Swimming lessons

When I was a little girl, my parents made me believe I could accomplish anything with hard work and determination. That's the job of any decent parent, as far as I've been led to believe. I've also been led to believe that up until the age of ten, most kids buy it.

I've always tried to instill that same belief in self in my own kids. I tell them daily how smart, sweet, good looking, funny, and wonderful they are. And, (ptui, ptui, hamza hamza) they really are all of that and more. I just can't seem to convince them of it. Oh, they'll readily buy the I was never that smart when I was your age shtick. The genuine expressions of surprise when my kids accomplish something I could never have dreamt of doesn't even warrant a raised eyebrow. "Of course you couldn't play that on the piano when you were my age. You didn't take piano lessons, Mom," is the predictable response I get.

But I did for one year, and I never ever practiced. That is why you are so much smarter and more talented than I, my dear son. You have discipline and dedication. You do your homework every night, with a little arm twisting, granted. You practice your piano, you put in the time and effort to do things right.

My children are more motivated and self-aware than I was at their age. That is why I am so shocked at how difficult it has been for them to learn how to swim. Summer after summer I have signed my kids up for lessons, but their resistance is great. So is the pressure on me to succeed, after all, no greater authority than the Talmud (Kiddushin 29) obliges parents to teach children three things: Torah, a trade, and to swim.

I grew up swimming and sailing. My fondest memories of my childhood are cradled in a body of water, whether a pool, a lake, the beach, or a water park. Each summer I ran around, brown as a berry, splashing around, flipping like a dolphin, sleek and buoyant, weightless and wet. I remember each summer earning my Red Cross Swimmer cards at camp. I was always in the top level. I never raced or joined a swim team. My water time was more carefree and dreamy than disciplined and purposeful.

I tried to teach my son when he was two or three. He wouldn't let me even hold him in the pool. I hired a teenager from the synagogue to give it his best shot for a couple of weeks, but that didn't fly. Summer after summer I signed them up for swim lessons individually and in small groups. My kids preferred to play in the shallow areas, or cling to the walls of the pool.

By the time we moved to Chicago I was beginning to get quite desperate. At almost nine my son still couldn't let go of the wall. Starting this past January, I signed up the two older ones for swim lessons every Sunday. For close to five months I dragged them, after piano lessons, to a high school swimming pool for their weekly class. We endured a few meltdowns by the side of the pool, and one particularly painful day when my son refused to go in, choosing to sit at the side, sobbing instead.

For the past month we have been going daily. While my daughter is still not swimming independently, she has caught up to her big brother. In fact, this session, the two of them are paired up with the same teacher. Day after day my son has practiced his arm strokes, circling his arms expertly over his head, his fingers held together like a fin. He bravely dunks his head completely under the surface, blowing bubbles out his nose. He kicks his feet, knees straight, legs moving efficiently, and I shake my head. After five years of lessons, his skills are impeccable, his technique strong, and yet, and yet. He can't swim.

This past session was particularly painful. My son was paired up with a bubbly, sweet five year old girl who couldn't understand why the big boy was too scared to let go of the wall. My son's poor ego shrivelled. I gave him my best pep talks: You can do this! You are great at all of the skills, you just need to trust yourself! No one is going to let you sink. You have to have faith in yourself. The day you decide to swim is the day you will do it!

But my expressions of faith and my attempts to buoy his sinking spirit only seemed to make things worse. I tried incentives: When you can swim, your Papa will teach you how to sail! I tried threats: I'm not signing you up for anymore lessons if you don't let go of that wall. I can't keep paying for you to keep doing arm circles! I tried empathy and humor. And still, he wouldn't swim.

Last week we had a breakthrough. At the very end of the two week session, his young but patient instructor finally convinced him to let go of the wall, push off and glide to her standing three feet away. I had been watching each lesson as he stubbornly refused. He had cramps, his feet slipped, he wasn't ready, he goggles were leaky. Each time he had a list of lame excuses why he couldn't and wouldn't. I couldn't watch anymore, but this time I looked up in time to see him gliding towards his teacher, reaching out for her hands in a mix of desperation and pride.

