After we spent Christmas break in Hawaii, I realized that I need to teach them how to float properly and to tread water. They've figured out how to hold their breath, dive under, and move like porpoises across the pool. When they come up for air, however, they don't know how to bob in place with their head above water. Time to get some real training.
The twins have completed two lessons now, and they're doing great. More than great. FANTASTIC. They have been waiting so long to learn how to swim correctly that they are listening and obeying and practicing. The problem isn't in the pool . . . it's in the locker room.
My daughters have no sense of personal boundaries, and will walk right up to a lady who is undressing to stare at her turbaned hair. "Cool! How do you do that?"
They'll comment loudly about an elderly woman with a thick middle, "Did you see that lady's tummy?! She's going to have a baby!"
Every naked person is announced to the world with shrieks of "She's NAKED!" Yeah, it's always a good time when my kids run through the ladies' locker room. But I most dread after the girls have showered and dressed and I get to comb their long, wet hair. They cry—no, make that EMIT BLOODCURDLING SCREAMS—as though they're being tortured, begging me to stop. "Please, Mommy! No! NO! NOOOOOOO! It hurts, Mommy! You pull too hard!" These protestations are yelled before I've even begun, so you can imagine the volume of their vocalizations once I actually start pulling a comb through their tresses.
I think the elderly lady who most certainly is not pregnant might secretly enjoy hearing their screams of pain.
Dinner last night: baked chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, green salad
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