I like other people’s children. I work in a school during the winter and have no problem at all watching another mother’s children become independent thinkers, future world leaders, or Nobel Prize winners. I admit part of this might be I was unsure my own brood of five would survive to adulthood. Shamefaced, I must admit the threat of death was everywhere for my girls daily. “Touch that cake, I will kill you,” or “Get off that roof before you kill yourself,” or my personal daily mantra: “You will be the death of me yet.”
My girls managed to do quite well in spite of the constant risk a life was ended if mom’s last diet soda left the fridge in some daughter’s hands. My girls all are happy, mostly well adjusted, and very much alive. In fact, so good a job I thought I had done, I fancied I might have the ability to supervise the children of others in a far less structured setting than school. When the complex where I reside needed a temporary monitor for their swimming pool, I thought I had cornered the perfect summer job. I could work on my tan as I lolled in a chair to watch those other parents who were required to be there with children under ten supervise their future president or Harvard valedictorian. According to the woman who hired me, all I had to do was remind them of the rules.
The screaming and whining began in the first hour of the first day. The mom who was doing the screaming demanded to know why the two-foot squirt gun that shot water the length of the pool was not allowed. She was not impressed by the whining of the three mothers clutching their crying toddlers drenched by his Super Soaker. She insisted to see the rule, and I helpfully pointed it out to her. Softly in the background were the whispers and pointing of the two women who were comparing me to a certain body part when I warned them management did not want deck chairs placed at the edge of the pool.
Yes, I like other people’s kids. For the most part, when I asked them to stop playing with the hose that filled the pool, and stop doing handstands off the pool deck, they obeyed. They grumbled, but moved on to entertain themselves by keeping other kids’ heads pushed underwater till the lucky one who was “it” stopped splutering and kicking and did a momentary face down float in the water. Oh yes, watching the kids was simple. It was those parents—those crying, whining, complaining parents who looked like they would make this the job one that had all the fun of do-it-yourself dentistry.
Being new, not really knowing who was who in the pool’s little society, and not having had much opportunity to observe my training mentor in action due to a rainy training day, I decided to establish myself as a tough girl, firm and fair to everyone. I let a couple of registration paper mistakes slide, but threatened no future entrance if not corrected. I told an infant’s mom his diapered bottom could not be in a pool, but his feet could dangle as long as the diaper stayed dry (from pool water at least). I also told her—twice because I did not think she had heard me—I would not hesitate to make them go if she dipped the diaper. I thought I had done my job with a sense of compromise. I will bend but not break. I will show compassion for these parents who have swimsuit clad youngsters already stepping into the water before the correct forms are filed. Most of them appear grateful and make an effort to make sure their kids walk and not run before they jump into their sparkling summer dream.
Then there are these other mothers and fathers. They said they read those rules when you told them to, but insisted the rules did not apply to them courtesy of a free pass from the management. “Oh, Miss D. said we could keep our open soda containers under the table” while the rules clearly said no soda allowed in the pool area. Or “we did this last year” a phrase often stated while their back was to the “Attention: New Pool Rules” sign.
