Dedications

Photo by Ben Kaye-Skinnerkayeskinner.com

I have traveled back to the old homestead to pick the kids up and say our last goodbyes to friends and family.  Yesterday, we took our last swim in the local Y pool.  The pool has this ginormous water slide that my youngest son has been drooling over since he was two.  To go down the slide, you must either be a certain height (of which neither of my tiny children is near) or pass a swimming test and earn a "black band."  Oh, infamous "black band," if only you knew the tears, tantrums, wailing and gnashing of teeth you have brought upon my family.  Namely, me.

My daughter passed the test her first time at the age of seven.  She made it look easy, but she makes nearly everything look easy.  It being our last day at the pool, and my son's last chance to earn that frigging band, he decided to try for it a whole year earlier than his big sis.  I wasn't sure he could do it to be honest, but, what the heck?  Go for it.

At the first break, my tiny son lined up at the edge of the pool and stared up at the guard that towered over him.  He was nervous.  When he gets nervous, he babbles.  He also babbles when he's bored, excited, sleepy, hungry, and sleeping.  This time, I could tell, it was nervous babbling.  The guard managed to talk over the babbling to give the directions.  Before I could blink, little man was in the water and swimming.  I was doubled over on the side wishing I had an airsick bag or a very large sippy cup of wine.

I watched as he swam the length of the pool, treaded water for 30 seconds, heaved himself out, jumped back into the deep end, and finally heaved himself out again.  He'd completed the test!  He'd done everything required!  He'd earned that black band!  I cried out from across the pool deck, "Yes!"  Then nearly fell over when I saw my husband, standing next to the guard, shake his head, "No."  Before I could hit mute, I yelled, "What?  Seriously?"

Stupid Effing Lifeguard Guy had to come over to where I fumed and explain that my little guy did complete the test, but didn't look confident enough doing it.  He needed to work on making his strokes look more comfortable, and try again.  He explained all this in his calm nice-guy voice, while I visualized kneeing him in the groin and then pulling on the stupid little soul-patch he was growing on his stupid little chin.

Let me just interject here to say that just last week, I watched a kid pass the test doing the world's saddest looking doggie paddle.  My son could swim laps around that poodle!

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that my son didn't understand why he didn't get a band.  He'd completed the test.  He'd swum the entire length of the pool.  He'd treaded water.  He'd pulled himself from the deepest depths of the pool.  Twice!  I wrapped my arms around him, and he whispered into my shoulder, "I can't believe I didn't get it."

An hour later, the guard blew the whistle for the next break time.  My determined son strode over to the edge of the pool.  This time, little man wasn't quite as nervous.  He was strangely quiet sitting on the edge with his father by his side, staring ahead at his goal.  I stood far behind to watch, fists clenched.

He hit the water and swam with such strength and speed, he'd crossed the pool before I could even remind myself to breathe.  He finished the test with every bit of skill, determination, and confidence his small body had to give - every bit and then some.  When he pulled himself out of the water for the last time, I grit my teeth and waited until my husband looked over from where he stood next to the guard and gave me a thumbs up.  Little man had done it!

In a quiet moment later that afternoon, I told my son how proud I was of him.  He hadn't given up on himself.  He had tried again.  That kind of courage in a six-year-old is kind of remarkable.  Remarkable and inspiring.

Recently, I received a rejection from a literary agent I'd queried about my manuscript.  She'd requested the full manuscript and read and considered it carefully before deciding to pass on it.  Crushing defeat.  Like my little man, I wrote and revised the manuscript, survived the whole query process, and got close to my goal, only to be told, however kindly, "No."

Thankfully, I have a heroic little boy around to teach me to find my confidence and try again.  And when my manuscript gets published, I assure you the dedication will read

For my little man and his infamous black band.