Learning to swim

As we enter the local swim center, we are immediately met with the unmistakable scent of chlorine and mold. A smell reminiscent of library books crossed with Clorox. A musty-meets-antiseptic odor that brings my own days of swimming lessons — some 30 years ago — bubbling to the top of my memory. The woman at the front desk directs us toward the waterslide, where we join several shivering preschoolers and their moms, anxious about their first class.

Josh has been excited about this all week. And once he gets into the pool, he's thrilled to find that he can stand up by himself in the generous two-and-a-half-feet-deep shallow end. I take my seat on the bleachers and watch six wet heads blow bubbles into plastic rings, reach underwater for rubber fish, and scoop pretend ice cream with both arms. The teacher then takes each minnow-in-training for a solo swim, first on their stomach with a kickboard and then on their back with their head resting on her shoulder. Some are more graceful than others. And some are definitely more comfortable in the water.

Josh thrusts his bottom underwater yet tries to kick during his back float. He ends up looking more like a clam than a fish. But he tries every exercise, no matter how proficient. And after class, we go out for ice cream to celebrate a successful first lesson.

The next week starts with a half-hearted protest about the temperature of the water and something about not being ready yet. I plop him into the pool and hurry to my seat, hoping he'll suck it up until he remembers how much fun he had last week. He starts selectively dropping exercises. He refuses to blow bubbles in the ring but merely touches his lips to the water. He won't reach for the rubber fish his teacher holds just low enough that he has to get his face wet to reach it. Instead, he lifts her arm up with his foot to bring his prey to his grasp. He swims his solos but only kicks occasionally, and he won't relax his head for the backstroke. Between structured activities, he spends all his time holding onto the side of the pool and pleading with me to let him get out. Needless to say, we do not go out for ice cream this week.

Eric and I try to practice with Josh between lessons. We take him to the pool in his grandparents' neighborhood and urge him to blow bubbles, get his whole face wet, kick, float, scoop. Some days we are successful. Other days we are not. Such is life with a three year old.

The following lesson is a little worse, and by the final session, I can hardly keep him in the water. The teacher takes each student through the required minnow skills, evaluating their progress. The other kids demonstrate remarkable aptitude — even the ones who cried through the first lesson. But while they progressed, Josh regressed. I try not to cringe as his teenaged instructor hands me the small yellow report card with nary a check on the list of class requirements. At the bottom, it cheerily proclaims, "Congratulations, your child is now qualified to enroll in the Minnows" which is, of course, the very same class he's been taking. Or should I say avoiding.

So I decide to sign him up for a different version. One that meets twice a week instead of once a week so he can hopefully sustain some momentum between sessions. The first day brings an unlikely surprise — a male teacher. Josh thinks this is a huge bonus. And with the help of a rubber duck wearing a farmer's hat, the new instructor lures my timid swimmer into the pool. Winston works slowly, carefully gaining Josh's trust before leading him into uncharted waters. And Josh begins to cautiously follow him, first moving off the stairs (or "his office," as we like to call them), then almost getting his nose wet, and finally kicking all the way to the deep end on a kickboard sporting the aforementioned duck.

As I root his tentative progress, I am reminded of how difficult indeed it is to learn to swim. A couple years ago, he was just learning to walk, figuring out how to steady himself on solid ground, awkwardly scooting around the coffee table on his newfound legs over and over again until one day he accidentally walked all the way across the family room floor while firmly grasping the remote control for imaginary balance. Now I have thrust him into a completely new world — one that doesn't follow any of the same laws of physics or aerodynamics — and I'm somehow expecting him to swim from end to end after a handful of half-hour lessons.

It is suddenly clear to me that he will learn to swim the same way he learned to walk: One small step at a time, with fits and spurts of progress followed by inevitable setbacks and eventually culminating in an unexpected surge of success after what seems like weeks of failure.

