“Hey Mom,” Peanut says, because that’s what he always says when he’s about to share something completely random with me.  “Do you know what people do with their pet goldfish when they die?”
“What?”  I ask, already knowing that we are about to, once again, have a conversation about the toilet.
“They flush them down the toilet.  Because it takes them to the ocean.  Because when you flush the toilet, it goes to the ocean.  Hey, Moon,” he turns to his brother, “do you know why you shouldn’t go fishing in the ocean?”
“Why?”  Moon plays along, barely looking up from his Gameboy.
“Because you might catch a turd.  Or a dead goldfish.  Because our turds go to the ocean.”
“That’s disgusting,”  Moon rolls his eyes.
“It’s true!”  Peanut’s eyes are full of pure delight at the thought of his turds bobbing in the waves.
“Actually,” I prepare to burst his bubble, “our toilet water goes to a waste water treatment plant.”
“Oh, I know, Mom.  When we flush the toilet, it goes to this place where they clean it, and then we use it again.  It’s a big cycle where we keep cleaning the water so we can reuse it.”
“How did you get so smart?”  I ask, patting the top of his head,  noticing that he’s gotten taller again.

Later, we’re swimming in the pool at the YMCA ,and we’re stuck in the crowded shallow end where they corral all the non-swimmers.  Moon and Peanut have both taken swimming class.  And failed.  Miserably.  There was a boy in their swimming class who sat on the side of the pool each week and screamed bloody murder until his face turned purple and he hyperventilated and his parents finally took him home.  That kid is the only one who was a worse swimmer than my boys.  Moon enjoyed swimming, so long as he could hang on to the side of the pool.  In the last class, when it was time for everyone to take a turn jumping off the diving board into the deep end, Moon walked out on the board, squatted down, grabbed the end, and cried.  No amount of encouragement or cajoling could convince him to just fling himself into the deep end of the pool where there was nothing to hang on to.  Ultimately, the instructor had to pry his fingers loose and lift him into the pool while he screamed.

“Mom, I want to go into the deep end,” Peanut bobs around me, pestering.
“Me, too!” Moon chimes in.
“You have to pass the swimming test with the life guard to go into the deep end of the pool,” I remind them.
“Oh,” Moon seems deterred.
But Peanut is out of the pool and talking to the lifeguard before I can even register what’s happening.  I can’t believe that my kid, who got held back in swimming class, is going to take the test to go to the deep end.  The lifeguard tells him what he has to do.  Swim across the pool and back, then tread water for 30 seconds.  Sounds a little too tough for Peanut, but he slides into the pool, flips onto his back, and starts kicking his way across.
“Wait!  I want to do it, too,”  Moon paddles over in front of the lifeguard and gets her attention.  I watch in complete shock as my sons both swim across the pool and back, then begin to tread water.
“You’re doing it!”  The lifeguard calls encouragement to them, “Keep going….almost there….five more seconds….three, two, one.  Great job!”  She affixes green wristbands to both of their arms, denoting that they are “swimmers,” and they are freed from the confines of the “baby” area of the pool.  I watch the two of them swim immediately to the eight foot section and befriend the only other boy who is there.  Soon, they are hoisting themselves up onto the side of the pool, shouting “Mom, watch!” before splashing each other with cannonballs.  I’m not even sure exactly when they learned how to swim.  But, there they are, confidently paddling around the deep end of the pool without me.  I realize that this is how it happens.  They’re not growing up right before my eyes.  They’re growing up when I’m not looking.  While I’m sweeping up dog hair and folding underwear and writing blog posts, my boys are growing up.  Faster than I care to admit.  Before I know it, there will be girlfriends and heartbreaks, cars and college, and all sorts of things I am not prepared for.  But what I’m really not prepared for is acceptance of the fact that they won’t be my little boys anymore.

I’m thinking about all of these things as we walk out of the YMCA, when Peanut turns to me and in his bellowing voice says, “Hey Mom…”
“Yes?”  I say, waiting to hear how he’s going to enlighten me this time.
“I peed in the pool!”  he gleefully shouts, without a care for who might hear.
“Peanut,” I chasten him with my stern voice.  Then I look around to make sure nobody is close by, pull my little boy close to me, and whisper, “So did I.”

We always pee in the pool!  Many thanks to Audrey for this amazing Three Day Weekend submission!  Audrey writes the hilarious, and always honest mom blog, Laugh, Mom, and you can also find her on twitter!