Sink or swim, Mama

Pride is a sneaky little mistress. She's smart enough to disguise herself as the confident "I've got this" attitude. Maybe it's just me, but as a mom, that attitude is the kiss of death. Every time.

Before Barrett was born, I taught swim lessons for a local swim school. I saw every age, every skill level, and every type of kid you can think up. I had the joy of seeing formerly terrified munchkins kick their chunky little legs across the pool while their parents looked on with relief. I also had the misfortune of the occasional tantrum from kids who did NOT want to swim and it was a long, hard battle of hits, kicks, and screaming aimed at yours truly. An especially low point for me was catching vomit in my bare hands from an angry non-swimmer who was determined to stay that way and willing to lose his breakfast of oatmeal if it meant getting away from me.

I was still pregnant with Barrett when I decided that my baby fish would be no stranger to the water and learn to swim at an early age. I claimed I wanted to avoid the great struggle I'd seen so many times. The earlier Barrett got into the pool, the better! I followed through with my commitment and forced my poor new-father of a husband and his 4-week old son into a baby class. I hadn't been given clearance from my doctor to get in the pool, yet, and as a result, Grant didn't stand a chance. I watched his hands shake as I passed over our sweet little baby blob. Barrett could have been at home in his comfy swing or napping in his car seat for all he cared. It was all the same to him and he dozed on and off as Grant muddied his way through goofy songs about checking swim diapers for "surprises" and practiced back floats (basically looks like a sleeping baby humoring his parents).

After that week, I was given the OK by my OB to begin swimming again. I happily took over the reigns as pool-parent, much to Grant's relief. Months passed and Barrett grew in size and love for the water. He was amongst one of the happiest in his class and quick to catch on to new skills, thanks to his mama and her insider knowledge on teaching (pat on the back). As Barrett learned to walk and talk, I'd let him strut onto deck in his baby Speedo and greet all the teachers by name. My little star. Barrett was going places. He was surely going to be my tiny Olympic cash-cow.

Until this past January hit. My formerly happy swimmer started fighting me in the pool. Me! His mentor...the woman he'd dedicate his victory speeches to one day! He didn't want to practice kicking to collect balls. He didn't want to sing silly songs and practice pulling. He wanted to do this thing and I wanted him to do that. He started to become "the screamer" in class...the one whose mother receives all the pitying glances from other moms. Moms with calm, sweet little fish babies. Moms who, for that matter, also look much better in a bikini than I could ever hope to. But I digress...

I blamed Barrett's attitude on the class time. I moved to a different class in hopes of a more well-rested son who would look like the star-swimmer I knew. I made sure this class was a smaller size, with kids closer to his age. Talk about stage-mom. The one thing I stubbornly chose to overlook (several times) was a staff member's suggestion that Barrett move up to the two-year old class. I waved away that notion with the excuse that Barrett WASN'T yet two and worse, he'd be without me in the water. I'd be forced to watch from the sidelines as he joined a class of other parent-less two-year olds and one teacher. I just wasn't ready for that jump. I had so much more to teach my prodigy. Notice the "I"'s in that statement and lack of my son's name?

Last week I had the last pool toy angrily thrown at my face and gave in. I enrolled Barrett in the two-year old class and nervously told him how great he'd do as we drove to our lesson. I carefully picked where I'd sit to watch him and made everyone aware that this was Barrett's first time flying solo. Barrett strutted on deck, greeted his teacher, and plopped down next to an adorable blonde classmate. I anxiously watched as he began class and took his first swim. I admit I was the obnoxious, over-clapper and cheered way too loudly. Barrett popped his head out of the water, climbed back up the steps, gave me a very relaxed wave and said "Hey mama".

At that "Hey mama" moment, I realized the error of my ways. I'd made a mistake that dated all the way back to before Barrett had even been born. My desire for Barrett to learn to swim at an early age SO did not come from a sole desire for his safety or to avoid him having any fear of the water. I wanted a swimming super-star, plain and simple. Oh the embarrassment if MY SON ended up being the oatmeal-puker! Pride had completely skewed, in my mind, what was right for Barrett, and made it about me and my show-pony. No wonder I didn't want him to fly solo in a new class! What in the world would he do without me?!?

 He'd swim, that's what he'd do. He'd swim and play and sing those silly songs at the top of his lungs. That "Hey mama" was my cue to take a backseat and trust him to fly...not just in terms of which swim class he end up in. I know this is the beginning of me learning to get the heck out of the way and let my son shine. It doesn't mean I'm not still terrified. Sometimes Barrett will sink and sometimes he'll swim in life. My job is to make sure that I'm always there on deck. Cheering slightly louder than the other parents. Maybe with a t-shirt printed with Barrett's face. Or a megaphone. Pom poms?