A family that changes together?

This post was inspired by a debate with my wonderful, smart neighbour.  Thanks A!

I am not a modest person.  Anyone who knows me well knows that to walk in to my house unannounced is to likely walk in on me without pants.  I believe and have tried to teach my 6 year old, Leif that our bodies are not something to be ashamed of (and I have a few low cut bar shirts to prove it).  However, I think I may not fully grasp a new trend in recreation facilities across Alberta: the Family Change Room.

I remember when I first started bringing Leif to the swimming pool when he was a new baby: I would bring him in to the ladies change room and feel completely normal walking in, getting us both suited up, stowing the car seat by the lockers and going for a swim.  And yes, it was a little weird when the Aqua size faction would come over in various stages of undress and coo over the baby, but I moved on.  I was not permanently scarred by this, nor do I think Leif was.  And yes, it was a little awkward when the Aqua size ladies got to hear Leif ask about my “vagiant” as we got dressed (his words, not mine), but we all got over it. 

Little did I know I was really engaging in a modern parenting faux-pas.  There was an entire change room for people like me.  A place where parents and children change together in loud, crowded, chaotic semi-private, poorly drained pods; and those without kids would feel the freedom of drying their jumblies without the prying, judgemental eyes of babies and toddlers.

I understand there are families that may feel more comfortable all together, or may have one parent to a few children of different genders in which case it makes sense to use the family change room.  Or perhaps the family change room doubles as the accessible change room – also makes sense to use it.  I can’t imagine that these factors make the experience any more enjoyable, however.

In this place of family changing and togetherness instead of feeling more comfortable I feel more cranky and wet, quite frankly.  The stalls are awkward and the shower sprays everywhere.  One time when Leif was about 3 he pulled open the door while I was changing and ran out, giving a poor Dad, who was just trying to put a Dora towel in to the lockers a full view of a very angry, very naked me.  After that situation I stopped using the family change room altogether and it was back to the relative peace of the ladies room for us.

One time, my family and I went to a goliath water parks in a giant mall.  There were a few adults and a few kids, and we were all mixed genders so we thought it might be easier to use the family change rooms.  All of the children we were with were too young to change in the male/female rooms by themselves, which I always assumed, was the general rule for the family change room but apparently I was mistaken.  Aside from being dirty and littered with vodka bottles (much like my house on a Saturday morning) there were also large sixteen year old boys walking around.  Last I checked, if you’re capable of hurtling down a 1000 ft twisty waterslide by yourself you can go in to the regular change room and stop ogling the single moms.

So now, Leif uses the men’s change room, and believe me I get some funny looks as he runs in by himself and then lo and behold emerges on the other side, changed, ready to go and unscarred.  I can predict the amount of time it takes him to change to the second, and he doesn’t seem particularly upset about having to change without me, considering he never changes with me anywhere else.  And the best part: I get to change in peace because all those pesky kids are in the family change room.

Note from preschool teacher Re: correction to Leif’s anatomical vocabulary

Dear Mrs. Copley

Can you please discuss with Leif the appropriate anatomical terms for the human body.  Unless you are suffering from some sort of medical condition I believe his use of the term “vagiant” should be curbed as soon as possible.

Thank you for your consideration

Mrs. S.

Where there's a Will

After what seems like a forever-long hiatus, and a three-week long trip to New Zealand I have decided to get back on the horse (as it were) and start blogging again.  Our trip to New Zealand left my son Leif behind in Canada so my husband and I could have what we have been calling "Honeymoon 2.0".

Leif spent his three weeks without us entertaining his 2 grandmothers.  All was pretty normal, for the most part: he went to school, went to swimming lessons, ate his vegetables and didn't learn any new tricks that I know of.  One phone conversation with my mother in law did start an odd chain of events however.

Picture me stuffed in to a tiny New Zealand phone booth with my giant (6'6", 220 lb) husband on a hot, humid day dialling what seemed like 56 numbers to call home.  Over a crackly phone line my mother-in-law answered and we chit chatted for a few seconds before talking to Leif, then back to grandma.

"Okay Grandma, so everything else is going alright?" I asked.  As I was talking I was trying to cover my face because my gentlemanly husband thought passing gas in the 35 degree Celsius phone booth would probably be the funniest thing ever.  It was to him.  It was not to me.

"Well...you know Leif was asking what would happen to him if you died...I just told him he'd come live with me" She replied, sounding a million miles away.

"Oh, well that sounds about right...I guess...Okay well I'll deal with that when I get home." I answered, a little unsure of how to react.

Now, of course we have a plan as to what will happen to Leif if something were to happen to us, but like anyone who isn't a nutball, I prefer not to think about it.  I prefer to think about how much money I'm going to have to save for the kid's therapy when he's an adult from having the kind of parents that were always there for him.  Obviously Leif has more morbid-than-average sensibilities so I thought I should probably address this now before it got out of hand, so tonight over spaghetti I brought it up.

As I scooped out spaghetti I, as casually as possible, posed the question to him.  "So, Leif, I heard you were concerned about what would happen if something happened to mom and dad?" Cue spilling sauce all down my pants.

Not looking up from his bread he replied "Well mom, when I didn't hear from you I was concerned.  But then I asked Grandma C, and Grandma Jean, and I realized that I'd live with them...so I'm not worried anymore". 

"Right...well that's good.  But you would be sad though..."

As nonchalantly  as humanly possible he said "No.  It would be awesome to live with the Grandma's.  I wouldn't really care at all".

The next thoughts that came in to my head aren't exactly...motherly.  I know it's wrong to be hurt over his well-adjusted nature, but in that moment I felt like that shoe we've all passed on the highway and wondered "Who loses one shoe on the highway?";  the shoe that was so useless it wasn't even worth going back for.  The shoe that is better without its mate.  However, I still feel like I responded like any mature, responsible parent.

"Well, but what if Grandma couldn't take you...then what would you do?" See- Mature.  Just showing him that every plan may need a back up.

"Oh mom, I'd live with auntie, or uncle...really I could live with anyone." the little traitor doesn't even look up from his spaghetti.  I remind myself that spaghetti is one of his favourites; I don't think I'll be making it for a while.

"But you'd think about me every day, right?  You'd miss me?" I realize I was getting a bit desperate at this point.

"Well, I'd be busy...swimming, eating cookies, going shopping, playing video games with Grandpa.  You know how it is".  Ungrateful basta - uh, beautiful child.

I suppose I should be grateful I have a relatively well-adjusted child...

Note to Grade One teacher re: Leif's new diet

Dear Mrs. B:

Leif may comment on his lunch lately being a little light on the cookies for dessert.  Unfortunately all the cookies that his grandma has made him were mysteriously thrown away.  There will probably be a cookie shortage all year.

Sincerely,

Colleen