This past weekend, we made our monthly (or more frequent) pilgrimage to Ponca City--where the grass is greener (because it's fescue); the yard is shadier; and it only takes 10 minutes to get to WalMart, the YMCA, and the gas station--in one trip. Ponca City, and more specifically my parents' house, is our resort vacation, complete with trusted, skilled baby sitting services and a late check out on Sundays.
Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, we enjoyed our weekend. R.J. golfed, and so did his daddy, albeit at entirely different courses (the backyard versus Wentz). We had a fantastic dinner at the Rusty Barrel (and yes, the chairs in the bar are actually made out of barrels). And, we took R.J. to the new YMCA.
The new Y is a toddler's dream. It has a toddler pool that is no deeper than 3 feet deep, fountains, and as R.J. says, "It's in, not out, so we don't need sunblock." In these respects, this pool is a mommy's dream too. We love our neighborhood pool, but it's out, not in, so this summer our swims have been mostly late evening, pre-bedtime swims designed to wear out a toddler for stories and bathtime as we enjoy the cooler evening temperatures. And by cooler I mean a hundred and two, not a hundred and six.
Despite the sweaty walk to and from, the neighborhood pool far exceeds the Y in one (very important to a pregnant mommy) aspect: the bathroom(s). The neighborhood pool has two. Girls and boys. Marginally clean and open to the outdoors, a generally non offensive proposition. And we can walk home to change into dry clothes (or to remedy the "major issues" that R.J. identifies: "Mommy, we gonna have a major issue," is code for "Mommy, I'm going to poop in the pool if you don't get me out of here NOW.").
The Y, on the other hand, has ventured into what I hope will be a short-lived trend in facilities: the family locker room. Family, in my world, is comprised of those people I've seen in pajamas. The people who have witnessed the laundry chair as it attempts to gobble up 14 pairs of underwear and 3 socks (none matching). The people who understand that sometimes a really good meal consists of turkey sandwiches, chips, and ice cream, so long as we all get to sit down together.
Family, in my world, is not comprised of 14 pre-teen boys, 8 toddlers, and 6 grown men with hairy bellies lurking outside my dressing room door. "Family" should not require me to pack hand sanitizer for a purportedly chlorinated and sanitized experience. The powers who determine "family" for locker room purposes are clearly confused. My family does not include the 8-year old who was spending way too much time in the one (coed) potty for it to be anything other than a Major Issue. My family does not include the three children spinning every piece of clothing they own in the suit dryer. By my definition, a family locker room would not require me to post the three year old by the locked door with instructions such as "Do NOT open that door until Mommy has her pants on," and "Get out of the floor and stop touching the drain!" I do not find the family locker room comforting or a safe haven. It is bizarre for strange men to be standing on the other side of the door while I waddle into dry clothes. It is borderline dangerous for a 7-year old girl to be waiting outside with them.
I understand the need for clean locker rooms for grown-ups. I understand the desire to keep the little poopers separate and apart from the big poopers. I do not understand defining "family" to include everyone under the age of 18 or who is with someone under the age of 18. The family locker room is new to me, and I don't like it. I don't like the "girls" locker room at my home YMCA--it stinks, it's wet, and little girls do some nasty little things. But at least we're all working with the same set of equipment in there. There are no hairy-backed strangers lurking outside my door. And, the only conversation I hear is about how to get chlorine out of our hair or where we bought our pretty pink beach towels.
I will continue to applaud my resort on the prairie. So long as R.J. wants to swim in instead of out, I will hold my breath, lock the door, and dress under a pretty pink beach towel. But, in time, I hope to see a return to the archaic model of segregated dressing rooms--for my own sanity (and hand sanitation issues).
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