Our neighborhood pool has two diving boards. They delight my children in their mere
existence. They exude some sort of
invisible, yet amazingly powerful magnetic field that draws little people time
and time again to their bouncy tautness.
They are the Sirens of the pool deck, singing their song . . . luring
the sun-baked to jump from their safety to the watery depths below.
I hate them.
With each trip up the steps, with each run from start to
end, with each bouncing spring into the air, I cringe. Every nerve in my body stands on end ready to
send my body springing from my lounge chair into action as I anticipate what is
sure to be a tragedy of Greg Louganis proportions. I hold my breath every. single. time. that
the little toes I have so often counted and kissed and wee-wee-weed all the way
home leave the solidity of the board. I
didn’t realize that I was doing it at first, but even now that I’m conscious of
it, I’m powerless to stop it. I don’t
breathe again until that head pops out of the water, and together we gasp for
the air that our lungs crave. And so the
cycle repeats itself, again and again, as I pray for the point when exhaustion
overtakes their little bodies, and the safety of the lap pool becomes “enough”
if only for a while.
I’m afraid. A
lot. If ever Hollywood needs someone to
dream up and write those unbelievable, worst possible scenario scenes for soap
operas, I’m their girl. It’s a glitch I
have, this fear, this worry. If I love
you, chances are, I’ve imagined your horrible demise at some point or another. It’s a compliment really – it means, in my
extremely odd way, that I care. It’s not just diving boards that evoke my
terror; bicycles and skateboards (actually anything with wheels), stairs,
careless drivers, uneven pavement, and brownies with nuts all have the power to
send me to my knees. If only I could
have you each fitted with a protective bubble. . . Let the number for the children’s
school show up on my caller i.d., and I’m at the hospital watching as the cast
is put on before I even hit the button to answer the call. Let my
mother call at an odd time, and I’m wondering if my black “funeral” dress has
been to the dry cleaners before I’ve even heard her voice. If I’m in the grocery store parking lot and a
fire engine screams by headed in the general direction of my home, I look down
at what I’m wearing because surely it is my address that they are headed to,
and all of my other clothes are but ashes.
It’s ridiculous. It
really is. But then I don’t think that
I’m alone in my fear – over the top, maybe, but not alone. It’s actually quite biblical – we, people,
seem to have always been afraid. Time
after time the Lord had to repeat Himself, and even today I stubbornly ignore
His whispered “fear not”. Inventors of
helmets and seatbelts and life jackets and the little hammer gadget that you
put in your glove compartment so that you can cut your seatbelt and break your
window should your car plummet suddenly from a bridge and become submerged underwater
(oh yes, I’ve played that one out in my mind a time or two) all count on our
fear for their livelihood. And you sir,
you genius you, working tirelessly in your garage inventing the protective
human bubble – keep up the good work; I’m counting on you!
Life is scary. But it’s
such a precious gift intended to be enjoyed and shared and LIVED to the
fullest. This world we live in, that our
children live in, is scary. But it’s
also big and beautiful and wonderful and so full of possibility. If we get too busy being afraid, and I’m
talking to myself here, we miss out on all the wonderful. If I hadn’t endured the children jumping off
the diving board, I would have missed the pure, innocent joy on their faces as
they broke the surface of the water. And
I can’t help but think that, despite its allure, the protective film of the
bubbles I so long for would dim the brilliant blue of the sky or seal out
completely the sweet smell of blooming honeysuckle.
I’m afraid. A
lot. I don’t know that I will ever be “cured”
of it. I won’t stop telling the
children, over and over like a broken record, to “be careful”. It is highly unlikely that I will fall in
love with the diving boards, take the hammer-thingy out of my glove
compartment, or encourage hang gliding as a hobby. I will, however, try my very
best to temper my fear with the joy that is living. I will recognize the gift of each sunrise I’m
given and refuse to let one single day pass by safe and unwrapped just because I
was too afraid to rip the paper.
This weekend I fell down our stairs. The very stairs whose dangers I have
repeatedly professed to the children in hopes that they would “be careful”. My right ankle is stiff, and I have an
impressive bruise that shares a remarkable resemblance to the state of
California on my behind. It could have
been much worse, but it wasn’t. I could
have been seriously injured, but I wasn’t.
I’ll go up and down those same stairs a countless number of times in the
years that we call this house our home.
I may fall again . . . but then, I may not. At the end of the day, Greg hit his head and
it was awful and terrible and scary, and my heart hurts for his poor mama if she
lived to see it. I imagine that she
hated diving boards too. But I bet she
loved gold medals.
amy
