Everybody in the Pool

Just the other day, my oldest daughter announced that she wanted to go swimming. That wasn’t a big deal, or a surprise either, since for the past week we have been having 100-degree days outside and the weather report for the coming fortnight does not promise to get much better.

The problem is that we do not have a pool.

Well, we do have a pool, but it is not one of those pools that is always there just waiting for you to jump in. We have a ten-foot diameter, partially inflatable, wading pool.

Extensive assembly required.

I told EM1 she could set up the pool if she really wanted to, but I was not going to help her do it. The very next day I had to listen to two hours of whining as she begged me to help her put up the pool.

“Please, Dad. I can’t do it by myself. I just need you to help me get it out of the garage and blow it up.”

I reminded her of my refusal to get involved with the assembly project. Several times. Her mother eventually cracked, however, and pulled the duct tape-wrapped box out of the garage and out onto our back lawn. I watched as the two stood outside, yelling at each other as they pulled acre after acre of blue plastic out of the box and spread it over the newly mown grass. Grass that I would have to replant in September after the pool finished killing it.

If you have ever had a blowup pool on your lawn during the summer, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Next, EM1 asked me how to inflate the pool. I told her where she could find the air compressor in the garage and how to turn it on. The next thing I knew, she was dragging my air compressor into the house and shouting at me that she didn’t know how to turn it on. This particular compressor has a 100-gallon tank and sounds like a jackhammer firing up when it is running.

And my daughter had just brought it into the house.

I explained (EM1 would call it yelling, but I believe she exaggerates) that it needed to be outside before she turned it on. Firing up the compressor in an enclosed space such as a house would be as ill-conceived as setting off fireworks in an empty bathtub while sitting in it. The end results in both cases would involve immediate physical discomfort and subsequent deafness, making it difficult for EM1 to hear my “explaining” as to why I strongly suspect she was dropped on her head as a baby.

She dragged the compressor back outside.

That little confrontation was followed by an hour of EM1 inflating the pool, then another eight hours as she filled it with water from our garden hose. By the time the pool was full, it was dark outside and my daughter no longer wanted to go swimming.

The following morning, EM1 and her sister told me they were going to drive into town to buy smoothies so they could drink something cold while they sat out by the pool. Clearly, this saga was not over. I had hoped the pool would be forgotten and I could drain it and put it away over the weekend, but no such luck.

About two hours after they left, my children got back home. EM2 was carrying a smoothie in each hand, while EM1 lugged in two large boxes.

“What did you buy?” I asked, not really caring other than trying to figure out how much they had charged to my credit card.

“Pool floats, so we have something to sit on while we’re in the pool,” announced EM1.

The girls proceeded to unpack two enormous, donut-shaped floats and lay them out in the back yard. The floats were almost as big as our pool and probably cost twice as much. EM1 looked at me, and before she could even get the question out, I told her, “No, I will not help you inflate those.”

She said something very cruel and unflattering that vaguely sounded like “bass pole.” I won’t repeat the actual word since I don’t condone such language. I’m not even sure where she learned that kind of trash.

I blame the public schools.

An hour later, the floats were fully inflated, the girls were hyperventilating, and the smoothies had completely melted in their cups. Both of them still climbed into the pool, however, red-faced and sweating as they drifted on their oversized floats across their homemade duckpond.

The water probably felt nice. But it was still over a hundred degrees outside. I think it was only stubborn pride that kept the kids in the pool for the next couple hours. They did not want to admit the entire ordeal might have been a mistake. That was just fine with me.

I was content to remain inside, sprawled on the couch with the house’s internal thermostat set to a frosty 76 degrees. I had the TV on, a diet Pepsi in my hand, endless snacks waiting for me in the pantry, and two hours of uninterrupted relaxation. I think I definitely got the better end of this deal.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll recommend the girls take another pool day. I can always use another break, and I figure they owe me at least that much.

Especially since I know that neither one of those kids is going to help me when Autumn rolls around and it’s time to plant a new lawn.

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