I’m forcing my kids to take swimming lessons. Actually, I’m bribing them. With Zhu Zhu pet crap. If they both take the class willingly, they get some cage or maze or Richard Gere lookalike to use with their weird robotic gerbils that make no sense to me. If Pie consistently puts her face in the water by the end of class, then she gets a second Zhu Zhu pet toy. Â It’s working. She put her face under the water four times today. Progress. He needs to learn to swim with his arms out of the water. In order to pass the deep end test at our pool, he has to swim the length of the pool with a proper arms-out-of-water crawl stroke. He’s working on it.
Our Y has what we call “the mat room,” which is a room designed for little kids with lots of mats and climbing toys. There’s a big kid climbing room, but the rock wall was recalled and it hasn’t been replaced yet. It’ll be another six to eight weeks. Which means the big kids end up on the mat room more often than not.
I used to feel safe leaving my kids in there while I ran out–to get water or go to the bathroom–but not anymore. Not with those big kids. Today there was this boy in there absolutely wreaking havoc. The kid’s mother must have yelled at him five times to stop jumping from the towering pile of gymnastics blocks to the mat below, where he came 
precariously close to the little people. He blatantly ignored her every time, flashing her this annoying “What me? I’m sorry!” look as he kept right on causing trouble. He’d yell, “Fire!” hurling balls across the room. He recruited younger boys to chase the girls and pelt them with said “cannon balls.” He’d jump off the top of the slide. It was horrendous. And the worst part? That obnoxious kid left when I did. Had the nerve to get into my car and come home with me.
I remember not too long ago that I was petrified in that room, because the big kids ran my kids scared. Now my kids are the big kids. That boy of mine has morphed from this easygoing, happy kid sitting in a corner of the room daydreaming, to this creature who must be in motion at all time. Kicking a soccer ball, throwing baseballs, climbing atop the trapeze bar on our climber in order to swing high, hopping down the stairs, dancing in the living room, jumping up and down when he should be sitting for dinner. He’s in constant motion.
This summer, the boy has minimal camp. I fear for the house. I fear for his bruised and scraped knees. I fear for my sanity. It’s going to be a looooooong summer.
