I’ve written before how much I like taking my kids to swim lessons, how just being around the water and the whole pool chemical cocktail smell (this pool doesn’t use chlorine but other … stuff) relaxes me. Sort of a Pavlovian dog paddle response.
Anyway, Andrew was in the pool. His lessons are longer, more rigorous. I use the fifteen minutes between start times to braid Kyra’s hair into pigtails. And sometimes it does take me the full fifteen minutes. We watch the babies in the Mommy & Me swim class, although more accurately, it’s the Grandma/Grandpa/Daddy/Mommy-with-tattoo & Me swim class.
They always end the class by singing The Wheels on the Bus. My fingers were in a tangle, trying to get Miss B’s slippery hair to behave. I may have misheard them. But. I could have sworn they sang:
The wankers on the bus go …
The what?
I believe they sang wipers. As in windshield. Really. But it didn’t sound like it at all.
Kyra and I also sing our own songs while we wait for her lesson to start. I’ll sing the ones I remember from Girl Scout camp, such as:
Oh, a duck can’t sit on a limb
Cuz he doesn’t have thumbs on his feet.
And a bird can’t swim in the sea like a fish …
Cuz he hasn’t got a waterproof, hasn’t got a waterproof, hasn’t got a waterproof seat.
Because singing about a bird’s butt? Always appropriate. Hey, at least I’m not singing to my child about wankers, thank you very much. Later that evening, Kyra was singing softly to herself while she played: hasn’t got a waterproof seat. Over and over again
As for the wankers, I don’t want to know why they were on the bus, but I’m thinking they can stay there.
Writing Wrongs 