It would not surprise those of you who know me well that my kids are not natural athletes. When it comes to any physical activity, Edie and Eleanor take after Jim: they won't do anything until they are good and ready, and sure they already know how to do it. They both walked late, but when they started walking, there was none of that drunken sailor wobbling around, and very little falling down. Edie finally started riding a bike last summer (age 9), and did so without much help from me and after several summers resisting even trying. Eleanor was a swimming-lesson dropout last year (age 5), after deciding that the instructor was crazy if she thought Eleanor was going to put her face in the water.
All this means that I have learned not to push them, but I have also learned to recognize the signs that something was about to click.
And so it was with Eleanor at the YMCA pool last week. We had gotten in the habit of going to the pool on
Jim's log rolling nights, giving Eleanor ample opportunity to try out dunking, floating, and paddling at her own pace. Looming large in her mind was the prize of a blue wristband, the mark of a kid who had passed the shallow-water test and was therefore eligible to swim without a parent within arms reach. She was also keen to keep up with Edie, who with her deep-water-caliber pink wristband, was urging Eleanor to pass the test so they could enjoy the waterslide together.
Last Monday night, after practicing her floating all night and with only minutes left before it was time to hit the showers, Eleanor announces she is ready to take the test. She drags me to the lifeguard to ask for her chance to demonstrate her ability to back float for 5 seconds and then front float for 5 seconds, which she ably does. She excitedly follows the lifeguard to the station to retrieve her wristband. Proud, I agree to let her take one ride down the slide before we have to go.
I watch her march up the stairs behind Edie, giving her a big thumbs up the whole way. I watch her take her place at the top of the slide, grinning. I think how proud Jim will be when he hears of her achievement, and move over to where the slide dumps out, just in case she is overwhelmed by it all and panics at the end.
And then I watch the lifeguard pull out the measuring stick, hold it up to Eleanor, and make the "this close" gesture. Who knew that passing the test was not enough? She also needs to be 48 inches tall, which she is just shy of.
I watch her march, stiff backed, all the way back down the stairs and along the side of the pool to where I am waiting. She collapses in tears. I hold her close and assure her that she will make up that lousy inch in no time, and she wails, "I'm a slow grower!!" We bundle up our things and on the way to the locker room, the apologetic lifeguard informs me that because she is under 48 inches, she needs the deep-water wristband to ride the slide. Edie promises a still sobbing Eleanor that she will help her learn to tread water so she can pass that test soon.
As we're showering and dressing, Eleanor finally calms down and remembers that in the midst of her crushing disappointment over the slide, there was a very real triumph that night. She decides to wear her wristband home to show off at school the next day.
Today, we went back to the pool for the first time since last week. All despair over the slide was gone, replaced by a pride that she didn't need a parent in the water with her anymore. I sat by the side of the pool and watched her swim and play with her sister and cousin, my heart full.