The swim club we belong to (and the one Patty stalks me at) had a rash, no, an explosion of problems last summer. Ones that required the entire pool to be closed, drained and disinfected. I lost count after the first three times we arrived in the late afternoon only to find the place closed down but suffice to say it happened with, um, regularity.
In response, the club this year plastered the locker rooms with highly informative posters. A filled swim diaper hanging out of a child's bathing suit, for example, is known in the environmental health industry as a "teabag," a term that I'm sure inspired more than a few snickers (along with Baby Ruths jokes) in the men's locker room where it was hu- … displayed.
The club also instituted a mandatory 15-minute closing of the pool every two hours in hope that kids will hit the bathroom. Instead, they all hit the snack bar.
When the 6 o'clock break started today, the Things and I took a seat at a picnic table to share a paper boat filled with hot and spicy curly fries. At the table across from us, two moms are trying to keep their combined five kids under control during what appears to be dinner.
One of the kids, who is maybe 4, hops out of his seat and takes two steps to the base of the grassy slope behind the tables. Suddenly, his green swim trunks are around his ankles.
"Good to see the new policy is working," I say to Thing 1 who is taking in all the action.
"Yeah," she says through a mouth of fry mush. "His mom is going have a good story to tell his girlfriend someday."
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