WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? IT'S JUST WATER!

Not everything has improved with time but swimming lessons have. Recently I observed my three-year-old granddaughter’s first swimming lesson. There was an instructor in each lane. Abby, in the beginner lane, was with three other tots who were being taught to jump into the water facing the instructor. Some of them landed horizontally, some vertically. All were encouraged and, at the end, the virtue of effort was rewarded with a purple ribbon. (Purple, luckily, is Abby’s favorite color.) The point is, the kids were learning to swim one skill at a time with patience and encouragement. My children were taught by hanging onto the edge of the pool and kicking. The arm movements were practiced on land and then in the water, held aloft by the instructor. It worked, mostly. My first lessons were at the junior high pool where I clutched the side with my elbow and sucked in sobbing breaths while the instructor (fully clothed) stood above me on the deck. Even with the chin-strap, rubber bathing cap, I could hear him shouting at me to put my face in the water. After years of swim team (as a kid and a mom) I still shudder at the scent of chlorine. I have other, better, memories of swimming. I once placed tenth in a state swim meet and it was in the paper. “10th-Emmons.” I still have it. Because the summer swim club had a trampoline, I learned a few tricks which I translated into a first place in a Junior High diving contest by performing a front dive, a back dive and a somersault. I beat two other girls and named myself president (and sole member) of the Pinpoint Diving Club. I expected to move on to the Olympics. There were some efforts at synchronized swimming but they were a little lame. All I remember is some group “dance” with the uninspired title “Assorted Fish.” I guess my best memory should be the odd days in junior high, when the girls would lie on the floor of the locker room trying to get a glimpse of the boys in the pool. Rumor was, they swam naked. You couldn’t prove it by me, though. By then I was wearing glasses which prevented me from lying flat enough to get a good view. Kinda of a metaphor for my life. Anyway, after the swim lesson, we took the purple ribbon out for ice cream, so for Abby and me, it was all good.

MIRACLES AT REHOBOTH

A long, long time ago, after the arrival of our third baby in four years, my sainted mother-in-law abruptly canceled our up-until-then annual family vacations to Avalon, New Jersey. At the time, I thought she’d overreacted. Not so much now. Just kidding. I love vacations with our family. We just returned from our third time in Rehoboth Beach, a tiny jewel of paradise with its charming old-fashioned houses, its quaint bookstore, its abundance of fudge shops and the dancing waves of the Atlantic Ocean a mere block away. Our house was a genuine antique built in 1908 and pretty much untouched since then (except for the addition of a dishwasher that has to be shuttled across the room and attached to the kitchen faucet before it will work.) The house was large and rambling with plenty of bedrooms but only two bathrooms for eleven people. The bathroom problem didn’t bother me as two of our number are still in diapers and, perhaps more importantly, because Pete and I got the room with the biggest bathroom. The house was perfectly situated, within easy wagon distance of the beach, the downtown, the playground and Starbucks. It had a large backyard that was perfect for splash pools, cookouts, a rope swing, water balloons and endless, mountains of bubbles. The trees kept eating the Styrofoam stomp rockets but, luckily, there was a toy store nearby on the boardwalk. Since the adults outnumbered the toddlers, seven to four, things went pretty smoothly. At least until the night my grown up offspring and their partners decided to go out to a restaurant leaving me at home with two four-year-olds, a two-year-old, a one-year-old and a dozing husband. As we approached the end of Captain Underpants, and the dreaded debacle of bedtime, only the baby was already asleep. Two-year-old Molly was wide awake and not at all interested in her crib. She agreed to wait on a queen-sized bed in her parents’ room until her sister, Abby, joined her. I left her upstairs and felt my courage start to fail as I descended the stairs. Both Julian and Abby are used to bedtime rituals, like drinks, conversation, toothbrushing and bedtime stories. I knew I couldn’t leave Molly upstairs for the twenty minutes those activities would take. I turned off the TV and looked at my eldest grandchildren. “Look guys. You’ve got to help me out here,” I said, no doubt sounding more desperate than I’d intended. “I need you both to go potty then get into bed – QUIETLY – and go to sleep. Okay?” (You’d have to be a parent or grandparent to understand how ridiculous the request was.) But here’s the thing: THEY DID IT! Julian slipped into his room and into bed. Abby wanted me to stay with her and Molly so the three of us curled around each other on the big bed without (much) further ado. Did I mention I have the best grandchildren in the world? Also the best children. And that brings me to the other miracle. On Sunday, the first day at the beach, my daughter, Emily, rescued my most precious inanimate possession. No, not my wedding ring or my phone. I’d been stupid enough to wear my glasses (my $900 glasses) on my head when I stepped into a wave that knocked me down and stole the eyewear. For four horrible minutes I thought the mauve-framed magic-makers were gone and then Emily caught a purple glint, lunged and retrieved them. It was another miracle. I would never willingly give up family vacations, no matter how few bathrooms there are.