Just One More Time

It seems to be the motto this summer and reminds me of my own summer days as a child. My mother used to take us to the local pool and we’d spend all day long playing “Marco/Polo,” diving for rings, practicing cannonballs, standing on our hands, and doing somersaults underwater. By the time we arrived home our eyes were as red as Twizzlers and we smelled like chlorine. The days were full of laughter until it was time to exit the pool.

“Just one more dive” … “Just one more cannonball” … “Just one more somersault” …and then the pranks of “oops, I fell back in.” …It was funny until my mom’s lips grew tense, her eyes fixed sternly on us and her voice dropped low but sharp: “Just one more time.”

My five year old is a natural when it comes to pool antics, she manages to pull out all the excuses and “oopsies” and still get away with a trip to the vending machine. It’s hard not to resist when you’re living life and trying to set ground rules yet reminiscing about childhood at the same time. I find myself trying to be stern but turning and cracking up in a towel. I just can’t pull off that low growl my mother could do so well; it still sends shivers up my spine. When I was a child, if you defied the count to three you really did get pulled out of the pool …and by your ponytail, and nobody flinched or “tsked.”

I can feel triumphant that a little one …two …three magic does work when I mention “no mint chocolate chip ice cream if you don’t get out of the pool,” but I have to say I secretly look forward to the giggles and screams of “just one more time!”

Just One More Time