Summer, 2000.
It had been 3 days since the torture began.
You couldn't stand it anymore; the screaming, the crying, the god-awful smell of chlorinated water and your fuhrer-esque father yelling at you from the other end of the pool.
"Swim, goddamn you!"
Easier said than done.
You knew what to do; Papa had shown you a dozen times, but when it boiled down to actually doing it you were hopeless.
All the other days were the same: You would cling to Papa and scream like the traumatized five-year old that you were. By the end of the lesson, he would be covered in red scratch marks and you would be howling to go home as soon as possible.
You were always such a drama queen.
Deciding that you'd had enough of this madness, you climbed out of the pool, half-sobbing and hiccuping.
"Swimming. Who needs it? I'll just never go near water ever again," you thought to yourself.
Meanwhile, Papa followed you out of the pool, dragged you over to the deep end, and flung you into it, without any warning.
There was a big splash, and then utter silence. Everything around you went hazy, and you could feel the water closing in on you as you sank. For some reason, you tried to breathe, and swallowed a big gulp of chlorine water.
Was this it? Was this how it was all going to end?
I could see it clearly:
"In memory of Snickerdoodle, who departed this life on the 5th of May, 2000, while learning to swim at the local pool, aged all of 5 years. All she got was this lousy epitaph."
And then, out of a fit of desperation from not wanting to die yet, you shut your eyes tight and started flailing frantically. You had absolutely no idea what you were doing, and you wouldn't know until later, but it was working! You continued thrashing around until your head hit the side of the pool, and you caught hold of the bar.
Between hysterically sobbing and coughing up copious amounts of water, you managed to yell out. "I hate you, Papa!" at the top of your lungs.
Papa bought you a celebratory orange popsicle on the way home.
12 years down the line, you realize you never thanked him for either.
-----------------------------------
Does a baby bird thank its Dad for teaching it to fly? I highly doubt it. As soon as it learns, it's gone, never to return.
I guess Bird Dad doesn't hold it against him.
Baby Bird is eternally grateful to Bird Dad, and Bird Dad, just like any other Dad, in his mysterious way of knowing things, just knows.
It had been 3 days since the torture began.
You couldn't stand it anymore; the screaming, the crying, the god-awful smell of chlorinated water and your fuhrer-esque father yelling at you from the other end of the pool.
"Swim, goddamn you!"
Easier said than done.
You knew what to do; Papa had shown you a dozen times, but when it boiled down to actually doing it you were hopeless.
All the other days were the same: You would cling to Papa and scream like the traumatized five-year old that you were. By the end of the lesson, he would be covered in red scratch marks and you would be howling to go home as soon as possible.
You were always such a drama queen.
Deciding that you'd had enough of this madness, you climbed out of the pool, half-sobbing and hiccuping.
"Swimming. Who needs it? I'll just never go near water ever again," you thought to yourself.
Meanwhile, Papa followed you out of the pool, dragged you over to the deep end, and flung you into it, without any warning.
There was a big splash, and then utter silence. Everything around you went hazy, and you could feel the water closing in on you as you sank. For some reason, you tried to breathe, and swallowed a big gulp of chlorine water.
Was this it? Was this how it was all going to end?
I could see it clearly:
"In memory of Snickerdoodle, who departed this life on the 5th of May, 2000, while learning to swim at the local pool, aged all of 5 years. All she got was this lousy epitaph."
And then, out of a fit of desperation from not wanting to die yet, you shut your eyes tight and started flailing frantically. You had absolutely no idea what you were doing, and you wouldn't know until later, but it was working! You continued thrashing around until your head hit the side of the pool, and you caught hold of the bar.
Between hysterically sobbing and coughing up copious amounts of water, you managed to yell out. "I hate you, Papa!" at the top of your lungs.
Papa bought you a celebratory orange popsicle on the way home.
12 years down the line, you realize you never thanked him for either.
-----------------------------------
Does a baby bird thank its Dad for teaching it to fly? I highly doubt it. As soon as it learns, it's gone, never to return.
I guess Bird Dad doesn't hold it against him.
Baby Bird is eternally grateful to Bird Dad, and Bird Dad, just like any other Dad, in his mysterious way of knowing things, just knows.
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