And the more I think about it, the more I recognize this path. It is the same one I follow as a mother. Prudently taking two steps forward and then inevitably one step backward. Striving to walk away from my more naive, less sacrificing younger self and swim in the deeper waters of the more responsible, less impulsive, wiser souls who came before me. Learning the new strokes of nurturing and often running out of breath as I brave new depths. Misplacing my confidence with every new challenge. Making mistake after mistake before finally achieving an unlikely breakthrough.

It is slow-going, this process of becoming. And it is rife with setbacks. But it is also full of promise and possibility. When Josh and I are finally able to embrace the true weightlessness of swimming, we will be rewarded with the unique freedom that comes only from perseverance and growth. In this moment, as we both kick and choke and splash our way through our respective lessons, that's what I'm truly counting on. That, and the celebratory ice cream.

Groupies

When Josh was four months old, I joined a local playgroup. When I was pregnant, people were always telling me how easy it would be to meet other moms once the baby was born. But one of the things I remember most about those first few fuzzy months of motherhood was the persistent feeling that I was alone.

It's not that I didn't get oodles of support from my husband, parents, in-laws, and friends, but everyone worked full-time. So five days a week from morning until evening, I was alone with this tiny creature whose needs fluctuated on a daily basis and whose psyche I was convinced I was permanently damaging with every small choice I made. So I went online, found the mom's club in my area, sent a check to an anonymous PO box, and a few weeks later I was in a playgroup with three strangers who happened to have babies Josh's age. And at first — I'll be completely honest here — I wasn't so sure it was a good idea.

Perhaps it's a natural phenomenon when you gather two or more sleep-deprived, anxiety-ridden, intensely insecure new moms together, but those first few meetings were awkward, to say the least. Each week, I would leave and think up creative excuses to skip next week's meeting. But for some reason, I kept me showing up each week. Maybe it was the comfort of knowing that I had a real appointment to get ready and leave the house for, or perhaps it was the morbid curiosity of watching other people's train wrecks — such as blow-out diapers or the meltdown of all meltdowns in the middle of a Starbucks — that made me feel better about my own lot in motherhood. Whatever the motivation, I persisted.

Within a few months, we lost a couple original members and gained a couple more, and somewhere in the middle, we found a nice equilibrium. We didn't always share the same interests or parenting philosophies, but we did share one universal commonality: We were all suddenly doing the hardest job we had ever done, and we had no idea how.

So we faithfully met each Thursday morning at nearby parks on nice days and coffee shops on rainy days. We'd all pull up in our assorted baby mobiles and spend the next 20 minutes heaving our enormous strollers out of the trunk; loading them up with the diaper bag, a purse, assorted toys, and snacks; and then clipping the infant carrier snugly in place, being careful not to wake the just-now-napping baby. Then we would navigate to the chosen meeting place, often en masse, struggling to manage all our gear. Inevitably at least one baby would wake up and promptly start screaming that I'm-either-about-to-be-eaten-by-a-wildcat-or-maybe-I'm-just-hungry cry, just as we were figuring out how to fit four SUV strollers between two easy chairs and a leather couch.

For the next hour and a half, we would compare notes. Does your baby ever sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time? How often does your baby nurse, and for how long? Do you feel like you want to kill yourself at least once a day? Are you laughing one minute and sobbing the next? Oh good. Me too. We'd whine and complain about all the things all those family members and strangers never told us when they were so busy telling us exactly what it would be like to have a baby. And we'd complain about all the unsolicited and mostly untrue nuggets of wisdom we were randomly granted in line at the post office, the grocery store, or the ATM. But mostly, we would sit in comfy seats or on plush park blankets and try to relax for a moment or two before our never-ending shift started again.

While the babies did nothing more than roll around on a blanket or smile at one another from their infant seats and grab their own fuzzy rattles, we moms bonded in a way only soldiers who've been to battle together can. And miraculously, many months later we found one more member who instantly gelled, as if she had been with us from the very beginning. She also brought a much-needed daughter into our group that had previously been composed of three rough-and-tumble boys and one petite girl.

