No Mom Is an Island: Just Another Day at the Pool

I pride myself on being independent. My husband could (but probably wouldn't) tell you that I can be difficult from time to time--it's hard to know whether to open the car door for me or not (yes please) or if I'd appreciate a man gassing up the car from time to time (yes please). This independent prideful streak follows me into motherhood.

My van is stocked with baggies filled with gold fish crackers, raisins, lollipops (to stave off those humiliating temper fits), and chewing gum--because my little woman loves some Trident. I carry three types of wipes: bottom, nose, and spills. My glove compartment is stocked with extra toddler panties, bandages, and sunscreen. I am the mom who carries Neosporin and bug spray to the soccer field. I have a potty trainer, and in my purse I carry extra wipes, extra panties, and hand sanitizer.

In short, I rely on no one.

Except.

That's just not true.

Because no mom is an island, nor should she try to be. And if ever I questioned whether I could (or should) be an independent mom, the answer was issued today as a resounding "no," a "no way," an "absolutely not."

Gigi is potty training pretty well. Or rather, she's pretty well potty trained. And, as any mother of a child of potty training age or older can tell you, there's one phrase that rallies the mommy ranks: "I need to potty, Mommy!"

Our moment rallying the mommy ranks? The swimming pool. I had issued the edict from on high: "You do not poop in the pool. If you poop in the pool, they will close it. And everyone will be mad. You do not poop in the pool."

Fifteen minutes into our swim, I saw the panic in those big blue eyes and heard the call, "Mommy, I need to potty! My tummy hurts."

Dripping and shivering, we scooted to the bane of my existence, the family restroom. The door was closed. Locked. Occupied. Panicked, I banged on the door, only to hear the dreaded, "There's someone in here!" Another mom offered up a changing room, to which I responded, "But she needs a potty now!"

And with that, I was no longer an island. The door cracked open, and a mom's face appeared. "Are you both girls?" she asked. "Yes!"

She swung the door a bit wider, blocking the opening with her rather large bottom. "Come on in," she welcomed me and my potty trainer, "We're all girls in here anyway."

Crisis averted. Gigi pottied as a shy 10-year old girl skinnied out of her bikini in the shelter of her mom's shadow.

I flushed Gigi's shame (or no shame--she made it to the potty!) and gratefully squeezed out of the family restroom, blocking the opening as Gigi and I made our way back to the pool.

I hope Gigi will be an independent woman. I know she's mastered the art of being difficult from time to time. More than anything, I hope that someday she'll have the opportunity to learn the same lesson I learned today: no mom is an island, nor should she try to be. Hillary Clinton told us that it takes a village to raise a child. The hard part about that is recognizing in myself that I need that village. And, the villagers won't always be the care givers I've carefully interviewed or the family that I love. Sometimes, as a mom, you accept your villagers as they are in the moment you never thought you'd be in. And you flush your pride, accept the help, and recognize that there will always be mothering moments that can't be solved with baggies full of snacks or extra panties.