That's Not My Subaru

For the most part I am detailed-oriented. In my work I basically get paid to organize information. I do lots of i-dotting and t-crossing, color-choosing and contrasting, spell-checking and kerning. I look at things closely and from a good distance and think about all of the small parts and how they make up the whole. I proofread with a vengeance because nothing bugs me more than missing a typo or finding a double space hanging out where there should only be a single one. I like to sweat the small stuff.

Of course, who could stand to be that detail-oriented all of the time!? There has to be a yang to that yin. For me, it is driving, parking and where the hell did I put my keys?! When I am running errands, I often switch to automatic pilot, miss my turn and have to re-route myself the long way. My husband always knows the fastest route to anywhere - I always get there too, but not first. Same when I park my car. I never pay attention to where I leave it. On more than one occasion I have believed my car stolen, only to discover it parked right where I had forgotten it. Once, back in my Toyota Camry days, I got into another person's Camry that was parked right next to mine. Same color, same car. I had my key in the ignition and was putting on my seatbelt, all of the while slowly realizing... I don't remember the car being so clean. Where did that hand lotion come from? ... something was amiss. Oops. 

There are a lot of Subaru's in this town. In order to be able to pick mine out of a crowded Costco parking lot, I put a bright green bumper sticker on the back. Now, I can usually spot it as I walk aimlessly in the general direction of where I may have parked. Along the way I find myself muttering, "That's not my Subaru, that's not my Subaru, that's not my Subaru..."

Haven't We Met Before?

Last night we went to a friend's Fourth of July shindig. I mostly followed the boys around and made small talk, but it was fun. I had another of my recurring experiences where someone I don't know says that I, "look familiar" or asks if I, "have a sister?" I must have a familiar face - could've been a secret agent.

This has happened to me often enough that I know when a guy says to me, "Have we met before?," it isn't an attempt to pick me up, but a genuine inquiry. 

I have seriously considered tracking down my twins. You never really know how you appear to other people, which is a thought I find intriguing. In some ways, the people closest to you don't really see you anymore, although they may know you best. Meeting my look-a-likes would surely give me a peek into the outside perception, and nothing engages me like getting a glimpse of the world through other peoples eyes, even if it is a glimpse of myself. 

A waitress told me she has a friend in Alaska that, "looks just like me, and even has (my) mannerisms!" Another woman once said that I look, "just like the bartender at (her business in town)." Last night this guy Paul had a feeling we had met before, but we didn't have any overlapping history or territory we could uncover in 3 minutes of polite small talk. He thought I had a booth at the Farmer's Market, but I told him it was probably my friend - people often think we are sisters.

Later, The Honey and I were sitting with the boys watching fireworks when Paul and his girlfriend left the party on their bikes. He stopped and said, "Is that your tandem with the bike trailer in back?" We answered yes, and he said, "That's where I have seen you before." Might it have been last weekend when we were biking down the street chanting with J, "We're movin', We're shakin', We sizzle like bacon!?" Yes, we really did that - not exactly sure how it came about.

So, now I guess I won't assume that I look like everyone and their sister. It might be that our family bike caravan is what's familiar. Just like the kooky characters I used to see in downtown Olympia "Jewelry-Man" and "Mt. Rainier Explosion/End of the World Man". Hmm. I am not sure which I prefer - having a common face that everyone thinks they know, or being that mom on the bicycle built for four.

There is no J in Pool.

This week I am coming to terms with the fact that swimming lessons is chock full of "growth opportunities" for me as a parent. Be that as it may, thus far I am not growing. My attempts at bribery, my idle threats, my disappointment, my gentle lectures - all of it means zip, zilch, nada, nothing and is getting that result.

You would think that the pool was filled with acid rain runoff. On our first day J hid, pouted and whined before saying he wanted me to "put him in." When I tried, he somehow managed to lift the entire bottom half of his body parallel to his shoulders and then wrap his legs around mine like a vise. Then came the yelling and the tears - his, although I was close. It was quite a scene, and while I am more than happy to provide entertainment ("The Amazing Contortions of the Boy Who Won't Swim") to all of the families of happily splashing children, I briefly considered tossing him into the deep end and driving home.

NT, my little water boy, has also been slow to warm up to the vast expanse of the pool and the strangers who are his teachers. Yesterday, while his $13, 30-minute swim lesson ticked by, he sat poolside on my lap. He was enthralled though, by the rubber "cack cack" (duck) and finally, he went for it. Then, his toe touched the three-inch deep waters of the first stair and in one movement his whole body retracted and turned and he was back in my lap. 

I have a few "beefs" with the teachers. From the beginning it was clear that there was one good one. She was easy to spot because she always had a cryer in her arms. She would get them settled and be handed another one. There are two good ones now, but the other two are hopeless. Good Teacher A even mouthed, "Engage them!" to the slackers today, but they were lost in space and didn't notice. I am sure part of my frustration lies in the fact that I used to do this same job, and I was good at it. I took pride in figuring out how to get the scared little Pollywogs (that was our beginner class) excited about and comfortable in the water. We had lesson plans, we got them wet and we used a zone defense to keep the water fear tears from spreading to the group. These lessons are not like that. At all. 

Sigh. I will write a letter to the manager. I will uncover a new level of patience. I will not push them to play out the happy picture of swimming lessons I had imagined. I will grow. Just for today though, I will cling to my fantasy of lounging poolside while my kids happily bob and bubble, crawl-stroke and back-float. They would emerge tired and float-worthy, I would wrap them in rainbow colored towels, feed them a snack and take us all home for naps. Sigh. Why does parenthood always have to be so REAL, when the fantasy is often so much better?