We arrived at the appointed time, early even, which for us is a truly novel concept. As my son sat there full of excitement and expectation, I sat down on the bench, near another mother and her son. I began the idle small talk, obligatory in these situations. The conversation covered your basics: comments on the coolness of weather that morning; where you lived; previous swimming experience- as if there are volumes to be said about six and seven year olds; and any possible connections between people you know. It was that awkward exchanging of pleasantries where you are equally aware that you, as well as your child, are being “sized up.” Anyone who thought this was over in high school obviously has not yet had kids.
The minutes passed and so far, there was nothing. That is, no indication that there would be an issue, just a positive anticipation of what was to come. I looked over to the large rectangular pool, four feet at one end and twelve feet at the other, divided into swimming lanes by strings of red, white and blue plastic floats which rested comfortably on the clear blue pool. The water was a variegation of blues, deeper and darker on the far side of the pool where the bows of the large pine tree loomed above. There was a faint scent of chorine that would come and go with the appearance of the small breeze. I could tell that for some there, the sight and smell of the pool evoked a sense of nostalgia. Given that my parents, mostly due to necessity, allowed for as few extracurricular activities as possible, I felt nothing except concern for my son and how he was going to do. As the appointed time approached, more parents arrived with their children, each in their swimsuits, goggles in hand. Then it was time.
The young men in their Aéropostle shirts and long shorts paraded past with their clipboards and signaled for us to follow. Slowly we walked over to the far side of the pool and stood, waiting patiently for their direction. When they asked for volunteers, my son looked at me and smiled, as if to silently seek my approval for volunteering first or for some sign from me that he should wait and watch another child go. I smiled in return and the next thing I knew a boy slightly older than mine was in the pool. As the young man dipped his toes in the water, his face grimaced and then he quickly withdrew them. Cold. Ice cold. Unseasonably cold for June, the temperatures that day had only reached 73 degrees. The water had to be freezing. At the encouragement of his mother, the other boy got back into the water. Within minutes he was swimming, stroke after stroke until he had reached the end.
In my mind I was thankful that this child had persevered and hoped that perhaps CJ, who maybe has 2% body fat and hates to be cold, would not totally panic. I looked over to him and he smiled at me and pulled down his goggles. “I’m ready Mom.” He said with utter confidence As he approached the pool, he noticed for the first time that he was getting in at the 12 foot mark. Then I see it. I see that look in his eyes, the look of recognition and self doubt. Reaching towards him, I put my hand on his shoulder, give it a gentle squeeze and tell him I will be by his side the whole way, and that I know he can do it, I have seen him do it. Within seconds he has submerged his body and takes two strokes. He lifts his head out of the water, looks at me with tears streaming down his face and pulls himself out. “I can’t do it. I just can’t, it’s too deep and cold. I can’t do this.” My heart aches for him as I quickly wrap a towel around his tiny shoulders and draw him to me, away from the watchful eyes of the other kids and their parents; as much for his sake as well as for my own. For those who say kids can be cruel have not seen a band of competitive mothers.
