This week I reached a momentous parenting milestone. As of next term, I'm off the hook and out of the pool for kids swimming lessons. Halle-fucking-lujah! 🙌🏻
This day has been a long time coming. For four years I've been hauling my arse into swimming pools that most likely have a higher wee than water content, to sing nursery rhymes and be violated by my kids in their varying stages of willing, or more often un-willingness to learn to swim. I've been eye-gouged, bitten, kicked, slapped in the face, licked, the small kid tried to pash me on more than one occasion, they've ripped off my bikini top and down-trowed me with their impressively dexterous little toes, I was forced to buy a hideous one piece just to save my dignity, and to save other parents from copping an unexpected eyeful. And now I've finally made it out the other side. Suddenly the extortionate swimming lesson fees seem far more reasonable when it means I'll be staying dry and sipping coffee while they're both someone else's problem 🙋🏼♀️☕️.
Of course this required an appropriate celebration, obviously champagne would have been the most appropriate choice but being lunchtime in the middle of the week and the only adult-like person in our house I thought it best to act a little bit like one and save the bubbles for the Doc's return. What a lame-o. However squeaky cheese and salty pig were a pretty fucking satisfactory second choice for a killer salad of baby spinach and rocket, shaved zucchini, halloooooooumi AND bacon, nectarine and a drizzle of balsamic and olive oil. This had all the factors to be fabulous - bit of salt, a bit of sweet balanced with some tart and a touch of zing - much like me really! .
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