It's been hot. Very, very hot. As a result, most of my last two weeks have been spent trying to squeeze work in between dives off of the diving board at the local pool. That's one of the benefits of writing - you can find inspiration anywhere.

One of the things I noticed, however, was that my kids are related to Evel Knievel or some other Hollywood stunt double.

During our first trip to the pool, my wife and I were concerned that neither of our children would take to the water. Consequently, we spent the entire trip explaining what was going to happen and not to be scared. Apparently we are either really good at parenting or the kids finally decided to listen!

Both of our tots stripped down to their suits faster than I can say "no" to mowing the lawn, and headed for the kiddie pool. There, they ran through sprinklers, turned wheels of water and acted like kids should. So far, our plan to cool them off while simultaneously wearing them out for a nap was working to perfection.

Then it happened. My son stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes glazed over the way mine do when I am faced with deciding between "glazed" or "chocolate covered" at the donut shop.

"Slide. I wanna ride the slide." His finger pointed toward the menacing 20-foot tube of water spitting swimmers out every fifteen seconds like a killer whale that has eaten too much. Just the thought of him careening off of the aqua-blue walls at 900 hundred miles per hour nearly made me make my suit wetter.

"No buddy. That's for big kids." It was a feeble attempt at diverting his attention back to the pool hosting folks under 3½ feet tall.

"Actually, the lifeguards will catch him at the bottom. It's really easy," offered someone much younger, tanner, fitter and more daring than I.

Apparently, this same person does not have kids, or else they would not have been so quick to add their two cents.

By that time, it was too late anyway. My son was halfway up the stairs that wound around the walls of water and waiting in line with the "big kids," as he calls them.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked. It was probably more a question directed toward myself than at him.

"Yes." Silently I cursed myself for letting my son watch the X Games with me on TV during the weekends.

The line moved quickly, of course, and by the time we reached the top I needed oxygen.

OK, maybe I made that part up, but the following is very true.

My son hesitated two seconds, got into the tube of water and pushed himself into the current like a pro. Within 10 seconds, he was squealing like the Steelers did when they drafted Big Ben. Five seconds later, he splashed into the comforting arms of his new swimming coach (it's a long story.)

I followed behind him and there was no one there to catch me. Instead, water ran up my nose, my swim trunks became rather tight and uncomfortable and I turned a flip underwater. When I bobbed up for air, my son greeted me with a smile that stretched farther than the tubular slide.

"Let's do it again, Daddy!" This was not a question, but rather, an instruction, one that I would follow for the next two weeks, which ultimately led to the hiring of the new swimming coach this week.

I can only imagine what snow season will bring.