Everything Happened | vol. 216

Swimfan

Is it just me or are ages five to eight a “heavy lift”, parenting-wise? Learn to read. Learn to write. Learn to swim. Learn to ride a bike. Learn to tie your shoelaces. Learn to be less disgusting at the table.

It feels like the skills development version of that Trainspotting poster all my friends had in high school:

My kid’s “social debut” got fumbled in ways I am sure you remember! In March 2020, he was in pre-K at the local elementary and he was still just four years old. Kindergarten was mostly at home and it is top of my list when they finally perfect the Eternal Sunshine technology. First grade was masked, spaced apart, eating his little lunch at his desk instead of in the cafeteria. A few weeks ago, he turned seven. We got him one of those horrible hoverboards. He’d been begging us for it for months. And now he’s in second grade.

I remember second grade. I remember that our classroom met in a modular trailer behind the building because the school was overcrowded. I remember the hypnotic way my teacher, Mrs. Smith, spun the dry erase marker between her fingers while she was teaching. I remember her as acerbic, and even as a seven-year-old knowing it was kind of a rude way to talk to kids. I remember that a killdeer built a nest next to the trailer. When we lined up to go inside to use the restroom, we all kept tabs on the eggs. I remember the shock when we learned some older kids had smashed the eggs.

It’s not that this feels tender, but I can get the feelings to pop if I concentrate. It’s a Magic Eye. When I unfocus, it all slides away again. I know my second grader’s inner life must be at least as rich as mine was but it’s hard to grasp, to accept. I find myself every other day hoping that this isn’t the memory that embeds for him for all time. Not this one please.

There is an encouraging refrain in early years of parenting that reminds you it isn’t a race. “He’s not going to go to college still wearing diapers!” “She won’t be in college still needing her paci at night.” But there are adults who can’t ride a bike. I know many adults who cannot swim. A writer I follow tweeted a seaside snap from some summer idyll and wrote something like, isn’t it nice how kids go on extended holiday and just kind of figure out how to swim? We can skip the implication that all kids go on holiday but….no? Actually, kids drown. Like, all the time.

Last summer, when I was waddling around the beach like a swollen tick, I vowed that Nick and I would not enter summer 2022 with three non-swimming children. I’d make swimming lessons happen for Desi, whatever it took. The alternative was too terrifying to me. How would three kids at the beach even work?

I don’t need to explain to you why that didn’t happen. It’s for the same reason that our Christmas decorations are still in boxes on the back patio, waiting to go up into the attic. These early primary school years are challenging the assertions on which I’ve previously coasted. That my job is to provide love, stability, comfort. To pull him up short if he’s being a dick, but mostly to get out of his way. I did not want to be a talent manager!! I wanted to have a family.

His camps this summer involved daily swimming. In order to swim without a life vest, the kids had to pass a swim test. They could take the swim test every day if they wanted, but once they passed, they were good for the week. They got a little green wristband if they passed. Desi was the only kid in his age group camp who had to wear a life vest. The only non-swimmer. He asked to take the test every day that he was there. And he failed every day.

By the middle of the summer, he started intentionally leaving his trunks and towel at home. He wanted to sit out rather than be the only one in a life vest. This made me feel like approximately like shit. The other kids were not sporting green wristbands because of some extraordinary inborn ability. It was because someone had taught them to swim. They had been talent-managed. It seemed like good parenting.

Our inaction felt like something different. Getting him to camp became a battle. I’d sneak his trunks into his backpack. He continued taking the swim test every day. I was proud of him for that. Even with decades more life experience, plenty of psychotherapy, and daily meds, I couldn’t tolerate that exposure to concentrated failure. And here he was (sorry) swimming in it.

It’s too perfect of an ending but it’s the truth. On the last day of camp, and two days before his birthday, Desi passed the swim test. Nick had been taking him to the Y on Saturdays and swimming in their indoor pool. Using a snorkel really helped Desi get over his fear of submerging his face. Something connected. When he finally got the prized green wristband, he wore it until it disintegrated.

It might not be that ages five to eight are especially dense with development that requires parental management. Maybe it never ends. Maybe it’s the Strega Nona magical pasta pot overflowing until he’s grown. And I just don’t know about any of it yet because he’s my eldest. I will probably always still err on the non-interventionist side, but I’m putting Jane in swim lessons this winter. Because I’m still learning how to do all of this. I’m growing up, too.

yr mate,
Evie
###