All that comes with it

Amy has a phobia about water getting on her face. This makes washing her hair a little problematic; especially for someone as cack handed as me. We have come up with a number of solutions; from laying on her back in the bath while I scoop water onto her hair, to her wearing goggles. The current method in favour is Amy burying her face in a towel while I pore water on her head with a jug. Each bath she has is preceded by her telling me sternly not to get any water on her, and culminates in her scolding me for failing to live up to my assigned duty.

That’s not to say she doesn’t enjoy baths. There is a large tub of toys beside the bath and she takes great delight in emptying it into the water at any given opportunity. Her favorite activity is attacking me with a squirty rubber seahorse, a game that I made the mistake of finding hilarious the first time she discovered it. To add to my folly I even showed her how to refill the damn thing. Of course I am not allowed to retaliate as that might break the cardinal water on the face rule. Some days I emerge from the bathroom wetter than she does.

Amy and I went to the swimming pool yesterday. We have recently changed our allegiance from the village pool to the large sports centre in Huddersfield. This has primarily been because the sports centre has a special learners pool that is shallow and kept at a warm temperature (unlike the village pool which is maintained at zero degrees Kelvin).

The learner pool also has various toys and foam platforms floating in it. Amy refuses to go on any of these, saying quite reasonably that she will fall off and sink to the bottom. She does enjoy watching other children playing on them however. Unfortunately yesterday the floats were dominated by a very irritating forty something man who appeared desperate to impress his kids. He kept flinging himself on the assorted foam crocodiles and frogs and trying to get them to bear his weight. Things came to a head when he rolled over on a ship and the resulting tidal wave completely engulfed Amy. When the buoyancy of her swim vest brought her bobbing to the surface she was in a real panic. I was just about to go over and give the man a good old punch up the bracket (or at least a telling off), but his wife gave him such a bollocking that it became unnecessary.

After that Amy insisted on going back to the changing room and getting the towel to put on the bench at the side. Every time her face got even a drop of water on it (which was, rather unsurprisingly, pretty often) she had to get out of the pool, thoroughly dry herself, then get back in. This didn’t seem to diminish her enjoyment however, and she caused a good deal of fuss when I finally told her we had to go.

She was so reluctant to leave that she made a break for it while we were in the changing rooms getting dressed. She was just about to get back in the pool by the time I caught up with her. It was a race between myself and the lifeguard as to who could prevent her leaping back in first. I would have won by a mile but I was hampered by the fact that I had to pull my swimming trunks up from round my ankles when the starting pistol went off. Having to make the choice between saving your daughter from a watery grave or running out into the swimming pool with all your bits on show is a decision no man should have to make.