You had a swim class last Wednesday, but I just wasn't up to the challenge. The very idea of squeeeezing my big pregnant butt into a bathing suit and hopping up and down in chilly water singing "Ring Around The Rosie," followed by an inevitable locker-room fight with a toddler who by-God doesn't want to put on her Dora panties seemed oppressive to me. Running the Ironman would have been preferable - at least when you pass out from exhaustion there, they bring you Gatorade.
I had a flash of genius and realized that the whole point of getting married is to have someone on hand to do all the unpleasant stuff you don't feel like doing (see: taking out the trash, lifting heavy objects, cutting Ella's toenails). And let's not forget the break you get on your taxes! All that to say that your dad got drafted into service and had to take you swimming.
By all accounts, you were not in the mood to be swimming with Dad. No tanks, don't wanna sing. No blow bubbles. 'On't want to. Out! Outta pool!
Your teacher is hell-bent on getting you to blow bubbles, which clashes with your need to never ever under any circumstances get your face wet. Several times during each class period, she'll bounce over to you and ask you to put your face in the water and blow bubbles. Blooow Bubbles! That's when you turn your head and gaze off into the distance and pretend you can't hear her, even though she's standing 18 inches from you. Peg Peg calls this move the "Genie Mae," named after your great-great-grandmother, the original Southern Machiavelli, who could pretend the person in front of her didn't exist if they weren't worthy of being on her radar.
I want you to blow bubbles, of course, but I'm also secretly glad every time you spurn her advances. Sometimes, the perky must be stopped.
Love,
Mom
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