We have stuck together as a playgroup longer than most. A few other moms have come and gone over the years, trying us out for a while and then moving on, but the core remains solid. As our lives ebb and flow with activities and commitments, illness and new babies, one of us may be scarce for a few weeks here and there, but we always come back together, weathering schedule changes, vacations, pregnancy, and preschool. And now that the kids are old enough to really play together, they are great friends. Each child has his or her own distinct personality, talents, and quirks, but they truly love each other. In the last year as they have all gotten so good at expressing their emotions and communicating clearly, I have been touched and amazed to see how strong their bond has become. For they didn't chose one another any more than we did. We were all brought together by a combination of administrative randomness and fate. And it seems both forces knew exactly what they were doing.

So what, you may wonder, inspired this ode to friendship? Last week, we found out that one of our founding members is moving to the East Coast. Her family has an incredible new opportunity that happens to be across the country, and while we wish her well, we are sad to lose one of our own. Her departure has only reminded me how finite our little group is. I have tried not to think about it in the past, but even if the rest of us stick around, in less than two years our kids will be in kindergarten, potentially signaling the end of the weekly play date. And while we all live reasonably close to one another, we are all in different school districts, so seeing one another can only happen extracurricularly.

But imagining life without my weekly dose of chaos and fun is depressing. I'm not sure what I will do if I don't get to see what clever T-shirt Bradley is wearing or find out which words Lauren learned to spell each week. And while I now have no choice but to find out via e-mailed pictures from East Coast servers how tall our resident pro basketball player Alex is getting, I refuse to go more than a week without hearing Sami call me Rockin' Robyn. So how in the impending school-age era do I plan to fix this? There's only one solution: Those kids will just have to move in with me. And they better bring their moms, too.

Something frustrating and a little bit obnoxious

Lately, Josh has developed his own sort of syntax for communicating his most basic needs and desires. Either he's earnestly experimenting with how best to liberally apply adjectives so he can follow in his marketing writer mom's footsteps or he is simply dedicated to thoroughly annoying me every chance he gets. I have a feeling it's the latter.

It began with food. He would announce proudly that he was hungry. I would dutifully ask what kind of snack he wanted, and he would answer in a vague, yet specific kind of way: "I want something that's crunchy and goldfishy," or "I'm thirsty for something appley and juicey," or "I'm hungry for something twisty and a little bit fruity." I would scratch my head and pretend to search through the cupboard before emerging victoriously with Goldfish crackers or apple juice or twisted fruit in his favorite "tropsical" flavor.

But this penchant for description in lieu of directness has expanded beyond food and grown into a considerable chore. He is now applying his new technique to all his meals as well as his activities. And he has begun to demand polar opposites. "I want something crunchy and fruity and a little bit chewy," he said the other day after his nap. "Crunchy and chewy?" I asked. He nodded. "I don't have that." I responded, and I was met with an instant tantrum.

He also uses this strategy to narrow down things he doesn't want. Yesterday morning, he asked if he could take a toy in the car on the way to school. I told him to bring something small. He looked at his toy table and said, "I don't want something that floats or something that drives on roads or something that goes on a track." Then he looked up at me and told me to choose, based on those criteria, of course. If I threw all the boats, trains, and cars out of his toy box, there would be little left. I motioned toward an airplane, and he quickly threw in, "Or something that flies in the air." Damn. And last night after we went swimming, he announced, "I want something messy that I can eat at the table." Way to narrow it down for me.

So how did I end up as the sole contestant on Josh's unique form of Jeopardy? I have no idea. But if I really think about it, I can probably trace it back to that very first time when I thought it was cute — and I indulged him. The mistake of all mistakes as a parent. I think it was that deadly combination of pride over his evolving language skills and my desire to be the fun mom that lured me into participating. Now I'm stuck in guessing-game hell, and I'm no longer impressed nor concerned about my mommy Q score. I'm just aggravated, and I'm suddenly desperate for something that's a little bit rational and really straightforwardey.

The mouse's house

We did it. We were planning to wait until he was at least five, but we broke down and officially introduced Josh to the Disney cult last week. And he is now wearing the hat, singing the song, and drinking the kool-aid. Oh what have we done?

