Last night I sat for an hour on the bleachers in the natatorium. Those bleachers look like wood, but surely they are made out of the hardest material in the world. Like Captain America’s shield, only you sit on it.
All of my children were swimming. The older two were training with the rest of their team, practicing streamline arm positions and tight turns. It’s humbling, yet amazing watching your 9 and 11 year old do something so much better than you can.
The five year old was in another pool, working on floating and kicking. She focuses and works hard- but occasionally she still glances up at me in the bleachers, making sure I’m watching her every move.
My older children rarely try to find me on the sidelines. Either they are supremely confident that I am riveted by their actions or they don’t care whether I watch them or not. I prefer the first scenario.
I sat there on the bleachers with a forgotten book on my lap. The smell of chlorine was heavy and the coaches’ voices echoed off the cement walls as they called out encouragement or direction. Even though I had a chance to relax and take a moment for myself, I didn’t. I am too fascinated with these small people who came from inside of me, who were a part of me and yet now seem so independent.
I’m not by the pool instructing, nor am I in the pool sharing the experience with my kids. I’m on the bleachers.
It’s hard to be regulated to the sidelines.