Whenever we go to a public swimming pool, I inevitably attract the Child Who Will Not Shut The Hell Up.
I’m fine with entertaining my own girls at the pool and tag teaming with the hubby as far as the tending to floaties, sunscreen, and pleas to “Catch Me!” for the 800th time, but my patience wears thin for the the child Who Will Not Shut The Hell Up. Look kid, I didn’t give birth to you, so shoo! Off with ye now! I’m on vacation!
We’re at the glorious beach at my stepmom’s cool pink condo in the Florida Panhandle, and on Saturday we went swimming and inevitably met an 11-year-old girl (yes I know how old she was because she told me that morsel of information along with a thousand others) who became the token Child Who Will Not Shut The Hell Up. The girls were enamored with her collection of butterfly, turtle, and killer whale rafts, and while they scrambled on the flotilla menagerie, slippery with sunscreen, I listened to the Child Who Will Not Shut The Hell Up talk for the sake of talking.
Much to my horror, as she and her family packed up to leave the pool, she tossed the girls three rubber ducky toys that they were more than thrilled to squeak ALL NIGHT LONG.
I must now arrange for the trio of yellow rubber ducks to get left behind as we head home. It’s a dirty job, this motherhood business, but I must preserve my sanity.