When you grow up in California, your first trip to Disneyland is practically a right of passage. It's right up there with your first bike, your first slumber party, and your first piercing. Parents agonize over the right time: Are they too young? Will it be too scary? Will they remember it? Kids beg and argue. Parents finally acquiesce (and sometimes regret it).

My parenting philosophy has been that Josh has his whole life to enjoy the granddaddy of amusement parks, so why rush the first experience? (Coincidentally, this is also my parenting philosophy on drinking soda and eating candy, and aside from a couple of birthday party lollipops and a hard-earned chocolate bar from his trick-or-treat bag, I'm standing firm on that.)

But a family wedding an hour outside of Anaheim changed my mind (as did the thought of driving six hours down a long, boring, dusty freeway with a three year old in the backseat on a Friday and then turning around and doing that same thing two days later). So we added more time to our trip and decided to immerse ourselves in what is now the Disneyland resort, which not only includes the classic park and hotel, but a fancy lodge (that costs a fortune to stay at), a new-to-me park aimed at teens and adults but with plenty of preschool-friendly attractions thrown in to make it a worthwhile stop, and an enclosed outdoor downtown area complete with the coolest niche shops as well as slick restaurants that beckon you to sit on the patio and drink tall, pastel drinks with hunks of fruit hanging off the side of the glass.

At the crack of dawn on the first morning, we packed a bag, hopped a tram, and headed for the Mouse Mecca. "I can't wait to see the castle," Josh kept saying as he bounced up and down on the bus seat. He has been pointing to the castle at the beginning of his Disney DVDs and books for weeks now saying, "I'm going there!"

After wrangling with the ticket booth over my Internet-purchased tickets and waiting in a long line at the entrance gates, a loud bell rang at exactly 8:00 a.m., an old man made a spirited announcement, and the crowd surged through the turnstiles and randomly dispersed to roller coasters near and far. We sauntered in and tried to casually observe the wonder we expected Josh to exhibit. We pointed out the Mickey Mouse head made of flowers with flashing lights that Tinkerbell seemed to control. We talked up the train station and the fire truck. And when we finally got a straight shot of the castle, we directed Josh's gaze toward the vaunted icon with a drum roll. And he looked at it as if to say, "That's it? That's the big castle?"

Much of the first morning followed that same theme. We took him on Pinocchio and Peter Pan, those classic Disneyland rides that take you in a little cart through doors that open just as you arrive and roll you through scenes from movies Josh has not yet seen. He didn't like the doors or the darkness behind them, so we quickly shifted gears to the Flying Dumbos and the carousel and other rides that make grown-ups dizzy. And all the while, Josh followed us from ride to ride with a distinct lack of wonder. In fact, I started to worry that he was coming down with something, and I kept checking the temperature of his forehead to reassure myself he was not about to confine us to a cheap hotel room for four days while our prepaid Park Hopper tickets wasted away.

But then we spotted Minnie and Pluto in Toon Town. They were shaking hands and giving out hugs, and although he didn't want to meet them, Josh was thrilled to run into some familiar faces. He watched from afar as they greeted child after excited child (and parent after excited, camera-posing parent). And slowly throughout that first day, Josh started to catch the Disney spirit. By the time the pirate band on Tom Sawyer Island started singing, "Yo-ho, Yo-ho, a pirate's life for me," and the waitress brought him a lunch menu printed on a paper pirate hat, Josh was adorning his head, singing along, and looking like a walking advertisement for the Magic Kingdom.

And his enchantment only grew the next day when we arrived at California Adventure and got to explore it for the first time together. From the 3D Muppet glasses and Turtle Talk with Crush from Finding Nemo to the ladybug ride and surprise water play in A Bug's Land, Josh found his utopia. While he loved drinking a milkshake for lunch and he couldn't get enough of the rope bridges in the Redwood Creek Challenge Trail, the pièce de résistance was the Pixar parade that marched down the main drag just after naptime because it was led by his all-time favorite movie star: Lightning McQueen. I thought Josh was going to hyperventilate when he saw his red racing hero leading the way through Sunshine Plaza.

