So Jack is a confirmed water baby. Several times a week, I say, “Hey Jack, do you want to go outside to the pool and go swimming?” The first thing that happens is a wide smile that looks like this:
He will then race over to the door and attempt to break it down, much like this:
If I have the nerve to take a few moments to change into my own suit and text a neighbourhood friend to join us, I may very well return to the doorway to find him sitting all ready, in case I had forgotten where we were headed:
He loves it. He grins at the friendly lifeguard at our condo complex, and giggles while I take him out of the stroller. He then spends 15 minutes climbing in and out of the shallow end, before splashing and splashing with glee. We take leisurely boat rides in his float, and practice blowing bubbles and diving underwater. He alternates between frenetic kicking and peaceful floating, in much the same way I imagine his life as a toddler, the ebb and flow of routine and change. He could spend all day there, and the sunblock and I are prepared. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s dreaming of swimming right now. My little fish.