The Rock Star just wrapped up a session of swimming lessons. It went well. He didn't ever strike his instructor in the face which is more than I can say for the last time we attempted this, in August, when he was buried under the terror of losing his brother. Not that I'm making excuses for him, why do you think we waited nine months to enroll him again?
The lessons are held indoors (bleck!) and so he smells doubly like chlorine when we leave. This led to the following hilarious conversation in the car the other day...
G: What's that smell? (I don't know why I assumed this was rhetorical) What's that smell? (pause) Mommy?
Me: (realizing he expects me to answer) What?
G: What's that smell?
Me: I don't smell anything. What does it smell like?
G: I don't know. (He sniffs his arm) Is it me?
Me: (laughing) Does it smell like chlorine?
G: I don't know.
Me: It's probably chlorine, honey. I smelled like that for 10 years straight.