lessons along the way

Sitting at a swim meet today, on my birthday, halfway between wishing I was somewhere else, and unable to imagine any other plans for the day. Texting with our oldest, away at college, he joked that he didn't know what I meant in reference to the flow of the meet. I told him that someday I hoped to be able to forget just how long they can feel, these days in the bleachers at a natatorium. I don't mean it, of course; if we are not by a pool on a winter (or summer!) Saturday morning, listening to the rhythmic splash of various strokes, and the whistle and "boop!" of the start, then something strange and awful must have transpired in our lives. My husband gives of himself for this sport that saved his life, and I truly am grateful that the pool and a swim team brought us together, too (though I have, from time to time, forgotten that amazing detail).

Watching him work is a treat: he loves what he is doing, and is so very good at it. Today, I rejoiced to be able to see him cheering for our youngest, wishing I could have been on deck to cheer like that when he was a kid swimming. I see him now, talking to a swimmer about her race, and I see how he is able to apply all that he has learned in a lifetime of pool time. We've worked with so many coaches in all this time, most of them good, some pretty bad, and a few, truly great. The good and great ones will always be a part of our lives, the rest will continue to haunt us, I'm sure.

Try as I might, I have not developed a passion for the sport. A love and an appreciation, most definitely, but for too long, I tried too hard. It brought a hardness to my spirit, and derision to our lives. Neither of us really wanted to accept that loving my family was enough to love being here on a day like today. Learning that lesson has made such a huge difference. Once again, I feel like I did at those early meets, when I was falling in love with more than just a man; I was falling in love with his life, as well. Sharing this aspect of his life brings me joy, and when that's what's going on, it is enough.

"I wish you enough" is the blessing I pass along. When life and love are enough, the heart is at peace, joy can thrive, and laughter fills the soul. I have enough, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

taken for granted

My niece, Danielle, is a personal trainer (a mighty good one, at that!) and writes a blog of her own (Fit It In Fitness). On Saturday morning, my Facebook status was this: "Best part about going to my kids' sporting events: contagious enthusiasm!" Danielle commented that it sounded like a great idea for a blog post -- for her, of course -- and I agreed. Tonight, she asked for my opinion on contagious enthusiasm. What follows is my response to her.....


OK. Contagious enthusiasm. For the most part, I think that as long as it is channelled, directed and controlled, it is a great thing--not only for motivation, but for appreciation, as well. The tricky thing is that it can tip over into a mob mentality (how many times can you think of soccer championships in Europe turning into crushing mobs??)

Saturday morning was our first meet with the new swim team; the first home meet of the season. This team is uber-organized when it comes to meets, I found out. They had people there to train every volunteer, and by train, I do not mean "this is a stopwatch. Now go to it." The team has also grown quite a bit with Uncle Guy there, and following the Olympics, so it would have been easy for the kids' excitement to tend toward unruly. Before warm-ups, waiting at the end of the pool, I could literally feel the love of the sport radiating from the kids. I'd never felt it so strongly before [now, there are a whole bunch of nuances to that statement. Suffice it to say, this was awe-inspiring in me]. That same kind of feeling is what carried me through my first 5k. And I'd say pretty related to the "umph" that participating in a group training/class gives.

For the first time in a very long time on Saturday, seeing the kids excited, and the coaches excited, I couldn't wait for the meet to START. All because I caught their enthusiasm. I hate to admit that for too many years, that moment had given me a very different feeling: Uncle Guy would walk onto the deck, the pool all ready for the first splashes of feet first entry, and say that was his favorite sight, and all I could think was, "When will this be over??"

Maybe because I had a different function this time, too. But I really, really think it's more related to the happy anticipation of the boys, and being with this team.

take your mark

I have the best life these days. I love it! For the first time since I can remember, I went to a swim meet, and not only enjoyed it, but looked forward to it! Since we are with a new team, I was not anticipating having anyone to sit with, which, in and of itself, would have been a treat. (I have mentioned how much I enjoy being alone, even in groups and crowds.) I go to the meets to see my kids swim, not so much to socialize. All I need is a clear view of my progeny, a book and a bottle of water. I double lucked out, though, because my dear, sweet husband directed me to a dad from our new team, who not only introduced me to his wife and another set of parents, but none of them minded that I talked a little, and read a lot. (Interestingly, the book I was reading is Quiet : The power of introverts in a world that can't stop talking, by Susan Cain -- my new hero!) I got to see my Joseph swim, and I watched their kids swim, too, without the need to critique everything, or make comments on who looked like what. I got to go to the meet and be a mom AND be myself -- the best combination ever!!

