When I take my son to his first swimming lesson, he screams loud enough to separate the chlorine from the water. No baby whispering, no pleading, no bribing of “You can have a birthday cake for lunch if you go in the water” is working. And the other mothers, the ones with giggly water submerged toddlers, notice my ineptitude and are offering advice, and I listen, because who doesn’t want a magic bullet?
I am a statue, with a terrified baby tangled in my plaster arms, hoping if I hold him in the pool long enough, he will accept and love water as his personal lord and savoir. This does not happen. This does. A grown woman in a Speedo, wades over, with a compassionate aching smile, and says, “Mommy (my role usurping my name), Sam is genuinely afraid.” Humiliation is just another word for parenthood. Then, to my son, she says, “Maybe this week, you stay out of the water?” Sam smiles, sensing the key keeper to his water prison is standing before him. “Then, next week,“ she says, “Maybe put your toe in?” “Yes, next, toe in,” my two year-old responds, his conspicuous absence of pronouns and articles making him sounds like a foreign student. What the teacher does not realize, is Sam knows ‘an out’ when he hears it. For the next eight weeks, every time he senses her wading over, he calls out “Maybe next week, put toe in.” The teacher floats rubber ducks in his direction; blue ones, yellow ones, ones with big red lips. He does not succumb to her seduction. One mother tries to trick him. “You can’t come in!” She yells, unsuccessfully. She explains, “I raised my first son entirely on reverse psychology.” It sounds confusing.
The eight weeks of “maybe put toe in” have caused me to be silently furious at Sam and his insistence at being afraid week after week. Like my old friend Margaret pointed out in her recent memoir, “Clarity happens in moments like this.” Moments when crazy is winning.
They say, the teacher comes when the student is ready. My teacher, not the swim teacher, yanks on my inner-swimsuit and says “Mama! These swimming lessons have nothing to do with Sam. Mama! These swim lessons are about letting your child be who is he, no matter how many people are watching.”
“Ah,” I say, upon realizing I have missed something rather obvious, again. I turn to ask teacher for more wisdom, but she has turned into a fish and swam away. I buy a fishing pole on the way home-in case I be needing anything else.
Amy Culberg is a full-time mom, staying home with her two-year-old son. When Amy is not taking time off to raise her son, she is an elementary school teacher. Amy received an MFA in Fiction from the School of the Art Institute and is currently working on various projects. Questions for Amy? Submit them to Info@AdelinesRoom.com.
