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Michael's Diary Entries Diary Navigation: Choose A Diary Entry -------------------- Latest Entry: 8/28/00 -------------------- 8/21/00 8/14/00 8/7/00 8/1/00 7/24/00 7/17/00 7/10/00 7/3/00 6/26/00 6/19/00 6/12/00 6/5/00 5/29/00 5/22/00 5/14/00 -------------------- Michael's Introduction

August 14, 2000

Dear Readers,

I spent a lot of time this week getting all wet. Fortunately, despite a little embarrassment, my adventures with water turned out to be enjoyable for the kids and me. And on the plus side, my skin is still pale thanks to sun block 9000. On the minus side, my tummy is still flabby thanks to Doritos. Oh well, 50 percent is good in a lot of things. Right?

Ever since Lisa had a melanoma scare a few years ago, our family has been very conscious of skin problems caused by the overexposure to the sun. Lisa is now a sunscreen-to-the-highest-level fanatic and cakes the stuff on us, all over us, every time we’re going to be outside in the sun for more than 30 seconds. I will never be tan again. Nor will anyone in our house. The sweet irony of Lisa’s summer sun safety program: Lisa has been the only in our house to get sun burned this summer.

Amazing Swimsuit: For the last, say, 10 years, my family has gathered at a park in western suburbs for the family picnic. This means all the uncles and aunts and cousins and their kids and the center of attention: grandma (my grandmother), also affectionately known as the Great One. Overall, it’s a pretty big affair and a good time.

This park also has a pool. Until I had kids, I safely avoided this attraction and played basketball and gorged myself on tasty delights between games. I now, of course, have to don a bathing suit and reveal my pale, flabby body to the poor, unsuspecting patrons of all ages. It’s part of the price of fatherhood: public embarrassment. But, as a guy, I really don’t care. Plus, my wife thinks I’m fine as I am or, at least, fine enough. That’s what she tells me, and I believe her, of course.

So we headed to the pool and made our way to the wading pool. I crawled out into the water and Brandon followed. Lisa played with Allison, who refused to go in, on the edge. As Brandon and I splashed and played and laughed, I noticed a familiar but different-looking figure approaching the pool. She was looking for someone. I looked more intently. I thought to myself: That looks like her, but, my God, where are her clothes? She’s in a swimsuit. I turned to Brandon and said, "Look, Brandon. Grandma’s coming in the pool." Brandon shrieked with delight, and we splashed to the edge and reached my mom.

"Mom, what are you doing here? And in a swimming suit?"

She smiled, either ignoring or not noticing my rudeness and surprise and said, "I’ve come to swim with my grand kids. That’s OK, isn’t it?"

"Um, of course, but when was the last time ... 25 years or something?"

"Oh, I don’t know."

"You’re in a swimsuit. I didn’t know you even had one."

"I just borrowed this from Grandma."

I kidded my mom a little about the amazing persuasive power of children then watched her and Brandon play in the water before she left Brandon to spend some time with Allie in sand pit making mud pies. As I sat in the water, I thought that it was wonderful that she was getting in the pool to take a dip with her grandkids. Not bad, grandma.

Poolside Bloopers: Lisa signed Brandon up for swim lessons and for the last week he has been going with her at 10 a.m. for a half-hour session. He really looks forward to going, sticking out his chest every day at breakfast when he tells me, "I have swimming lessons today with mom."

Today, I got to take him for the first time. Well, I learned firsthand that swimming lessons for 3-year-olds, well, at least mine, involve mainly splashing and hardly any swimming. But he had fun. And I had fun watching him kick his legs, laugh while splashing, play duck-duck-goose in the water, and refuse to do some of the exercises.

I also remembered what a pokey sort Brandon is. From the parking lot to the pool area is at least a five-minute walk for an adult. For Brandon, this means about a half-hour, if allowed to go at his own pace, as he drags his feet and looks at every flower, bush and person, and then formulates and asks questions about most of these things: "What’s that? What’s this? What’s her name? Why she do that?" I try to give plausible answers and limit my "I don’t knows" and keep my "I don’t cares" to myself. And on it goes until he gets to the pool, where the long march finally ends in freedom (really just a break).

After the lesson, unfortunately, we had to walk even farther. The way we came in was blocked and we had to leave from the far end. As we reached the end, the wall stuck out and it looked as though there was only one exit. It appeared unmarked. I thought to myself: it’s on the right so it’s probably the men’s room and we probably passed the ladies’ on the way. We walked into the room and even though we didn’t see anyone, something felt uncomfortable. Brandon, of course, poked along, ignoring my pleas to "hurry up and keep moving" and even resisted a little. After all, he was used to this room because this was where he and Lisa exited.

Then, with only 10 feet left to freedom, a mom and her daughter walked in. We just plowed ahead and I bowed my head to avoid eye contact, until we reached the exit. Fortunately, all the young lady swimmers were in the changing stalls. Whew! Brandon and I then went to the men’s room that was next to the ladies’ room. The entrance is on the far side of the wall and clearly marked -- a lot of good that does me now.

Pale (permanently) and confused (momentarily),

Michael