I pull into the driveway of our home, trying to leave that last of my workday behind. As I enter the house, I am greeted by the all-too-familiar, semi-chaotic scene. Lola comes jumping into the hallway, happy to greet me — while my kids stay somewhat immobile in their current positions.

Madison, my son, is often on the couch, computer on as well as the TV. A token book is maybe by his side. There’s a phone there as well, with the screen still lit up from recent use. Maya, my daughter, will be in the kitchen, simultaneously eating while sprawled out on the floor, music from Spotify playing overhead, trying to do math homework in between answering the multitude of texts that keep streaming in.

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My frustration at the lack of focus in these two irritates me to no end — they have not remembered to put their morning’s breakfast away, and the dishwasher from last night is still not emptied.

I can’t look anymore and head upstairs to change …

Madison. I watch you pace along the pool deck with your new smooth-shaved head. You settle in behind the starting block, waiting your turn. The goggles move from forehead down to your eyes; your gaze is straight ahead in front of you. Up the starting block you go. Waiting. For the whistle.

“Swimmers, take your mark.” Hands curl on the platform, legs spaced apart, while newly formed muscles from a season’s worth of practice tense … waiting … The starter’s “gun” goes off — and you spring to life.

How things have changed from the soft little racing starts you used to do! There is purpose behind this one. You slice through the water to reemerge. Middle lane. Fast lane. Maybe a third of a body length behind those next to you. Butterfly. Arms synchronized out in front, pulling forward.

You hit the wall, turn and power off. Purposeful.

Focused. Intense. Now headed back. I can see you moving, driving forward. Your shoulders? When did you get such broad shoulders? You pull slightly ahead with each stroke now. Into the second turn and back out again. You look smooth. Coordinated. It’s the third length of the four that it really hits me. Focused. Driven. You own this. This race, your season. You put in the work, the time, effort. Morning practices, dry-land sessions. Not for me. For you!

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Related:  The Car’s a Lost Cause, the Kids Are Fine

Time slows. Just a little bit. This moment is so beautiful to me as I watch you.

Final length. Middle lane. You’re ahead and holding. I remember my arms, heavy, burning, wanting to stop. Finding what would push me, to push past the ache and burn. My team? My pride? You’re finishing strong, still smooth, closing in on the timing pad. Final strokes … You don’t stop. No coasting or easing up.

You hammer your arms into the timing pad, and the clock stops. (go to page 2 to continue reading) [lz_pagination]