Holy Water

My mother wants the world to know that she did not teach nor encourage my use of the F-Bomb. Especially the Mutha F-Bomb.

Duly noted. I'm not so proud, either.

Where we left off, I was fearful that I was going to spend a long afternoon with my child, who would rail against all the perceived injustices of his young life. I would be the George Clooney to his Bill O'Reilly, the Mariah Carey to his Enemim, the Kate to his Jon.

You get the idea.

Instead, I was once again given a big dose of grace via the public pool.

The problem with the pool is the getting there. The process is such that I regularly talk myself out of going all together. There's the sunscreen, and the changing into swimsuits, and the loading up of snacks and sippy cups and towels. It's such a pain in the butt, especially since Joel finds it hilarious to undo the dressing mid-process. I'll put on his diaper, and he'll pull it off and run away, giggling hysterically. He does this with his shirt, his pants, his glasses...

On average, it takes about three hours to get dressed.

Yet, we eventually made it to the pool, and everybody was happy. Joel sat by the fountain and splashed, laughing out loud. Owen jumped and kicked and announced, "Look at me!" as he soared into the two-foot deep water.

As he skipped across the row of fountains, he was almost dancing, quietly ecstatic.

I hold so much power over my children, but the cleansing waters held more. Like a baptism, the chlorine and water washed away the sin of my selfishness, my frustration, my crippling need to control. I was a new creation, a more mindful and loving mother.

In that water, it wasn't about the other things I could be doing or the petty frustrations of a typical day. It was about pure, unfiltered joy, flowing like a waterfall, rinsing away all the junk.

And that, my friends, is holy water.