Friday, June 22, 2007
Red Badge of Courage: Part 2
from June 14:
The forecast calls for thunderstorms this afternoon. Today's the second swim meet, and I'm praying for a Texas downpour.
Max doesn't want to go. He's been agitating for me to spring him from swim team, even if he has to forego summer camp. Believe me, we both want a reprieve.
4:15. The skies have been darkening all afternoon. Time to load up. Lee swings into the driveway. The first drops splatter across my windshield. I consider waving a white flag and returning to my kitchen.
As a child, I remember most things coming to me with relative ease. Schoolwork. Piano. Ballet. I don't know that the idea of gutting it up, commiting myself to seeing the thing through, even when it got unpleasant and difficult, ever solidified itself in my brain. I recall avoiding a couple of classes in college--subjects that really interested me--because I'd heard the professor was particularly difficult. Magna cum laude? Yep, but I got it by being a wuss.
That this was my reality didn't fully smack me in the forehead until I met Lee. He tells a different story. While people in his field refer to him as a bona fide genius, he claims to just work harder than the other guys. He's the man who got a Chemical Engineering degree in 3 years, after his advisor said that such a thing was physically impossible. Who took computer programming books on our honeymoon. Who hasn't had a vacation longer than a 3-day weekend in seven years. When he says he works hard, it isn't just lip.
What Lee remembers growing up was the sage advice that if you always take the path of most resistance, you'll end up with more options.
I want my children to understand that. I want to know it, too.
I buckle up and head for the swim meet. A deluge meets us half way. We park. The rain turns to a fine mist. I take Max's hand as we navigate a herd of SUVs.
"Mommy, I'm going to try to be very brave."
And so am I. But I don't say so. "Of course you are. And you're going to try your hardest, aren't you?"
"Uh huh."
I grab a chair underneath an umbrella. Max limps through an anemic warm-up lap, clutching the rope regularly as other swimmers pass him in his lane.
The meet begins.
Boys backstroke is called.
Max tries to manuever his way forward in line but is held in his rightful place at the back of the pack by a vigilant coach.
He's in the "on deck" chair.
The horn sounds. Over the loud speaker:
"A major thunderstorm is just east of us, heading our way. The meet it cancelled."
We turn to look over our shoulders. The sky is black.
I find Max. We race to the car as the rain starts.
"So how'd you feel when the meet was cancelled and you didn't get to swim?"
"Kind of disappointed."
"Me, too."
The old me--who doesn't want to suffer, who wants to spare my kids the pain they need to grow--is also kind of relieved.
But I'm getting tougher.
And so is Max.
The forecast calls for thunderstorms this afternoon. Today's the second swim meet, and I'm praying for a Texas downpour.
Max doesn't want to go. He's been agitating for me to spring him from swim team, even if he has to forego summer camp. Believe me, we both want a reprieve.
4:15. The skies have been darkening all afternoon. Time to load up. Lee swings into the driveway. The first drops splatter across my windshield. I consider waving a white flag and returning to my kitchen.
As a child, I remember most things coming to me with relative ease. Schoolwork. Piano. Ballet. I don't know that the idea of gutting it up, commiting myself to seeing the thing through, even when it got unpleasant and difficult, ever solidified itself in my brain. I recall avoiding a couple of classes in college--subjects that really interested me--because I'd heard the professor was particularly difficult. Magna cum laude? Yep, but I got it by being a wuss.
That this was my reality didn't fully smack me in the forehead until I met Lee. He tells a different story. While people in his field refer to him as a bona fide genius, he claims to just work harder than the other guys. He's the man who got a Chemical Engineering degree in 3 years, after his advisor said that such a thing was physically impossible. Who took computer programming books on our honeymoon. Who hasn't had a vacation longer than a 3-day weekend in seven years. When he says he works hard, it isn't just lip.
What Lee remembers growing up was the sage advice that if you always take the path of most resistance, you'll end up with more options.
I want my children to understand that. I want to know it, too.
I buckle up and head for the swim meet. A deluge meets us half way. We park. The rain turns to a fine mist. I take Max's hand as we navigate a herd of SUVs.
"Mommy, I'm going to try to be very brave."
And so am I. But I don't say so. "Of course you are. And you're going to try your hardest, aren't you?"
"Uh huh."
I grab a chair underneath an umbrella. Max limps through an anemic warm-up lap, clutching the rope regularly as other swimmers pass him in his lane.
The meet begins.
Boys backstroke is called.
Max tries to manuever his way forward in line but is held in his rightful place at the back of the pack by a vigilant coach.
He's in the "on deck" chair.
The horn sounds. Over the loud speaker:
"A major thunderstorm is just east of us, heading our way. The meet it cancelled."
We turn to look over our shoulders. The sky is black.
I find Max. We race to the car as the rain starts.
"So how'd you feel when the meet was cancelled and you didn't get to swim?"
"Kind of disappointed."
"Me, too."
The old me--who doesn't want to suffer, who wants to spare my kids the pain they need to grow--is also kind of relieved.
But I'm getting tougher.
And so is Max.
1 Comments:
Brave Max. Brave Mommy.
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