Finding the right rhythm--Marcia

It was a jam packed week and then my mother wound up in the hospital. Wow. Mom, if you read this, I'm so proud of you for getting yourself to the emergency room. For those of you who don't know me mum, she's a wee strong headed. (The apple doesn't fall far, does it?) But my mother's usual remedy of clipping a hedge, going to Target, or sewing up some slipcovers wasn't going to chase off a heart rate of 230. Of course my mother's cell phone didn't work, she was training someone at her Episcopal thrift shop, and my brother was out of reach. Thank god for Elsie, one of mom's thrift shop ladies. I think Elsie's like 90. But she can still drive!!!

Mom is as good as can be. Now she has a "cardiologist". For my generation this is like saying you have a personal trainer or "don't worry the maid will get it." She'll be up to visit in a week. Those yankees, never a weak moment. She can't stand lolling about with glossy magazines and a bowl of broth, and now it'll have to be sodium free. Damn. She'll probably have to cut back on the butter and half-and-half. My mother's always been proud of her ability to cook like Julia Child and eat like a frigging bird. It's alfalfa sprouts and tofu for you now my litle pigeon.

I have been less worried about my stoic mother and more worried about my sensitive brute of a five year old. James does not like kindergarten. When the principal, yes the principal, asked him why not, he said "because of the time outs."

James is going to be the one that tries the teacher's patience. James is the one talking and not working. (Hmmmm.) James is the one who, because he can't cut with the ding dong little scissors, experiments with them, first a couple of shirts and then somebody's hair. Yip. James is the one. It happens every year. One of the kindergartners plays barber.

He's got a seat work teacher. A fine motor skills teacher. James is the size of a twelve year old with hams ready for the boxing ring not a miniature pair of baby blue Fiskars.

I feel guilt. I set him up. For five years he's been coming to my classroom where we learn by singing songs, playing at "centers", doing countdown to halloween, jumping like a frog, and wearing glitter goggles made of cardboard when we do the letter "G". He thought that was kindergarten. Well not everywhere.

James will make it. I know he'll be fine. But I wanted something to be good for him so I ran him over to Superior Athletic to check out the swim team. He wanted to jump right in that pool then and there.

"But buddy, we're just here to watch. To see if you think you can do it."

"I can do it, I can do it. I want a black swim hat. Go get my stuff. Come on."

The wonderful coach comes over and talks directly to James and invites him to swim with him after class if he would like.

I've never seen James move faster. We had to bust out of there PRONTO to go and get his trunks and goggles and get back in time.

I love James in goggles and his red-flame trunks. His belly hangs out, his crack shows, his hair sticks up, and the goggles give him that old-fashioned convertible driver look. I know I am not the only one to appreciate James' charms. He makes a lot of people smile, including the coach.

I cry when I see James in the pool. He takes off freestyle for an entire lap. The effort is huge the splashing sublime. But he can't breathe side to side yet, so he has to surface every once in awhile for survival. He and the coach go through a number of drills. James is absolutely compliant and gives it 100 %. This is what James needs.

The sweet coach comes to me after and suggests James do some more lessons. He doesn't want him disappointed or frustrated. He says that usually there have to be four or more kids in a class, but in James' case he'll make an exception. He's right to do so. James has passion. And as the coach said when they first met, 'James, how old are you?---Five! What is your dad like 6'9"?" In a swimming pool, winning is often done in inches. James has inches.