We bleed chlorine

From where I sit in my little deck chair, I see the head tops of three Peterson children all gleefully bouncing around a shimmery blue swimming pool. I hear the loud spr-oing of the diving board as child number four does his umpteenth cannonball off the diving board.
And for a moment I allow myself to reminisce of days past when I was a little bouncing head, joyfully bobbing around the pool. Day in and day out, I was in the neighborhood pool across from my parents house. More days than not, all summer long.
As I sit here, all grown up, watching the children from my perch underneath the shade tree, as I’ve done just about every day this week, I think a bit deeper about this thing I call the pool.
I’ve always been the happy pool mama with wet towels flung all over the back seat, the mama who felt more alive wearing a slightly damp suit as she cooked her evening meal. The mama who gets a kick out of smelling chlorine on her clothes.
But as much as I’ve loved having access to a pool for my three healthier kids, I so totally love having it readily available for my special boy. My boy who doesn’t transition well. My boy who freaks out when things are a bit different than usual.
Greater joy has no mama than this chlorine junkie mama when the special boy hollers “POOL TIME!” as he approaches the car during the school pick up line.
Yes, little boy it’s pool time.
Go splash your worries away until your insides stop aching. Go pound your frustrations into the diving board. Be free for just a bit until you really do have to conform to Mama’s standard of living.
Let the pool be your constant companion. As you grow into your own skin realize what a healthy coping mechanism you’ve stumbled upon. Develop an addiction to chlorine. You need the pool and the sooner you realize how much the pool helps you the better off you are.

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