes into effect. There is clearly a giant snake in there with her making a squeaking noise. Snakes squeak, right? Or the slide is about to collapse. Or the whole building. Whatever it is, it is going to be bad.

Slowly but surely, the squeaking gets louder and suddenly little, chubby, adorable feet round the bend in the slide just out of our reach. The squeaking noise is her butt, inch by inch, as she drags it down the slide, scooting herself little by little. Within seconds, she is in reach, I grab her ankles, and drag her out of the slide.

My heart is racing. I feel like I am going to be sick. Stuck in the slide? Are you kidding me? I feel like an hour has passed. Realistically, it was probably 15 seconds. Maybe 20. She is safe but I am seriously considering never leaving the house again.

The older, now my total arch nemesis, better not have grandkids lifeguard smiles at me. "Yeah... I forgot sometimes if they aren't big enough they don't sit right in the slide and get stuck."

I am so shocked, I can't even speak. B, however, takes that moment to start clapping. And then says to him, "Slide. Please."


Post brush with slide death. Still repeatedly
asking for the slide.