Prompt- Swim Until You Can't See Land
Sep. 10th, 2022 01:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drippedonpaperI start our time together as her lifeguard, but end it as her coach. She's changing, growing, expanding her reach, and though I can reach far, I have to learn to draw back.
I start by protecting, edging her back from the water. My role is distraction to stay on dry ground. These years are building dreamy sand castles, with fancy moats and shell decorations. It's all low stakes. The only water in safe, small buckets, too tiny for her head, even if she fell head first into one of them. Just enough sunscreen and umbrella time to save that creamy baby skin even a hint of sunburn.
Only the wind is allowed to whip her hair. The waves only touch her toes as I hold onto her chubby hands. I teach her to laugh when it the tide splashes us. She's never in the water alone. There is no chance of drowning with me always close enough to touch her. I am a good mom. She is safe, I am doing my job. The fresh air tires her out, and she dozes in my arms. She never ducks away from my forehead kisses. She is close and safe. My heart is joyful, peaceful. Together is enough.
But the tide rushes in, rushes out. The moon and sun play tug of war with the sea.
My baby wanders farther from my arms.
"You can do it!" I assure a serious-faced mite in my back seat. "Swimming is fun!"
I walk her to the edge. "But I want my floaties!" she whispers.
"It's ok, you will learn to swim like a big girl." (See, that's how we get there. I told her to grow up. I taught her to leave me, over and over.)
She sits with trepidation as I walk back to the bleachers with the other parents. One little girl in a group of many. I brought a book, but my eyes are on her. The teachers take them out one at a time, but what if she slipped in waiting?
I want to run over, clasp her in my arms, and leave. She still fits in my arms.
In spite of my errant thoughts and irrational longings, somehow I stay in my parent slot, and she finds the bravery to swim.
The tides rushes in, rushes out. The moon and sun play tug of war. My heart and head play tug of war.
The beach is still fun, but there are more rules than cuddles now.
"I want to go out in the water!"
"Just a minute, I'm almost ready."
"Mom," that first eye roll from my little pixie, "I don't need you. I can swim now!"
(She's saying it back to me, "You don't need me, you're fine," but wow, it sounds different out of her mouth! I used to spoon feed that precious mouth.)
"You're right. Well, don't go out too far. Stay where you can touch. Don't drift, check to see if you see me now and then. A tide can..."
"I know, I know, come on!"
And she's running away, faster than me. Though the tides are splashing, she just laughs, and keeps wading in.
I decide I need to wade some. I mean, I'm hot.
"Mom, don't follow me! I'm fine."
"I know. I'm just hot. You can keep going." (I'm just hot. And not very needed right now.)
She swims so well, my little seal. I'm proud. This is what I wanted, right?
The tides rush in, rush out. The moon and sun play tug of war with the waves.
My daughter and I play tug of war at the mall.
"I said no. If I'm going to pay that much, I think there should be more material in it."
"Mom! It's huge. Besides I'll wear a cover-up when I'm not in the water. It's just to swim in!" (Yeah, I know, just to swim away in. You somehow don't see the boys who love your new suit. Or do you?)
"Don't be creepy, Mom. No one notices my cleavage as much as you do. Gosh! You're disgusting!"
(We compromise, which I have come to see means neither of us are happy. I just want her to be safe, loved, and happy. Apparently, you can't have all three at once?)
"Be back by ten!"
"I know."
And off she runs. I don't even see her enter the ocean anymore. It's a car full of laughing kids. Should the music be that loud? Surely that's distracting. Did she remember sunscreen?
I want to text. Heck, I want to jump in that car too. They aren't old enough to protect my baby! But she's not a baby anymore.
The tides rush in, rush out. The moon and sun play tug of war with the water.
The colleges play tug of war with my daughter.
Every day, she gets the most mail in our box.
"I'd love to go to college overseas!"
(Overseas?! But what about the good, safe Mother earth who loves you? I'm right here, right now. Overseas?!)
"Well, let's look at the prices."
"Don't you want me to have my dreams? I'm grown up now!"
"Grown-ups have to look at price tags. This tuition is a lot more than a sand shovel and pail!"
"Shovel and pail? You're nuts, Mom. I never said pail!"
(Oh yes, you did. You wanted a pink one with a matching shovel. You carried it home full of sea shells and sand dollars. I think there's still sand ground into your carpet somewhere.)
Senior year goes both too slow and too fast. I learn that even regular clothes can come in styles as skimpy as bikinis. It seems we argue way too much, like you're cutting all the dock lines, all the ways I keep you safe, and grounded and close to me. I don't want you hurt, or alone, or drifting from me in a storm of pain. You insist my lines of love chafe, and hurt, and hold you back from all your dreams.
The tides come and go. The moon and sun play tug of war with the water.
You and I play Tetris with the car.
"I don't need that. If you put that in the car, I'll send it home with you!" You reject paper towels and ibuprofen. My careful lists are more annoying than helpful.
Our packing is both exciting and painful. You're leaving me, with every pair of shoes you pack. The shoes will take you to adventures I'll only know if you mention them.
It's all exhausting. You fall asleep as I drive you away, one last time. I want to lean over and kiss your forehead, but I also want a safe trip. Safety. All I ever wanted for you was love and safety.
The tides rush in, rush out. The moon and sun play tug of war with the water. My heart and mind play tug of war with my hands.
I should turn around. I know there's professors and RAs, but it feels like she's just swimming alone, far away from her Mother Earth. I'm letting her lose sight of me, of the land.
What was I thinking? I should turn around. She's going to drown. She doesn't understand how hard this will be.
How hard this will be...for her? Or for me?
