Stumbling Towards Perfect

There was a gaggle of boys at the pool yesterday. Ten years old, maybe eleven. Jumping all over each other, laughing, dunking heads beneath water. I found myself watching from my chair, laughing when they laughed even though I had no idea what was so funny. I turned toward my own son struggling his way down the length of the pool, his instructor at his side, voicing words of encouragement every few strokes. He hates the front crawl. His strongest is the elementary backstroke. He could float on his back for days. I could tell from where I sat that my boy did not want to be doing that front crawl. The boys pulled themselves out of the water. Skin and bones dripping as they pushed and pulled each other toward the locker room. "I wonder what Brody will be like if he gets to be that age," I thought. I snapped aware: what do you mean if he gets to be that age? I chastised myself. What kind of mother thinks like that? But there's a truth in that. A hard, scary trut

This school year was supposed to be the one that officially began Brody's elementary education while ending Avery's. They were supposed to be at school all day, together. Sibling bookends - one in Kindergarten and the other in 8th grade. This was the year I was supposed to be able to join the car pool lane. No more parking and walking my child into the preschool rooms. This year I was supposed to pull up and wish my kids a good day and watch while the older sister made sure the younger brother stood in his class line. This was the year my kids would finally eat in the same cafeteria during the same lunch hour. Their daily schedule lining up just so. This year, Avery was supposed to fill me in on what her brother acted like on the playground and in the hallways. She was supposed to be my spy. This year Avery was supposed to be at the top of the student food chain. The treasured final year, filled with class fundraisers and a class trip where the students slept in hotel r