I don’t want to go swimming.

I just don’t. I don’t want to be cold,  or to be paranoid about getting a wedgie, or have to deal with wet hair, or lugging bags in and out, or trying to balance getting a towel out of the locker whilst not soaking everything else in the process. I don’t want to have to play Jenga in order to keep dry things off of a wet floor in a restrictive changing cubicle.

But Little L does. From her point of view, it’s lovely fun splashing around, feeling the water swish around her and navigating around the kiddie pool.

I don’t know how all the perfect parents manage it. They stroll in, look like models from a holiday home magazine as they throw their child in the air and stroll out again WITH PERFECT HAIR.

I look around for another parent in a similar situation.
Case #1: The mum expertly managing triplets under 1. Bad example. Ignore her.
Case #2: The dad swimming an entire length of the pool underwater in order to burst out in front of his thrilled son with an amazing impression of an octopus. Forget that.
Case #3: The parent ignoring their child desperately struggling in the water in favour of having a chat with her mate. Oh God. I don’t want to be that person.

And the realisation: I’m the only person standing between my daughter loving swimming and her becoming that struggling unconfident swimmer. It’s not too late.

I’m going to have to go swimming, aren’t I?