He finally let go of the wall. And the pool erupted in cheers. Instructors and kids looking on sensed that a watershed moment had just passed.

For the rest of the day he floated along the ground, grinning from ear to ear, puffed up and proud. He had conquered his greatest fear. I was too emotionally drained to feel anything but relief.

He isn't swimming independently yet, but we've signed him and his sister up for another session, and I'm taking him for a couple of private lessons to get his confidence up. Little by little he is floating a little longer, gliding a little stronger, and even doing a stroke or two of the backward crawl on his own. It's still not easy, but we're finally past arm circles and bubbles.

Little sister is coming along, too. I'm not as wigged out by her. She's three years younger, and making steady progress. She'll get there sooner than later.

Plus, she's having more fun with it. And that's huge.

Luckily, summer hasn't been all stressful. We joined the entire neighborhood for an outdoor showing of the Bee Movie at our local park last night. My baby calls it the "Hey, hey little B Movie" after my childhood friend's original song. Come to think of it, that would have been a perfect theme song.

My kids waited in line for balloon animals (my son got a balloon laser blaster), free ice cream (they ran out, but luckily a vendor showed up), free popcorn (they ran out of bags), and face painting (line was too long), but none of that mattered. They saw friends from school, synagogue, and camp all set out on blankets, and folding chairs. We sat right behind their pediatrician and his new baby boy. And at dusk, the sun set and the giant screen inflated, and the movie began. It was a magical, if not a little itchy evening.

Summer has been blissful. We're playing, relaxing, enjoying life. My walking partner just left for a family vacation back home, but I've found a new victim to drag around town: my young friend/babysitter from San Antonio.

Before my Skokie Sistah left, she and her husband took my husband and I on a double date to Jazzin' at the Shedd, along with Chinese take-out. We missed out on the salsa rhythms because of the lightening storms, and I made a poor choice in shoes, but it was great to be out with our adult friends looking at beautiful fishies.

My husband took me out to a barbecue at the home of one of the law firm partners for another fun and relaxing adult event. It was catered by a guy who brought a portable wood-burning pizza oven to their backyard and proceeded to make really exotic and fancy pizzas, like grilled nectarine and mozzarella pizza. We looked on curiously but had to make do with our usual saran-wrapped kosher catered dishes. Luckily, I brought a homemade Chocolate and Chili Oil Tart, since we had to pass up on our hostess' homemade blueberry and lemon meringue pies.

Midway through the event I was beckoned by one of the partner's wives who seemed to have taken a shine to me. We pulled out our cell phones and compared pictures of our children. We giggled about how young the summer associates looked. She was surprised to hear I wasn't 30. It was a wonderful day.

Besides the agony of swimming lessons, my only complaint is that summer is going by too fast. My husband is beginning to wrap up his summer assignments, we're down to the last couple of weeks of camp, and I haven't even begun to work on my Great American Children's novel.

I'm going to be devastated when the summer is over. The perfect, sunny and hot days will start to shorten, the scramble for all of us to prepare for school will begin, and the real stress of life will return. Until then, we will continue to revel in the blissful moments we have left. The last few law firm events, a few more Sunday adventures with the kids, my cousin's wedding in New Jersey, and a road trip back home to San Antonio for our dearest friend's Bat Mitzvah.

Summer is the best time of the year for me and the family. Only one member of the family hasn't gotten the memo that this is the time to relax, have fun, and make life easy for Mama.

A few mornings ago I was in the shower when my baby came running into the bathroom crying, "my bwuda called me a bahd giwl!" I wiped the condensation off of the shower, peered out, and saw my baby with a scribbled ring of purple marker around her mouth.

Somethings not even sunshine and long, lazy days can change.

At least one person in our family has been hard at work this summer, accomplishing a tremendous feat: Congrats to mom-in-law on her new book, Northern Treasures! A more beautifully photographed and lyrically written book on gardening cannot be found.