I often reflect on my own swimming lessons. They took place in the chilly waters off the coast of southern France, where, as a 9-year-old, I faced towering waves, a sandy bottom I couldn’t reach, and slimy seaweed wrapping around my legs. I remember gulping down salty water, the sting in my eyes, and the rawness in my throat lasting for days. My stepfather was nearby, nudging me deeper into the surf while laughing without warmth.
Though I was never truly in danger, it took a long time for me to experience the joy of swimming.
Fast forward twenty years, and I now watch my youngest son embrace the water. He is the smallest in his class, his fair skin glowing under the sun. Dressed in a vibrant blue swim cap and matching goggles, with a laminated swim card around his neck, he beams with pride every week, thrilled to be part of this community of learners. While we wait for lessons to begin, we engage in a game of I Spy, spotting everything from flags to lifejackets.
Over the past year, he has transformed from a fearful beginner into a budding swimmer. Initially, he would cry, terrified of sinking and worried about what would happen if I didn’t notice. I could see the worst-case scenarios playing out in his mind. I reassured him that he wasn’t alone; everyone was watching, and he would be safe. Slowly, he learned to trust the kind instructors, who gently guided him into the warm waters of our local pool. Their patience and support gradually showed him that swimming could be enjoyable.
Recently, he advanced to a new group. Gone are the floats and treasure chests of plastic toys. He has transitioned to serious swimming, and it’s not without its challenges. Even in a mere half-hour session, I can see him tire. But he is in the most capable hands.
When he struggles to kick, the instructors lift him gently under his belly. When his arms flail, they calmly correct his technique. They maintain a perfect balance of safety and challenge, and it’s a beautiful sight to behold.
As the lessons commence, I notice other parents sneaking glances at their phones or books, enjoying a rare break. But like the quintessential overly-dedicated mom, I can’t take my eyes off my son. I don’t want to miss a single moment of his progress.
Occasionally, he scans the poolside for me. When he finds me, he waves enthusiastically, his grin lighting up his face before he returns his focus to the water. I watch him laugh and interact with the instructors—young men like Jacob, Ethan, and Max, who instinctively understand that gentleness is key. Their cheerful Australian accents fill the air, and I can’t help but think about how different this experience is from my own.
When the lesson ends, he scurries over, teeth chattering, a pink mark from his swim cap adorning his forehead. I’m there with a warm towel and a juice box for him to enjoy. He excitedly shares that next week’s final lesson of the term will include a special treat: jumping into the deep end for the first time! Even amid chill and fatigue, his eyes sparkle with anticipation.
This is how it should be, and I am so incredibly grateful.
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In summary, watching my son learn to swim has been a joyful experience filled with growth, trust, and excitement. Each lesson brings him closer to mastering a skill that I hope will bring him as much happiness as it has brought me in the past.