The following story is 100% true. Well, maybe 98% true. It
happened years ago, but I am just now able to write about it….I apologize in
advance.
It was my turn to chaperone the first grade field trip to
the community pools.
My husband and I usually
arm wrestle, blackmail, or
Rock/Paper/Scissors to see who has to go (uh, I mean, we are vying for who is lucky enough to attend), but since the
man was still experiencing post traumatic stress syndrome from his recent field
trip with a hundred fifth graders traipsing all over Mackinaw Island, (the
highlight of which was a slightly off-meds young man that decided to throw his
bicycle into Lake Huron on the far side of the island), we both knew that it
would be I, accompanying my youngest son along with three of the first grade
classrooms from the North Ohio Elementary School to the community pools.
The trip began with my son begging me to pretend that I was
someone else’s mother so that I did not embarrass him while we sat on the bus
to the Sportsplex. Apparently I have been known to humiliate my children in
public by doing horrific things to them, like kissing them good-bye or holding
their hand, in the presence of their friends. The teacher asked that I sit with
the other naughty kids up front while she sat with my son in the back of the
bus… I guess that was a colossal hint, the OTHER naughty kids. I spent fifteen minutes being peppered with
questions by a six- year-old hoodlum who wanted to know my address and asked me
repeatedly if I knew how to set things on fire like he does. In order to quiet
the lovely child, I gave him the address of a business we were driving past.
Three weeks later there was a serious arson at the location….coincidence? I
think not.
After arriving, the kids grabbed their Wal-Mart bags stuffed
with bathing suites and towels their parents could only hope to see again and
headed to the locker rooms. It was my job to help the girls change into their
swim suits and escort them to the poolside. Forty-seven of them lined up to
change in the one and only bathroom stall. I tried to comfort them by
announcing that we were all girls so that it was okay to change into our suits
in front of each other. As I proceeded to undress, a little girl next to me
began to cry, others pointed and laughed. I grabbed my Wal-Mart bag and got in
line. Twenty-five minutes later we were all ready to go. I tried to skip out on
the cold shower, but was busted by a tiny tot hollering at me, “you’re gonna
get germs in the pool grandma!” I proceeded to communicate to her that I was
not yet a grandma as I cranked up the cold water over my body and her little
head.
I arrived on the deck of the pool to find my son being given
a “talking to” for running around by a crabby-looking lifeguard. Apparently it
must not be enjoyable to guard eighty-eight post-kindergartners and the
clueless parents that accompany them. My son’s teacher also noticed the tongue
lashing and gave me that look. You know, the look that says, “that kid will
either be president or in prison someday”. Teachers are so optimistic for our
children, we parents know better.
So thus, as there are two pools in our natatorium, the cold
pool and the warm pool, I was given my assignment…yes, you guessed it, the cold
pool.
We were in the pools for exactly three minutes and
twenty-two seconds when an evacuation erupted from the warm pool not unlike the
beach scene from the first ‘Jaws’ movie. For a moment, I scanned the area for
that infamous dorsal fin. But alas, the truth behind the evacuation was worse
than the presence of a man-eating, carnivorous, and blood-thirsty fish. The lifeguard standing on
the edge of the pool answered my quizzical look by whispering loudly…… “fecal
matter”. The terror.
I immediately scanned the peripheral of my personal space and to my
pure unadulterated revulsion saw what resembled Bill Murray’s Baby Ruth bar in
the movie ‘Caddyshack’ located about twenty-four inches from my big toe. I
yelled for the lifeguard and pointed. She grew ghastly and instantaneously
pale, grabbed her mega-phone and yelled, “PLEASE EXIT THE LARGE POOL!” People again exploded out of the cold pool.
My doctor’s husband, who was also chaperoning, resembled Jesus crossing the
lake as he bolted out of the deep end. I however, was trapped. The ‘matter’
blocked my exit to the steps, and dozens of children were spilling out over the
edges blocking my only withdrawal over the side. What resulted was that I was
the last person to escape and hit the soapy shower. The children, who had spent
all of six minutes total swimming on their field trip, were crying. Some kids,
who were suspiciously not crying, were busily trying to discover the culprit.
Which classmate was it? Who was able to accomplish the amazing feat of pooping
in two pools in less than six minutes? The world may never know.
After soaping and
disinfecting us all for thirty more minutes, we begged the bus driver to divert
for ice cream to try and calm the weeping. Although clearly traumatized, the
children and the parents felt a little better after the treat, but not much
better. Few slept well that night. The teacher was slapped with a three hundred
dollar fine, and retired shortly after the field trip.
I took my son home early that day. Of course I had to ask
the question…..”Son, please tell mama that you were not the mad pool pooper
today”
My answer, “Geesh mom, no way! Please tell me it wasn’t you,
because that would be so embarrassing!”
The kids are going to the farm in a few weeks; I plan on
contracting the chicken pox.
