Hanging out in the deep end

Like most stories, I realized this was an actual story when replaying the events of a day to Loverpants at 1:30 a.m. as we tried to muffle our laughter in an effort to not to wake up the kids. So last week I invited several mama friends to come to the downtown pool with us. Which means that I went solo to the downtown pool because my mama friends have their kids in Organized Programming, whereas mine are involved in Netflix. We do love the downtown pool but it is a lot of work to schlepp downtown with all the pool gear. Oy to the vey.

The upside of going solo is that if my kids are acting the fool, I'm an audience of one and the rest of the folks at the downtown pool are strangers.

The downside of going solo is if I need to change my tampon. Then I have an audience of two in a bathroom stall that smells like chlorine and fungus and the floor is wet with fluids of unimaginable combinations.

This story is not about tampons, however. Sorry for those we've already lost.

[showmyads]

This story is about the deep end at the downtown pool. In the deep end are two very impressive inflatable structures that float on the water. The first structure is a truly impressive jungle gym. It reminds me a bit of the obstacle course from the Nickelodeon game show Double Dare that was popular in the late '80s. Remember the whipped cream pit at the end of the slide? What's that? You weren't even alive in the '80s? Kay. Bye.

Anyway, the jungle gym requires that swimmers be of a certain height. Baby Girl measured herself last week and she was shy of the mark by a good three inches. This week, however, she was determined that she had grown. We did back to the wall and it appears the growth spurt was less than astronomical because she still appeared to be 3 inches shy of the mark.

"But, Mama, maybe just check to see if Little Man is tall enough. Because Daddy said his head is bigger than mine."

After measuring Little Man, it appears that his remarkable noggin did not, in fact, clear him for the jungle gym eligibility after all.

The second structure on the water is a giant inflatable pyramid. One one side, stairs. On the other, a slide. Boss, right?

I asked the kids if they wanted to see their mama climb the pyramid and slide down the slide. They flipped for the idea. As we passed the lifeguard, who looked EXACTLY like Spicoli, leans off his chair and looks at me and says, "You know they can go on this one."

Which to me means, your kids can go scale this pyramid thing even though they can barely find their own mouths with a fork somedays.

So I said, Okay, thanks!

And then I had my kids stand next to Spicoli's chair while I waited in line for my rightful turn to scale the pyramid.

Just as I am about to get my turn to dive into the water, Spicoli dismounts his chair and a new lifeguard takes over. So now both lifeguards are looking at me and I dive in.

But somewhere between the moment my feet leave the edge of the pool and when my head comes up in the water for air, both lifeguards are yelling NOOOOWAAAAYYWHAAARRRYOUUUDOOOWAAIATWEEESAIIDWHAAA!!!!!!!!!!!

I still have no idea what they're saying so I tread water in the deep end and look puzzled, while my kids look on from the sides thinking, Wow. Is Mom kind of a loser right now, or?

Finally the new lifeguard says, "Ma'am, have you taken the swim test?"

Hmm. Swim test. I have to think for a moment. Let's see. Ohio driver's license test. Check. SAT. LSAT. GRE. Check, check, check. Exam to sell life insurance in Massachusetts. Exam to broker stocks in United States. Pregnancy Test. All those? Check check check.

But the swim test at the downtown pool? No! Hahah! Imagine? Somehow I missed that! Here I am in my twirties, fully capable of swimming the front crawl against heavy ocean waves and aren't I conceited to think that I didn't have to take a test for the deep end of a municipal pool.

At this point, the new lifeguard says, "Sorry, if you want to hang out in the deep end without a life jacket, you've got to go see the lifeguard standing by the kiddie pool and she'll get you all tested."

Hang out in the deep end? OH YEAH! That is my jam! I am totally wanting to hang out here in the deep end like an ant at a picnic. Oh, but thing is, see, I have these children with me, the ones standing next to you in life jackets? And all they wanted to do was see their mom slide down this water slide and cheer for joy.

But instead, I am swimming with my tail between my legs to go meet my kids.

Spicoli, ever the comforter, leans over and says, "Sorry, Ma'am, I thought you were just standing in line with your kid. Haha."

So I told him to go back to eating his pizza and learning about Cuba.

Not really.

But I was so huffy about not getting to slide down the pyramid that I didn't even take the swim test.

Proving to my children that some of us are just too cool for safety.

So cool, in fact, that we end up spending the rest of the day in the kiddie pool. So there! Take that!

Dance of the flexible

She was the reigning limbo champion of many a 7th grade CARE dance. Lower the broom and watch girlfriend get her groove back. You're so flexible! her classmates cried.

