July 30th, 2008
The Pool Whisperer
A long time ago, when the earth was young, Julia took swimming lessons and liked them. But right around the time Oliver was born she slipped as she was getting out of the bathtub and bit down on her tongue, hard enough to pierce it quite nicely; hard enough for it to bleed profusely for several minutes. And as the blood-tinged bathwater slurped down the drain that night, so did my daughter’s love of swimming – what we hoped would be a short-lived fear of water manifested into full-blown terror. Bath time went from fun activity to difficult chore and Julia acted like she was being dipped in acid when we took her for swimming lessons.
The spring before we moved here, she landed a swimming instructor who was aces. While most of the other instructors at our local Y were of the pimply-faced, horndog variety, this teacher was older and far more experienced than her younger counterparts. She was gentle yet assertive, confident and enthusiastic about swimming. Those attributes swelled from her and into her students; for the first time since the bathtub accident, Julia was enjoying the water again.
And then we moved. We didn’t sign her up for summer lessons in our new town, a decision we soon came to regret. Everything she’d learned went up in a cloud of smoke; when we did take the kids swimming Julia clung to us, terrified, and became hysterical within minutes of being in the water.
When I signed the kids up for lessons earlier this summer I looked in to private ones for Julia. For $15 a lesson she’d have half an hour with an instructor who I was assured had dealt with kids who were scared. Though it was costly, I signed her up for eight private lessons at our community pool and grew increasingly frustrated as I watched my daughter completely control the lessons. Her instructor, a tall, lanky guy who was maybe seventeen, appeared quite passive, which Julia immediately recognized and took full advantage of. She refused to do anything he asked her, steering his attention instead to such things as the bad things Oliver had done the previous day and the names of her friends from school.
Finally, after six lessons, she got in the pool with a lifejacket on and floated, on her back and stomach, and put her face in the water to blow bubbles. So what if it was in the wading pool? So what if her idea of ‘swimming’ was really crawling, army-style, through three inches of water? She was IN THE WATER, GODDAMMIT. I stood up and clapped like she’d just swam the fucking English Channel.
Then a few weeks ago, Dave had a total stroke of brilliance and called the nearby university about lessons, which sounded much better than the private ones we were paying through the nose for. So last week, we went to the pool so she could check it out. I was a bit nervous that the size of the pool would scare her (it’s huge), but I focused on the positives: unlike the community pool, this one was indoors and the water was heated. The change rooms would be free of spiders and other insects and that telltale port-a-potty stench. Like they did me, these things excited her, and to my surprise, so did the pool. She wasn’t scared of its size, so I signed her and Oliver up for lessons right then and there.
Their first lesson was this past Monday and before the class started, I briefly outlined her history with the instructor. I told him I knew she had it in her, but she needed some gentle pushing. I steered Oliver toward the benches, sat down and watched as Julia lined up with her class at the edge of the pool. About forty seconds in, Oliver announced that he had to GO POO RIGHT NOW, MUMMY!; as I walked past Julia, her face crumpled and she reached for me.
“I’ll be right back, listen to your teacher,” I called as I breezed by her. Just before I opened the change room door I glanced over my shoulder and saw Julia’s teacher lift her off the wall and in to the pool. She was SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER.
By the time I came back she was floating with a noodle. UNASSISTED. I sat beside Oliver, my jaw planted firmly in my lap, and watched my daughter put her face in the water, blow bubbles, retrieve objects from the bottom (without going under completely, but getting pretty damn close) and float on her own. She was confident, she was learning, and most importantly, she was having FUN. She’s still nervous; there are still things she won’t do in the water, but she’s come a long way in just three lessons.
I’ve nicknamed her instructor The Pool Whisperer. I don’t know what he’s doing, but whatever it is, it’s working, because when her lesson ends my daughter does not want to get out.
And that, my friends, is a first.
