some rules aren’t meant to be broken

Yesterday I broke a rule.

We’d gone to the inlaws’ pool, the one at their condo complex. This is largely a retired population, so the list of rules, prominently posted, is long and persnickety, and the likelihood of being busted for an infraction is high because though the pool itself may be nigh on deserted, you can be sure there are plenty of eyes on you. (And may I never, ever, turn into one of those people, please god grant me a life of my own until the day I die).

But the rule I broke isn’t one that’s on the list.

We’d just finished a bit of lunch; sunscreen had been dutifully slathered. Big Sis, officially Pool Safe, was playing in the grass with her cousins and I was chatting with their mom, my sister-in-law, who’s in town for the week from Way Out West. Little Bit was wandering around, splashing in the baby pool which is all of about five foot in diameter and one deep. She’s entirely capable of getting in and out of it on her own, and she loves it.

I’d moved my chair around under the patio table so I could see her without turning around, and my sister-in-law was facing the same direction. And then Grandma brought the youngest cousin, just up from her nap, and we proceeded to pay the proper attention to her chubby legs and sweet skin.

And then a woman who’d been sitting over yonder was walking our way, holding Little Bit, hair-soaked and crying.

She’d slipped off the edge, gone completely in and under. And I hadn’t seen any of it.

Maybe she would have righted herself, come up spluttering and fine. But maybe not. Point being I hadn’t seen any of it. And wouldn’t have looked that way for who knows how long.

Stupid lucky. Thank you, Lady.

I didn’t shake and cry until later, at home. The most prudent man in the world, though he’d never, ever, do such a thing himself, only held me, not a word.