This post was supposed to be about how much of a nervous wreck/worrywart/freak of a mother I am.
Sophie just started swim lessons, and I aged about 10 years from the moment I saw that the pool had no shallow end. I'm lying. It does. But, in this case, "shallow" still means over my beloved daughter's head. As Sophie stepped slowly down the ladder to get into the water (without any kind of flotation device!), I told the teacher that Sophie had never been in a pool before. I thought she didn't hear me, so I told her again. She replied, "I read your lips the first time."
I stood right there on the edge of the pool holding Mathis until she told me I could go sit with the rest of the parents on the observation deck. I sat on the edge of my seat.
Somehow Sophie clung to the side of the pool for 30 minutes. And somehow I made it, too.
Weeks 2 and 3 were a little easier (I was even loosy-goosey enough to take some pictures!). But I still counted down the minutes on the little clock on the wall. 10 more minutes. 1o more minutes.
Life has been pretty crazy lately, so this is the first chance I've had to post about it. But a funny thing happened on the way to the blog. Because right now I'm more compelled to write about how swimmingly things have been going with Sophie in a different way. A "can't remember the last time she had to have a time out" sort of way. When I ask her to do things she doesn't want to do, she says OK. When I tell her she can't have something right now, she asks if it would be alright tomorrow or after dinner. There was no battle to get dressed and out the door on time this morning.
I'm so happy about this new un-toddler-like attitude that I don't even care about how it came to pass. Just that it doesn't.
P.S. She's the most enthusiastic little swimmer out there.
