Can Somebody Give My Husband A Message For Me?


Back in April I told my husband Ethan, oh Ethan, about this video I saw from a class called Infant Swimming Resource (ISR).  It teaches babies as well as older kids how to survive in the water in an emergency.  It looked amazing.  I watched an eleven-month-old being thrown into the water fully clothed, turn herself over onto her back and float until help arrived. 

And Ethan, oh Ethan, laughed at me.  He chuckled the chuckle he reserves for all of my "crazy" ideas.  Ideas that are only crazy until substantiated by someone else.  Anyone else.  Last week Ethan called me from work to announce that I needed to drop whatever it is I was doing (he probably assumed I was doing nothing, but really I was watching Oprah), and get Crusher and Bam Bam registered for ISR.  AND NOW!  Because Belinda, the new woman in the Boston office, whom he's never met in real life, has a nineteen-month-old who took this class and is now water safe, and Belinda thinks it's a good idea.

This happens all the time.  All.  The.  Time.  I'm not sure which one of my crazy, off the wall, take no prisoners ideas got me unwittingly discredited in the first place.  But it was probably this one:

Me:  "Let's feed the kids today."

Ethan:  "Mmm, I don't know, Babe.  I'm afraid this might be another one of your crazy, off the wall, take no prisoners ideas that got you unwittingly discredited in the first place.  Let me check with Belinda in Boston.  Why don't you have them suck on ice cubes in the meantime."

I just called Belinda to have her give Ethan directions to the nearest jewelry store.


 

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