The boy is sinking. I dash across the pool and hoist him by the armpits above the water. His eyes roll. His mouth gapes. His head lolls. I hustle him to the shallow end, heart hammering. Did he swallow water? Is he having a seizure? Should we call 911?
I deliver the boy to his parents. They hug him, drape a towel over his shoulders, speak in soothing tones. I stay in the pool, watching and waiting.
An hour ago, I felt festive, fortunate, grateful to be gathering with friends at five o’clock on a Friday evening, swimming in a backyard pool—stereotypical suburbia from a John Cheever story or Mad Men, minus the alcoholism, adultery, and acrimony.
Now I’m rattled, replaying the incident. I had been the only adult in the pool; Jess and the other two couples were on deck chairs. I was watching my son and two older boys in the deep end, but didn’t see the younger boy wade in from the shallow end until one of the older boys called his name and I saw the kid flailing, literally out of his depth.
Five minutes later, the boy seems fine. As I exit the pool, his mom thanks me, apologizes for her inattention. I get why she feels guilty—and don’t blame her at all. This is the pain of parenting: We strive to keep our kids safe, but deep down we know we can’t protect them from everything.
That night, I watch Las viudas de los jueves (Thursday’s Widows), a Mexican miniseries. I tell myself that watching sexy soap operas in Spanish is educational, a defense my brother dubbed the “foreign language loophole.” In the opening scene of the first episode, three middle-aged men float face-down in a pool, dead in the water.
On Sunday, my family wants to go to the movies, but I don’t want to go.
Why would we sit inside on a sunny summer day when we could bike, hike, or swim?
Also: movies are pricey, too long for my short span of attention, and I invariably get irritated and distracted by the glare of phone screens
Also: it’s Father’s Day. Shouldn’t I set the agenda? Nope. I’m outnumbered two to one, by the two people who made me a father. Our family is not a democracy, but it’s definitely not a dictatorship.
Also: my yoga teacher said this morning in class, strength doesn’t only mean power; it also means flexibility.
On the mat, in the pool, in life, I keep relearning the same lesson: life is smoother when you stop resisting and fighting, surrender control, and go with the flow.
Invariably, we have a blast. I love the nonprofit theater’s inclusive mission: to employ people with disabilities as cashiers, vendors, and ushers. And I love the movie: Inside Out 2.
In Inside Out, the main characters are personified emotions—Joy, Sadness, Anger, Disgust, and Fear—who live inside a girl’s mind and battle for control of her actions.
The sequel introduces a new slate of emotions—Anxiety, Envy, Embarrassment, and Ennui—who arrive abruptly with adolescence.
Unlike the protagonist, I’m not female or a teenager and have never played hockey. But I definitely relate to her inner conflict, the battle between Anxiety and Joy, the tension between fretting about the future and savoring the moment, the vacillations between worrying you’re not enough and accepting your own adequacy.
I’m still anxious about swimming across the Hudson River in less than six weeks.
Yet this week, swimming inside at the gym and outside with friends and family—inhaling and exhaling, pulling and pushing, stroking and kicking—felt closer to joy.