It is officially summer.

Or, at least, it is officially unofficial summer, which is the kind of legal distinction only autistic meteorologists, and people trying to justify drinking a frozen margarita at 11:43 a.m. care about.

The pool at Old Natchez opened this weekend, and naturally, the weather was rainy and the water was cold enough to preserve a woolly mammoth. It was less of a “Memorial Day Weekend Pool Party” and more of a polar plunge.

But did that stop us?

Of course not.

When the pool opens, we grab swimsuits. It doesn’t matter if the sky looks like the opening scene of Twister and the water is cold enough to kill Jack Dawson. 

I claimed my reclining pool chair and enjoyed the strongest frozen margarita legally available in a styrofoam cup. 

Audrey Tests the Limits of Pool Season

Audrey immediately set her sights on impressing the sixteen-year-old lifeguards.

Not romantically, obviously. She is six. Her idea of flirting is screaming, “WATCH THIS!” and then attempting something that violates both posted rules and the laws of physics.

“WATCH ME DO A FLIP!”

The lifeguard did, in fact, watch her. But mostly to ensure she did not die.

“No flips,” he said when she came up for air. 

In Audrey’s defense, she treats rules less like requirements and more like a light suggestion from a boomer on how to get a job in today’s economy, “Just show up in a suit with your printed resume and demand to see the CEO – it will show initiative!”

This relaxed atmosphere is one of the reasons Old Natchez works for us.

Because we tried other pools…

The Pool We Abandoned

I spent a year and a half building a pool at our Bellevue house after thinking, “You know what would make my life better? A massive hole in the ground that costs more than Parker’s college fund.”

After 18 months of blood, sweat, and fishing deceased woodland animals from a flooded hole, the pool was finished.

In March.

Which is a wonderful month to own a pool if you are a Canadian goose.

By the time the water was actually warm enough for human children, we were already planning our move to a cul-de-sac in town. So basically, I spent eighteen months building my children a luxury resort amenity that they used for twelve minutes before we sold the house.

Naturally, they still bring this up.

“You sold our pool,” they lament, in the same way someone in a movie might say, “You left Private Ryan behind!”

It is their childhood trauma. Other kids have divorce, braces, or being forced to play the clarinet. My kids have “Dad sold our pool.”

I attempted to compromise with a YMCA family membership.

The YMCA: Where Fun Goes to Fill Out Paperwork

The Y seemed like a responsible choice. Affordable. Family-friendly. Good for the community. The kind of place where you think, “This is what decent people do. They join the Y. They have a good meal. They do whatever they feel.”

Unfortunately, the YMCA pool had more rules than an HOA run by Kate Gosselin after three espresso martinis.

Every visit began with a swim test.

It did not matter that my children had already passed the swim test before. It did not matter that they were the same children from yesterday. It did not matter that Audrey had not Benjamin Buttoned overnight into a weaker swimmer. Every time we arrived, they had to report to the lifeguard like they were trying to earn clearance for the Manhattan Project.

If you passed, you got a wristband and were allowed into the deeper areas. If you failed, you were banished to the one-foot kiddie pool.

Claire and I were constantly scolded by YMCA lifeguards, who had received their training in East Germany.

“You must be within arm’s reach of your child.” They would say whenever we tried to relax in a pool chair.

“But she’s in the kiddie pool.”

“Arm’s reach.”

“The water doesn’t come up to her waist…”

“Arm’s reach.”

No food.

No floats.

No diving toys.

No footballs.

No splash balls.

No goggles shaped like sharks.

No laughter above conversational volume.

And certainly no margaritas.

Despite what the Village People may claim, the YMCA hated fun.

Old Natchez, by comparison, is a different planet.

It is a swarming, sunscreen-slicked mass of children throwing footballs, blasting each other with Super Soakers, cannonballing, and going down the pool slide in ways that OSHA would never approve.

It is perfect for Audrey, who sees pool rules the way Vin Diesel views traffic laws.

There are lifeguards, yes. Plenty of them. But they have more of a laissez-faire approach to water safety.

The Old Natchez pool is also surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns where children who become temporarily bored with drowning each other can go play kickball, tag, football, or some hybrid game they invented that always involves tackling someone.

It is a beautiful place. It is also a place where you can lose a child.

We know this from experience because last year we lost Audrey.

A Beautiful Place to Lose a Child

We were at the pool. The kids were swimming. Claire and I were socializing. At some point, Claire did a headcount.

Parker? Present.

Audrey?

Gone Girl.

I scanned the pool with the careful focus of a man who had definitely not been enjoying Good People IPAs in direct sunlight for two hours.

I did not see her. But, perhaps more importantly, I also did not see her in the water either, which to me seemed like the main thing.

Claire found this less comforting.

Within minutes, she had mobilized the club manager, several teenage waitresses, at least one lifeguard, and possibly a Liam Neeson, to look for a girl in a Little Mermaid swimsuit.

I tried to remain calm, partly because panic is not helpful, and partly because I had a strong suspicion Audrey had not been kidnapped so much as she had simply wandered into a new activity like an elderly man at Costco following free samples.

Eventually, I walked toward the fence separating the pool from the golf course.

There was Audrey at the driving range. In her Little Mermaid bikini. Holding a golf club.

Audrey was happily swinging away at a ball on a tee while several annoyed golfers stood nearby, silently reevaluating their membership dues.

“Audrey!”

She looked up like I had interrupted a business meeting.

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Golfing.”

It was hard to argue with that.

I returned her to the pool and gave her a five-minute timeout for Gone Girl-ing us. She seemed mostly offended that her golf career had been cut short.

I am hopeful this pool season requires substantially fewer parental bounty hunts. But I know better.

Summer has begun.

The margaritas are frozen.

The lifeguards are teenagers.

And somewhere, deep inside Audrey’s tiny lawless brain, she is already planning her next felony.