A long, long time ago (Monday), in a land far, far away (Ashland), a mom paid $99 for her child to take swim lessons. And magically, the little princess (read: terror) instantly fell in love with all things aqua ...
And then the actual lesson started.
And I woke up from my daydream.
If you've ever met my eldest child (or read this blog) you probably know she doesn't have the best history with swimming. Unfortunately, swim lessons have not proven to be any better.
Day one went down like this. Dizzle cried. Dizzle held on for dear life. Dizzle attempted about half of what the instructor asked her to. But at least she stayed in the water.
Day two went drastically downhill from there. Before class, Dizzle and I came to an agreement. If she didn't cry and tried to do what the instructor asked, then I would get her a milkshake. If she didn't make it through tear-free, she got zip.
You know what happened, right? She started crying before she even got in the pool.
So, I forced her in. Over and over again. She screamed. She screamed that she didn't like milkshakes. Or water. Or anything. And I screamed that she was wasting my money and if she didn't get back in that water we were going to leave and never come back. (Amazingly, she got back in every time.)
With every bit of instruction it was two steps forward, one step back. Talk about frustrating.
Then with two minutes left in class. Dizzle got out of the pool and said she had to pee. So, begrudgingly, I took her. And she missed the end of the class, which is what I thought she was trying to accomplish. But I was SO VERY WRONG.
Because once we got back and she realized that class was over, it was a full-on sobfest. It was crazy to watch. And harder to believe. How exactly can you hate something so much but be so incredibly heartbroken when it's over?