What I Don't Know

I swam competitively in high school.
My coach, whose intense dislike of me was matched only by my intense dislike of the sport, consistently entered me in the three events that least depended on ability--including, and most tortuously, the 500 free. I was a slow, apologetic swimmer, and the 500 free was a throwaway event that no one invested any interest in or athletes in. There were never more than three swimmers entered in the 500--the star swimmers were saved for the shorter sprints, where their performances made a notable difference--so even when I came in last, I still earned a point for the team. (3 points for first place, 2 for second, and 1 for third.) And how much could that one point matter?

I really can't tell you how much I hated swimming. It gave me nightmares. And then one day, one of those nightmares came true: after a season-end meet, which we lost by one point, and in which I placed third in the 500 free, a hateful and ignorant teammate, a twin who oozed inhumanity (imagine Anne Coulter as a 17 year-old) screamed at me on the bus all the way back to our school. I'll never forget it: "We LOST because of you. You're LAZY, you're NO GOOD, you DON'T EVEN TRY!!! If you had gone just a little faster, you would have come in SECOND, and we would have at least TIED, but you won't go fast, will you? It's not because you CAN'T, it's because you WON'T. You're LAZY and you don't CARE ABOUT YOUR TEAM and YOU DON'T EVEN TRY!!! You're never even TIRED after you swim, ARE YOU???? ARE YOU???"

After I graduated from high school, I vowed that unless my life depended on it, I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever swim more than 25 yards in one day again in my life.

I kept that vow until three years ago, when I was talked into the Danskin triathlon by some co-workers.

Long story short, I've been swimming ever since--1.5 miles three days a week. And here's the weird part: I love it. Turns out the experience is a lot different when you don't hate the people who make you do it, or feel ashamed by what you're not capable of contributing.

Anyway, last Wednesday, this young woman who'd been swimming in the lane next to me came up to me in the dressing room afterwards and said, "You're a really strong swimmer!" And it wasn't one of those qualified compliments, either, you know--the "for your age" or "considering you're missing a limb" or "compared to a brain-damaged cormorant" kind of thing. The reason I know this is because, somewhat miraculously, in the last three years, I actually have become a pretty strong swimmer. I know my stroke is efficient, I know my flip turns are quiet and quick, I know my arms have gotten strong, and I know--weirdly--my speed increases exponentially after the first 40 lengths. But still, when an almost-half-my-age woman complimented me this way, it made me feel great, really great. And that's why, two days later, when a super-fit, super-fast woman about my age was swimming in the lane next to me and literally going twice my speed, I was not as discouraged as I might have been otherwise. And after our swim, when we were both in the shower, I wanted to share my admiration for her. You know, what made me feel great would probably make her feel great, too, so why not Play It Forward? I was a little intimidated, though. She looked like a professional triathlete and had a serious, closed, expression on her face. And I tend to think that women who are so fit, so capable, and so serious like this don't need gushy compliments from relatively slow and apologetic swimmers like me.

But still. Sometimes a gushy compliment can make someone's day. And if you can make someone's day, you should make someone's day, right? So I went for it. While I was shampooing, I turned to her and told her that I was amazed by her speed and that it was inspiring to swim next to her, and I asked her if she was a triathete. She smiled a reluctant, tight smile and told me she had been before her daughter was born, but didn't race any more.

I pushed on. How old is your daughter? Four, she said, offering no enthusiasm or energy. What a fun age, I said.

She looked up at me. Do you have children? she asked. I do, I said, but they're grown. I have a 28 year old and a 24 year old son, and my oldest is married, so I've got a daughter-in-law, too. And I have two stepsons who are 16 and 13.

I have a 16 year old stepson, too, she said.

Now we were getting somewhere! Here's what we had in common! We could share stories about 16 year-old stepsons, about driver's licenses and girls and teenage malaise.

Oh, I said, hoping to break into her closed psyche somehow, to make her laugh, make her connect with me. How often is he with you?

He's not, she said. Not at all. Not anymore. My husband--his father--died. I'm a widow. So my stepson is not with me at all any more.

And it took my breath away.

I told her I was so sorry, of course. I told her how sad that must be, and how I couldn't imagine what her loss must be like, and she looked at me evenly and said, You're right. You can't. You can't imagine what it is like until it happens to you. I used to think I knew what this meant. And I try to focus on what I have, she said. I try to be grateful. But life throws some awful shit at you sometimes.

And I didn't know what else to say. So we stood there next to each other for a few more minutes in silence, this woman with her perfect body and perfect stroke, consumed with her perfect sadness, and me.

The Bust & The Butt

Two very interesting things happened today.

1. Jeep Boy got busted by Perfect Man, and

2. Hammerhead asked me to look at his butt.

1. Jeep Boy Got Busted by Perfect Man

Jeep Boy got his driver's license last week. In the state where we live, there is a law that newly-licensed teenagers cannot drive with peers in the car for six months after they get their licenses. The only passengers allowed in the car with a newly-licensed teen are family members. Needless to say, this law, and the consequences of breaking it (which include up to a fifty dollar fine, 8-24 hours of community service, possible revoking of license, and a commensurate increase in insurance costs) have been discussed at length in our home.

