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Jeff's Life
Archive
Jeff Stimpson, 39, has been a working journalist for 15 years. He lives in New York with his wife Jill and sons Alex, 3, and Edwin, four months. He maintains a site of essays, Jeff's Life, at:
JEFF'S LIFE
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Monthly Column... |
by
Jeff Stimpson
Alex is taking swimming lessons.
Alex's classes are in a three-pool, indoor center about a three-block walk from the bus stop, and all the way he rode on my shoulders as I warned him he was going swimming in a big bathtub. "Alex, you're going swimming," I kept repeating well into the locker room. He must have wondered why T shirt, denim shorts, diaper, and sandals were swept away right here in the middle of the day, and replaced with a pool diaper and flowered shorts with a string in front.
If Alex was puzzled, he got over it in time to scoot off to the toilets. Alex is four and still not toilet trained; he's only just started to notice a full diaper. But he does love to flush. I heard the rush of water, over and over, ricocheting off the lockers while I wiggled into my trunks.
This class, for special needs kids, takes place in a pool of some 200 square feet, which has an adjustable bottom that can range from a foot deep to about the depth of my stomach. I was to be in the water with Alex. We thought he would take to swimming, based on how he likes splash and kick in the tub. His therapists have also told us that swimming would slow him down and increase his attention span. The stage was set for a rebound of happiness after his birthday parties in June, when all he could do was cry and keep repeating, "Ah bye! Bye!"
The first lesson started at 4 o'clock. He wailed until 4:30.
"Alex, it's just water," I kept telling him. "You know water."
"Noo! Noo!" he replied, his mouth a rectangle of misery and his cries ricocheting off the tile walls. His tears could have filled their own pool.
The instructors included a patient, cheerful, burly, young man who had the face of Crazy Horse tattooed on his arm. "Give me five, Alex," he would say, and Alex would, limply, while I sneaked his feet into the water.
"Stop it," Alex said to me, mimicking what we tell him when we want him to do something else. "Stop it." I wanted to drown.
"Alex, c'mon." But it struck me that I had no clue how something as alien as a gigantic swimming pool center -- the echoing tiles, the lapping water, the splashes and screeching - settled in Alex's brain. Maybe he just didn't understand. Sadly, he also didn't understand that I'd allowed myself a full half hour of this first class for him to just scream.
In this class, I was to swish Alex from side to side; show him how to blow bubbles; hold him while he floated on his back; have him hug me as I reached under him and make his legs kick; catch him when he jumped from the side of the pool; hold him high and then bring him down with a splash; and show him how to kick off. First, however, I had get his feet wet, then his legs, then carry him to the center of the pool.
Alex refused to blow bubbles, but he did giggle when I brought him down for a splash. And he would positively seize the side of the pool, no doubt thinking he could finally get to hell out of the water and back to those locker room toilets.
"Attention's his big thing, isn't it?" the instructor said. "But he's got a bicycle kind of kick, and he's moving all the time. That's good."
When it came time to practice arm motions, the instructor made a fine tactical move by breaking into "The Wheels on the Bus." Alex laughed. "He's got an infectious laugh!" the instructor said. He does, and by the end of the first lesson that sound too ricocheted off the tiles. A little. "Alex, you're swimming!" He looked tired, as if he'd faint in my arms the moment class was over.
"Stop it," he replied. "Bye! Ah bye bye!"
As class wound down, I maneuvered Alex to the side of the pool. "Everybody, Alex is leaving!" the instructor said. "Bye, Alex!" they called. "Ah bye BYE!" he called back, then bolted for the locker room.
There, soon as I had him in yet another diaper and my own hands were occupied prying off my trunks, he headed for the toilets. Across the tiles, over and over, I heard the rush of the water I guess he still prefers.
Copyright 2001 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
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