“No Mama!” my three-year-old Zach yells at me as he wraps his little hands around my leg in a death grip. It slows my pace substantially, but I keep moving forward with what I assume must look like a ridiculous limp. I look down at him as he mushes the side of his little face into my jean clad thigh and take another awkward step, willing myself not to fall over. He looks ahead with fear in his baby blue eyes, digs his bare feet into the pavement and I wonder—when did this stop being fun?
There are other parents staring now. I can see the relieved expressions on their faces—it’s not their child freaking out this time. I shrug my shoulders at their stares and inch a little closer to our destination. Zach’s hands grip tighter to my leg and I reach down to unlatch him. He looks up at me, betrayal in his eyes.
Great,
mother of the year.
I gulp and actually feel a little
guilty, then look around uneasily to see who’s watching. Everyone. Then I
remember that I’m not asking him to run through fire, or play with the school
bully or even with a girl, (heaven forbid,) I’m merely asking him to learn how
to swim.
It’s a miserably hot day—perfect for
a cool dip. The temperature is already in the hundreds and it’s only ten in the
morning. We’re both sweating, but he doesn’t seem to care. The teachers are
already in the water with most of the kids and the other mothers are starting
to take their seats in the deck chairs that are situated a few feet from the
side of the pool. Everything appears ideal for this activity, accept for the
screaming child attached to my leg and the stares it’s garnering.
Minor
detail.
I shuffle to a stop at the edge of the
pool and his teacher smiles at us and waves. I look down at my little guy and
almost use my “mommy knows best” voice, but he’s so cute in his navy blue swim
trunks, with his toes curled under his pudgy feet, and his hands in fists wrapped
around chunks of my khaki shorts, that I pause. He knows why he needs to learn
to swim we’ve talked to him about it before: lots of people in Tucson have
pools so you need to learn to swim for your own safety, your friends swim and
you’ll want to know how to do it, there will be other kids there learning also,
it’ll be so much fun! Apparently the idea had only been fun in theory.
He’s not crying… yet. I start
thinking of ways to coax him into the water—a pep talk, candy, money, a kick in
the diapered pants?
No,
bribery and threats probably aren’t the way to go.
I notice a little girl with golden hair plaited down her back wearing a pink swimsuit. She walks to the edge of the pool with her
mom and then enthusiastically jumps into the arms of one of the instructors in
the water and starts paddling around with help. I cross my arms in front of my
chest and glare as I watch the encounter.
There
is no way this is her first lesson!
The little girl’s mom looks at her
daughter with pride then sends me a knowing gaze over her shoulder. She
obviously understands—she’s been here before. We all have. Sadly her sympathy
does nothing to help me right now.
The sounds of kids laughing and
splashing around give me an idea. I wave the teacher over and she stops
dutifully mere feet from the edge of the pool. Zach shakes his head fervently
at the teacher when she beckons for him to jump in.
“Come on Zach, you’ll love it,” she
assures him.
He looks up at me and we make eye
contact. His face drops when I reach down to him and he realizes what’s about
to happen.
“No Mama!” he yells, “I’m not going
to let you do this to me.”
I snort. Where does a three year old learn to talk like that?
“Try and stop me, little man,” I say
while I disentangle him from my leg, pick him up, and toss him into the pool.
A mother gasps, another glares, and yet
another laughs. His teacher scoops him out of the water with a smile. He turns
in his teachers hold and looks at me with big shocked eyes and he’s not the
only one.
“Time to get down to brass tacks,” I
tell him while pointing in his direction.
His brow furrows for a second. He
doesn’t understand my idioms, but he’s used to them. I smile thinking of the
conversation of “what’s” and “why’s” that I know will come later. He looks away
from me while continuing to hold tight to his teacher then starts glancing
around at the other kids playing and fights back a smile. Now that he’s in the
water and safe I can see from his expression that he’s starting to think that
this might not be such a bad idea after all—just as I suspected. He looks at me
once more and I beam at him and nod encouragingly.
My
work here is done.
I dust my hands off then turn from the
pool and make my way over to where the other mothers are sitting. They stop
talking as I approach and half of them give me disapproving frowns while the
other half grins. I sit on a cushion clad metal chair between a couple of the
moms, cross my legs, and make myself comfortable.
After an awkward moment of silence I
lean over to the mother sitting to my left and point at Zach. “That one’s
mine,” I say, even though I am fully aware that everyone knows. He had been a siren call after all. I hear a
smothered chuckle somewhere behind me. Then because I can’t resist I wave at
Zach with a well planted smirk on my face and deadpan, “Mother of the year.”
