The Stonebridge Pool is at the Pinehills, where my parents live. As you may have noticed, we go there almost every Wednesday. Last Wednesday was special for two reasons: 1) it was free ice cream sundae day! and 2) George got kicked out!
You’d think the pool at a mostly-retirees place would be pretty laid back about the rules, but they’re actually super intense. These are the things that we’ve found out the hard way that you’re not allowed to do at the Stonebridge Pool:
- Jump in
- Dive for coins
- Play catch
- Walk briskly
- Play Marco Polo at above a conversational volume (“Marco.” “Polo.”)
- Put one end of a pool noodle on the water jet
- “Surf” on each other (I lie on the bottom of the pool, they stand on my back and then I wiggle around.)
But we’ve done all these things and lived to see another day at the pool. So what horrendous crime did George commit? He got mad at Hazy, had a temper tantrum, and then threw his goggles in (the area of) her face. The lifeguards were actually surprisingly okay with this, but we disagree on a lot of things (surfing is awesome!) and this is one of them. Whining, tantrums, and throwing stuff are my pool no-no’s, so I told George to please pack his knives and go. Just kidding, of course knives aren’t allowed at the Stonebridge Pool.
I’ll admit, I’m as guilty as the next mom of empty threats (“If you do that again, we’re going home. Okay, seriously, one more time and we’re going home.”) but this time I delivered. And it felt glorious. George started whining and I said, “If you’re going to act this way, I’ll take you home and Hazy and Oma can hang at the pool by themselves.” Things escalated, eyewear was flung, and I went into badass mode. He couldn’t believe it.
People who didn’t throw Speedo paraphernalia at others got to chill poolside and play Marco Polo (at a moderate volume) to their heart’s content. Goggle launchers and their innocent mothers headed home for time out/a conference call (that timing worked out nicely). At least we had good company, as Opa always stays home when we go to the pool, ostensibly to hang with the dogs, but I bet he also prefers his Marco Polo loud and proud.
That evening, after everyone talked it out and we agreed whining/swim accessory assaults were uncool, we enjoyed another fantastic meal at Chez Opa’s.
Not to be outdone, Oma’s stepped up her dessert game considerably. Now she customizes desserts. For example, ice cream with “sapphire glitter crystals” (Hazy’s words) for the kids, and a blackberry Napoleon for me. And yes, it has a mint leaf and everything.
On the drive home, Hazy asked me, “Know what I want to be when I grow up?” Previously, she’d planned to be a part-time dentist and part-time restauranteur, so I was prepared for something along those lines. The surprising answer? “The biggest Emma Watson fan in the world!” Dream big, baby, dream big.
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