Max is excited. Why? Because of that green cup. Sometimes, he drinks out of it. More often, though, it is simply the signal that formal eating is over and that he can relax by pouring water all over himself and the floor. If there is any food on his chin, it turns into an appetizing paste and runs all over his shirt, which is why a busy pattern like this handsome plaid is a good idea.





Because of Max's love for water, we signed him up for swimming lessons. Of course, Max's taking swimming lessons is like my taking basketball dunking lessons: success is impossible. You can't learn developmental milestones (or, in the case of dunking a basketball, height, coordination, or general athletic ability).

Baby swimming lessons take place in the dingy Roslindale/West Roxbury YMCA at 9:30 on Saturday mornings. They demand about 40 minutes of packing before hand, the ingredients for which you can see above. The tiny Y parking lot is jammed with Volvo station wagons by 8:45, and there's no parking on the nearby street. Inside, the building is a brisk 62 degrees and damp. The only warm room is the pool room itself, where scores of possible drowning statistics ("kids") and hundreds of microbe-carrying foam toys meet in a chlorinated bath that makes Max's hair stand up for the rest of the day. Lisa, our teacher, is a well-meaning teenager who does not know how to teach people to swim, preferring to have us sing 3 songs, play with some little rubber balls, blow bubbles, and go home.

Some kids can do a few of these things -- kicking, bubbling, jumping -- but most cannot. Bubble blowing, in particular, is very hard for the young ones, as they are given to putting more into their mouths than generally comes out. There is a lot of pool water consumed.

This past week, we also "learned" to float on our backs, which most kids found impossible. They wanted to flip over, see the water, and play. Because this activity called on the ability to sit calmly and let your dad carry you around while gazing upward, Max excelled. He chewed a plastic duck and looked at the skylights while waterborne chaos went on around him. "Oooh, Amelia, Kayla, Caitlin: look at Max. He's got it," said the "instructor." "Gael, Lola, look how Max is floating." There are no Bobbys or Jennifers in the swim class.

Soon after, we got out to change and go home. The changing rooms are way to cold to dress a wet baby in, so we change on the bench next to the pool. While I was looking over my shoulder to see if we were about to be sent off to a more sanitary facility, Max peed all over someone's sweatshirt. We went home quickly.




After we swim, we dress Max in swim-team wear and pack him off for a nap. Swimming makes him so tired that if he does not fall asleep on the way home, he gets this wired look on his face. Either way, he barely makes it through his bath without passing out.