Sunday mornings should be stress-free.
Mostly, they are. Even though Emmet toddles into our room before first light, it’s okay because he climbs into our bed and cuddles and demands juice and smushes his nose right up against mine before bursting into a maniacal Ray Liotta-in-Goodfellas laugh. I love it.
And most Sundays, I get to exercise for an hour while Jeff brings Emmet to his swimming lesson, which happen to be in the same building as the gym. Emmet took his first swimming lessons at 9 months old. Obviously, at that young age, a parent is required to be in the water with his or her little swimmer. Also obvious was the fact that swimming lessons would be Jeff’s purview: even my chubby, dimple-legged baby boy couldn’t coax my post-baby body into a bathing suit in public. However, I was more than happy to tag along, toting our video camera, animal crackers, and my own chlorine-soaked memories of swimming lessons past.
Emmet’s early swimming lessons were a pleasure for me. Fully-clothed and dry, I walked the length of the indoor pool behind the camera lens, proudly capturing Emmet’s first splashes, kicks, and bubbles-- all achieved safely in the arms of his father. Added bonus: I made friends with some of the other sidelined moms who were likewise disinclined to get in the pool. We bragged about our baby’s milestones and commiserated about their sleeping habits. Swimming lessons turned out to be a well-needed break for the poolside mommies.
So it was without hesitation that we signed Emmet up for a second set of Sunday swim lessons this fall (got a great deal on Living Social), right before he turned three. Again, Jeff was the designated swim parent, as even three years later, my post-baby body was still not in tact, but I figured this would at least give me Sundays to work on it.
That first weekend in September, we arrived at the JCC ready for action: the boys in their bathing suits, towels hanging around their necks, and me, ready to take on nautilus equipment. After running a few torturous miles on the treadmill (thank goodness for gym TVs and The Millionaire Matchmaker), I was surprised to see a wet-headed Emmet and bone-dry Jeff at our designated meeting spot. Jeff explained that, upon arriving at the pool, the new instructor had whisked Emmet away, strapped an egg-shaped piece of blue Styrofoam across his tiny chest, and shooed Jeff over to the bleachers.
I pictured Emmet, alone and adrift in a sea of needy toddlers left to fend for himself. My dismay must have shown because Jeff quickly told me, “He loved it. He had a great time!”
“But he’s too little to swim by himself,” I whined.
“He was wearing the bubble,” Jeff reminded me.
“Kids drown all the time, even with bubbles,” I snapped back. I haven’t actually seen this statistic, but I’m sure that some kid somewhere had drowned despite wearing Styrofoam. So there.
But Jeff’s status as swim parent was reaffirmed. Kids can smell fear.
But last Sunday morning, as Jeff was flipping pancakes for breakfast, I suddenly looked at the time and realized that Emmet’s swim lesson was starting in nine minutes.
“I’ll just take him,” I said, scrambling to pack his towel and underwear into his swim bag. I hoped the aroma of butter and syrup would overpower the smell of my panic.
Emmet and I got to the pool just as Alan, the swim instructor, was fastening bubbles on the other three kids in the class. I walked Emmet over to Alan.
“Hey, Emmet! Give me some knuckles!”
Emmet broke into a big smile and ran over to give Alan a fist bump, while Alan secured Emmet’s bubble. I stood there at the head of the pool, until I realized that there were no other parents on the deck. I was also wearing “street shoes” which was expressly forbidden by at least three large signs around the pool. I scampered up to the spectator section.
My stomach was in knots and my sweat had nothing to do with the shock of ninety degree air that greeted me upon walking into the natatorium. Emmet's flotation device was too loose; I could see that the strap was slipping down his chest, which made the Styrofoam bubble rise up in the back, pushing Emmet down deeper, so that his chin was constantly grazing the water. Didn’t someone see how the pool water could rush into his little mouth? Or how if the bubble just rose up a little bit more, it could actually propel him face down in the water? And worse, why was the instructor half a pool lap away from my baby, paying attention to the more experienced swimmers? Would he even have time to get to Emmet should Emmet start to splutter and submerge?
I paced the length of the pool, this time not taking pictures or admiring my son’s splashes, but mentally willing him to make it to the other end. Some moms I know yelled out hellos, but I couldn’t stop to talk: I had to make sure Emmet didn’t drown.
But the thing is that Emmet didn’t seem that concerned. He was just sort of bobbing around like a cork in lane three. When the water came close to his mouth, he pressed his lips together more tightly. When the water tossed him around a bit, he kicked his legs just enough to upright himself. I didn’t see “great time” written on his face, but he didn’t look particularly apprehensive. He looked over at me, watching him from the sidelines, and yelled out, “Hi, Mama! I’m swimming!” He was cool, much more so than his fretful mama, confident in his own ability to keep himself, quite literally, afloat. And that was the real swimming lesson.
