I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
September 21, 2010
The dreaded day of the swim party arrived…
And, just as I had suspected, none of the other parents standing around the pool had any plans whatsoever to go in the water.
I initially decided to handle the situation by ripping off my cover-up, quickly getting in the water up to my chin, and staying there until my daughter had had enough “swimming.” Unfortunately, that plan proved to be impossible.
“The water is FREEZING!” our newly seven-year-old hostess gleefully announced as the kids approached the pool’s steps. I put a foot in and winced. She was right. This pool was going to take some serious getting used to. And so there I was, surrounded by kids and smirking adults, wondering which of my options was preferable: standing practically naked in front of a bunch of clothed parents, or being the first to plunge into the ice-cold water.
I took the plunge.
Punky gleefully came in after me. “Hold me, Mommy!” she squealed, obviously very pleased that her mommy was the only mommy in the pool. And I have to admit- I was definitely the most popular person in the pool. I tossed beach balls. I dragged floats. I spun inner tubes in circles. I clapped for the kids who were daring enough to go down the slide.
“You sure are brave to come here in a swimsuit!” one mom friend said, kneeling at the side of the pool. “I would never!”
I gave her my best martyr-like smile, but the truth is, I was actually enjoying myself. Even though some of my daughter’s favorite friends were at the party, she really only wanted to play with me, and if there’s one thing raising my stepdaughters through puberty has taught me, it’s to treasure these moments when my children still think I’m the queen of the world– I know from experience that the day comes all too soon when their awe and admiration for me will be replaced with undisguised scorn.
And so my daughter and I played in the pool, long after the other kids had given up the arctic waters for a nearby playset. And when the party ended and we returned home, we played some more.
“I wish you weren’t so busy all the time,” Punky said over a snack at the kitchen table a few hours later.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, you always have to work,” she said. “You always have to do stuff on the computer, or clean the house, or work, work work. You never get to play.”
I paused, frowning. It was true… I’d been extra busy over the last few months, changing gears in my writing career. Punky had been busy, too, with school, so there had been fewer adventure trips to the zoo and the library and the botanical gardens, activities that originally had made up the bulk of our special time together.
It was time to make a change.
“You’re absolutely right, Punky,” I said. “We need to play more.” I thought for a moment. “How would you like it if I played with you for a whole hour every single day?”
“A whole hour?” Punky said in wonderment. “What will we do?”
“Whatever you want,” I said. “It will be our power hour.”
“Our one hour of girl power!” she shouted. “Yay! Yay! Yaaaaaaay!”
We scheduled our first One Hour of Girl Power for Monday, and if I had any doubts about how important our plans were to my daughter, they were eliminated when I picked her up from school that afternoon.
“Are we still doing our One Hour of Girl Power?” she asked breathlessly as she ran to meet me.
“Of course.”
“Great,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I’m going to decide exactly what we’re going to do while we ride home in the car.”
Once we arrived home and Punky had had a snack, the Hour of Girl Power began. We played Barbies. We played horses. We played with Punky’s collection of Blythe dolls. And she began showing me how to play LEGO Indiana Jones on the Xbox.
Three-year-old Bruiser tried to get in on the Girl Power Hour, too, digging up a Ken doll and attempting to kiss our Barbies with it. When that was unsuccessful, he opted to make his Curious George doll kiss the Barbies instead. Each time it happened, the Barbies screamed with dismay. “A monkey just kissed me!” they’d shout. Bruiser was perplexed.
“But see?” he’d say reasonably, pointing at George’s embroidered red grin. “My mouth is veh-wee clean. See?”
All too soon for Punky, the hour had ended. But by last night, she had already come up with plans for our hour today. As soon as she gets home, we’re going to fix each other’s hair like princesses and paint our finger and toe nails. “We will be very beautiful when Daddy gets home,” Punky told me with great satisfaction, “and he will be so surprised.”
Now that I’m a mom, I think from time to time of when my 85-year-old grandmother recalled how much she had loved her own mother growing up.
“She used to really play with us,” she said. “She’d get right down on the floor with us and just play.”
I want my children to be able to say the same thing about me. There are a thousand things on my to-do list right now, but somehow, I think my daily Hour of Girl Power might be the most important one of all.
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