The week started out with calm seas nearly as warm as bath water. K was able to regain her mastery of the ocean's challenges - monitoring the current just offshore, timing her handling of the waves, and enjoying boogie-boarding. J was able to try out her new swimming skills (with the life vest on, of course), joining her dad and big sister in the gently undulating waters. I took my favorite perch, now under the umbrella reading, now snapping photos of the girls burying themselves in the sand, plucking shells along the shoreline, taunting the waves flirting subtly with their feet.
As the week progressed and hurricane Bill made his way up the corridor between Bermuda and the east coast, the surf became rougher, the water colder, the air damper. By Friday we could no longer venture beyond the breakers, and were relegated to the foam and froth that now fairly roared halfway up to the dunes. It was no hardship to be sure. There were still long afternoons contemplating the plover and sanderling, the cirrus and the cumulus.
On Saturday, after the great mists had lifted and the breakers became once more distinct, I began to look for surfers. JBL mentioned overhearing them at Wee Winks before the storm brushed by us, discussing the possibilities for good waves. Now, looking out from our deck at the 10-12 foot swells bending into perfect curls that spilled cleanly south-to-north along the beach, I scanned the water for them. What surfer could resist these exaggerated waves, powerful and unyielding?
There. I saw one man sitting, stradling his board a good distance out from the shore. Though his board faced south, he looked constantly, continuously over his left shoulder, out to sea. I imagined he was waiting for the clearly-defined swell in the distance that promised to become the wave he could take safely for a decent run. When wave after wave passed him by, I began to wonder what he was really looking for on the horizon. Was he afraid? Or did he think each wave that passed was too small to ride? Heck, maybe he was just out on the water looking to avoid his family and be alone for awhile.
But as I looked out over him from my perch high on the deck, well above dune level, I wondered why he couldn't see what was coming more clearly. There were at least three times I wanted to jump up and down yelling, "Here comes one! Turn your board and start paddling!!" It was so clear to me - why couldn't he see the swells forming each time he crested waves passing him by?
He never did get a ride that day - at least not that I saw. I lost interest after the next ten minutes, and went back inside, likely seeking out the next pina colada. The rest of the trip passed in a blur of sunscreen, swimming, and lovely meals largely comprised of shrimp. (Who knows why. I was in a shrimp place I guess. Insert Bubba Gump reference here.)
As the week waned, JBL and I went out on our 'date night' while the in-laws enjoyed some girlie time. At some point in the evening, after several glasses of champagne, I expressed my dread of J's upcoming indoctrination into kindergarten.
"I just feel like I'm turning her over to someone else," I wailed. JBL assured me that J would fare just fine, that her time with me these past 5 years has been the best thing we could have done for her, and that J is in fact Ready. I lamented that I wished someone would just tell me everything would be O.K. That SHE will be O.K. Visions of my perfect neighbor who homeschools passed before my eyes. Images of J weeping sadly after 5 hours away from home in some dank school bathroom tormented me. JBL hugged me and assured me I was being silly, which is in all likelihood true.
Back home after the vacation, I tried to reorient the family to our normal routines. However, one of us wanted to test her boundaries, choosing rather to question the status quo. Imagine that. But after a summer of managing her bike riding while reducing the need for training wheels, watching swim lessons where she conquered every skill except getting her face wet, and introducing The Shower to replace The Bath (which went well except for the aforementioned fear of getting the face wet), I was in no mood when J insisted she brush her own teeth before bed.
Previously I had allowed her to brush her teeth unsupervised in the morning, while reserving the before-bed session for me so that I could give her a more thorough cleaning. She had always liked this arrangement, cringing when I threatened to leave her to her own devices morning and night when she turns six. Then, suddenly, she insisted on doing both sessions herself. What gives?
Tonight at bedtime, after reading, I sing to her the same songs we have sung every night for the past five years. In the middle of 'You Are My Sunshine,' she interrupts me.
"Eleven plus eleven is twenty-two."
"That's right. Did someone tell you that?"
"No. I just thought of it. It's two more than ten plus ten."
And I want to cry. I am like the surfer looking out on towards the horizon, not seeing the perfect waves coming to me, passing me by. I have missed all the signs I was looking for, until now, telling me that J is more than ready for kindergarten. I am the one who is not ready. My lack of perspective kept me from seeing what was coming. She is leaving me, and it will be O.K. Both of us will be O.K. This is what I wanted to know, and all along it was right in front of me. It is J. Thank you God for this insight, and for the pleasure of having taken this ride for the first part of her life. Thank you.
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1 comment:
You hit it on the nose!
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