Thursday, June 21, 2007
Red Badge of Courage: Part 1
From June 12:
Max is a confident child. If asked, he just might tell you that he's an expert at everything. Were he a grown-up, we'd call him either unrealistic or delusional. I've been trying to impress upon Max that no one is an expert at everything. But I'm just his mother. Only the school of hard knocks will bring some people back down to earth.
For the month of June, Max is participating in day camp at the neighborhood club. Most of the kids at camp also join the club's swim team. Swim team is a significant commitment for children and parents alike. The kids practice an hour a day, four days a week. Two evenings a week, they have meets against other clubs. In the 5 - 6 year old bracket, children swim backstroke and freestyle. The fastest kids swim first, against each other, and each heat gets progessively slower. The genius of this system is that even in the final heat, the least accomplished swimmers have a chance to finish first. Every child who swims gets a ribbon. Even if it says "Sixth Place."
I was slow to sign Max up for swimming lessons. Many of his peers have been making weekly treks to swim class since they were 2. Max started last summer, a few months shy of 5. By September, he'd begun to practice strokes and work on diving, although most of his attempts were gasp-inducing belly-flops.
We resumed swim lessons this spring, and Max was ready to learn. As he made steady progress, he leapt to the erroneous conclusion that he was an excellent swimmer, maybe the best in the whole wide world. So when his friends began talking of swim team, Max begged to join.
I was reluctant. (1) I wasn't convinced Max could traverse 25 meters. (2) I wasn't ready to have our summer schedule revolve around swim team. (3) I was afraid that if he floundered, his confidence would be shaken and he'd be spooked around water. I wouldn't wish my own fear of the water on my boys, and because we spend so many weekends by a lake, I need for my boys to become confident swimmers--much more confident than I.
Max persisted about swim team. Caroline was doing it. Braxton was doing it. Jackson was doing it. Piper was doing it. Still I hesitated. I talked to the coach.
"Let me watch him swim."
Without hesitation, Max plunged into the pool and flailed happily at the water.
"He's more than ready."
I capitulated and signed him up.
After practice on Day 1, Max tried to tender his resignation.
"I don't really want to be on swim team. I'm not so good at swimming." Max had finally smacked up against a limitation. Clint Eastwood would have smiled.
The voice inside my head screamed: "No problem, Max. Let's just wait til next year."
But that is not what I said. Because coming from an estrogen-dominated family, my instincts can sabotage the larger mission of raising little boys to become big men.
With coaching from baritone voices around me, I managed to say the hard thing:
"Max, remember how badly you wanted to be on the swim team? You've got to finish what you started. You're part of a team, and the team is counting on you. You're not a quitter. So go out there and try your best. I want to see your arms and legs in that water swinging and kicking like a madman. And most of all, have fun."
"Okay." The pep talk seemed to hit home.
"I'm scared."
"What are you scared of?"
"I'm scared I'll drown."
I examined the ribbon. "2007 Swim Team. Sixth Place."
Max self-corrected. "I mean, I won sixth place."
What would be the point in mentioning that sixth equals last?
"Did you try your hardest, Max?"
"Yep."
"Did you have fun?"
He gave me the thumbs up sign. And he was off to find a lollipop and wait for the next event.
Max's resilience amazes me. I'm reminded of a school function at which Max began to take a much-anticipated first bite out of a brownie. Before the cookie reached his mouth, half of it crumbled to the floor. Max stared for a moment at what he'd lost. I waited for a melt-down. Max shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well. It's a good thing I have another half!"
I went in search of an eyewitness to the race.
"Kim, I somehow missed Max's race. How'd it go?"
"Maybe it's for the best that you didn't have to watch."
Kim was so right. Better to have missed it. And the backstroke was the stronger of his two events. I began to dread freestyle.
No sooner had I found a place on the bleachers than the first drops struck my hat. Huge drops. Splat. Splat-splat. The sky opened and began to pour itself out, with rain Noah would have recognized. Hundreds of people scattered, searching for cover. Max and I managed to find each other. I wanted to know how the race had gone from within his own skin.
"So what happened out there, Max?"
"Mom, I could hear you cheering for me!"
Sometimes nothing good will come from admitting the truth. "Honey, I was yelling for you at the top of my voice." (And I would have been, too, if I'd known he was in the pool.)
