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.
