For the past few weeks, we’ve been taking Oscar to a nearby rec center for Saturday-morning infant swim classes. Most days it ends up being right around his nap-time, but he still seems to enjoy it. At the very least, he’s indifferent, which, with an 8 month old, is often the best you can hope for.
Oscar’s definitely holding his own against the other kids as far as cuteness goes, but I’ve found myself feeling a little threatened by this one little boy who looks a little like a shrunken-down Edward G. Robinson (I don’t mean that as an insult either; most infants look either like Edward G. Robinson or Bob Hoskins. Even the girls.). He’s actually a month or two older than Oscar, but for a 9 or 10 month-old, he’s got mad skills. He kicks and paddles like a pro, and he’ll jump into the water from a sitting position on the edge of the pool into his mom’s arms. Obviously I keep it to myself, because I’d never put that kind of pressure on Oscar (and I’m Wheezy McFatass, so who am I to talk?), but I can’t help but be in awe.
This past Saturday though, I received a bit of vindication. While we swam, I noticed Oscar holding a rubber ducky close to his face with an intense expression. He was studying it, analyzing it. And I realized, while he’s not ahead of the pack athletically, that’s because he’s an intellectual. He might not win a world series or a gold-medal, but he just might cure cancer or build a robot that eats snakes!
Actually, I’m pretty sure he was just pooping, but a father can dream.