KIDS AND WATER

To the waterpark!

I took three granddaughters, ages 11, 14, and 17, to a waterpark for a couple days of chill, to escape the Texas heat, a short vacation from  parents. It didn’t matter that summer storms followed us there; the resort was an enclosed year-round water park that had three zippy slides, a lazy river, and waterfalls you could pull down upon yourself at any moment. There were tons of things to wear the kids down , for even  toddlers to climb on, though we were well past that stage. But it was the lush outdoor pool that caught my eye.

Day One: We stood under the park’s alcove awaiting the ten minutes when the park would open. The youngest eyed the Kona Ice truck—that’s snow cones, for anyone who doesn’t recognize the brand. Wrist bands secure, patience slipping, the middle girl began reading the list of park rules, ending loudly: “All tots must wear water-proof diapers?” 

It seemed we’d all had at least one experience with tots in saggy bottom swimming drawers. Water-proof swimming diapers? Rubber pants over a diaper were what my generation had. Though the stories weren’t worth repeating, they all took a stab at it: The 17-YO told us her friend had worked at a pool last summer and related how they had to close down several times a day for cleanup. The 14 -year old wanted to know how such a diaper could catch everything, which led to a discussion about what  happened before waterproof diapers were invented: Pool closures. Overnight filtering. 

The youngest gripped her towel tighter. 

Doors opened and the scuttle began. We passed through the metal counters, found a table and chairs and set up a station, of sorts. The waterpark inside smelled like 98.7 degrees of  filtered chlorine. It was hot and humid in the inner sanctions, and I knew how a tarantula felt inside a glass terrarium. Each girl took stock of the mega-playground, then flopped their bathing suit covers on the table, slapped towels over the chairs, and kicked flip-flops under. We were an organized mess. “Stay together,” I began, but they were gone. Gee, I love this age. 

I settled in a chair. Crazy kids of every age ran back and forth in every direction wrapped in lazy river plastic inner-tubes or float vests, a parent trailing or directing.

“Conner, come back here!” A grandmother chirped as she chased a small boy. “Conner, don’t climb that ladder!” as he scurried up the pirate ship gang plank. “No, this way,” she yelled. What the hey! I wanted to say. They build this stuff for you and me. That’s why we pay the bucks to get in here and turn them loose. 

She caught up with the toddler at the slippery slide. “Come down, now.” Spread-eagle in the ankle-deep water, she was ready to catch him if he fell from a safety netting nothing could penetrate. “Right now, I say!” She extended her hands as he slid in the water. 

I leaned in. Was he wearing a waterproof swimming diaper?

My girls floated past on the lazy river, and I tossed my wrap, grabbed an inner-tube at the stairwell, and slunk into  water that was a people perfect temperature. Drawing my feet in, I let the water sweep me along. The girls chattered and giggled in front of me, talking such gibberish that the words soared over my shoulders. Kids talk so fast these days! I saddled my sunglasses back on my head and relaxed, drifting like a log among this sea of kids and guardians. 

The girls turned to me and pointed to enormous slides that filled the airspace above. Just as quickly the were scurrying up, up, up the stairs. Then up, up, up another set of stairs. Next they’re flying from the gaping mouth of a tunnel into my pool of fresh water in giggles and screams, then dash up the steps to do it again. 

My middle granddaughter met me on her next trip down: “It’s so much fun! Come with me!” she says to me. “You’ll love it.” I don’t do roller coasters because I don’t love it. “We’ll take the double tube,” she assures. “and I’ll go with you.” 

“Okay,” I say unenthusiastically.

We each carry a tube handle up four sets of stairs. I look down from the top; it’s a long way to the ground. I see Conner in a race to the pirate-ship kiddy-slide again, his grandmother in tow, again, and wish I were there. 

I could not stop the shriek, or the slide. It’s dark in the tunnel and I can’t see the kid attached to me. I scream through the turns and the twists, and they aren’t  screams of joy. We spill out into a stretch of calm pool and float across. My legs are still  flaying in the air. I try to raise out of the tube but I can’t get my feet on the ground. My body doesn’t bend like it used to. I can’t roll out of it either. I’m stuck. “Get me outta this thing,” I cry, but the darling grandchild is doubled over in such a gut wrenching belly laugh that she can’t stop to help me. The fun is over. 

