On a cool, gray Saturday, with rain dampening the mood, I decided to take Little Boy to the indoor pool at my gym for the family recreational swim block. Meanwhile, I gifted Mr. P a rare treat: three uninterrupted hours to watch the new James Bond movie, which he returned from declaring it “the best Bond ever”—a statement I greeted with the appropriate level of skepticism.
Family swim takes place in the therapeutic pool, a toasty, near-hot-tub-temperature haven typically reserved for elderly or mobility-impaired swimmers using an arsenal of flotation aids. During these hours, the pool transforms into a cacophony of children’s laughter and shrieks, which I imagine must be jarring for those trying to maintain their usual tranquil routines. (Seriously, why do pools seem to compel kids to scream? Is it the echo?)
Little Boy and I arrive and navigate the family changing area. “Are you excited to go swimming?” I ask him. “No,” he replies matter-of-factly. “I will be excited when we are in the pool.” Fair point. After a quick pre-swim shower (a state-mandated ritual, which I silently judge others for skipping—looking at you, hairy-back guy), we briskly bypass the cooler lap pool and sink into the therapeutic pool’s welcoming warmth.
Swimming with Little Boy is one of those rare parent-child activities that strikes a perfect balance: something we do together, yet he entertains himself. He adores the water, happily spending chunks of time retrieving dive toys, attempting to balance on a kickboard, or blowing bubbles. Sometimes he clings to my back as I swim or initiates a game of “monster” (formerly known as “beluga”). He’s developed a surprisingly adept underwater doggy paddle, surfacing occasionally for a quick breath before diving back down. Above-water strokes are still a work in progress, but his love for the water keeps evolving.
As I watch Little Boy frolic, I couldn’t help observing another family: a father and his 6ish daughter and 4ish son. He was giving them a swimming lesson. Both of the children seemed scared of water; one of them would sit on the shallowest of steps while the father taught the other one. When he would switch, the child whose turn it was would howl in protest: “I don’t want to! No! No!” He instructed them to hold onto a floating barbell while kicking. Oh, he was all about the kicking… “Kick! Kick! No, your back needs to be straight! Point your toes! Stop bending your knees!” (All of this is very hard to do when half of your torso is above water). If they managed to sustain a kick that was up to his standards, he’d say “Very good! You’re swimming!” This continued for about an hour and wow — in comparison to every other kid in the pool who was happily playing, those kids looked miserable.
I’m not here to critique anyone’s parenting; it’s admirable to see parents actively engaging with their kids. It’s clear this father cares deeply and wants them to succeed. Yet, as I watch, I can’t help but feel grateful that Little Boy’s relationship with water is one of delight rather than dread. He’s learning through play, discovering the joy of movement in water on his terms. Swim lessons may be in his future, but for now, his enthusiasm is a gift. Who knows if he’ll ever take up swimming as a sport—and honestly, who cares?
Toward the end of our swim, I notice a woman with her young daughter smiling at me repeatedly, their expressions warm and almost eager. At first, I return the smiles, albeit awkwardly. Later, the little girl approaches Little Boy, handing him a few dive toys he’d been playing with earlier (and which I’d made him share with other kids). “She wants him to have those,” the mother says, adding, “Her English isn’t that good.”
Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fall into place. The woman—blond, in her forties, with her blond little girl—had seemed biologically connected to her daughter. But as I listen to the girl’s childlike, accented English with snippets of Russian, it clicks: she’s newly adopted.
Those radiant smiles take on a deeper meaning. They’re the smiles of a parent still basking in the joy of finally bringing a child home after the endless paperwork, bureaucracy, waiting, and travel. Her pride, her excitement, her sheer happiness are palpable. I smile back, this time fully understanding.
Big smiles to that.
