Swimming lessons, broccoli and bedtime: Mel Buttle on kids’ pet hates
Mel Buttle’s battle with her winter-loving toddler's pool demands brings back memories of her own childhood swimming mishap as the comedian reveals her child’s pet hates.
‘No sorry mate it’s still too cold, we might have to wait until October this year.”
I let him down easy. Harry, my big boy, has for the 134th time this week asked if he can go swimming. His tiny body should be in the Guinness Book of Records for its incredible ability to not feel the cold, I wonder if Alone Australia has a toddler season in the works, as he’d win for sure.
He plonked his hand in and assured me: “It’s not cold mummy, it’s really warm.”
I checked, using both my own subjective method off dunking a hand in, and also employing science.
“The chlorinator says it’s 13 degrees Harry, that’s freezing.”
That’s a small white lie there, technically nothing would freeze at 13 degrees, frankly 13 would be a warm day in the southern states, but he can’t swim yet and 13 degree water isn’t something I’m interested in submerging myself in unless there’s prize money.
He didn’t care for my numerical facts, he had already begun stripping off his Hot Wheels T-shirt poolside, and was tugging on his shoes. So I knew I’d have to compromise and quickly. My next best offer was a play with the hose, and thankfully this sated his diabolical need for water sports in winter.
You’d think he’d love swimming lessons then? Wrong. I wish. Swimming lessons for Harry are up there with broccoli, going to bed and having to wait for longer than 1.4 seconds.
I’ve taken a brief winter sabbatical from swimming lessons, just for my mental health.
I think of the day he pulled my togs down at the front, while we were in the pool, twisting the togs into a knot with his little fists, giggling maniacally and refusing to let go … and leaving me exposed to all the other Little Splashers attendees.
It was after this lesson, back in the car, once my hands stopped shaking from the adrenalin, that I thought it might be time to take another approach here.
I’ve tried bribery, small classes, big classes, before kindy, after kindy, fun teachers, strict teachers – I’m starting to think that unless this kid knuckles down soon, his chances of being the next Ian Thorpe are on the decline.
It’s a bit confusing to me though, as when I was growing up you simply wouldn’t dare muck up at swimming. I learned young never cause a scene in the same location that you’re hoping to obtain a sherbet lollipop.
Friday night was club night at Grovely Swimming Club, I joined when I was 4½. Yes, there’s races for kids that young. They drop a rope halfway across the pool, making it a gruelling distance of 12.5m.
This was my first official race, I have no idea where I placed as that wasn’t the defining feature of my night.
I had listened intently to the marshals briefing, however, due to my young age or as yet undiagnosed ADHD, I’d missed the bit about exiting the pool. I simply waited in the pool, holding onto the rope for further instruction.
I didn’t notice the kids in the other lanes swimming to the side and getting out, I was there holding on to the rope, for who knows how long, lost in my own world. I’m told there were announcements over the loud speaker telling me to get out, and some officials came down to the side of the pool waving their arms trying to get my attention.
Good luck, if tax bill deadlines can’t get my attention at 43 what hope did they have?
Eventually I spotted my dad at the side of the pool gesticulating wildly to swim over to him.
I climbed out and felt the eyes of the grandstand on me. “You’ve got to get out, you can’t stay in the pool all night, the race was over,” Dad explained.
Actually, gosh, now I think about it, Harry and I do have a lot more in common than I thought. I owe that boy a sherbet lollipop or two.