With one hand she clutches the inner tube handle, with the other she locks arms with me and pulls. I try to roll with it, but without footing, I have  no leverage, no style, no poise.  I slosh like a whale into the water, gurgle a bucket of water, and sputter to the surface. She loses it; I can hear her from underwater. 

Grace is one of those things you leave behind when you try to do things to please your grandkids. “Oh, Mimi.” She’s laughing and gasping for breath as I flail to the surface, then buckles over. “Oh, Mimi. Oh, Mimi. You’re so funny.” Then runs off to catch up the others.

Day Two: Today, I will sit under an umbrella at the outdoor pool that adjoins the water park. The girls can do their thing inside ‘til their guts fall out for all I care. 

All the lounge chairs are taken except two, which are tucked under a nice, shady umbrella—a pretty good spot, except for the swarming honey bees. 

“There’s bees!” the kiddo’s scream because they’ve followed me in case there’s something they’re missing.  

Honey bees used to live in the tree in our back yard, and we all lived harmoniously together for years and years until a ferocious  wind took down the tree and everything in it.  “Leave them alone. Don’t swat at them. They’ll  go away. They’re just swigging down the last of the Kona Ice Snow Cone syrup someone spilled on the chairs.” They looked doubtful. “Go get a cupful of pool water,” I said. “Wash the syrup off the chairs and the bees will be gone.” 

A couple’a boys are playing baseball…plastic bat, rubber ball, designated bases cleared at the shallow end. I’m watching those boys like a…uh…grandmother, in case their mothers are not. Their rules are, whoever misses the ball has to go in and get  it—among sharks! They were pretty good. Most of the balls were caught, until they weren’t. A dad shouts at his kids, “Hey! Watch that lady!” 

Pow! Too late. I caught one in the ribs from where I lounged. Everybody turned and looked. I smiled, waved, gave ‘ol Dad the Okay sign: thumb and forefinger. I’m a nice grandmother. Until I’m not.

A  slight little grandma waltzed through the gate herding three active teen boys. As they ran through, she hollers hoarsely, “No fighting! Stop running,” and to the oldest, “Leave him alone…Lawrence, Wha’d I say?” 

I love being a grandmother. Old enough to know better means I’m wiser, and owl-ish. One among many women who, every time someone yells, Mom! we all look up, especially the grandma’s.

I notice the little grandmother lady is moving cautiously through the water toward my end of the pool, toward her three boys who are standing on the bank not far from me. She’s wearing skinny sunglasses that barely clear the water and a sun hat that doesn’t look like one  meant to be wet.

“No backflips,” she calls out meekly. Her words might’ve been underwater. Each of the boys takes a turn at executing a perfectly flawless backflip for all the pool viewers. I cut my eyes to Grandma. “Is anybody hungry?” she tries again.

Another rubber ball whizzes past, bounces under my chair, and rolls to the fence behind me. Again, everybody looks up. I retrieve the ball and toss it back. “You’re welcome,” I smile. What’d he expect me to do, eat it? I should be a life guard. It’s not storming but It’s raining, and all the kids climb out of the pool because rain water is very wet. 

It’s noon. I think I hear the Margarita bell.

Little grandma in the skinny sunglasses must’ve given up because she disappeared for a while. But now, I see she’s walking toward me, a tall umbrella-drink in her fist. It’s noon for her, too, I guess. There are bandaids up and down both shins. She moves a chair near, but hesitates. I invite her to share my shade, and that makes her  happy. 

“I saw that, Tommy!” her rasping voice whoops, “Tommy! Quit!” She scoots her chair under the umbrella. I want to ask, What’s for supper?

Turns out she has cancer and is taking chemo every day. We chat. I assess that she’s a very vibrant woman. Her dad lived to be 98, and her mother 102, she says. Despite any setbacks, she’s planned a cruise in September with her friend.

There are many people-watchers in the world, I’m merely one casual observer. I try to understand how people’s inner clocks work. The differences in us makes me wonder.

 Bandaids. I saw myself in her.