the dirty laundry show

There are certain coming-of-age milestones about which I remember very little if anything. Such mental haziness becomes exasperating when I’m crossing the threshold of them on this side of things, as a parent. It’s hard to fill the role of Adult in Charge when I can’t answer basic questions about what to expect or how to cope when things go horribly wrong. Every major event from breastfeeding to coordinating camping trips is rife with opportunities for mayhem. It’s enough to hold you back from even trying (especially when there are murderous bears roaming those woods). But as my friend Jess reminds me, we drag everything but the kitchen sink out into nature despite the discomforts because they are not what our kids will remember. Instead, it’s the trying, the fleeting moments of connection and laughter and sunshine and rock skipping that stay imprinted for the long haul.

In April, I received a long-awaited email that a coveted spot had opened up for private swim lessons at the local YMCA. Before the pandemic, the availability of such spots was a given. But the arrival of The Great Germ spurred the closing of every child-related activity, followed by a mass migration of families into the Missoula area. When the sickies finally cleared, you had to become the apex of Type A plan-aheaders in order to secure your child a spot anywhere, even in a classroom within their own school district (part of the reason we kept homeschooling, post-apocalypse). So, when the YMCA swim director reached out, I jumped at the chance to secure a four-session private lesson package for early July.

June is not a water person by any stretch of the imagination. Too old to join the preschoolers for beginner lessons and not yet strong enough to keep up with her own age group in pre-competition classes, private lessons seemed the way to go. She had assured me she would give it 110%, even though she experienced a great deal of anxiety leading up to the first lesson. Despite tummy aches, furrowed little brows, and lots of discussions about the importance of building that internal resilience muscle, she gave every indication that she’d play ball. Just show up and try, that’s all I asked. You don’t have to be an Olympic swimmer, just safe enough to manage the freezing, bubbling waters of the Clark Fork (no big deal).

Little did we know, trouble was a-brewing. Thanks to a universally hectic July 4th week, we showed up on Friday at 6:30pm for our lesson and our instructor did not. Rather than cut our losses, I cornered an unsuspecting lifeguard to fill in. Such a sudden and extremely unexpected “bait and switch” maneuver did not sit well with June, who burst into tears and refused to dip so much as a toenail (or swollen earlobe) in the pool. With no choice but to physically toss her into the water or leave, we left. We must’ve looked like a real circus attraction, hustling out of the Y past a single-file line of pre-teens awaiting their turn in the pool, their eyes bulging in curiosity at the deflated procession of disappointed parents rushing a sobbing child out the door.

As we stepped outside into the late evening sunshine, June grabbed onto my legs in a tearful heap, hoping (I guess?) to find some comfort and reassurance that she was still loved and accepted despite her inability to perform as directed. Silently still burning, I stood with my arms crossed and refused to reciprocate. I’m not proud of my actions – or inaction. Why, God? I seethed inwardly. Why can’t she EVER just cooperate and be flexible when things don’t go as she expected? Without missing a beat, I intuited a response: How’s that going for YOU?

Shiiiiit.

Well-played.

June had expected a familiar face next to her in the water. I had expected – counted on – her willing cooperation. Neither of us got what we wanted, so both of us shut down. With a thirty-year difference between us, I’d had the longer runway to get this right. At that moment, I wasn’t certain I ever would. All at once, I felt the old familiar exchange of anger for shame as they high-fived each other at my heart’s revolving door. I’ve learned to greet such shame as a tool, rather than a living space – a sand trap that will mire me in eternal regret and self-loathing, convincing me there is no hope for restoration, provided I don’t regroup post-haste and move on. Even while accepting the sting of a mishandled moment that, like so many previous, I would never get back, I re-situated my mind for the follow-up apology. Unlike deftly navigating unmet expectations, this was something I’d all but perfected in the brief nine years since childbirth.

After a bit of time to process individually at home, I found June wallowing in her room. I told her what she already knew, from up close and personal experience – that parenting is hard and I obviously don’t know it all; that being an adult is impossible sometimes and I’m just not capable of always doing it right; that I’m incalculably flawed and completely unequipped to be the mom they need most of the time, as much as I wish I could be; that there’s an important line between pushing her to find out what she’s capable of and bulldozing so hard that her vibrant spirit is crushed into a pancake, and it’s hard to know the distinction. Too many times, ticking tasks off my to-do list toward establishing Everyone’s Best and Safest Life supersedes letting the story unfold as it should because the story just gets too damned messy and uncomfortable for me.

At this point, I’ve lost her. Mental note: rework future heartfelt speeches to fit a 30-second attention span. I ask for her forgiveness and she so graciously gives it without hesitation, mostly because she can’t remember why I’m even asking. In the coming years, anytime she thinks of swimming, she may very well recall feeling rejected and alone at the community pool with some unknown and bewildered teen lifeguard looking on. But now, I’ve made it equally possible that she will remember a moment of reconnection with her hopelessly human mother despite the discomfort. That’s why we keep trying.