Tears water the Earth. All I can hope is that she's young and strong enough to keep swimming.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Based on fact, but I meshed together incidents of each of my daughters.)
I start by protecting, edging her back from the water. My role is distraction to stay on dry ground. These years are building dreamy sand castles, with fancy moats and shell decorations. It's all low stakes. The only water in safe, small buckets, too tiny for her head, even if she fell head first into one of them. Just enough sunscreen and umbrella time to save that creamy baby skin even a hint of sunburn.
Only the wind is allowed to whip her hair. The waves only touch her toes as I hold onto her chubby hands. I teach her to laugh when it the tide splashes us. She's never in the water alone. There is no chance of drowning with me always close enough to touch her. I am a good mom. She is safe, I am doing my job. The fresh air tires her out, and she dozes in my arms. She never ducks away from my forehead kisses. She is close and safe. My heart is joyful, peaceful. Together is enough.
But the tide rushes in, rushes out. The moon and sun play tug of war with the sea.
My baby wanders farther from my arms.
"You can do it!" I assure a serious-faced mite in my back seat. "Swimming is fun!"
I walk her to the edge. "But I want my floaties!" she whispers.
"It's ok, you will learn to swim like a big girl." (See, that's how we get there. I told her to grow up. I taught her to leave me, over and over.)
She sits with trepidation as I walk back to the bleachers with the other parents. One little girl in a group of many. I brought a book, but my eyes are on her. The teachers take them out one at a time, but what if she slipped in waiting?
I want to run over, clasp her in my arms, and leave. She still fits in my arms.
In spite of my errant thoughts and irrational longings, somehow I stay in my parent slot, and she finds the bravery to swim.
The tides rushes in, rushes out. The moon and sun play tug of war. My heart and head play tug of war.
The beach is still fun, but there are more rules than cuddles now.
"I want to go out in the water!"
"Just a minute, I'm almost ready."
"Mom," that first eye roll from my little pixie, "I don't need you. I can swim now!"
(She's saying it back to me, "You don't need me, you're fine," but wow, it sounds different out of her mouth! I used to spoon feed that precious mouth.)
"You're right. Well, don't go out too far. Stay where you can touch. Don't drift, check to see if you see me now and then. A tide can..."
"I know, I know, come on!"
And she's running away, faster than me. Though the tides are splashing, she just laughs, and keeps wading in.
I decide I need to wade some. I mean, I'm hot.
"Mom, don't follow me! I'm fine."
"I know. I'm just hot. You can keep going." (I'm just hot. And not very needed right now.)
She swims so well, my little seal. I'm proud. This is what I wanted, right?
The tides rush in, rush out. The moon and sun play tug of war with the waves.
My daughter and I play tug of war at the mall.
"I said no. If I'm going to pay that much, I think there should be more material in it."
"Mom! It's huge. Besides I'll wear a cover-up when I'm not in the water. It's just to swim in!" (Yeah, I know, just to swim away in. You somehow don't see the boys who love your new suit. Or do you?)
"Don't be creepy, Mom. No one notices my cleavage as much as you do. Gosh! You're disgusting!"
(We compromise, which I have come to see means neither of us are happy. I just want her to be safe, loved, and happy. Apparently, you can't have all three at once?)
"Be back by ten!"
"I know."
And off she runs. I don't even see her enter the ocean anymore. It's a car full of laughing kids. Should the music be that loud? Surely that's distracting. Did she remember sunscreen?
I want to text. Heck, I want to jump in that car too. They aren't old enough to protect my baby! But she's not a baby anymore.
The tides rush in, rush out. The moon and sun play tug of war with the water.
The colleges play tug of war with my daughter.
Every day, she gets the most mail in our box.
"I'd love to go to college overseas!"
(Overseas?! But what about the good, safe Mother earth who loves you? I'm right here, right now. Overseas?!)
"Well, let's look at the prices."
"Don't you want me to have my dreams? I'm grown up now!"
"Grown-ups have to look at price tags. This tuition is a lot more than a sand shovel and pail!"
"Shovel and pail? You're nuts, Mom. I never said pail!"
(Oh yes, you did. You wanted a pink one with a matching shovel. You carried it home full of sea shells and sand dollars. I think there's still sand ground into your carpet somewhere.)
Senior year goes both too slow and too fast. I learn that even regular clothes can come in styles as skimpy as bikinis. It seems we argue way too much, like you're cutting all the dock lines, all the ways I keep you safe, and grounded and close to me. I don't want you hurt, or alone, or drifting from me in a storm of pain. You insist my lines of love chafe, and hurt, and hold you back from all your dreams.
The tides come and go. The moon and sun play tug of war with the water.
You and I play Tetris with the car.
"I don't need that. If you put that in the car, I'll send it home with you!" You reject paper towels and ibuprofen. My careful lists are more annoying than helpful.
Our packing is both exciting and painful. You're leaving me, with every pair of shoes you pack. The shoes will take you to adventures I'll only know if you mention them.
It's all exhausting. You fall asleep as I drive you away, one last time. I want to lean over and kiss your forehead, but I also want a safe trip. Safety. All I ever wanted for you was love and safety.
The tides rush in, rush out. The moon and sun play tug of war with the water. My heart and mind play tug of war with my hands.
I should turn around. I know there's professors and RAs, but it feels like she's just swimming alone, far away from her Mother Earth. I'm letting her lose sight of me, of the land.
What was I thinking? I should turn around. She's going to drown. She doesn't understand how hard this will be.
How hard this will be...for her? Or for me?
Tears water the Earth. All I can hope is that she's young and strong enough to keep swimming.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Based on fact, but I meshed together incidents of each of my daughters.)
