Stepping back, moving forward

I'm having trouble with my BlogHer post this year. So much and so little to say. I wrote this half on the airplane to San Diego and half in a bathroom fighting my terror before I read at Voices of the Year.  Does that count?  Honestly, I think it's all tied up together. The BlogHer experience. Writer's block. My need to let go of this intense time mothering babies and move forward with some things of my own.

Quinn stands at the very end of the diving board. The swim coach waits patiently four feet below him, patting the target spot on a white flotation noodle.  "Right here, Quinn," she encourages. Behind him, a college kid who assists with the swim class crowds close. So close. Not touching my tiny boy in his shark swim trunks, but there is no escape back to the ladder.  He doesn't cry, but his whole body is braced backward like a balking mule. The scattered parents on the side of the pool call out to him at intervals.

"You can do it."

"Come on, Quinn."

I am silent.  He is the last one to jump.  I can see from the far side of the water how scared his is. His arms are rigid. His face set in a worried frown. But he won't cry. He's in the big kid class with Saige and Garrett. My lip hurts where I chew on it to keep from contradicting the swell of encouragement.  You don't have to jump. It's okay. Come and sit in my lap and I'll wrap you in a towel and kiss your baby cheeks.

The assistant crowds him from behind. His eyes lock on the noodle and I see his body language change. He leans forward and jumps.  His head surfaces to applause and cheers and his smile is radiant.  "Yay!" Nate claps, standing in front of me.  "Yay! Kin did it!!"

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The wind rustles and the pines speed by on the steep banks of Lake Roosevelt. There's no word for the blue of the deep, glacial water.  The surface, before we weave our peace-shattering way north, is mirror still. There might not be not a soul in all the world but our small boat party and the ospreys calling on the shore.

I sit backwards with Nate's head buried in my shoulder.  My eyes lock on the large inner tube pulled behind the boat by one slim rope. It has three "seats" in front and a place for someone to kneel at the back.  One slim rope. A little rubber raft with handles.  It skims the water, jumping the wake back and forth. Riding the edge of the wave before it spins over the top and settles back into the middle of the wake.  We draw a loop pattern back and forth across the lake.  My five and barely four-year-old children cling to the handles, except when they let go with one hand to wave wild thumps up signs in the air.

Faster. Faster. Thumbs up. Faster.

I bite my tongue not to scream. Stop!  They'll flip.  It will hurt.  The water is so cold. Which one would I swim to first?  

They laugh and laugh and laugh. Thumbs up. Faster.

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"I can do it."

"Okay."

"Don't hold it."

"I'm not."

"You are."

I am. Okay. Okay.  I let go and step back and he carefully rearranges the pedals, places his foot on the raised pedal and pushes.  He steers erratically, jagging towards the street and then corrects and sails down the sidewalk.

Too fast, my mind screams, too fast. The concrete. The street. The gravel.

"Use your brakes."  I try to keep my voice steady.  "Stop at the corner."  He hits them too hard and bails off the side. The bike crashes to the ground and he hits his feet and then his hands.

"Are you okay?  Garrett? Are you okay?" 

"Did you see me?  Did you see?  I did it all by myself!"

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Don't you see them, momma?  Don't you see?  How tall they are?  How brave?  How confident?  How beautiful?  The job description changed while you were busy holding them tight and keeping them safe.  It's time to step back a little.  Time to let them jump, flip, fall.  I suspect (I hope) it will hurt me more than it ever hurts them.