This week’s amazing confessions come courtesy of Monique from moniquewillknow.blogspot.com (She’s also from other places – Australia, a womb… you name it, she’s been there. As long as you name Australia or a womb). She has VERY kindly written two stories for our reading pleasure. Read them, laugh, go ‘Ewww!’, then visit her blog (this recent post is my personal favourite). Her readers ask questions (any questions) and she answers them in a comical way. However, just a word of warning, judging by these stories she may not be the most trustworthy individual on the planet, so you might want to think twice before posing your own questions to her! That was actually a bit more than one word of wisdom wasn’t it? At lest three. Maybe four…
When my daughter was a toddler, she did swimming lessons at our local indoor pool. Pool Rules dictated that all children (and adults for that matter) that weren’t toilet trained, had to wear a swim nappy. Wanting to feel smug like an urban hippy, I opted to purchase a reusable lycra nappy made by a reputable swim brand instead of using disposable ones every week.
Now, my daughter Karina takes after her father and is more limbs than anything else. Chickens attend Weight Watchers after seeing her legs. She never really had any puppy fat and has sported a 6 pack of muscle from when she could walk.
Yet the press-stud buttons of the swim nappy often popped open while she was swimming.. It never posed much of a problem as the teacher would just clip it back together and she’d swim on.
You know where this is going right?
One fateful morning we went to the lesson as usual and I happened to run into a girl (woman sounds old and I’m not old. Really.) I went to school with who also had children swimming that day. We started chatting away, sipping our lattes, sucking in our baby bellies, hoping the other thought we had aged well, when suddenly the kids were being hoisted out of the pool and handed to their mothers. With a sinking feeling, I saw my daughter’s teacher wading through the water with a net, scooping up…something. I found my daughter and surprise, bloody-hippy-reusable-nappy surprise, one side of her pants had unpopped and there was a bright ORANGE ooze spreading down her thigh.
Next thing the swim teacher was yelling out to her boss “It’s no use, it’s not solid. I can’t scoop it up”.
It then struck me that we had been to a Spanish Tapas restaurant for dinner the night before and Karina had gorged herself on chorizo, patatas bravas and all manner of orange oiled foods.
“Mummy, my bottom is firey”
Oh crap. Literally.
I rushed her off to the bathroom and emptied her out and cleaned her up. And while in the toilet cubicle with her I could hear the conversations going on in the changing area.
“They’ve evacuated the pool, can you believe it?”
“Can you imagine if it was your child? I’d just DIE”
“I’ve been coming here for 6 years with my kids and this has NEVER happened before”
We snuck out and joined the crowd standing around the empty (of people) pool, watching the staff try and scoop up the confetti of chilli and herbs floating on the surface of the water.
Someone at my elbow asked “What happened?”
I turned and realised it was my old school chum. Being the coward I am, I said, “Well, APPARENTLY, one of the kids had an accident in the pool and they’re cleaning it up”
“Oh that’s disgusting. I hope they’re going to empty the pool and refill it. What about the rest of the lesson? I’m going to get my money back. You should come and get yours back too”
I really didn’t know what to do. Follow her and ask for my money back, when 30 other children had missed theirs because of my little tapas trumpeter? Or admit to my school friend that it was my fault and scrounge in my purse for change to give her in compensation?
Thankfully one of the staff members made the announcement that the lessons would move into the larger pool and no one would miss out.
While everyone shuffled off in one direction toward the big pool, my daughter and I skulked in the other direction towards the front desk.
“Um. Hi. Um. The… accident, in the pool, was by my daughter. Do I have to do anything? Pay anything?”
“Oh. I see. No, you don’t have to pay anything. Don’t worry, it has happened before. Not like that one though. Usually we just scoop it out and put a cleaning fluid in the filter and run it for an hour and it’s fine. But I don’t know what’s going to happen with…that one. My boss is on the phone to the filter manufacturers. I think they’re sending someone out to look at it for us”
“Oh. Great. Um, see you next week?”
“Yes, next week. The pool should be back in use by then”.
And we did go back. With our heads held high and a bumper pack of disposable swim nappies.
We stuck at it and my nearly 6yo is now a toilet trained mermaid who still loves swimming. And tapas.
The photo attached is from our trip to Vanuatu last year where she posted a postcard at the underwater postbox which was about 4m down. She was so proud of herself!
When I was living in London, my then boyfriend and I met up with a German girl who had lived as an exchange student with my boyfriend’s family in Melbourne many years before. It was going to be nostalgic, it was going to be fun, it was going to be alcohol lubricated.
As she was a poor student working a few jobs just to pay the rent on a single bed in a shared house, we decided to shout her lunch. So we chose a nice Bavarian cafe that had a great beer list and hearty meals.
After much gentle arguing over who was paying, we finally managed to get her to accept our offer.
6 hours later we’d had lunch, dinner, countless beers and paddle after paddle of schnapps until we were almost falling down.
But when my boyfriend swayed his way up to the counter to pay, he realised they didn’t accept switch payments. Only credit card or cash – neither of which we had (the banks didn’t trust us Aussies with credit. Wonder why…).
So off he went to find an ATM to get cash out, but the closest one was out of order. 40 minutes later and he still didn’t find one.
Faced with the prospect of washing dishes while ridiculously drunk, our German friend stepped up and paid the bill across 3 credit cards, one of which was her dad’s for “in case of an emergency”, and with some cash. I think I was able to contribute about 3 quid in silver.
We promised to pay her back, but she left for Germany the next day and we couldn’t work out how to transfer money to her. Any other time we saw her, we’d never have the cash on us and it became uncomfortable to think about how long it had taken us to pay her back and she kept insisting it didn’t matter and eventually it became her wedding present to us years later!
We’ve since moved back home to Australia and in the last year, she has also moved here. She’s getting closer. We’ll have to move if she finds us…
Thank VERY MUCH you for your confessions Monique!
Anyone else wishing to get anything of their chests for a future Confessions post, you can do so here.
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