They put my baby in a bucket.

They put my baby in a bucket.

After months of mommy and me baby swim class, the time had finally come.  I could sit on my butt and watch, dry, with a coffee, from the other side of the glass.  I would not have to rush to the changing room with a diaper bag and a swim bag, hope for an empty stall, and change both myself and my toddler into our bathing suits.  I would not have to then, after swim class, try to change out of my wet straight jacket of a bathing suit while my toddler repeatedly tried to open the stall door.  There is no terror like that of being indisposed in a public place with nothing but a sliding locking mechanism and a curious toddler separating you from the world.

So when M, at just 2 adorable years old, graduated to the Big Kids Class, I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  I joined the other parents and caregivers as we watched the kids enjoy (or not enjoy) their lessons.  Because this was his first class in the water without me, I was instructed to wear my bathing suit underneath my clothes just in case he had a particularly tough time and needed me to join him in the water for emotional support.  But all went well, and he had a great time bouncing on the underwater dock, splashing with his adorable little friends, and floating on his back with the help of the instructor though he protested and flailed when I tried to help him do the same just a week prior.  Did he think this brand new person, this stranger, would help him to float but Mommy had suddenly had a change of heart and was trying to drown him? In any case, he floated, he giggled, he splashed, and I beamed.

Then the shit hit the… pool.

I turned to chat with another mom for but a minute, and when I turned back, I saw M’s instructor and the deck supervisor looking at the water with questioning expressions on their faces.  Then I saw the supervisor hold M while his instructor looked down the back of his diaper - actually, his TWO diapers, as anyone under 4 is required to wear a disposable swim diaper as well as a washable swim diaper bathing suit thing. She made a face, and the next thing I knew, M was in a giant red bucket, and the supervisor was pointing to me.  I stood up and he waved me over.

All I could think was, “Why is my baby in a bucket?”

I opened the glass door and crossed into the sauna of the indoor pool, and then I did that awkward walk/run thing where you are wanting to run but you’re afraid to slip and fall, and you end up looking like a fearless but awkward 3 year-old on hockey skates on for the first time.

I saw it.  There were gross little flecks of poop in the water.  Then I saw my baby, in the bucket, in a trash bag.  The trash bag was in the bucket as a liner so that I could dump the dirty diaper and the 400 baby wipes I then used to clean off my child directly into the bag and they could easily dispose of the whole mess.  I cleaned up M as best as I could, which was not nearly as easy as I would have thought, given that he was soggy after 25 minutes in the pool, and the wipes just sort of skidded on his skin.

I apologized profusely to the pool staff, but they were phenomenal and told me not to worry as they skimmed bits of poo out of the water. They said that luckily it was lunch time, so they could treat the pool appropriately and later resume classes as normal.

I carried my baby to changing area and proceeded to wipe him down further and then get him dressed.  Classes had been nearly over anyway, so at least no one was mad about missing just the final 5 minutes.

All I could say to the other parents was that in hindsight, next week I would not be giving M prunes less than 24 hours before swim class and that I hoped everyone’s days were less shitty.

I just wish I had gotten a picture of my baby in the bucket.  But here’s hoping there’s no next time.