As a bonus, I get to see my husband in action. He shines when he talks to the kids before and after their events. His love of the sport is evident in the way he interacts with his fellow coaches, especially the ones he now works with. For the first time, in a very long time, he looks like himself on deck, and I couldn't be more proud.

There's another side to my joyful anticipation today: I am not working at a pool. Summer meets for the past few years have been trying for me, as I still felt like I was at work, even though it was someone else's pool. In the wintertime, I didn't quite have the same feeling, but I did find myself keeping a close eye on how the meets were running, since we hosted a major meet at the pool where I worked this summer; I knew what I was doing, and how I envisioned the meet, but I kept looking for that one thing that goes wrong that could have been avoided "if only." For the first time, I did not need to worry about that meet (the next time that meet will happen at that pool will be in seven years. No way will I still be there then!)

So, for the first time in a long time, I was quite relaxed going to a swim meet. No duties, no responsibilities, no worries. And on the way home, we stopped for fro-yo, chatted, laughed and rehashed. Just like the "old days" before swimming got stressful -- the days when we first met. I'm glad our boys are getting to know that man: the man that I married.

a gift

Kim Jones was not someone that anyone really ever "met;" rather, she was "experienced." She had a way of embracing everything about you, sizing you up effortlessly, and then shining her smile, her laugh, her sharp wit right at you. I don't even remember the first time I ever saw her, because it seems that she'd always been a part of my life. There is so much talk in business and in schools lately about the need for mentors, and the responsibilities they have to teach, guide and build their mentees. Kim, I got the impression, could've cared less about that. And yet, she was the finest mentor a person could be. Perhaps, no, very likely, for the very reason that she wasn't looking to fill that role: her purpose was to make good swimmers when she was coaching, to do the best job she could while she was working. She had high expectations, but not unreasonable--everything was achievable, it just might take a helluva lot of work, energy, guts, whatever, to get there! She always smiled at me from the pool deck. She always listened to what I had to say. She always assured me that Guy was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and that the boys were growing up to be men we could be proud of. She grumbled on occasion, but always, always in such a way that we'd both laugh. And even when I sat with her one day and we both were crying, she managed to pull out that trademark Kim smile, and make it all a little lighter, a little easier to bear. It was a gift.

And I mean to pass it on.

coach kim jones

Dear Kim,
When I began running, I hated it. Somehow it had occurred to me and a friend that we were not getting as much aerobic benefit from our dance classes as we would like, and around the same time, I started racing Jonathan to the car, to a tree, across that field. I decided that it might be a good idea to try running. It would give me something to do while the boys were at swim practice, and, clearly, would benefit me. Still, I hated it.

But I tried to be determined about mastering it, and forced myself to get on the treadmill for 30 minutes those three days a week. At least half the time I walked--I walked fast, but it still really wasn't running. It was boring, and I found excuses for slowing down. But, I was exercising, I was sweating.

Then came your diagnosis. For a relatively long time, I was terrified to talk to you--afraid I would cry, or say the wrong thing, or that you would cry. I was scared of your breast cancer, your treatment, and yet I was so very pleased to see you walk into the Y every day. If you could do that, I could run. If you could continue to go out on that pool deck, and guide those kids with all the gusto you could muster, I could run. If you could keep smiling, laughing, hugging, high-fiving, I could run.

I bought a Swim for Kim shirt, and wore it on the treadmill. At first I got funny looks, because all the other Swim for Kim shirts went into the pool area, not the exercise rooms. I didn't care--I knew that you were getting sidelong glances because you lost your hair. If you could handle that, I could handle this. Every single time I started that treadmill, I told myself I was doing it for you. And I did.

There were oh, so many times when I wanted to quit running; to walk or stop completely. I chastised myself--"Kim can't quit." Or, "Kim had chemo today. Is this really so rough?" And sometimes, "What would Kim think if she knew you'd stopped?" For every mile I ran, I put a dollar in a box at home. I didn't know what I would do with it, but I knew that something would present itself. At Christmas, I bought three more Swim for Kim shirts, and gave them as gifts to my sister, my brother, and my sister-in-love. I kept running for you, through chemo, radiation, the swim season. Just as you were telling the kids in the pool, with practice and perseverance, I got more efficient, faster, more comfortable.

