Today my daughter discovered that she can’t swim. It was her first swimming lesson. I suspect that there’s something about age 3, something developmental, where kids think they can do anything. At least I hope it’s all 3 year olds and not just a budding narcissist I have on my hands. She can run the fastest, jump the furthest, lift the heaviest. And up until today, swim.
It’s a sharp contrast to my 8 month old who really can crawl but doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo yet. She’s been working at it for a month at least. She gets up to her knees, rocks back and forth, inches forward a bit, and then shifts either back to her bottom or completes a heart stomping fall head first (in her defense, she’s got a large head). Last weekend, I cheered her on as she actually crawled forward a foot to my arms, weeping and wailing all the way. Her, not me, that is. She’s spent this week sending her butt into the air trying to use her feet to move forward, downward dogesgue, because she simply doesn’t realize that she can already crawl.
Penny, on the other hand, has been insisting for months that she can swim. She’s been so emphatic that it prompted me to say at one point, “Maybe I should just cancel our swim lessons then. If you can already swim, maybe you don’t need lessons. Is that what you want? ” (Arguing with a 3 year old really helps me channel all my old 5th grade lunch room debate tactics.) Preserving her dignity, she decided that even though she could already swim, she’d still like to take lessons.
So it should not have surprised me today when I turned my back for two seconds to set down our towels, that Penny would be half way down the steps into the pool without me COMPLETELY CONFIDENT that she could swim! MY GOD! how have any of us made it to adulthood?
Heather, our 18 year old swim instructor, summoned us all into a great big circle to do introductions and get us going. I expected much more direct instruction of the kiddos and was floored to find myself explaining to Penny within minutes how to make a cup with her hand. Turns out swim lessons, at least ones that include the parent, involve you the parent actually doing the instruction.
While I can swim, most of my pool experience growing up involved lying on a lounger using baby oil to try to balance burning with tanning. When I went into the pool it was to play Marco Polo or to swim the backstroke since that was most like floating on my back. I hate getting my face wet.
I thought Penny’s pure confidence would result in her, if not instantly swimming, readily taking to my pathetic attempts at coaching. After a minute of my instructions, Penny readily took to putting me in a choke hold and to wrapping her legs around my waist. Oh how the mighty have fallen, I muttered, as I attempted to prevent Penny from walking across the water to the safety of the pool deck.
The shocking thing was, that even though she was completely freaked out, she still kicked and paddled with pure delight. The slightest shift of my hands caused her to go full death-con grip on me, but she still laughed as we moved like a motor boat at Heather’s instruction.
I can only imagine, because I honestly cannot recall learning to swim, that it must be like the awesome terror of that first big hill on a roller coaster ride. You have no idea what’s coming, it quite possibly could kill you, or worse, make you vomit in front of all your friends, but you can’t wait. You can’t wait because you know that it’s going to be one of a hell a ride no matter what.
I can only hope, as Penny discovers more and more things that she cannot do, that she continues to face them with such gumption and pure joy. And I hope that I can survive the ride with her without vomiting all over her shoes.
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