January 10, 2012
I watched my younger daughter swim in a meet tonight. She competed in several events — 50 meter backstroke, 50 meter butterfly, 200 meter individual medley, a couple of relays — and swimming as a seventh grader in a high school meet she came in second in several of her events; one of them she won. Her middle school team won one of the relays (against other middle school teams) and came in second in the other. And she set middle school records for her school in the back and fly.
Yes, I’m bragging. So sue me. But I’m also blown away by her abilities in the pool. Because I can barely swim at all. All through my childhood and adolescence I was actually terrified of the water. Watching her swim, watching her blow other swimmers away in the pool is such a thrill for me, in part because I could never even dream of doing what she does. It’s an odd and wondrous feeling, admiring my child for something she can do with ease and I can barely do at all. To say that I’m proud really doesn’t begin to cover it. I love both my daughters more than I can possibly say. As they get older though, I am finding that I not only love them, I also admire them, and in a way that’s even more gratifying.