Dan and I decided that this was the year we needed to get Payne some
professional Not Drowning lessons.
Things started out a little rough.
A) Payne now shuns all true swim trunks. He quickly realized that trunks over a speedo were superfluous, and now he's rocking the Michael Phelps look at splash pads all over the greater Houston area. It's ridiculous.
So, I felt a little silly bringing my 4 year old, who doesn't know a single stroke, to swim class at the local YMCA in a racing suit.
Honestly, I'm worried his teachers think I'm going all Earl Woods on them.
B) He refused to get in the water on the first day. Heck, he refused to let the teacher shower him off before he even approached the pool. I bargained, threatened, and cajoled, to no end. Finally one of the instructors came and got him just to see if putting him in the water would help.
No. No it didn't. Payne was doing his best to throttle a 20 year old man. He kicked his teenage swim teacher, while vocalizing in a way I thought was beyond the capacity of anything but a Tasmanian devil. The adventure culminated with him perched on the edge of the pool ladder, growling mightily and fiercely staring at the pool deck, while three very earnest young people tried to talk some sense into him.
We went home early. Payne went to bed early, like at 11 a.m.
The next day we returned, armed with an apology letter signed by our little violent offender, and a sage lecture from Daddy still ringing in his ears.
And henceforth he has acted like he owns that place. He loves it!
In fact, he's gotten a little cocky. The other two little girls in his class though unrelated, happen to have matching (Rainbow Hello Kitty, so chic!) swimsuits. He holds both of their hands and escorts them around the pool deck.
Guys, he looks like a shrunken Hugh Hefner.