Swimming To Second Grade

When I swim I am always surprised by how noisy it is, the sound of bubbles blaring with each exagerated exhale. This intense cacophony feels like a blend of physiological stress and comforting emotional connectivity to my oldest son Max. But before I get into that, let me explain why in the hell I'm putting on a dazzling silver Speedo swim cap in the first place.

My aspirations as a swimmer are new (and most likely temporary) as I prepare for my first (and probably only) Olympic-distance Triathlon. Yes, I was part of Paul's Posse, the triathlon team I put together in 2010 to honor my late husband Paul and to raise money for the Amyloidosis Foundation, but only as a runner of a relay team, jaunting a mere 10K and somehow getting a medal for it. This year, Paul's Posse is returning to the New York City Triathlon and I'm in for the whole race.

The swimming, initially, was the most terror-inducing of the three legs to train for. I took a lesson back in February on a college campus near my office. My coach was a slim, handsome guy named Bradley or Todd or something like that, and he, technically speaking, could be my son. Tadley watched me struggle to put my cap on and adjust those damn goggle straps. He was aloof but not unkind when he said "What's your shoe size? Maybe we should put some flippers on you so that you don't get frustrated." 38 years old and feeling as hapless as ever, I tried not to fall while waddling with flippers to the pool's edge.

The lesson was eye-opening and took me out of my comfort zone, my brain synapses aching as he blazed through 10 or so different ingredients for a seamless freestyle technique. There was the way you turn your head to breath while your arm is still extended, as if you're plugging your ear with your own shoulder. There was the pivot of your body at the hips, as if you are almost going onto your back, but not quite. There was the breathing itself, the exhale had to be forceful, like the kicks. And your arms, all the while, should be the opposite, clean and crisp, barely making a ripple as they quietly sliced the water in front of you. There were more that I forgot since I was so distracted with flippers and Tadley.

When he showed me the "shoulder plugging your ear" breathing thing, I mastered it pretty quickly, but my arms flailed, splashing with abandon, and I forgot to kick. When he demonstrated the best way to slice the water in front of me with my arms, I could do that, but my breathing turned rushed and erratic with my neck straining to get my head too far out of the water. Our 45 minute lesson was over so quickly. I asked if I should come back. Brodd told me I should just practice as much as possible, and poof, I was on my own.

Months went by before I returned to the pool. I was training for a May marathon and running kind of took over my life. Then, last month, I went back to the college pool and just kept on keepin' on. The bathing cap stretches much easier, each lap doesn't leave me winded anymore, and I scoff at the bin of flippers. However, I still struggle to make all of those components and elements of swimming seamlessly integrate. And while I swim, I always think about my son Max and his recent completion of first grade.

Max entered the year on shaky ground. Behaviorally and academically, it seemed as if he'd never find a rhythm. I asked that he be evaluated by the district child study team. His abilities in Math and Social Studies and various other subjects were scored within average or above average range. Yet his reading fluency was only on par with PreK 4 kids. His year started to go a lot smoother post-evaluation when he qualified for and received reading assistance from the special education teacher as well as after school one-on-one tutoring that his teacher kindly offered. Despite this turn around, I am constantly uneasy about his progress. When I read his end-of-year report card and saw the note of congratulations that he was moving on to second grade written directly beneath his "unsatisfactory" mark for spelling, I felt overwhelmed and confused for him. I wondered if he would always face anxiety and difficulty when it came to reading and writing, and therefore would always face anxiety and difficulty within any academic setting.

During a recent 30 minute swim, as my kicks fizzled to nothing while my breathing rhythm went perfectly, I recalled Max working on his last book report of the year. He tackled the book on his own, reading each word aloud without giving up or asking me for help. It brought tears to my eyes on a Sunday morning as it felt like a breakthough. Yet, when he started writing his book report, there were many eraser marks to correct backwards letters and forgotten capitalization. Some parts smooth. Some parts messy.

He was trying to fit it all together in the same way that I was. But the noise for him was a lot louder and more complicated than bubbles. And the perfect recipe for reading fluency, and all of the other milestones 1st graders are expected to hit, had a hell of a lot more ingredients to remember than the 10 or so that make up the perfect freestyle swim stroke.

Remember first grade? Remember when school and the construct of "learning" suddenly became such a huge part of your life? The daunting task of being responsible for your very own desk, with its pencils and rulers and expanding piles of worksheets? Reading outloud in front of your peers, your very first set of actual friends, writing in front of them at the chalk board, practicing lower case vowels and consonants with them over and over again, then somehow going off to play for recess and recharging for more? These are the flashes of it that I remember. It wasn't seamless or easy or smooth like a Michael Phelps slow motion replay. It was overwhelming and as jarringly noisy as Saturday morning construction outside a first-floor bedroom window.

Now, when I swim, I try to embrace the noise and the complex layers of learning that exist for anyone of any age learning something that is way out of his/her comfort zone. I am still learning to swim and as a bonus have learned to strive for patience and empathy for my kids and other kids as they tackle so many words, images, abstract ideas, and problems -- both on worksheets and in their far less predictable non-academic lives. Their challenges are so surprisingly loud and far more difficult than plugging your own ear with your shoulder while breathing with your mouth just barely above the surface of the water. You might say that Max is the best swimming coach I've ever had.