"And I thought I heard daddy, too!"
"He was cheering, too."
"Did you hear me?"
"No, sweetie. What were you saying?"
"I was saying, 'You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.'"
"No, I couldn't hear you saying that."
"That's because I was just saying it to myself."
My heart nearly shattered at the thought of Max--incapable of finishing the lap ahead--coaxing himself on against the impossible, hurtling himself into the water, and thrashing like his life depended on it. If that isn't courage, I don't know it.
After a half hour, the rain subsided. "Max, time to get back in line and get ready for the next event."
"I don't want to. I want to go home."
"The meet's not over. You've got to get back over there with the rest of your team. They're waiting on you." I forced the words through my teeth.
Max returned to his place. The meet resumed. Then, thunder in the distance. Meet over. I can assure you, no one was happier than I.
My mom tells the story of how I came home from first grade one day and announced, "I'm the best reader in my class." I remember that. We were dubbed "bluebirds," and there was one other person in the group. Sharon Gore, with flaming hair. Mom admonished me not to brag. When Max innocently exaggerates his own abilities, I sympathize with her urge. Swim team is helping Max realize he's not an expert at everything, without me speaking a word.
Ordinarily Max won't sleep until I've sung him lullabies and rubbed his feet. But this night, Lee stuck his head in the door after Max had snuggled between the sheets.
"I'm proud of you, son. I know you did your best today."
Max was asleep before I reached his room. His maroon ribbon hung in the place of honor above his bed.
Max is a confident child. If asked, he just might tell you that he's an expert at everything. Were he a grown-up, we'd call him either unrealistic or delusional. I've been trying to impress upon Max that no one is an expert at everything. But I'm just his mother. Only the school of hard knocks will bring some people back down to earth.
For the month of June, Max is participating in day camp at the neighborhood club. Most of the kids at camp also join the club's swim team. Swim team is a significant commitment for children and parents alike. The kids practice an hour a day, four days a week. Two evenings a week, they have meets against other clubs. In the 5 - 6 year old bracket, children swim backstroke and freestyle. The fastest kids swim first, against each other, and each heat gets progessively slower. The genius of this system is that even in the final heat, the least accomplished swimmers have a chance to finish first. Every child who swims gets a ribbon. Even if it says "Sixth Place."
I was slow to sign Max up for swimming lessons. Many of his peers have been making weekly treks to swim class since they were 2. Max started last summer, a few months shy of 5. By September, he'd begun to practice strokes and work on diving, although most of his attempts were gasp-inducing belly-flops.
We resumed swim lessons this spring, and Max was ready to learn. As he made steady progress, he leapt to the erroneous conclusion that he was an excellent swimmer, maybe the best in the whole wide world. So when his friends began talking of swim team, Max begged to join.
I was reluctant. (1) I wasn't convinced Max could traverse 25 meters. (2) I wasn't ready to have our summer schedule revolve around swim team. (3) I was afraid that if he floundered, his confidence would be shaken and he'd be spooked around water. I wouldn't wish my own fear of the water on my boys, and because we spend so many weekends by a lake, I need for my boys to become confident swimmers--much more confident than I.
Max persisted about swim team. Caroline was doing it. Braxton was doing it. Jackson was doing it. Piper was doing it. Still I hesitated. I talked to the coach.
"Let me watch him swim."
Without hesitation, Max plunged into the pool and flailed happily at the water.
"He's more than ready."
I capitulated and signed him up.
After practice on Day 1, Max tried to tender his resignation.
"I don't really want to be on swim team. I'm not so good at swimming." Max had finally smacked up against a limitation. Clint Eastwood would have smiled.
The voice inside my head screamed: "No problem, Max. Let's just wait til next year."
But that is not what I said. Because coming from an estrogen-dominated family, my instincts can sabotage the larger mission of raising little boys to become big men.
With coaching from baritone voices around me, I managed to say the hard thing:
"Max, remember how badly you wanted to be on the swim team? You've got to finish what you started. You're part of a team, and the team is counting on you. You're not a quitter. So go out there and try your best. I want to see your arms and legs in that water swinging and kicking like a madman. And most of all, have fun."
"Okay." The pep talk seemed to hit home.
The day of the first meet arrived. Max balked.
"I don't want to go to the swim meet."
"Why?""I'm scared."
"What are you scared of?"
