Musings from the Edge of the Pool

A post on baby swim classes, imposter syndrome, and the things we’re allowed to hate

I watch my 4-year-old and 7-year-old in their respective swim classes now.
I sit on the sidelines. I don’t hover. I don’t pester. I don’t coerce.
I just... watch.

Sometimes I play a game on my phone.
Sometimes I take a little video.
Sometimes I cheer.
And sometimes I zone the fuck out — because it’s quiet, and it’s peaceful, and those few minutes aren’t being pulled from my bones.

And then the baby swim class starts in the adjacent pool.

Giddy parents with wide eyes and phone cameras, giggling and gliding their newborns through the water, taking it so seriously.
Bubbling with joy. Mouthing along to “Twinkle Twinkle.” Holding their babies just right. Moving in a perfect circle like the cult of chlorine.

And I swear something sick starts to seep inside me. Like a grief lodged in my womb.

Because I never had that experience.
I hated that fucking class.
And this isn’t just a rant — it’s a reckoning.

That one class — baby swim — was the only thing I opted out of orchestrating, conducting, curating.
The one thing I asked my partner to lead, because I could not bring myself to fake it.

I’ve never liked swimming pools.
Never liked bathing suits — not even as a kid.
Chlorine makes my skin itch and my hair brittle.
I’ve never been good at swimming.
And yet there I was, postpartum, aching, in a suit I hated, holding a baby in a cold, loud pool full of songs I didn’t know and moves I couldn’t follow.

“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?” I hadn’t thought of that song in literal decades.
“Wheels on the Bus?” Apparently there are official arm movements, especially when you’re half-submerged and supposed to be bouncing your baby in rhythm with strangers.
I always went the wrong way in the circle. I always felt behind.
Everyone else had clearly been handed a secret choreography I somehow missed.

I felt like a fucking imposter.
A wet, freezing, miserable imposter with a screaming infant suctioned to my soggy chest and a bathing suit that either squeezed me like a python or taunted me with memories of the bikini-clad version of me I no longer recognized. (I still have that two-piece, by the way.)

And every time I was in that pool, it wasn’t because I wanted to be — it was because I had to be. Because my partner wasn’t available. Because I didn’t want to be the mom who didn’t show up.
But I didn’t feel present. I felt trapped.

Wet. Cold. Judged. Tired. So tired.
Not just in my body — in my whole being.

And here’s the thing:
This post isn’t about fixing that.
Yes, there are other swim venues.
Yes, I could’ve made a different choice.
No, I didn’t have to sign up for baby swim.
Blah blah blah. Save your “have you tried” and your “you should’ve.”
This is not a call for solutions. It’s a call for space.

Because I know I’m not the only one who hated it.
I know I’m not the only one who wanted to opt out of this particular brand of performative parenting.
I know I’m not the only one who wishes they could’ve outsourced this part.

And if any part of this sounds like you — the exhausted, resentful, awkward, over it version of you — know this: I see her. She’s valid. She belongs too.
If you’ve been carrying the guilt of hating what others seem to love, let this be your permission slip: you’re allowed to feel that way.

You don’t have to love it all to be a good parent.
You don’t even have to do it to be a good parent.

Let’s normalize hating shit.
Let’s normalize the misalignments between parenting-you and you-you.
Let’s hold space for the ugh alongside the joy. The no thanks alongside the gratitude. The never again alongside the I love them so much it hurts.

Parenting is not a Pinterest board. It’s not always sweet.
Some of it is fucking awful.
And that’s okay.

IMHMO, always.

Coral