How I Spent My Summer

Each summer, I endure parental purgatory and attend my children’s swim meets. Swim meets tend to be long (3-4 hours) and SLOW. Let me just say they are on par with, “watching paint dry.”

The summer swim season or parental purgatory is currently under way. During my son, Conner’s, younger years I was usually driven mad by the jarhead parents who did not have their kids ready for the relay events. Worse yet, were the parents and swimmers that did not show up for the relay events and did not tell the coach, leaving me, the harassed parent running around looking for junior jarhead. Junior jarhead was usually the first swimmer in the relay event. The teenage coaches are inundated with lessons and organizing the swim meets. I feel as though I am the never paid, long suffering staff member to my boss—an 18 year old coach.

Now, Conner is in his senior year of high school. I am still a timer at the swim meets, the “old guard”, or parents with older children usually end up with the envious task . Actually, the younger set of parents are willing to time but are not able to time, as they have small children running from tent to tent, stealing candy and falling in the pool. I know this as I used to find my youngest hiding out in someone’s tent with wet diapers and a sticky face, surrounded by candy wrappers.

During one particular swim meet, as I chatted with my fellow slaves of the stopwatch, I take note of what is going on around me. I do not mean the swimmers...I have watched them for 15 years, I am talking about the idiot parents, I know that you know who I am talking about...the dad that runs along the soccer line, shouting instructions at his kid, or the little league baseball parent who argues with the referee about a “bad” call.  Naturally, these competitive parents are usually restricted to their cars during upcoming games.  

At the swim meet tonight, several parents are unbelievably ill behaved.  One parent in particular comes to mind...she looks like your average parent. She has a casual look about her attire, a sort of uniform that all swim team moms wear. Baggy wrinkled shorts, pizza stained top, and sandals or thongs, by the way, the thongs are for her feet, perhaps the younger set wear the other type of thong. I don't know. A swim team mom carries a towel as well as a camera around her neck.

I notice this particular mom because she has an unusually furrowed brow. I am able to observe her just as her child's race started.  I nearly missed setting my own timer for our lane, but my ever-watchful husband shouted at me “to get in the game”. I notice the obsessed parent starts running along side the pool, knocking all in her path out of the way; thank God, she did not knock anyone into the pool.  She has a very strident voice and yells in a “Tarzan-like” call during her sprint along the length of the pool.  She then runs back down to the other side of the pool where the race ended, she nearly knocked me down with her sweat-drenched body. I give her a very bad look, as I am an official timer and must not be disturbed. I secretly think about adding a few seconds to her kid's freestyle time but that would be unkind.

She anxiously waits at the finish line for her child to touch the wall and simply erupts with screams when her child comes in second. My ears are hurting and her camera is slapping me in the back. Her nostrils start to flair and she un-consciously jogs in place while flailing around her arms. At some point during her hectic display, she throws her little boy his towel. It is a very disturbing site to say the least.

The next event begins but old flared nostrils is still lamenting about her son’s second place finish from the last event. Fortunately, the little fellow is happily standing in line at the candy shack. Nostrils makes exaggerated swimming motions with her arms as if to say; “this is the correct method for the freestyle”, it is not a good look for her. Her audience starts to discreetly back away from her, she did not notice, and begins to demonstrate the breaststroke. During this exhibition, she nearly knocks her teeth out with her camera, which is still around her neck. Her nostrils flare even more if that is possible and spittle is spewing from her mouth. She now has no audience; small children find her a fascinating sideshow, which should give the unfortunate women some sort of clue.

Meanwhile back at the blocks, Craig and I are still timing, although I am very distracted by nostrils. A rather dorky child who insists on standing directly in front Craig, is pestering us. We cannot see the currently racing swimmer and communicate this to the boy dork. The Dork boy responds; “do you know that I can fix anything?” He remains blocking our view. Craig replies that he will “fix” the dork boys time if he will just move away from the blocks so that we can see. Fortunately for Craig, he has one deaf ear, so he cannot quite hear all of dork boy's inane comments. There is a cluster of small swimmers (speedy sixers) who jump in circles and hold themselves; we expect an “accident” at any moment. And then there is the “stroke and turn” official.

He/she is in charge of all watching for mistakes in a child’s swim stroke, generally, the official will swoop down like a vulture on some poor unwary child. The small swimmer sports a big grin after finishing second to last. The vulture kindly grips the unsuspecting kid and demonstrates the correct stroke for the child’s benefit. The poor swimer is not necessarily disqualified, but is most definitely terrified. You see, this is just a friendly reminder... I really don't think it is necessary to speak to the sixers as they simply want to get out the pool and pee. Perhaps just a small trickle on the official vulture...

Shawn Underwood, a native Washingtonian, writes humorous anecdotes for newspapers and magazines.   If you are a member of the media or would like to use a story, please email Shawn.

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