Hydrophobia

I don't remember precisely when my younger son developed a fear of going into the water. I do remember that as an infant he wasn't happy about bath time. And I do remember that as a toddler we had to keep a close eye on him when the family was checking into a hotel. He had an uncanny sense, or maybe just a good nose for the scent of chlorine, and would make a beeline for the pool. If the pool happened to be in an open area either his father or I would catch him by the back of his OshKosh overalls just as he was about to leap in. Looking at him now, it's hard to believe there was a time when he didn't like the water. He dives, he swims, he goes off the high board and effortlessly finds his way to the edge of the pool. But somewhere around the age of three he acquired an aversion to water. He refused to go into anything bigger than a bathtub. No amount of coaxing or pleading would convince him to get even a toe wet. At the age of four, when I hoped to enroll him in the first level of swimming lessons, it became clear this was going to be impossible. Though I was labeled permissive by some who actually had the gall to remark to me that his father and I should show him who ran things, ignore his cries of terror, and force him to endure swimming lessons. No, I thought. I didn't have a clue what was going on in his little boy head that made him fear the water. But I didn't believe that bullying him into contact with it was going to help. A summer of watery adventures missed slipped by. And then another. Which brought us to Labor Day weekend 1997. We were in Omaha visiting friends and taking in the zoo and other local attractions. It had been a long, hot, dusty day at the zoo and then an evening barbecue. When we got back to our hotel it was late and dark. Our older son cast a longing eye toward the outdoor pool which was open until midnight. Thinking that a dip in the cool water would be refreshing and relaxing, we all ducked into the room to dig our suits out of suitcases, locate towels and get changed. As we left the room, dad and older son were already near the edge of the pool several yards away. I looked down at my dear little five year old son and held out my hand to him. He took it and we crossed the parking lot and entered the gate to the pool area. While I set our towels down on a chair, he took up his usual spot, sitting on the edge of the pool, his knees pulled up to his chest. The swimming trunks he was wearing had only seen water in the washing machine. I carefully descended the steps into the pool, keeping an eye on him while his dad and brother splashed and goofed off at the other end of the pool. I don't know what it was about that night. Maybe it was the outdoor pool under the starlit sky. Maybe he was just ready. I extended my arms toward him and smiled, expecting him to draw his little legs up even tighter. But he relaxed and smiled back and held his open arms out to me and slipped into the water. I caught him and we laughed. For the next hour and a half he wore himself out climbing out and jumping back in. He had made friends with the water. In his own time and on his own terms. Just as I knew he would. It serves me well to remember this as a lesson, as this is often his approach to overcoming whatever scares or perplexes this son of mine. I need to be patient and let him find his own way. Because in the end, it is ever so much more important that the victory belongs to him.