Amanda hosts #storiesoftheheart-Graduation Days

Growing Up Is Like Learning to Swim (A metaphor on Graduation)

by Amanda McIntyre

“You know, his mom says, “this reminds me of when you took swimming lessons.”

Really. Mom? Another story?” He shakes his head, but hides his smile.

“Hey, we might not have many more times like this. Just hear me out,” I said, sitting beside him on the park swings, away from the graduation reception. The same park where he’d once taken his first swimming lessons.

I looked at the now empty pool. “You began at the shallow end--scared, unsure, not wanting to let the water touch your face. You were afraid at first of the water. But slowly, with each visit to the pool, you got a little bit braver, taking timid steps until you immersed your body whole to dive for those pennies at the bottom.”

I smiled softly, then continued. “As you got older, you found the shallow end boring, it didn’t hold quite the challenge. You wanted to see if you could do more, so you ventured out into the deep end.” There you learned to float—sometimes to tread water. But you challenged the unknown and realized it wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was freeing somehow, to know that you’d conquered the fear inside you. And you're content for a while, swimming in the deep end.

I glanced at my son; his gaze focused on the worn dirt path at his feet. “Until, the day you discovered the diving board. And once more you faced another challenge. I suggested it might be fun.” She smiled, studying his face. “I remember you saying that it looked kind of scary and I just waited, letting you think it through.”

“Maybe I’ll give it a try,” you said.

“I could see you mustering your courage.” I smiled when he looked at me. “You’ve come a long way since overcoming those first challenges, huh?” In that moment, time seemed to stand still and I wondered when he had gone from that little boy to a young man.

“Mom, are you gonna cry? Here?” He looked around, hoping no one was watching.

“No, I wouldn’t think of it,” I waved off his concern. “But I am going to finish.” I searched his eyes, remembering a million moments—his first scrape, first scout badge, first loose tooth, first home run in Little League, first heartbreak. I took a deep breath, reining myself in, willing myself not to get weepy. There’d be time for that-later.

“You were in your early teens, I think when you decided to climb the tall ladder to make that first dive. I remember you peered around the side of the ladder and found me at the fence. You made it to the top and stood there, debating, I suspect, how far away the shallow end looked. Then you looked down to where the other kids—younger than you—were about to embark on their first lesson. I’m guessing you understood how it felt--the challenge of something new.”

My son shrugged and nodded. He squinted me a glance, a grin curving one side of his mouth. “Mom, does this story have a point?”

“Every now and again, one of those little kids would stop to watch you climb the ladder," I said. "You’d reached the top. And while you looked down, pondering your fate, I’m sure you felt uncertain. You may have even felt like climbing back down. Some do come down.” 

She held his gaze. “But as you stood there, I could see you wanted to step out and accomplish something you’d never done before. Maybe in part, to impress the young person watching you-saying to themselves—if he can do it, so can I.”

He chuckled under his breath. “It might have been the cute lifeguard, too, mom.”

I rose one brow. “My point is that you learned uncertainty is not an option. You conquered the shallow end; you mastered the deep end. You knew what it felt like to touch the bottom--sometimes finding the treasure, sometimes not. You learned to float and tread water. It was all inside you--sure as the concrete structure of the pool before you.”

He laughed, the deepness of his chuckle signaling that he was getting the picture.

I turned to him. “Do you remember how scared you were? How you faced those fears and crushed them? You finally just dove in and came up with your fist in the air and yelled, yesss!”

He smiled. “Crushed it, mom? Really?”

“So, here’s the metaphor,” I said. “In life, there'll be other dives you'll learn,” I said. “The jack-knife….”

“The belly-flop?” he chuckled.

I nodded. “And maybe with lots of practice, the swan dive.” I shrugged. “And there may be times when you just want to sit on the side and bask in the sun, knowing that when you choose, you can hop back in.”

 I pointed my finger at him. “But each time you teeter on the edge of that diving board, pondering the uncertainty—you'll remember this story and remember what already lies within you.”

He was quiet a moment, then smiled. " Thanks for the story. I get it." He stood and pulled me into a bear hug. “Love you, mom.”

My chin quivered. I, too, had faced my hearts greatest challenge of accepting that my son was no longer a little boy. I’d dived in. Done my best. Faced every challenge. Relished every victory. 

“Love you more,” I said.

Amanda McIntyre writes stories of small-town humor, hope and warmth-where love always finds a way. Also a veteran of several high school and college graduations which include her four adult kids and daughter-in-law.