I live not ten minutes from a pristine beautiful lake with beautiful sandy beaches, a brand new gorgeous playground, and more walking trails than a person could ever hope to stroll in one day.

I avoid that place like the plague.

It’s not that it’s not beautiful, or it doesn’t hold special memories in my heart. Let’s just say many a romantic memory has been made under the full moon dancing upon the black lake, while snuggled in my Boo’s arms.

The problem with this lake, this provincial park, is I’m not the only one who knows it exists. Other people enjoy it’s long stretches of soft sand and scenic views.

Other people with squalling infants and sand-kicking demon spawn who kick dirt in your face when you are trying to relax and enjoy the sounds of the gulls and the soft lapping of water at the lake’s shore.

I admit it, I’m a wee cranky when I’m hot and I’ve got sand digging into places sand has no business digging into.

Which is why I stay home and enjoy my pool. My pool is my very private (heh) paradise. My own oasis where I’m not worried about getting sand in my whoo-ha or being forced to witness people parade around in swimsuits they have no business wearing.

Seriously. What is with old men and speedos? My retinas have burned into shriveled dry orbs more times than I care to count because of this phenomenon.

So I ignore my children’s whines and pleas to be released out into the world and force them to make do with the luxurious chemical filled lake we call our pool.

I keep telling them it doesn’t matter if all their friends get to go to the lake. They are lucky, no, blessed to be able to have a pool of their very own to swim in and not have to deal with leeches and pre-pubescent teens running around wearing itty-bitty scraps of material making arses of themselves.

I keep telling them that back in my day, I was lucky to be able to run through a rusty sprinkler when it was hot.

They don’t believe me when I tell them that my family’s pool was our bathtub and it was mighty hard to simply float in it and relax when you had your older brother pounding down the door threatening to drown you because you were screwing around in the only bathroom while he was jumping up and down trying to keep from having his bowels exploding all over the place.

Still, I want my children to be happy. I need them to be happy. Because dammit, they deserve it. They’ve been through more emotional upheaval in their short lives than most adults will ever face.

That said, I’m still not going to a public beach just to have my cooter rubbed raw and leeches chew on my boobs.

Which means I must occasionally play with my children in our pool instead of just floating around naked in it so that random neighbours can stumble upon my blindingly white body.

It was much easier when they were little and I could just spray them with the hose and they thought that was fabulous. Sigh.

Playing in the pool with them means getting jumped on, splashed at and tugged on all the while trying to pretend I’m not old and unfit, gasping and panting just trying to keep up with their seemingly boundless energy.

The upside to playing in the pool with them means that if I accidentally shove their heads under water I can pass it off as playing with them and not have them realize I’m just looking for a moment of peace and serenity.

Or a little passive-aggressive payback. Heh.

Of course, in the process of playing with them I swallowed more damn pool water than an elephant can shoot out it’s trunk. Because you know, what’s more fun than pushing your mom’s head under water and watch her choke and gasp and snort water out her nose?

Finally, two hours later, I’d had my fill of not only bonding with Fric and Frac, but water in general. There wasn’t a mommy trophy large enough or shiny enough to keep me in that pool for another minute.

Pulling myself up and out of the pool, the kids suddenly stopped splashing at one another and looked up.

“Where you going mom?” Fric whined.

I did what any graceful mother under fire would do. I lied.

“I have to go to the washroom.” (Fingers crossed behind my back.)

“Aw. You’re coming back in though, right?”

Yea. Sure. Of course, I mumbled.

Frac saw right through my weak response. (Damn it. Not to self: Learn to lie better.)

“Mom, you don’t have to go in the house to go to the bathroom. Just do what I do,” he helpfully yelled out.

“I’m not peeing in the bush, kiddo. Or off the deck. Or on the lawn. Unlike you, I have class.” Said as I was digging out my swimsuit from my ass crack.

“No mom. Just pee in the pool, like we do. It’s okay. Dad puts chlorine in it.”

I mentioned earlier how much of that pool water I swallowed earlier on, right? Um, yah.

At least the mystery of why our pool is always so uncharacteristically um, warm, has been solved.

From now on, I’m sticking to hurling water balloons at their heads when I feel the need to bond.