December 30, 2009 by Marj Hatzell
I know you are just dying to hear this one.
Holiday time. You know, relatives in town? Staying at a nearby hotel that they booked EXPRESSLY for the reason that it had a pool.
As in, a swimming pool. For swimming. In winter. As in, our aunt and uncle (and DH’s cousin and husband and their two kids) stayed there so we could come visit them at the hotel and the kids could swim. You know, Bugaboo’s favorite past time?
So, they get in, check into the hotel, call us, we head down there. And by the time we get to said hotel, they were coming back to the lobby in their suits…and the pool was closed.
Not open. Under “maintenance.” Lame letter on the door, apologies from management, and my genteel southern relatives explaining in a very nice way that it wasn’t acceptable, since there was a little boy who was biting the H-E-DOUBLE-HOCKEY-STICKS out of his hand because he could not swim. We waited. Waited some more. It was decided that the pool would not be open that night and they couldn’t say when it would be open. They offered the next hotel with a pool in the chain.
Across the bridge in New Jersey. Um. No. So the genteel southern relatives finagled and managed to get themselves comped to another hotel in that very hotel family (they have lower-priced chains and higher-priced chains and OH MY HECK THAT’S AN EXPENSIVE CHAIN). Across the street, at the airport, the king-daddy of ’em all.
And it has a pool.
So, we wait while they gather their things, caravan across the way to the fancy-schmancy hotel, feeling quite out-of-place when we walk in because we are in sweats and everyone else is in Perry Ellis and Burberry (SOME DAY IT WILL BE MINE). Now, this hotel costs $17 to park over two hours because it is at the airport and they don’t want those damn cellphone waiting people to park there. Egads. Well, at least the pool was free, right? The relatives check in, the women folk bring the kiddies upstairs while the menfolk carry baggage and whatnot and we go upstairs to the pool. The boys change into suits, I change into my suit, we all change into swim suits. The boys begin cannonballs off the side, Bugaboo is stimming on the water like crazy and suddenly he jumps out and gets THAT LOOK on his face. The look that means he’s about to poo…
Lucky for me, I remembered a swim diaper. A. Swim. Diaper. I go change him, shower him off well, we return, they play for ten minutes and the menfolk finally make their way to the pool just as Bugaboo…
Goes in the pool. As in, poo floating in the pool. AT A HOTEL THAT COSTS OVER $500 A FREAKING NIGHT.
Only this time, NO SWIM DIAPER.
As in, we all jump out. And I grab him under the armpits, run for the bathroom, strip him and shower and scrub him. While everyone else gets into the hot tub.
And there we stayed for nearly an hour. Bugaboo, in the Hotel Marriot Shower. Me, sitting on the bench watching. And realized that we just paid $17 so that Bugaboo could shower.
At least there was a view.
Best part? Because I’m such a good mom? I forgot extra pants for him. So we had to LEAVE the hotel with a towel wrapped around his lower half, since he was nekkid and all. Yeah, good times. I’m so classy.