Floating

**This post is a little late. I meant to get it out before we left on the Hilly, but that did not happen.**

Instead of typing here, right now on this pink laptop of mine, I should be getting my bike and the related weekend gear together for the Hilly Hundred this Friday. My pile of jerseys, sports bras, biking shorts, warm socks and riding tights, once stacked neatly under on the floor are now thrown about after last night’s impromptu sleepover with Kai. For some reason, he has adopted an intense fear of all things surrounding storms, the rustle of leaves through the trees outside our house, the sight of heavy gray clouds, the soft pats of rain on the roof, and of course the dreaded and more than a little obnoxious crack of thunder and flashes of lightning.

After hopping out of bed four times with his heart fluttering like a startled bird, and looking past my face towards the ceiling crying, “…fraid… I ‘fraid…” I gave up trying to convince him that he was safe alone in his room and grabbed the slick red sleeping bag and laid it out for him on the floor next to our bed. I tucked him in and felt his chest rise as a deep breath of security filling him, allowing sleep to settle into his muscular body. Josh and I try to keep the kids in their own beds, to keep our bedroom the one room that is really just for us, but I my own body screamed for sleep. I needed to squeeze out every drop of sleep out of this wet night. Climbing into my own bed, I listened as Kai’s breathing slowed. In the dark, though my own eyes were closed ,I knew his mouth now hung open, slack against the antique white embroidered pillow case. Before releasing my own body into the pull of my bed, I marveled at my own ability to provide such peace in the face of his intense fear.

A few weeks ago, during one of my swim workouts at the pool, I couldn’t help but notice the father and son pair swimming in the lane next to me. The dad looked to be somewhere around my age, his early thirties I guessed. He was Asian and had thick, almost wavy black hair. His body reminded me of the Ken dolls of my youth, smooth, rippled with muscles, not a hair on his body. They must have all migrated to his head! The son bore a striking resemblance to the father, except with much softer features, his babyhood not yet completely chiseled away. I guessed the son to be about 4 years old. I watched from the privacy of my goggles, as the young boy doggy paddled with all his might down the 25 yard lane. His hands and feet churned the water, creating small wakes behind him. His eyes remained focused on the other end of the pool. Not once did I see the child’s gaze fall to anyone or anything outside of the approaching wall or his father. He lifted his teacup chin up clearing the water line. Straining his neck and puffing out small gasps of air as he went along, he worked his way down the lane.

The father swam ahead, gracefully stroking his way to the other end, as if pulling on imaginary rope which drew him to the opposite side with ease. Then he waited patiently for the boy, his elbows propped up against the smooth edge of the pool. Judgment never crossed the father’s attentive face. When the boy reached the father, high fives were not exchanged, technique was not discussed. Instead, the father simply pulled the boy up out of the turquoise water and placed him on his bare chest. Then the two leaned back into the water, as if stretching back in an invisible recliner and floated together, back to the other side of the pool.

“He’s quite the swimmer!” I said as they reached my side of the pool.
The father smiled gently, “He’s a hard worker.”
Proving the point, the boy took off yet again, puffing his way through the water, ready to ride his father’s silent approval back and forth for as long as the father offered it up.
The father/son team were in the pool when I arrived and continued their pattern of practice after I climbed out, wet and tired 45 minutes later.

I thought of my own children. How often does the answer to troubles and fears reside in a moment or two of silent floating when they can no longer keep their heads above water? Whether it is a night sleeping in our bedroom when the sounds of the house haunts the expansive techno-colored imaginations of their minds, or quietly dismantling a frustrating, foot stomping day with a couple stolen minutes spent plopped on the couch reading brightly illustrated picture books. I forget in the daily rush, that as a parent, sometimes all I really have to do is harvest those moments of rest. All I need to do is encourage my children to lean back. I can pull their heavy bodies close to mine, inhale their sweet honey scented hair and we can float together, our heads tipped up towards the sky. I can buoy them up for awhile, allowing both of us to rest for a few moments before starting the next lap.