It took time for me to work up the nerve to talk to you as we had before. To feel that if you laughed--no, when you laughed, for you always seemed to have one ready--I could, too. I was so fortunate that you never questioned my distance. It would have hurt us both if you'd noticed. You helped me with my HR class; we talked and laughed over hiring practices and promotion standards. When I finished my paper, I sent it to you for editing before submitting it.

And when the doctor told you that the cancer was gone, but would lurk around, and eventually return, we hugged, and cried together in the chapel at the Y. You showed me the radiation burns, and told me how they hurt, but you were so tired of always trying to hide them. I told you how beautiful you always were, always would be; that your presence is what mattered most.

Kim, you never knew what a coach you were to me, too. Your support of my sons, and my husband, in and around the pool was a gift I never was able to--could never--thank you for enough. If all of us are here for a reason, to learn something and to teach something, you were an extra special blessing. You taught me how to encourage my son without going overboard. You taught me to face life with joy, no matter the difficulties. You taught me to love what I'm doing with my whole heart, even if it's not what I wanted to be doing. You encouraged me to see through to the end, no matter what. I remember your frustration with yourself at not making my graduation party, and Henry's confirmation party, because you were too tired from a breast cancer event. Did you know that I was so proud of you? Did you know I wished I was more like you? I am so very grateful to you--for being you, for all to see.

And for coaching me to run.

I love you, Kim, and I always will. I know that you must be on that great pool deck in heaven, calling out encouragement to all those who love the water; cheering and smiling that amazing smile that lit up every bit of your being. I know that your light will continue to shine on us all, because our love for you was always rivaled only by your love for us.

Take your mark.....

Love,
Stephanie

ouch

My son's shoulder hurts. Hurts as in, has a feeling that can only be described by words that are supposed to be attributed to sounds. Words like "grind," "crackle" and the like. Because he is a swimmer, this is a bad thing. Because he is a very good swimmer, this is a BAD THING. And at the moment, I'm taking it rather personally. I know this is silly, but I'm his mom. I'm supposed to keep him safe, or at the very least, be able to make it all better. Instead, I all I can do is check with our insurance to see what, if any, physical therapy might be available. He went for PT last spring.

Being his mom means that I probably should have nagged him more about wearing his backpack the right way; high on his shoulders and tight to his back. Not that there is much in his backpack, or rather, was much in there in the past. This year, he has more work to do. He's being more conscientious about his schoolwork. I'm proud of him for realizing how important his education is, and I'm thrilled that I don't have to get on him to get his work done. Yet I still feel guilty for 'choosing my battles' and deciding that the whole backpack thing would make sense to him before college, when he really will have loads of books to cart around. (Who am I kidding--college when he gets there will probably mean just a computer, and one that is far lighter than my laptop!)

Being his mom means that I probably should have been more involved in his swim program. There is no real, comprehensive dryland program with it. They run some, but no stretching, no strength training, nothing that I, as a dancer, consider to be important in balancing the muscles he uses to swim. And when he went to PT, I should probably have insisted that the therapist give him a comprehensive progression of exercises to go beyond what they had worked on to keep him interested in the program. When he does the exercises they gave him for "homework" and ongoing therapy, I get bored, so I can understand why he rushes through them with little to no regard for form. And, because I am his mom and he is 15, he doesn't really want to hear from me about how to properly do them.

Being his mom means that I probably should be more forceful in limiting his computer time, mostly because he sits with his computer on his lap, his arms completely unsupported. At least he puts pillows under his knees like I told him he should when he started to complain about his knees hurting. Because I am his mom, I am hurting, too. I wish I knew how to make it all better; how to not only make the pain go away, but also how to make it stay better.

Tomorrow, I'll call the insurance company and ask if he can go back to PT. Then I suppose I'll have to call the doctor to get a referral. I wish there was a better way. I believe in PT, but I know full well from my own experience that sticking with the exercises just doesn't happen. PT does not lead to the lifestyle change that he'll need to continue swimming at the level he wants to swim.

Until then, I'll wonder how else I could have done things. What else I could have done or said. Why? Because I am his mom. It's what I do. And we'll see what we can do for Henry's shoulder.