water-proof

i read an article in a parenting mag the other night that suggested i ask for a water-proof cast if one of the kids breaks a limb this summer.

i about fell off the toilet seat. i wasn't using it. i was pretending to be for some solitude.

when my grandmother finally disclosed to grandpa the huge lump she had on her breast, they traveled as far as california in search of doctors' advice and treatment. she had waited much too long. they lived in rooms 416 and 418 of the red lion in downtown omaha as she battled cancer. as an infant, i slept in one of the open dresser drawers. at two weeks i took my first swim in the hotel pool. my family celebrated Christmas there. twice.

finally my grandfather bought a house. it came with a housekeeper and a pool. he thought each would help my grandmother recover. or at least feel more at home before she passed. we call it the fieldcrest house. it was magnificent. grandma died on my father's birthday twelve days before i turned two. she never did move into the house.

my grandfather and college-aged uncle did. the house had floors and chandeliers and framed mirrors spanning the width and length of an entire hall and carved entry doors - all flown-in from italy and france. the wet bar in the living room had a gold faucet that resembled a swan. it was built and decorated by the original owners as a piece of art. the two bachelors put a pool table in what had been the dining room. they picked the living room furniture up at the office store, getting whatever my uncle had fallen asleep in as grandpa looked at drafting tables for his bedroom. the two burgundy wing back leather chairs and matching couch. i lived in those chairs during the winter months curled up watching tv and eating ice cream.

i lived in the pool during the summer months. i would dive off the spring board and touch the drain. i would play on the buoyed rope dividing the deep from the shallow ends. there were two floats of silky squishy white with built-in pillows. my tough bladder meant i never needed potty breaks. i never came in to eat. mattie, the housekeeper, would serve me pb&j and chocolate milk sitting on either the steps or a float. i know what chlorine-logged bread tastes like. i never came in to nap. if the sun got the best of me, i would sandwich myself between the two floats, using the top as a blanket. it was light and cool and would mold to me. it was so luxurious.

mom taught me how to dive properly and all the swim strokes. my uncle and i raced and flopped from the diving board. dad would sometimes even play with me, but my best swim date was grandpa. we spit water at each other. watched fireworks shimmer reflections on the fourth. defy lightening in the storms - or at least my grandfather would. i still had a mother who would pull rank when it rained on us though she could never convince my grandfather of anything. as i write this, though, i note it was the only time he would let her pull rank on me in his presence. indeed, lightening + mom was the only thing that could get me out of the water.

the summer before the second grade i was scheduled to have another round of knee surgeries. my brother came down with the chicken pox. then so did i. the surgeries were postponed, and i spent a week itching with grandpa and mattie. i forgot once while napping to pull up a float or get more sunscreen. i was so badly burned we had to reschedule for the second time.

third time was the charm, and the surgeries happened. and when they were over, i spent the rest of the summer watching everyone splash happy from the kitchen patio doors. my first time in a wheelchair, up to my hips in hot, heavy casts. oh did my face burn. it was the most painful part of any my surgeries. soothed only slightly by the fact that grandpa remained dry-docked with me. i remember that night of the big party for my uncle and lots of other kids diving and splashing and floating around, grandpa sitting at the kitchen table with me, watching alfred hitchcock and after telling owl stories.

water-proof casts. what a marvel of modern invention. crazy the things that crop up while sitting on the toilet not-peeing during a mommy break.