~from Jill

I’ve never been a good swimmer. I can float and tread water, and breaststroke without getting my hair wet, but I’ve never particularly liked to put my face in the water.

My husband excels at swimming like he does in most things athletic. He supervised lifeguards when we lived in California, and could keep up with the youngest recruits.

Since we moved to Florida, we’ve been swimming every week, sometimes every day. This afternoon I thought it would be nice to thrash about as usual, but as my husband drew back and raised one sun browned arm after the other across the pool, I was suddenly envious. Why can’t I do that?

So I asked him for help. First, he coached me on my breathing:

“You’re lifting your head up to high, turn to the side, breath more often.”

I followed his directions, but gulped more water than before. Then lost direction, swimming diagonally and bumping into the side of Riley’s giant floating whale.

“Mom,” the boys shrieked, laughing wildly, “You’re so silly.”

I didn’t want to be silly, I wanted to be graceful, and was about to give up when I felt the wake from Steve’s last glide across the pool.

I wised up, held my breath underwater and watched him. I saw that he wriggled his whole body slightly, that his torso moved with him as he turned to take a breathe. I watched him pull across the pool and return again to the side. Then, I copied him.

“Honey, you’re doing great!” he yelled out, causing me to stop mid-crawl and inhale a little water.

I was swimming! I was no water-freakin’-ballerina, but I was breathing without gasping, twisting my body at just the right angle to take a breath instead of gasping, swishing my little feet.

“Be a cork, be a cork!” he cheered me on.

Maybe I’ve learned something from this move after all. Sometimes I think the humidity has slowed my thought process down, causing me to think, as well as move slower. It’s possible that it hasn’t been such a bad thing.

I can now make almost any creature out of Origami paper, read long portions of novels to my son at night (and keep up with the plots). I notice Riley’s hair grows faster than Brandon's, so I wait longer for his haircut, and read “Indian in the Cupboard” chapters to him while we wait. Maybe I’ve learned how to be more patient, or how to pay attention better. Or maybe it’s that when you bump into something larger than yourself, the best thing you can do is to take a breath, put your head back in the water and start over.