Not my freaky baby…

Once a week, Baby and I go swimming. There’s a baby-mecca in the North of Tel-Aviv which holds seemingly continuous lessons in a pool about the size of a bathtub, growing from the building’s roof like a wart. It’s overheated, the water is syrupy and, being the germaholic that I am, I try not to think of the contaminants probably floating free around me. After all babies aren’t known for the control they exert over their bladders and their bowels. Adults often aren’t much better…

The first time I went, I was suitably encouraged by Baby finding the whole setup as distasteful as I did. For nearly a full hour she howled in non-stop panic whenever I ventured too close to the edge. She wouldn’t abide even a single toe submerged and we ended up crouched in a corner with the pitying eyes of all the other proud parents upon us. I went home, glad that I would never have to endure the ordeal again. However, having only a limited capacity to endure Wife’s Polish streak, I went back the following week knowing that twice was a pattern even for her, and that this would be the final time.

My mistake.

Not only did Baby not hate it, she positively loved it. She plopped and paddled, rolled and cooed, laughed at the creepy instructor and his even creepier singing. Unleashing her inner voyeur, she glared at the other babies and their parents as I yanked her around in continuous arcs by her finger-tips and toes. When the toys came out, she hoarded all the little floating balls and took a swipe at any of the other children who dared to steal them. She may be only ten months old, but I can see certain similarities.

I couldn’t be more proud…

… though I do wish she’d take after me somewhere other than in that putrid pool.