Fear of Falling

Today was one of those rare Sundays where we had no place in particular to be (having gone to 4:30 Mass at my MIL's church yesterday) and no major chore list to tackle.

After making the run-around town for groceries all by myself today (and what a pleasure it was to enter a store without the shadow of a temper tantrum waiting to erupt looming over me), Knute and I loaded up the Royal Monkeys and headed over to the pool after Sir Screamsalot's naptime.

Our routine at the pool has changed since Princess Pinky passed the swim test and got the much-coveted blue sticker on the back of her ID, the one that says, "Deep Water."

Now, instead of hanging out in the shallow end with us and working on her stroke, she kicks off her flip-flops, waves goodbye, and says, "I'm going to the diving boards!"

It does make it easier for us at the pool - and for me when I take the three of them by myself during the week - to have her exercise this bit of independence she's worked so hard to gain. Rather than juggle our attention on three children, now one of us stands guard to catch Sir Screamsalot and pull him back to the surface as he jumps in over and over and over again (all by himself, no holding of hands - oh no; he wants to be big, just like his sibs) while the other one reminds Prince Tatertot to bring those long arms up and around, up and around.

We watch and wait for her to climb the high dive (ten feet), waving when we see her at the end of the springboard. She glances over to where she knows she'll find us, her hand shading her eyes from the sharp afternoon sun, then waves furiously back when she spots us.

Then, WHOOSH!

She jumps; and,

SPLASH!

She's in.

And I stand on tippytoes, straining to see her head pop up to the surface and watching to see how quickly she swims back to the wall.

She always makes it without any ado; she's a fine swimmer, even having spent ten months sidelined from the water after her two surgeries during the past year. I watch her stroke, her arms becoming more and more natural and efficient each time, and allow myself a bit of mamapride for having the wisdom to start her in swim lessons early on.

But the bask of pride lasts only for a moment; it fades as the years roll over me, leaving me in a state of awestruck and bittersweet nostalgia.

Where is that eight pound, nine ounce baby I brought home from the hospital almost seven years ago? My first, the one that I held for hours nursing, and then, even while she slept because I couldn't bear to put her down?

Where is that headstrong one year old who ran down our long hall in Illinois faster than her fat little legs could truly carry her, so determined was she to get to where she wanted to go and get there fast no matter how many times she fell down?

Or the sweet, eager-to-help big sister at twenty-one months who toddled around the house, carrying an old Easter basket I filled with diapers and wipes for her baby brother?

There she is at three, dressed as Cinderella at Halloween. Or four, racing into her first day of preschool, so excited to be a big girl. Then, four and a half, holding her newest baby brother and singing Twinkle, Twinkle to him as he stares up at her with rapt eyes. Five, dressed in her first school uniform, stepping off the bus to meet me. Six, waking up from surgery, filled with pain but facing it with a bravery that would rival that of most adults.

A thousand snapshots of my almost seven year old girl race through my mind as I watch her falling toward the water, suspended for a split second in mid-air. A thousand moments of Then crowd my mind and I am left nearly breathless as I marvel at how far she has come, how strong and capable and full of potential she truly is.

+++---+++---+++---+++

Later, over by the diving board where I watch her jump and swim, jump and swim, she rushes over to my chair where I sit drying in the sun.

"Won't you jump, too, Mommy?"

Her eyes are hopeful and happy; I want to tell her yes, I'll jump again like I did last week, but I tell her instead that I won't, no, not today.

She asks again, impatient to get back in line; I shake my head, firm. "No, honey."

I see a flicker in her eyes, a quick flash of something that might just be confusion (you jumped off the highdive last week with me; why not today?) or could be something more, something I fear most as a mother:

Disappointment.

How can I tell her that the high dive scares me, how can I admit this after spending a lifetime teaching her that while we should acknowledge our fears, yes, we then need to step over and above them to get to where we want to be in life? How can I tell her this after years spent praying together, putting faith in Him to catch us when we take a chance and leap?

I can't.

You understand this, don't you, mommyfolk?

So instead, I tell her that I'm bursting at the seams, I need to go to the bathroom so badly. She giggles and nods, saying, "I always hafta go when I'm at the pool!" and we laugh.

I make my way to the ladies room, checking on my boys -big and small - then head back toward the diving boards where Princess Pinky stands waiting impatiently for her turn.

And I sit and watch my girl, hoping that her fearless eagerness to live life never changes.