Yesterday was opening day at the Montclair Beach Club, something my children were looking forward to with great anticipation. As Saturday approached, Sarah and a friend began planning where they would rendezvous as if it were a college reunion, and they lived on opposite ends of the country. (They see each other every day, in school.)
They made elaborate plans to meet by the diving board at 1.30. And they had back-up plans for where they could find each other if, by chance, one of them wasn't at the diving board 1.30. If I don't see you at the diving board, proceed to the playground. And if you are not there, then, go to the snack bar. All of this planning was adorable, amusing, but highly unnecessary, as the Montclair Beach Club is not a very big place; if you take a lap around the pool, you are bound to run into someone.
We were fortunate that it was a nice day, because as far as my children were concerned, there was no way we were not going. But it is still early in the season, and since we've had a cold spring, the water was sure to be FREEZING, so there was NO WAY I was getting in the pool. As I have gotten older, my intolerance for cold has increased to the point where I now understand why people move to warmer climes as they age, something I would have made fun of in my youth. So sure was I that I was not stepping foot in the pool, I didn't even bother with a swimsuit.
The problem is, that while Sarah and Gabriel are competent swimmers, capable of going in the water by themselves, Sacha, at 3, is most certainly not.
And this is what dads are for.
So my pale, tender skinned, balding husband (who is also very handsome; it occurs to me that this description does not paint an especially attractive picture), whose pate will burn on an overcast spring day, should he forget to wear a hat, suited up.
And so we arrived, and off he went, with me trailing behind, to empathize with his pain. He winced as he descended into the cold. I believe I saw his skin grow two sizes too small. But he got in that pool, and played with our kids. He splashed and threw them about. He held out his arms for them to jump into.
He even played with some other people's kids, the ones who are old enough to swim unaccompanied, but still enjoy having an adult roughhouse with them in the water, whose parents now have the luxury of sitting on a chaise reading, while their children swim. Bitches.
At one point, as Gabriel dragged him in for another round of water play, I heard David wimper, with a tremor in his voice, "Oh no, not the mushroom again!" (The mushroom is a cascading waterfall in the center of the pool shaped like...a giant penis.)
By the time we went home, David, who normally runs hot, was shell-shocked from the cold. He was visibly shivering, even once he was dry and in clean clothes.
I believe his gonads descended some time around 9pm.
So props to him, and all the other dads who braved the cold to play with their kids.