He is a good dad

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.

It pays to recycle

Two incidents this week reminded me just how little children need to be happy.

Gabriel's school folder wore out a few weeks ago; it tore down the center. This bothered him a lot, and I told him I would get him a new one.

But of course, it slipped my mind whenever I was out running errands.

On Tuesday when he got home from school he mentioned again that he needed a new folder, and feeling slightly sheepish that I had not taken care of this simple chore, I began rifling through my office supplies, and sure enough, I found a folder. It was blue, not pink or purple, and from a conference that I attended long ago. It had a label on the front with my name on it. I peeled this off as best I could, but it was obvious that I'd torn something off. I felt certain that Gabriel would notice this and complain, and was prepared to tell him it was a temporary folder, to hold him over until I got to the store.

To my surprise and delight, he was thrilled with this new folder. His face lit up when I gave it to him, and he thanked me profusely, and often, throughout the rest of the day. When David came home from work, the first thing he told him was, "Daddy, I got a new folder!"

But his excitement didn't end there. For the rest of the week, he lovingly tended this (old) new folder, taking me on regular guided tours to orient me to "home" side, and the "school" side. And every day, for the rest of week, when David arrived home from work, he asked him if he'd seen his new folder, and proceeded to explain its features again.

*****

I have two rules regarding dressing for school: no sweatpants, and no ripped pants. I'm sure as my children get older, and Sarah begins to push the sartorial envelope, I may have to make up some new rules regarding appropriate school attire, but for now, it's relatively simple.

Sarah has a few pairs of jeans with blown out knees that I've replaced, but every once in a while she breaks a pair out on a school day to test the waters. I don't know if it's just to push my buttons, or she's very attached to these jeans, but she's had a hard time parting with them.

As the weather has finally warmed in New Jersey, the kids have been turning to shorts more often. (What is it about shorts that make kids so happy? Have you noticed that many boys would wear them all winter long if they could get away with it?) This morning she asked me if we could cut a few of her ripped jeans into shorts. I regrettably do not know how to sew, but this task was within my skill set, so I broke out the sewing scissors, and voila; Sarah had two pairs of long denim shorts, very au courant.

She tried them on, did a little dance of joy, and told me she was wearing them today. She then spent the morning sashaying around the house in her cute new pants, which I thoroughly enjoyed.