So. Flexible.

But don't try to make her change her best-laid plans when she was fixing to not have to do bedtime for the kidlets tonight. Did no one take record of her being the chief conductor of bedtime the last two nights? In a row?

Flexible lady, that one.

But, again, did no one notice how longsuffering she was to do her job, not once but two nights? Back to back? And to live amidst this perpetual clusterfluffle of a house without bolting?

Partnering with this inflexible woman is not a 90 minute swedish massage. Partnership with a chronically inflexible partner--it requires a long patience.

But becoming more flexible is a frightening prospect for this inflexible wife. What if others take advantage? What if she is always expected to be flexible? What if flexibility paints her a doormat? Oh sure, that's fine, haha! Why don't you just go ahead and cancel my plans. I don't matter, haha....

The terms of flexibility can be daunting, especially for a woman who grew up with a sibling with autism. Dinner at six o'clock sharp, on the table, or an all-out Rain Man meltdown might ensue. There was rigidity in her upbringing. Trying to stay the course, stay on schedule, not make waves. Be a good big sister, a leader, upstanding. Don't compromise who you are.

But what if compromise is required in life, especially in marriage? What does that look like? Are there equal gains for everyone? Can you make her a guarantee?

The dance of the flexible is one that the woman is learning, first with her right foot and then with her left. She is wobbly, unsure, wanting so much to trust her partner. Slowly she finds...this dance is not all bad. She finds it is harder to bust out and do a solo dance, but together, with her partner, she is stronger and more graceful. Very graceful, the dance of the flexibile.

As she becomes more sure of the rhythm and the steps, the more she practices, the better she becomes. Way out there on the dance floor, she finds others, dancing the dance of the flexible.

Oh but have mercy because being a beginner is still, still so hard.

Anyone else a beginner out here with me?

Running my guts out

Every six months or so, I take up running again, which in this curvy petite body looks like this: For a month, I reappreciate running and all of its benefits, and for at least a couple of those weeks of running, I do not totally feel as though both my lungs are going to collapse and I am not going to have some kind of reverse-intestinal upchuck fiesta on the track. Running is a great outlet for stress but I do not live in a body that can endure running on the regular. My long history of pounding out Irish step dances has netted me ankles that are predictably unpredictable. Also, my lust for change does not a good endurance runner make.

Right now, I am back at track practice. Running my ever-loving guts out. I need running to work for me right now because the stress I am feeling is not the stuff of checklists and bills to pay. I am back on the identity carousel, trying to figure out which pony I want to be riding for this go-round before they start the ride and before the siss-boom-bah of the merry-go-round musicmaker starts playing. Is it this one? This one with the ruby reigns or this one with the long and flowing mane? Or is it that one over there that bobs higher and lower than all the rest? Or this one that just stays put for the entire ride.

I have an enviable career. I get to teach bright people in a resource-rich, spiritually-gifted community, close to where I live and where my children school. And I? Only have a master's degree.

I am oh so lucky and yet I question the stability of this when I feel so unstable. I know God's hand was in every detail of our move here. I just want to feel a touch of the divinity in what I am doing here now.

We all want to do work that matters, right? It's a universal cliche. Teaching has its rewards, but on a day-to-day basis, I see some long faces in the classroom. Teaching is a give, give, give business and the return on investment might not be known for many years henceforth. We prepare and prepare and we teach and jump around the classroom; we run our guts out. Unlike a chef or a hairstylist, our "product" is often not immediately recognizable. The reaction to learning or developing a nascent skill? Is not the same as reacting to a California sushi roll or a new body wave perm. So we teachers wait in hopeful expectation of a reaction, a response to this gift of active learning and oftentimes we get blank stares, a deep and abiding disinterest in favor of a cellphone screen, or an evaluation that says, Errrmmm, yeah, maybe you should get out of this business altogether.

I will not worship at the crumbling altar of the evaluation, but I will look inward and upward and continue to run my guts out and hope that as I make another lap around the track, this now my fourth full year of teaching college writing, that I can know that I am in the right lane, running in a fair heat, that with more training, I'll only improve my time and my stride.

Rather than grow weary, I want to grow more fit for this race and I want to know and see and experience the outcomes of this work that I believe matters.

At the end of track practice, though, I know I'm still okay. If my career dries up tomorrow, I'll still have the love of this little family. Their hugs and affirmations and little teeth to brush and deliveries of coffee when I left my mug at home are pretty amazing. I feel equal parts unworthy and totally whole as their mama/wife person. They are the ones for whom I am running this race. They keep me running strong.