We've been watching olympic qualifying swim races on TV. Grant calls the racers "big swimmers." He mymics them doing his version of the backstroke on the living room floor and "loosening up" before he dives off the sofa. He's watched the whole dance they do on the starting blocks and he's got it down. He loves his goggles and practices his stroke in the bathtub nightly.
This evening marked his first goldfish swim class. We've been talking it up since he graduated from guppidom. We arrived just in time to get G in his swim diaper, required plastic diaper over that and Lightening McQueen trunks over that. It's a process.
Together, Deeda and I delivered G to the big garage door opening where the big kids enter and over to Mr. Charlie his new (and wonderful) instructor. It didn't take but a nanosecond for G-man to recall what we'd been telling him, "Deeda was going to watch this time." The tears began to flow. We smiled and gave him the thumbs up as we turned our backs on the poor child and left him for the waiting room. I was feeling lost somewhere between it's good to teach your child to swim and we're horrible parents.
The next 3 hours, I mean 30 minutes, were torture.Standing on the step at the side of the pool, he inhaled deep sobbing breaths and puffed his lower lip in and out. The child nodded his head when Mr. Charlie gave him instruction, then went back to his silent tears. I thought his little goggles might fill up with all the tears... But through the deep sobbing breaths, he slapped an occasional high five. He floated by himself in the middle of the pool. And he waited his turn standing ALONE on the side of the step while the teacher went to the opposite side of the pool with another child.
We were behind the glass on the edge of the bleachers in the front row, noses to the glass. I thought I was going to cry I was so proud. I thought I was going to pass out I was so nervous. I thought I was going to jump up and push the red emergency button every five seconds.
When class was over, we waited with the other parents for the pruned children to file out dripping wet with lollipops in their mouths. Grant exited the pool in tears and cried harder once we scooped him up and hugged him. Then, after just a few more sobs, his smile emerged. We praised him and gave high fives all around. By the time he was dried off he was all big talk, "I dived. I floated. I swim Mr.Charlie."
He was as proud of himself as we were of him. We celebrated with a ritual "hambuabuabua" on the way home. Then he practiced his "stroke" in the bathtub before we once again read Thomas and the Big Big Bridge "a little bit." He hit the hay under his purple bee-c with his little bee-c in hand and Tyrone the orange moose from Backyardagins under one arm. Lights out.