Suddenly, all the wonder and amazement I had expected on day one culminated, and Josh was so exuberant that he simply couldn't sit still. He bounced on my shoulders, pointed from character to Pixar character screaming their names, and ooo'd and ahh'd every acrobatic trick. We caught sprays of water from the floats, chased bubbles, and danced to the contagious music as Josh's favorite fuzzy friends paraded by us, smiling and waving. And I stood tall, boosting my little boy up to catch as much of this fantasy as he possibly could. His excitement pulsed through me as I realized that this is exactly what every mom strives to give her child every now and again: an experience of pure joy and delight, the thrill of anticipation, and the gift of discovery and imagination up-close and personal.

When the crowd finally dispersed, I lifted my son off my shoulders. As he took my hand, he looked up at me and said, "I didn't know it would be this fun, Mom!" And I looked down, admiring his glowing, galloping, Mickey-eared self and said, "Me neither."

It's all downhill from here

My favorite form of exercise is walking. So any time I can sneak out of the house for an hour (which is not often), I put on my tennies and climb the hills in my neighborhood. Since I live at the foot of the slope, there's nowhere to go but up.

Occasionally along the way, I find a small treasure Josh might like. Once I brought him a nearly perfect robin's egg with just a small hole in the middle where the baby bird must have escaped. Josh was fascinated and now asks me every time I walk to please bring him another egg.

One night last week, Eric was working late. I had been chained to my desk all day coaxing letters and punctuation into grammatically sound structures, and I really needed some fresh air. So I suggested a walk. "Can we go up the hills where you walk?" Josh asked.

I suddenly envisioned myself carrying him over my shoulder most of the way and tried to think up a new plan. But he wouldn't take no for an answer. Finally conceding, I quickly debated whether to take my SUV of a stroller, but pushing 30 pounds of plastic filled with 30 pounds of preschooler did not sound appealing. So I finally suggested he ride his tricycle. With the handle on the back, I could push him if he got tired, but I wouldn't have to travel at the speed of a three-year-old's stride.

So off we went, his sure feet pedaling revolution after revolution a few yards in front of me. He brimmed with confidence, looking back only when he came to a crossroads and was unsure which path to take.

Along the way, he discovered all kinds of treasures I could never (or should never) bring home — a jack rabbit hopping across the road and disappearing into a bush, cattails growing along our footpath that he had to stop and pet, and a wooden bridge that made his trike rumble as he traversed its wooden slats. He found delight around every corner. And I found my own kind of delight watching him explore in such an uninhibited way.

When we finally reached the top of the highest hill — me pushing him the last few feet and him sitting criss-cross applesauce on his wide seat — we saw the mountain our valley was named for stretched out before us, highlighted on one side where the sun set behind it and growing darker on the other.

Then came the best part, going back down. I looked at Josh with some trepidation, afraid to let him go too fast or get too far ahead of me. I pictured him flipping over, running into prickly bushes, or veering into the street without me close by to steer him in the right direction. At first, I tried to jog alongside him, but his erratic steering meant he often veered into my lane, and I was more afraid of breaking my ankle then risking a few cuts and bruises if he fell the whole six inches from his bike seat to the ground.

So I slowed up and simply let him go — my heart tightening as he rode further and further away. He soared toward independence with reckless abandon, taking in the thrill of descent. I couldn’t help but admire his adventurous side as I simultaneously fretted over his judgment and safety. When he ventured far beyond my comfort zone, I shouted for him to stop. But my voice couldn't compete with the rattle of his plastic wheels hitting the asphalt and the song of freedom in his head.

He must have sensed my fear though because after a few moments he suddenly he put on his break (meaning, he put his feet down and dragged them until his bike came to a stop) and looked back, smug and satisfied with his progress. I waved and ran to catch up. But as I approached, he turned back toward the slope and took off. As he cruised downhill, he lifted his feet off the pedals and let out a shriek of glee.

And I knew this time I would never be able to stop him.