Fear, love and swimming

A couple of mornings ago, I came across John Biewen's Scared, a radio montage featuring years of samples of conversations with his daughter that illustrates, in rather touching style, the idea that parental love involves a collapse of, and then restoration of, the basic distance between two people. A father fears for his daughter, and then learns, painfully, to let go.

This afternoon, though, both Biewen and letting go were far, far from our minds. This afternoon, folks, was about time at the pool, and about putting Cleo in some damned fine swimming diapers and introducing her to the simple joy of a cool swim in hot August. Thanks to a neighbor's invite, we rolled into Meadowbrook like the Beverly Hillbillies into California, lost no time in setting up shop on the artificial beach, and let Cleo have a quick look around. And then it was pool time.

Oh, sure, there' ll be times in the future when we dicker about curfews, buy the wrong puffy stickers, and fight minor battles over things like Fruit Loop Cereal Straws. No doubt. But today, for a few minutes, was pure pleasure: Cleo half-floating in the shallow kiddie pool, our hands under her arms but her solid little body still seeming to bob in the water like a cork, she unsure about the sensation but perhaps somehow recalling ancient moments before birth and moving her legs like a runner in place, the sun falling, falling, and other children - children of five, and six, and thus of seemingly infinite age and experience - coming over to ask her name or even to stroke her tiny head, and our hands still under her arms, and the back of her head now wet, and not a smile but not a cry - more like a stoic, gutsy willingness - and then up, and out, and into a dry towel held by mommy.

Collapse, boundaries. Collapse. We'll have ample time to restore them in the future, if we really have to.