Day 21/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

I got a pop up ad for a Care Bears fanny pack cooler this morning. I have to admit, I clicked and admired it from all angles, captivated by the colorful ombre zipper and amusing rainbow print. 

My Moo Moo bought me a tan plush Care Bear with a heart on his belly when I was twelve. One of the original ten Care Bears, "Tenderheart Bear" was cute as all get out, however, I distinctly remember, upon opening him on Christmas, that I was too old for a new stuffed animal. 

I had a boyfriend. My favorite author was Stephen King. After softball practice, my friends and I would roam the woods looking for overgrown spots to squat and drink our Molson Goldens.  What was I supposed to do with a bear with a brown plastic heart for a nose?

But because my beloved Moo Moo gave him to me, (along with a Jordache purse and a mood lipstick that was Witch of the West green in the tube but changed to a beachy shade of coral on my pout) I put him on top of my pillow after I made my bed in the morning, sandwiched between Pooh and Paddington, my ratty old-time favorites.

I never saw a Care Bears television show, though I recall that being a thing. I don't remember ever doing anything particularly notable with that heart belly bear who reclined on my pillow, but every morning I'd plop him there and every night, I'd take him off and gently put him on the floor next to my yellow twin bed. 

And I'd look at that big red heart on his soft tawny belly and smile for a moment, thinking of my grandparents and how much they loved me. 

So, today the Care Bears fanny pack advertisement appealed to me like designer jeans and walking to middle school every morning with my good friend Missy from down the street and turning two from second base. The beer drinking twelve-year old me would have loved this, but pre-teen me is now getting on in years and Canadian beer tends to give me just ten minutes of pleasure followed by two hours of heartburn and the thirty dollars plus shipping that this fanny pack costs would be better spent putting gas in my tank, so I am going to pass. 

A difficult pass, it is. 

Nonetheless, if my Moo Moo were alive, and thinking of buying me a Christmas present, I would totally hope this this might be her choice for me. 

Throw a Molson in here and it'll stay cold in the dugout until we are ready.

#mushroomtumbler

Day 20/30: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

It's been a while since I wrote.

Quite obviously, I've been buying things.

Actually, I've been seriously uninspired and seriously lazy but today I had an experience which made me decide that I am not buying infant swimming lessons. 

And, I need to write about that. 

I don't have an infant but if I did, I would hold that little peanut and we'd get in a warm bathtub and we'd have soft lighting and some mellow tunes from a kinder decade. There would be supported floating and off-key singing and reassurance, along with eye contact, and head cradling. 

There would not be the boreal glow of florescent lights, the stinging bleach of chlorine, and glacial temperatures. There would not be an instructor holding my pumpkin beneath his armpits, facing him out into icy blue nothing, and submerging him without warning, his giant eyes stinging with disbelief and the tiny panicked 'o' of his mouth, upon being lifted to the surface, deafeningly breaking every mother's heart within earshot. 

This, I'm quite certain, I would not do.

There would be a gentle and careful passing of baby from me to my spouse, who would take the quiet, puckered bundle and wrap him in a fluffed up towel, patting his back and congratulating him on his brave acceptance of a few quarter cups of water purposefully poured over his little noggin. There would be a clean onesie, a heated bottle and a soft flannel blankie.

There would not be trembling limbs and breaths full of water laden with the urine of the other fifteen kids in lane one. There would not be terror so dreadfully exhausting that placing baby on the poolside cement after (ding!) fifteen minutes are up causes him to gasp like a reeled-in walleye in the bottom of a rowboat, tucking his chin and trembling for fear that eye contact with an adult might get him another round. 

This, I'm quite certain, I would not do.

There would be bonding. There would be toothy smiles and exuberant praise and an opportunity to learn words like "tub" and "water" and "it's okay, baby, you're safe, you're safe."

There would not be a black-masked instructor, devoid of half her face due to pandemic protocol, dipping baby backward into an unfamiliar place as he tensed and arched and wailed. 

This, I'm quite certain, I would never do.

 

 

Author's Note:

The swim instructor was following a safe protocol which, I believe, she has used for years to introduce tiny babies to water. She is a kind teacher and never, ever, were these children in any danger. 

My personal feelings about swim lessons are informed by years of my own, sometimes rough, experiences at a tender age learning to feel comfortable in water; ironically, in the exact same community pool. 

The concerned and helpless faces of the young mothers on deck today combined with the shrieks of their babies echoing off the dingy tiled walls brought out a lot of emotion for me. I tend to release emotion by writing.

I've always believed that swim lessons, for a lot of families, are an excellent way to achieve greater water safety but, the overall vibe I picked up from those little ones made me reconsider my feelings on the subject, particularly for babies so small. 

This piece isn't meant to invoke criticism of the program nor the instructor. These are simply emotions, which bubbled to the surface and overflowed for me, the casual onlooker. 

#mushroomtumbler