Sunk at Swim

As usual, I was sort of wrong.

I thought taking Westley to a "Tot Swim" class would be a horrible experience.  I was pretty sure he'd love it.  Westley has been teaching himself to swim in the bathtub for months, putting his face in the water and blowing bubbles without guidance from anyone.  (I'm trying not to let myself believe that this means anything about his future as an Olympic swimmer--but if he inherited my stupid-long torso, he's at least built for it.)  No, I thought it would be a horrible experience because I knew with the absolute certainty that comes from newish motherhood combined with a lifetime of insecurity that I'd be the odd man out.

Maybe it's my fault for not bonding instantly with the other women in my birth class, but I seem to be the only mother in Seattle who doesn't go places with friends.  Whenever I see mothers at the park, toddler open gym, even Target, they're always in groups of twos or threes, happily chatting away like they've known each other all their lives.  When Westley was seven months old, I signed up for one of those structured, leader-facilitated support groups, thinking I'd meet at least one like-minded woman with whom to share the occasional park visit/cup of coffee.  At the first meeting, however, it was clear that most of the other mothers already knew each other well enough that they were babysitting for one another and having regular lunches together.  My remarks were never well-received in the group, and I spent most of the time feeling lonely while trying to keep my newly crawling son from knocking over potted plants.

So I was convinced that all of the other mothers who'd signed up for Tot Swim at the community center would already be best friends, and want nothing to do with me.  Or else they'd be supermodels.  I pictured a bunch of Heidi Klum look-alikes with their 6-month-old babies and washboard abs, standing next to me, with Todd-Lar the Barbabyan and rolls of skin hanging over my swimsuit.  

And of course I was wrong, mostly.  A couple of the other moms do seem to know each other from such-and-so playgroup, but no one in the class is a supermodel.  In fact, some of them have tattoos and stretched lobes and look like the kinds of girls I hung out with way back when I hung out.  And yet, I can't get anyone to talk to me.  Part of the problem is that it's so easy to run out of conversation after you exchange "how olds."  But it's also not easy when all of your attempts to strike up a conversation with the mother whose baby is sharing a changing table with your baby because there's only one in the whole damned locker room are completely shot down.  

So far, the only person who seems even kind of open to the idea of having a conversation with me is the one dad in the class.  He's teaching his little girl to count to three before jumping into the pool and into his arms, which is hilarious if you're Westley and get splashed in the face during the process.  He has a ponytail and refers to my giant toddler-man as "the baby" to his three- or four-year-old daughter.  On our way out the door, he was delighted to tell me that Westley had pulled his beanie completely down over his face.  "See you next week," he said, smiling.

"Yeah, see ya."  I pushed the stroller down the hill towards home as he loaded his girl into the car over my shoulder.

I could see us being friends.  Especially since if anyone is more the odd man out than I in this moms' group, it's him.

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