Circa 2009.
Yesterday I was at the YMCA,
exercising. Ash, Emma (age 8) and Ed (6) were there as well. They were at a birthday
party, which was a pool party first, then cake and presents later.
Twenty-five six-year-olds frolicked
in the pool as moms and older siblings (Emma) watched. My grandson Eddie,
however, stayed on the sidelines, on the bleachers.
For some reason I got the bright
idea I should go back into the locker room, put on my swim trunks and try to swim with Ed, thinking I could cure his shyness and encourage him to join his fellow toddlers.
So, I did this. I returned to the
locker room, and donned my bathing trunks. I tried to ignore the voice in my
head which said, “Don’t be an idiot. It’s a kiddie party, plus spectators, all
the 30, 40-year-old moms watching.” I was 70 at the time.
Finally, I returned to the pool, wearing my too-short, old-man bathing suit, very self conscious, but forcing one step in front of the other, inching toward the water at the shallow end. The children, and a dozen young moms watched (gulp)
as I lowered myself into the pool.
Slowly, I waded over to the side, near where Ed sat on
the bleachers. He didn’t move, just stared at me.
I held out my arms. Still no movement. I waited.
Then suddenly he stood up. He
walked toward me and jumped into my outstretched arms.
I paddled around with him for a few
minutes, and soon he joined the others splashing about until the call came for the cake eating to begin.
Mission accomplished.
Reflecting today, I know if I had
the choice for my last day on earth – publishing the great American novel or having
Ed jump into my arms in that pool in Madison, I’d choose the latter.