Well, due to a confluence of unexpected events, right after Jeep Boy left for work this morning, Perfect Man, instead of I, drove Hammerhead to his skate camp. And en route to the skate park, Perfect Man spied two of Jeep Boy's buddies with their lunch boxes and cell phones, standing on the street around the corner from our house, obviously waiting to be picked up and given an illegal but fun ride to work. Perhaps their wires crossed and Jeep Boy was looking for them on the wrong corner--who knows? In any case, Perfect Man got to them first. You see, Jeep Boy had just recommended these two friends to his boss, they'd both been hired, and this was their first day. When they saw Perfect Man, they looked very surprised and very afraid. As well they should have! Perfect Man called Jeep Boy on his cell phone, told him to come right home, and took away car privileges for an undetermined length of time.

Oh, I am so glad it was Perfect Man who caught the miscreants and not me. It is so much better to be the silent observer in this situation.

Poor Perfect Man. Yesterday was his birthday and today his present is this: You Have A 16 Year Old Son!!!!

I have been holed up for the most of the day, keeping a low profile. And not half an hour ago,


2. Hammerhead Asked Me To Look At His Butt

"Would you please look at my butt?" he said, coming in my office covered with grime and sweat.

"Well," I said. "I would love to."

He pulled down his pants and showed me a very red right butt cheek marked by a very red straight line, where he landed on the end of his board when it got stuck in the coping, standing upright, during a failed jump.

"Ouch," I said.

Which satisfied him completely.

Short Clips

This is a picture from "Slovenly Peter," a book that captivated and horrified me when I was a little girl. I read it with one eye closed.

Its subtitle is something like "Cheerful Stories to Make Good Little Boys and Girls Laugh," which is a cruel distortion of what it actually is, and what it actually made good little boys and girls do.

This picture is from a story called "Little Suck-a-Thumb," who is taught a lesson when his mother goes out and warns him not to suck his thumb while she's gone, or this guy with big scissors would come and chop them off. He doesn't listen, she leaves, and he sucks his thumb.

And then, the guy with the big scissors comes in and chops off his thumbs, just like she told him he would, moving with such eager purpose he's lost his hat in the rush to mutilate the poor kid. (Check out the blood dripping on the floor--that was the part that really got me.)

I hadn't thought about this book for a long, long, time, until this weekend when I had to trim the nails of my beloved, 110-lb, two-year old chocolate lab, Not A Mean Bone In His Body.

At first we were doing great. I'd give him a piece of chicken every time he let me take his paw and clip a nail. He looked at me with the combination of pure trust, pure gratitude, and pure adoration that has led me to love him so much it's embarrassing. And then, I got to the "little toe" and he jerked a bit and I snipped too close. And it bled, and bled, and bled. I almost passed out.

He didn't yelp, didn't seem to even mind much, except ten minutes later when I wrapped it in cotton and put a sock on his foot, taping it around his leg to keep it secure and keep him from tracking blood all over the house. That he didn't like, and he walked around like an angry, humiliated canine Charlie Chaplin. I felt so ashamed I couldn't look him in the eye for about an hour. How could I have injured a helpless, sweet creature who depends on me to be kind and keep him safe?

How the heck did this happen? I grew up and became not one, but two monsters I feared as a child! Wicked Stepmother. Guy With Scissors. What's next?

I'm OK, You're OK

Last month, Perfect Man and I visited my brother, his wife, and their three boys: Cutie #1, Cutie #2, and Cutie #3. The three Cuties are adorable--smart, funny, and extremely entertainable. (Aunt Pillowhead is a big hit with the seven-and-under crowd.)

And while we were there, this thing happened with Cutie #2 that I haven't been able to stop thinking about. Cutie #2 is four, and his six-year-old brother, Cutie #1, was showing me his class picture from kindergarten and "introducing" me to all of his friends. Cutie #2 didn't have a class picture, but he goes to pre-school and has classmates he wanted me to "meet" as well, so he ran off and then came back with a wooden alphabet puzzle. He took all the letters that started the name of someone in his class out of the puzzle and arranged them in a group on the floor to "introduce" me to everyone. Letter by letter, he'd pick them up and say, "This is Amelia," or Ann, Adam, Brandon, Cory, etc. I was just mesmerized with his thought process--he was so consumed with the details of his solution, and so careful to get everyone right. When he got to K, he told me it was Kevin, who is a bully who spits on him sometimes. I took the K from him and said to it, very earnestly, "Kevin, you may not spit on my sweet nephew. Promise me you will never do that again." Cutie #2's eyes lit up and he said, "He says he will still spit on me sometimes!" so I said, "Well, I'm sorry, but that won't do." And I took Cutie #2's hand, and we walked outside with the K, and we put it in a corner of the garden. And, firmly but not unkindly, I said to the K, "Kevin, you will just have to sit out here by yourself until you can promise to be civil and respectful to my darling nephew." Cutie #2 was in hysterics by then, jumping up and down and laughing and saying, "I don't think he's paying attention to you!" And I said, "Well, let's just give him some time to think about his actions and be by himself." We went back inside and I told Cutie #2 that he could decide when he wanted to bring Kevin back in the house--if he wanted to make him stay out there all night, he could. If he wanted to try to go talk some sense into him in an hour or so, he could do that, too. It was up to him. Cutie #2 said he was going to make Kevin sit out there in the freezing night all night long to teach him a lesson. I told him that was fine with me.

After dinner, Cutie #2 suddenly announced that he had to go outside and bring Kevin back in before it got too cold, that he had been out there long enough. He went and got the K and then carefully put it back in the puzzle with all the other letters, and then he put the puzzle away. I read him and his cute brothers a story, and they all went to bed.

So what I'm wondering is: why can't we all be as pure and kind and ingenious as four-year-olds?