After over a decade of living in this area, and a decade of working within fifteen miles of a year-round aquatic center, I finally got my act together and bought a punch pass so I can swim laps. I've been going two- to three-times a week now, for the past month, and I've been feeling great. The last time I swam regularly like this I was in graduate school. I used to swim five days/week back then, and when I look back on that time I remember it as one of the few periods in my life when I felt like things were perfectly in balance: work, life, home--me.

This aquatic center reminds me a lot of the pool I used to go to, on the campus of my graduate university. It's quieter here, and the time when I go (before 8:00 on a weekday morning) seems to be the same time when lots of elderly people go for their exercise--in particular, one small group of very elderly, very white-haired women. In between my laps, when I'm catching my breath, or switching to the kickboard, I stop and watch them. They walk gingerly in their rubber shoes across the pool deck, and lower themselves into the water, ever so carefully. Their bodies seem so frail, so breakable, but once submerged they have a new buoyancy about them, a renewed faith in what they can do. I like to watch the women smile and splash water across their bodies and talk excitedly with one another. There's something about being in water that brings out the kid in everyone, I think. My grandmother's face used to light up that same way when she was near the ocean, standing on the water's edge, and exclaiming over the way the rocks looked through the clear water. 

Monday night at dinner, T. and Scott and I had a lively discussion about the fine distinction that exists between tooting your own horn, and bragging. T. was confused. "What horn?" she wanted to know. We explained the expression to her, and spent more time having fun demonstrating examples of horn tooting and bragging. T. did a beautiful imitation of bragging, complete with the sing-song voice inflections and Scott was pretty good at supplying examples of horn tooting. But it struck me that there is a very fine line between the two, and a huge part of the difference centers around the tone and delivery, and people's perceptions of the horn tooter.

I spent much of Monday listening to a lot of public horn tooting from colleagues, and it occured to me that most of it--if not all of it--came from men. They also seemed so at ease with it, and so skilled at pulling it off, making me wonder: is horn tooting something boys learn? Do they learn how to do it because they feel entitled tof? Is it considered unseemly behavior in a girl, who might be taught early on that it's better to sit back demurely and wait to be noticed? Do we overlook horn tooting in men because we expect it and, unconsciously or consciously judge women when they do it? 

At the start of Day One of faculty development workshops yesterday we did an ice-breaker activity. Everyone  in the room had to organize themselves into groups based on their birthday month but—here was the one rule—you could not speak to anyone while doing it. After a few chaotic minutes, the groups were all set and I looked around at my August crowd and felt surprised, for some reason, by how many people have August birthdays.  Everyone in my group seemed to have that special glow about them, too—that glow you can’t help but wear when it’s your birthday month. No one, wisely, asked anyone how old they are turning this month.

I have the number ten bouncing around in my head these days. I've been thinking about the day, some ten years ago, when I walked into a drugstore with L. in the Baby Bjorn front carrier. "Ooooh, how old is he?" the cashier gushed as I dug some change out of my wallet. "Ten weeks old," I said proudly. Then I stopped and gasped inside a little at the size of that number: ten WEEKS old. It seemed only the day before that I had told another cashier, in another store, that my baby was only ten DAYS old.

That cashier's eyes had rounded in surprise. "I can't believe you gave birth ten days ago," she said. "You look fantastic!" I was proud and happy because, while I had once desperately wanted someone to notice that first baby bump some seven or six months earlier, I certainly appreciated being told that I no longer looked how I felt: swollen and bruised still from the birth.

Last summer L. turned ten YEARS old. It seemed impossible. It seemed surreal, even. How could he have been on this earth for a decade, when I could still so easily picture him just-born? I could still conjure up the feel of his body curled against mine, the funny baby habits he had, the smell of his neck, the tickly feel of his hair against my cheek?

I was looking for this post the other day, so I could send it to a friend of mine--a beautiful woman who is feeling a little overwhelmed with life, and kids, and marriage, and juggling it all. But I couldn't find it, despite my best efforts. Then, while I was sorting through old posts from three years ago, I stumbled across the piece again. It's still one of my favorites from that summer--I hope it wings its way to my friend, too, and to all the beautiful, amazing women out there who have forgotten what it's like to truly see themselves again.

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July, 2008

On Thursday last week I bought T. a new swimsuit. I hadn't intended to buy her one--she has three already (two of them were gifts). But we were in the evil mega store to buy some last-minute supplies for our beach trip. There, on a rack, was a cute skirted swimsuit with printed red cherries on it--perfect for T. and her strawberry-blonde complexion. And it was only $9.99! She didn't even have to try it on--it was a 3T and I knew just by eye-balling it that it would fit. Sure enough, back at home she tried it on, turning this way and that way in front of the mirror. It was made for her, of course. "I look BEAUTIFUL!" she said, "Mama, don't I look cute?" (Except of course, with the way T. pronounces things it came out "I look Boo-ful" and "don't I look coot.")

"You sure do," I told her, thinking about how this was just the beginning of the long relationship T. will have with herself, her mirror, and her body image.

Summer school teaching started this week. I'm teaching an 8:00 a.m. class, and another one at 10:15--every day for four weeks. In keeping with our trademark tag-team parenting style, Scott takes the afternoon shift, and teaches from 1:00 5:45. I always forget, over the course of the year, how exhausting it is to teach two two-hour classes in a row. It's easy to get settled into that cushy 50-minute teaching time. You barely have time to take roll, clip through material, do some group work, and suddenly it's time to switch and move on. But two-hour classes, that's a very different thing entirely.  Despite having to get up at 5:45 every day to make it all happen, and despite trying desperately to get an 8:00 class up and moving and responsive, I enjoy teaching in the summer. I like the fact that I get to see my students every day, and that we can establish a good rapport early on. There's always a sort of "we're all in it together" attitude about summer school. I like the relaxed pace, the smaller classes, the fact that summer school students are always much more motivated to do well then regular semester students. I also like the quiet time I have, in my office, to write--it reminds me of a certain summer, over a decade ago.

On Sunday late afternoon, my  neighbor and I set out on our weekly walk, and fell to talking about childbirth. Our weekly walks are more than just a chance to exercise our bodies, but a chance to unload our thoughts from the week--the pitfalls, the funny moments, the complaints, the grouching about things we can't control. I think we crave that part of the walk more than we crave the actual exercise. We often swap stories, she and I, about pregnancy, and sleep woes, and sometimes brief reminiscences about childbirth and those early infancy days.

The other night I had a good talk with L., about things that have been going on at school lately.

We talked about middle school, and about how good it can be to think of next year as a clean slate--a chance to meet new kids, to have a fresh start; so that even if it seems a scary transition, it could be a great and exciting one, too.

He talked about "fixing the things" in himself that were preventing people from liking him, and it was at that point my heart broke more for him, as it does every time my kids feel inadequate, or "unliked" or alone.

I held a 6-month old baby this past weekend--only for about 20 minutes, while the baby's mother had the chance to fix herself a plate of food. We were at a birthday party for a friend.  Before I got my hands on that little guy, he had been rolling around on the floor, cooing and gurgling and I was transfixed, because he reminded me so much of L. when he was that age. It was strange to have that small window back into the past unexpectedly opened, and strange and fun to hold a baby that age again.

Yesterday's post was sparked by a woman I saw waiting in the grocery store checkout line earlier in the week. She was young and had two small children with her--one about 15 months old. She was paying for her groceries with a WIC check and when I saw that, the memories came flooding back.