"I'm scared I'll drown."
I was scared, too. But I choked back my fears, at least in front of Max. "Not a chance you'll drown. Too many people will be watching. Now go out there and give it your best."
The meet is a six-lane circus. 200 swimmers in identical team suits, many disguised behind fluorescent goggles. Even more siblings and parents milling around the pool. The starting horn firing off every couple of minutes. Coaches and timers and ribbon-handlers and cheering and proud parents tossling the drippy heads of tired children.
Because of the ranking system, I knew Max would be one of the last 5-6 year old boys to swim. So when his age group began backstroke, I went to summon Lee, who was trying to keep Reed entertained. Back at poolside, I saw a child resembling Max thrashing impotently in the middle of the pool. But there were a couple of dozen of 5-6 year old boys still waiting to swim, so I knew it couldn't be Max.
I scanned the anxious faces of the boys on deck. No Max.
Either he'd decided to hide, or that was Max in the pool. Max who hates to wait. Max who probably cut in line, oblivious to the consequences. He'd been competing against 6-year old dolphins.
The heat was over. I'd missed it. I went to pick up whatever pieces needed repair. Emerging from the throng was a beaming Max, holding aloft a maroon ribbon.
"I won second place! I won second place!"I examined the ribbon. "2007 Swim Team. Sixth Place."
Max self-corrected. "I mean, I won sixth place."
What would be the point in mentioning that sixth equals last?
"Did you try your hardest, Max?"
"Yep."
"Did you have fun?"
He gave me the thumbs up sign. And he was off to find a lollipop and wait for the next event.
Max's resilience amazes me. I'm reminded of a school function at which Max began to take a much-anticipated first bite out of a brownie. Before the cookie reached his mouth, half of it crumbled to the floor. Max stared for a moment at what he'd lost. I waited for a melt-down. Max shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well. It's a good thing I have another half!"
I went in search of an eyewitness to the race.
"Kim, I somehow missed Max's race. How'd it go?"
"Maybe it's for the best that you didn't have to watch."
My heart skipped.
"What happened?"
"Well, he hadn't gotten very far, and then he got tangled up in the ropes, but it took awhile for one of the coaches to dive in and help him, so he was just stuck out there struggling."Kim was so right. Better to have missed it. And the backstroke was the stronger of his two events. I began to dread freestyle.
No sooner had I found a place on the bleachers than the first drops struck my hat. Huge drops. Splat. Splat-splat. The sky opened and began to pour itself out, with rain Noah would have recognized. Hundreds of people scattered, searching for cover. Max and I managed to find each other. I wanted to know how the race had gone from within his own skin.
"So what happened out there, Max?"
"Mom, I could hear you cheering for me!"
Sometimes nothing good will come from admitting the truth. "Honey, I was yelling for you at the top of my voice." (And I would have been, too, if I'd known he was in the pool.)
"And I thought I heard daddy, too!"
"He was cheering, too."
"Did you hear me?"
"No, sweetie. What were you saying?"
"I was saying, 'You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.'"
"No, I couldn't hear you saying that."
"That's because I was just saying it to myself."
My heart nearly shattered at the thought of Max--incapable of finishing the lap ahead--coaxing himself on against the impossible, hurtling himself into the water, and thrashing like his life depended on it. If that isn't courage, I don't know it.
After a half hour, the rain subsided. "Max, time to get back in line and get ready for the next event."
"I don't want to. I want to go home."
"The meet's not over. You've got to get back over there with the rest of your team. They're waiting on you." I forced the words through my teeth.
Max returned to his place. The meet resumed. Then, thunder in the distance. Meet over. I can assure you, no one was happier than I.
My mom tells the story of how I came home from first grade one day and announced, "I'm the best reader in my class." I remember that. We were dubbed "bluebirds," and there was one other person in the group. Sharon Gore, with flaming hair. Mom admonished me not to brag. When Max innocently exaggerates his own abilities, I sympathize with her urge. Swim team is helping Max realize he's not an expert at everything, without me speaking a word.
Ordinarily Max won't sleep until I've sung him lullabies and rubbed his feet. But this night, Lee stuck his head in the door after Max had snuggled between the sheets.
"I'm proud of you, son. I know you did your best today."
Max was asleep before I reached his room. His maroon ribbon hung in the place of honor above his bed.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home