Saturday morning at the JCC pool.
We've been lined up in the locker room for 15 minutes, a rag-tag fugitive fleet of moms and squirrely children in damp bathing suits. The moms who haven't shaved in recent memory are wrapped in towels from waist to ankle. Or neck to ankle. One lady should have probably sha--but never mind. This is a story of my shame, not hers.
Within three minutes of being released, blissfully, into somewhat cool water that stands an excellent chance of dampening some high spirits, It Happens.
I should have known what the flashing green lights and the smell of rocket fuel meant.
It meant that: 16 oz of partially digested organic carrots were being launched from Kid's stomach, seeking their (almost) final destination down the front of my bathing suit.
It meant that: 11 squirrely children in damp bathing suits were evacuated from the pool. That's the word they used: "evacuated."
No one seemed to heed my reassurances that these were ORGANIC carrots and thus not to be feared. Avoided, sure, but not feared.
It meant that: 4 mothers in various degrees of inappropriate hairiness (not you, D., you're perfect) had gotten up early on a Saturday, driven through a snowstorm, shepherded their children into damp bathing suits and inched into cold water FOR NOTHING.
It meant that: I may never be able to look at carrots without recalling how they look, partially digested, nestled in my belly button.
And it was finished off with this touching scenario:
Chastened Kid sitting on changeroom bench in green frog trunks, waiting for Mommy to come back from her third shower.
"Mommy, do you still have my barf on you?"
BIG BLUE EYES LOOKING UP AT ME.
"Oh honey, don't worry, mommy's not mad."
"Just don't touch me if there's barf on you. That would be gross."