Wading In / Advent Day 17

Advent is for waiters. And for waders.

Teo used to be a swimmer, buoyed by his styrofoam butt-pack. We went three times a week last winter, and even took "lessons" in the spring. Early last year, he’d take off across the pool hanging off a foam noodle, and later in the season I convinced him to give up the noodle, and he’d stay up using his arms and feet (and but-pack). He’d head off across the pool while I would be talking to my friend Laurent. No longer.

I’ve gone four times this winter so far. The first time, Teo held on so tight I could barely breathe. The second time we brought a friend Cooper along, and I played with Cooper some while Matteo clung to the side of the pool. The third time I eventually peeled him off me and set him up on his floaty noodle. His subsequent howly tantrum scared everyone. Margie, the no-nonsense but congenial woman who’s taught all of Fairbanks to swim when they were Teo’s age, marched in from her front office, and reprimanded me...

As did my wife. Marin, who rolls her eyes every time I compare Teo to other children (as in, "the other kids trust their parents and play together in the pool, and laugh together, and have fun..."), said simply, "Maybe he needs someone else to teach him to swim."

So, yesterday I resolved to desire nothing. Simply to show up with Matteo and keep us mostly submerged for the 45 minutes so we wouldn’t get cold.

Clinging was the order of the day. Matteo’s little arms clenched around my neck, and my arms gathered him in as I ambled in from 3 feet – the shallow end – to neck deep. Like a ccockroach, Matteo kept climbing higher on the sinking flotsam which was Papa.

Whenever I removed a hand from him, his alarm would go off. "No, HOLD me," he’d insist, right in my ear. Remembering his ability to bring the law down on me, I didn’t disobey. So we were pretty much cheek to cheek, banging noses whenever one of us turned his head. Dare I mention the parents who were pulling their 18-month-olds on the other end of snaky noodles, laughing, splashing; or the other Papa whose son was jumping into the water from the deck, into his arms...

I opened the door into the little intimacy Teo was creating with me, against the rest of the world. I started singing "O Tannenbaum," while bobbing and turning a little. We became ballroom dancers. When I’d get a little too emphatic in rhythmic ducking or spinning, he’d fire off his stern "No, Papa!" We danced through "Away in a Manger," with several questions posed ("what’s ‘cattle are lowing,’ Papa," or "what’s ‘stay by my cradle?’"). One hand came off him during "Silent Night," and two came off, with him standing on my thighs in full cling during "Jingle Bells." By then he was actually having fun, shouting out "Hey" at the appropriate time in the song, and even splashing a little without panicking.

The time went quickly, which is sometimes all that a parent can ask.

Half a parent-week later (conversion factor: one stay-at-home-parent hour = a day / one SAHP day = a week), when we were lighting candles in the dark at suppertime and giving thanks for things, Matteo lit his candle and said, "for Papa and Matteo singing in the pool."

Worth wading for.