I found one.
Swimming.
One of those things that I used to love… you know, before. Before I became someone’s mom and someone’s wife and someone’s teacher.
Growing up, we had an aboveground pool in the backyard. I spent my summers splashing and playing marco polo and doing handstands in the shallow water. When we were little, we would beg my dad to come swim with us… not because we were scared, but because the pool became an amusement park when he vaulted over the side, wrapped his huge biceps around us, and then catapulted us in the air. For a moment, we were flying. Then we splashed down, giggling, and popped out of the water, shouting, “Again! Again!” He would toss us into the water until his arms were sore.
My grandfather had an in-ground pool. As the adults lounged, the kids developed a constant awareness of our surroundings, because that side of the family wouldn’t hesitate to push you in when you least expected it. I learned that it was best to jump before you could be pushed. And it was there that I learned to dive. After weeks of belly flopping painfully off the diving board, I finally felt my hands hit before my head. I loved diving off the board. I loved the feeling of butterflies just before my body hit the water… the excitement and anticipation of being mid-air just before the water enveloped me.
My teenage years were full of pool parties and cookouts, playing chicken in teams of two, stacked on each others’ shoulders in a slightly bigger version of that first above-ground pool. My friends loved to hang out at my house, wrestling and roughhousing in the water.
And then we got the boat. I loved tubing and swimming in the lake. I loved jumping off of the back of the boat, not knowing how cold the water might be. That’s still the way I like to enter the water. No dipping my toes in. No wading in a little at a time. No drawing it out. I prefer the surprise. A little shocking cold, and there’s no going back. Just jump in.
In my twenties, I was a little reckless about it. We would jump from the ledge in the quarries after dark. 20 feet. 30 feet. A few moments of terrifying butterflies, followed by a satisfying splash. God, I loved the water.
A few years later, I took my babies to mommy and me swim classes. I loved the feel of their soft baby skin as their chubby arms wrapped around my neck. I loved the surprise and then the joy on their faces as they learned to float and then kick and, finally, use their arms to propel themselves forward.
But I think that’s also when it started to get harder to enjoy the water. Trying to change out of my wet swimsuit with a squirming, naked baby or toddler was an exercise in patience, speed, and flexibility. Watching the kids took precedence over executing a pretty dive or floating on my back and studying the clouds. I became the thrower instead of the thrown in that age-old pool game of “Daddy/Mommy… throw me!”
At the same time my body had changed, as well as my swimsuit needs. I was no longer shopping for a cute bikini. I was looking for a suit that covered my cellulite and came up far enough on my body that a grabby toddler couldn’t accidentally expose a nipple. I became self-conscious in a new way. Swimming became more of a chore and less of an adventure, so I mostly hovered near the edge of the water, reapplying sunscreen and watching to make sure children didn’t drown.
As they got a little older, a trip to the lake or the pool took on a different feel. I didn’t need to watch them with quite the same intensity. They were strong swimmers, and there were lifeguards on duty. Sometimes I swam and played with them; I never lost my love of the water. But more often, I would take advantage of a break from parenting and chat with a friend or read a book or just lay in the sunshine. Respite was a more pressing need than play, if that makes sense.
And little by little, I think I forgot. I think I forgot how much joy comes from the water. I forgot that this is a type of play that I deeply enjoy.
So this summer, I’m approaching the water differently. Every single time we’ve taken that boat out, I’ve jumped in to the water. I’ve had swimming races and dunked my kids and we’ve attacked one another with cannonball splashes. I’ve dived off the platform and felt those same butterflies… the ones that I felt at 8 when my dad threw me into the air. The ones that I felt at 10 when I dove into my grandfather’s pool. The ones that I felt at 15, playing chicken on my boyfriend’s shoulders. The ones that I felt at 21, leaping from the quarry ledge. The ones that I felt at 28, letting go of my baby in the YMCA pool.
I’m so grateful for those butterflies. I’m so grateful for a body that reminds me that I am still who I’ve always been. I’m so glad I remembered how much I love the water.