Yes, I put a 73x71x21 swimming pool holding 113 gallons of water in my living room. Why? Because it’s important that Winter grows up with good stories to tell people. Maybe no one will believe her, but at least she has memories of a spontaneous mother.
Of course, Winter didn’t believe the announcement.
“I’m going to the store to buy a pool for the living room.”
She refused to acknowledge the statement. She’s used to outlandish comments and merely chuckles under her breath at the possibility of such ridiculousness.
“I mean it,” I slapped the couch and stood up as if I were scolding her. She looked up, surprised. “When you get back from the drive-in tonight, there will be a pool in the living room for you to swim in.” Her facial expression transformed from skepticism to sheer delight. Plan “Spontaneous Mom” was working.
While Winter was with friends at the drive-in, boyfriend and I went to Target to get the pool. Deciding on which to buy began the I’m-not-sure-this-was-a-good-idea process. We originally wanted the biggest one there, which holds 530 gallons. But with visions of the pool collapsing through our fifth floor apartment, I had to veto the big pool.
Then the second-thought process snowballed. Splashing water could reach my book shelf and vintage couch. What if the cat drowns in it? What if — oh goodness — it pops a leak? My newfound spontaneity was dwindling by the second. I grabbed a pool and boyfriend and bee-lined for the checkout. I wasn’t going to let caution ruin the moment, no sir.
An hour later — and several trips between the tub and the pool — we had a half-full pool in the living room. My compromise between caution or spontaneity was allowing the pool to be filled half-way. This relieved the fear of it crashing through the floor and water ruining precious living room possessions.
The next morning, Winter hopped in and spent the day reveling in the idea of a pool in the living room. I knew she’d never forget this. What kid can say they have a pool in their living room? She was still in it when I got home from work. “Hey prune fingers, it’s time to get out for dinner,” I called.
“Can’t I eat it in here?” It was a good question considering we don’t have a table.
“Of course not. You’ll get crumbs in the pool. Nobody wants to swim in dirty water.” I looked into the pool as I said this. The water was already mucky. The thought of emptying and refilling, which suddenly became an obvious addition to daily chores, stole the novelty of having a living room pool.
“You know what, Winter?” I handed her a plate of food. “Just sit up, so water doesn’t splash onto your plate.” What did it matter if crumbs fell into the pool? It was already disgusting. Besides, what’s the point in having a pool in the living room if you can’t eat dinner in it. Right?