Look at me, I’m….

Another bright cheerful hot morning after so much rain. More rain is probably coming, but in between, these humid hot bright moments make me remember that there is a God. Yesterday we spent a long long time in the pool, me trying to replenish my tragic loss of vitamin D without swallowing the whole bottle sitting on my counter, and the children trying to eek out every moment of happiness. I eased into the too cold water for a bit with Marigold and Egglantine to try to help them, I don't know, swim? I don't know how to teach a child to swim. I have managed to outsource this important instruction to someone else who knows exactly how to talk about it and show the child and all that sort of technically important stuff. I groped around in the dark for words which are suddenly useful to Marigold. Words I mean. Not my own words, but words in general.

“Lay back in the water,” I said, “and go limp, like a rag doll.”

She popped her head out of the water, furrowed her brow and said, “Rag Doll?”

So then I wandered around in my imagination looking for some other way of saying Relax. Relax isn't a word or concept we spend a lot of time with. So of course she didn't know what I was trying to say.

Nevertheless I struggled on and she understood, somehow, that if she both pushed the water away with her hands and kicked with her feet and put her face in the water she could go the short distance from the step to me. And then, most amazingly, turn around and go back again.

“Look at me!” and I quote, “I'm swimming.”

“Yes you are!” I said.

She was most pleased with herself. And I am pretty happy with her. And to see that really, learning to swim is a lot like learning to ride a bike or learning to read. It has to click, suddenly, in the mind and body. Instruction is required, but that is only half of the equation. And, if the mind and body are there, the instruction doesn't have to be really awesome. In my case, it can be thoroughly mediocre. She just needs to do what she figured out to do, over and over and over while I stand there and watch. Well, and pull her out of the water.

I have always hoped this was true. I mean, I've taught some kids to read now. But “taught” is never a word I've loved. I've sat there and said the same set of stuff over and over and eventually something inside the child clicks into place. And then I go on to do something else. May this really be so, in all realms of life. May it so little depend on me that the inadequate aid that I provide serves to be sufficient.

Girl with crown and, I think, earrings.