They call it zero entry, the way the surround leans into the water and becomes the bottom of the pool, slowly angling deeper and deeper beneath the water’s surface. This way, toddlers can reverse their lives and, guided by their mothers, ease from dry land into a worldly womb as wet as the ones they left behind, though much colder. The soles of their feet scratch on no-slip floor as water climbs their ankles, then their knees, as they shriek random delight, as their mothers recognize each other from yesterday, the day before, the day before and say hello and chat about pre-school. Just this morning someone asked me, You don’t have kids, do you? Didn’t you want them? One of the moms tells her child to stop splashing the other mom’s kid. That’s rude, she says. Wide-eyed with their children the moms explore the jungle gym, their private island of giant plastic lily pads dribbling water, magical to someone who has never felt rain, who doesn’t know pain is the floor of the deep end slanting always out of reach from your feet. Snack time rolls around and they slope back to water’s edge and the toddlers shiver in the cold, even wrapped in towels and with their mother’s arms around them, and the mothers say Bye-bye and See you tomorrow to each other.