First Swim Lesson: How I Learned We’re All Just Swimming in Baby Pee

The Swim Diaper Delusion

Before we even got in the water, I was confident. Prepared. Organized.

Because I had done the thing you’re told to do.

Double swim diapers.

One disposable. One reusable.
Locked. Loaded. Fort Knox, but for bodily fluids.

I felt smug.
I felt safe.
I felt like a responsible adult.

And then — within minutes of entering the pool — I had the horrifying realization that no one tells you loud enough:

Swim diapers do not hold pee.

Not one of them.
Not two of them together.
Not even if you whisper encouraging words to them.

They are there for other things. And even then… let’s be honest… it’s a hope-and-a-prayer situation.

So there I was, standing in chest-deep water, smiling at my kid, while my brain
whispered:
We are absolutely swimming in baby pee.

Not just my baby’s.
Everyone’s.

Suddenly, the goggles made sense.

The Zoo Exhibit Effect

If the pee realization doesn’t get you, the glass walls will.

Because swim lessons are apparently designed so spectators can watch from the outside like they’re visiting an aquarium.

Parents. Grandparents. Random passersby.
All pressed up against the glass.

Watching.

You.

Trying to sing songs.
Bounce your baby.
Pretend this is normal.

I have never felt more like a zoo animal in my life.

Observe the First-Time Swim Parent in their natural habitat.
Note the forced smile.
The panic behind the eyes.
The quiet calculation of how fast they can escape after the lesson ends.

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The Constant Fear of “The Incident”

Every parent in that pool is carrying the same unspoken fear.

Not drowning.
Not splashing.

Pooping.

You’re smiling.
You’re encouraging.
But deep down, you’re watching your child like a hawk, thinking:

Is that face concentration or is that… something else?

Every bubble feels suspicious.
Every pause feels dangerous.

And yet, no one says anything.
Because acknowledging it out loud feels like tempting fate.

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The Outfit Situation No One Warns You About

Let’s talk swimsuits.

Because finding a swimsuit for this phase of parenting is its own emotional journey.

You want something:

• Appropriate
• Comfortable
• Secure
• That doesn’t make you feel like you’re wearing a costume you didn’t audition for

You’re bending. Lifting. Holding a slippery baby.
You don’t need straps failing or fabric shifting at the wrong moment.

This is not the time for:

• Anything strapless
• Anything overly complicated
• Anything that makes you constantly adjust

You want functional confidence.
“I can survive this class” energy.

And yet, no matter what you wear, you’ll still feel a little weird — because again — glass walls.

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The 30-Minute Class That Requires an Olympic-Level Outfit Change

For a class that lasts thirty minutes, the amount of changing involved is truly offensive.

Wet baby.
Wet parent.
Tiny changing room.
Nowhere to put anything.

You peel off wet layers like you’re escaping a situation, not leaving a pool.

Your baby suddenly has:

• Zero interest in cooperating
• Maximum interest in flailing
• A newfound ability to turn boneless

You leave damp.
You smell like chlorine.
You’re not sure if everything made it back into the bag.

But hey — you did it.

Emotional recovery involved:

• a very forgiving hooded towel
• and a wet/dry bag
• Everything went into a dedicated pool bag because I learned the hard way that mixing wet swimsuits with regular life items leads to regret.

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And Somehow… It’s Still Worth It

Because here’s the thing.

Even through the awkwardness.
The pee thoughts.
The glass walls.
The outfit stress.

Your kid is learning something important.

They’re getting comfortable in the water.
They’re building confidence.
They’re learning trust — in you, in themselves, in their body.

And you’re showing up.

Even if you feel ridiculous.
Even if you feel watched.
Even if you spend the whole class mentally counting down until towel time.

Sometimes parenting means doing things that feel uncomfortable for us because they’re good for them.

Even if it means feeling like a zoo exhibit.
Even if it means swimming in baby pee.
Even if it means changing wet clothes for a class shorter than an episode of Bluey.

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Final Thought From the Sidelines

You don’t have to love swim lessons.
You don’t have to feel confident doing them.
You just have to show up.

Your kid won’t remember the pee.
Or the glass walls.
Or your internal panic.

They’ll remember the water.
The fun.
And the fact that you were right there with them.

And honestly?
That’s a win.