Beautiful Struggle

Life is not easy. It's especially not easy when you're five. Everything's big. You know the rules, but you don't *make* the rules. There are things you want to happen that you cannot make happen. You must negotiate with people who don't speak your language, or think the way you do, and you almost always lose.

Even a family camping trip.. happens in a place you've never been. And that's not cool and fun; it's scary. The car moves and moves and moves and then stops and you're there. Somewhere. Dad and Mom pile out and unpack and pitch the tent as you read, and snack, and wait. You may try to help. But mostly you wait. To see what will happen to you next.

If it's hot, maybe at the end of your wait is a walk down to the lake. Everyone's ready for something easy -- easier than setting up a tent and worrying about how tonight will be. And when you get to the lake, you want to go in. Of course you do.

Dad goes in with you. Mom didn't bring her suit; it'll be another 20 or 30 minutes until she lets herself be talked into swimming in her underwear with you. For now it's you and Dad.

You're working on swimming. You're probably getting it. It feels like you're getting it. You can paddle now, excitedly, and… just… barely… keep your face above the surface. Some of Raccoon Lake gets into your mouth, which you just learned to keep closed as you paddle. Barely.

Dad says if you swim to him, he'll catch you. You can hold his hands or put your arms around his neck and he will hold you up, keep you up from the lake. So you swim out. Away from Dad. Across Raccoon Lake, paddling and struggling and, because you cannot help it, smiling. Because this is hard. And you're still doing it. Because the water feels good. Because you are proud of yourself. Because your mom is on the shore, watching you. Because you know that Dad will catch you.

At the end of your paddling, when your strength is half gone and your courage all the way exhausted, you circle back and return. Dad is waiting, he is there. But of course he has a camera. He'll put the camera down before you get to him. You know that you will make it. You know that you have succeeded. You feel the sun shining on your face, and, because your ears are underwater, you hear the distant humming of ski boats. You feel the water holding you up, just a little, not enough. But some. Almost there.

Almost there.