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Did You Just P*e On Me?

*What Nobody Tells You About Teaching Swim Lessons*

The water is too warm. That’s the first thing I notice.

I am up to my waist in a pool that smells like bleach, baby wipes, and the hopes & dreams that I stopped telling people about.

My shift just started. I still have 5 more hours to go. A curly-headed 3 year old, named Hazel, is refusing to lay still in her back float & demanding that I sing Tiny Tim, The Tiny Turtle… for the fourth time.

There is a thin layer of snot forming a halo around the corner of Hazel’s nose. I am trying hard to focus on singing the song when suddenly her eyes widen, and she shouts:

“I went p*e p*e!”

Not an ounce of shame.

I don’t even flinch. She smiles up at me. I smile back at her, looking into the tiny eyes of a person who just baptized me in warm toddler p**s. And I keep singing. Because that is my job.

At least it wasn’t sh this time.

I have become unfazed by the p**s, snot, and s**t. It’s just become a part of my daily routine. I wake up, I go to work, I fix the goggles, I sing the songs, I get p**sed on. There is no shock left. No visible horror. Just a quiet, practiced shrug of the soul. I nod, acknowledge the warm patch with a level of professionalism that makes me question my grip on reality, and carry on.

Hazel brings her dad to swim class every week. Not the other way around. He might be the one that drives, but she is the one who actually shows up. And she shows up, alright! In her bright pink bathing suit and her curls bouncing around as she rushes onto the pool deck.

Her dad trails along behind her, slow and detached. There is no sense of urgency, despite the fact that they are already nine minutes late for her class. He just lags behind, eyes glued to his screen… not even glancing up as his daughter breaks into a sprint across the parking lot.

She shows up every week in her little pink swimsuit, bright eyed, full of stories, desperate to make him proud. And he never even looks up.

Like love is something she has to earn from him.

And the hardest part is having to watch her try to earn it. Every single week.

She waves at him every time she does something she’s proud of. Every kick. Every float. Every time she blows a bubble without swallowing water. And when he does finally look up, she lights up brighter than you have ever seen. Just one second of eye contact and she’s beaming. Like she did it. Like she won.

She still thinks he’s watching.

And maybe that’s what makes it hard.

Because I know she won’t always think that. One day, she’ll realize he only glances up when she shouts. That he never claps. That his mouth doesn’t even twitch when she finally stops squirming around on her back and floats by herself. (It turns out that she just had to p*e)

I hope that when that day comes, it doesn’t make her smaller.

Because Hazel is a force. She is a tiny, fearless, snot covered comet. She is the reason this job doesn’t make me lose my mind completely.

The thing no one tells you about working with kids is that it’s not just about teaching. It’s about witnessing. It’s about being there. It’s about being the person who claps, even if you’re the only one clapping. And it matters.

Because when a four year old finally goes underwater for the first time and pops up sputtering and proud, someone should be looking. When a terrified five year old takes their first independent stroke, someone should say, "I saw that. That was amazing."

These kids are trying so hard. They are brave in ways that adults forget how to be. They cry, sure. They scream, absolutely.

But they keep trying.

They show up, again and again, full of hope and stickers and snack crumbs. And I get to be the one who sees it. There’s something special about being the first person to cheer for someone. Not because you have to, but because you’re paying attention.

Some of these kids don’t get that anywhere else. They spend their days being shushed, rushed, and managed. They get told to be good, be quiet, be fast, be still. But here, for thirty minutes, they get to float.

They get to cry. To laugh. To learn something that scares them. And I get to cheer them on.

It doesn’t matter that the water is warm and suspiciously yellow.

What matters is that Hazel, and every other tiny human who walks through that door, knows someone is in the water with them. Not watching from the deck. Not waiting for them to get it right. Just there. Holding them up, singing the turtle song, getting p*ed on, and telling them that their kicks are strong & their bubbles are the best I’ve seen all day.

I also get to tell them that it’s okay to be scared, and it’s okay to cry, and it’s okay to try again tomorrow. And when they p*e on me, I don’t flinch. Because it’s part of it. The mess. The noise. The bodily fluids. The fear. The tiny wins. The stickers.

They all matter.

And every once in a while, a kid like Hazel reminds me exactly why I’m here. She reminds me what it means to be watched with hope. What it means to show up in more than just a physical sense. What it means to p*e in a pool and grin about it like it's a victory.

Honestly? Maybe it is.

Because she’s still learning. And trying. And showing up.

And so am I.

Not perfectly. Not always with a smile. Not without secretly dreading the moment a kid grins and says those fateful words… again. But I show up. Because they deserve it. Because I know how it feels to be Hazel, trying to earn her dad’s attention. Because even on the worst days, when the water is too warm and the songs won’t stop and the bathroom break comes too late, there’s always a moment, somewhere in the chaos, where a kid does something small and brave, and looks up to see if I noticed.

And I did.

I always do.

© 2025 Morgan Davis

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