This hour of life is magic

I canceled what would have been our family’s 15th annual trip to Rehoboth Beach last year at the last minute, ashamed and defensive about how blue I was about our only child, Charlotte, leaving for college. I didn’t want to listen to my extended family telling me to be rational: I wanted to go over my college orientation checklists and let my fear loop run on repeat. How will she survive? Who will remind her to get up? What will she eat? Will she be safe? What will I do without her?

As we packed this year, I felt relieved. The sky did not fall when Char left for school. My hypervigilance could take a rest, it was time for vacation.

I think Charlotte was even more excited to go to the beach this year than I was. She insisted we leave right after work rather than waiting until the next morning, pointing out that she could help with the driving. Arrived, heading to bed, Char started talking about swimming first thing in the morning. I am the swimming mom, the one who loves the water. (My wife Chris is usually happy to watch Char and me swim.) But I was feeling deeply regretful about the plan, remembering that the Atlantic is still sharp and bracing in June (we usually visit in July or August).

I hoped Char would be reasonable and understand that no one swims in 65-degree water. I let it go for the night, and vowed to appeal to the rational side of her brain in the morning.

By 8:00 a.m., we had eaten a box of dipped donuts, and she was ready to go. Char nagged at me like she was a 7-year-old again, stuffed with sugar and ready to play. I realized she was not planning on a quick, perfunctory dip in the ocean. She was wearing a sturdy one-piece bathing suit that would stay put no matter what, not one of the teeny tanning bikinis I could complain about and use as an argument starter. She had outplayed me, anticipating my objections before I could make them. I reluctantly put on my suit and followed her out the back door.

It didn’t matter to Charlotte that there were only a handful of people near the water, most going no deeper than their ankles, none past their calves. Even the lifeguards are in sweatshirts, I whined. But she just shrugged. I reluctantly kept pace, debating how many minutes were required to qualify as a swim.

We got to the water, and it was colder, more biting than I had imagined it would be. I inched forward, shocked by the sharp pain in my ankles, grumbling, while I watched her race in. And then I had to choose — be the parent who stands there complaining about the pain in her ankles, or be a part of the experience. I breathed deeply, aimed for the next wave and dove in, emerging on the other side with a howl. I gasped for air. My chest felt compressed, as if in a vice. Char looked healthy and happy, breathing normally, bobbing up and down, but I couldn’t take a full breath. She didn’t acknowledge my dramatic complaints or loud gasps — she just kept laughing at me.

Within several minutes, I loosened up. It is impossible to remain rigid and tight in the ocean. One movement fluidly turns into another and then another. And then suddenly I was just there, not struggling, but content to be where I was, at that moment, floating.

We talked about the waves, and reminisced about the year she got knocked down and flattened, the year I got clobbered and lost my expensive sunglasses, the year her friends came with us, and argued for days, making things awkward for our family of three, but also for my extended family, who — to their credit — never said a word. Talked out, I started issuing little challenges. First I suggested a synchronized swimming routine that required holding hands. We spun around three times. Then we practiced somersaulting, and riding a wave, and a couple of wild log rolls. We were goading each other on, showing off. And then Char, who is a few inches taller, and perhaps stronger, asked me to lift her over my head, an effort that was clearly futile. Still, we tried, giving up only when her knee hit my nose so hard I expected to be gushing blood.

There in the ocean, floating and riding the waves, kicking water at each other, talking silliness and seriousness, side by side, I felt the loveliness of life's in-betweenness.

The truth is, this hour of life is magic.

At 19, Char’s caught between being a kid and an adult — she’s a student creating her own path, thinking about her future self and her own independent life. But she still wants us to cheer her on, she’s still young enough to call our house “home.” She lets me hug her, and she wants to spend time together. And, she still wants to play: She gamely agrees to any suggestion, less concerned about what people think than she was during middle and high school.

We committed to two swims per day. Each time we stayed for nearly an hour. On more than one occasion, I felt something brush my hand and yelped. During one of our first swims, I briefly stepped on a tiny crab, causing me to hop maniacally, jumping toward Char, as if she would save me. I shamelessly showed her my fear, and she just slapped the water, letting me hang on to her. She wasn’t rattled, and she seemed more proud of her own bravery than upset by my panic.

I am not the same woman who couldn’t go to the beach last summer. True, the past 12 months have been a year of uncomfortable transition, the ground never feeling stable, the changes keeping me off balance. But I needed to be shaken up. Until Char left for college, I could hide behind being her mom, ignoring my own identity, my own loneliness and persistent fears about the direction of my life — refusing to be responsible for my own happiness.

Charlotte followed her own path at school. She did more than survive, she did great. And as she took up the mantle of her day-to-day decisions, I was able to put it down. I found space to ask, What do I want to do? I’m not suggesting I have undergone a total transformation. I had a milestone birthday this spring that rattled me. My anxiety is a daily struggle. I am overly concerned with other people’s opinions. But there is space in my mind — and heart — for more than there was before.

In the ocean, riding waves and becoming pruned in the water, I felt like an authentic, integrated version of myself, freed from pretending to be a better mother, or cooler person, or even a more pulled-together version of me.

Before we left Sunday morning, our whole family came down to the beach to watch our final swim: Peter and Ace, who became my parents when my mom became too ill to care for me and my sisters; my sister Molly and her two boys; and, of course, Chris. We promised to make this final dip a quick one. I had warned Charlotte: Life is waiting.

We were both ready for the swim and chased each other into the water, showing no reluctance or hesitation. We showed off some of our “moves” for the family, even though I am sure we looked absurd from shore. Ace jumped in too, and gasped, and we were delighted to get his validation: A week after our arrival, the water was still incredibly cold!

They were all great sports and cheered and laughed. As Char and I came out of the water, toweled off and began walking toward the house, Peter joked, One of you could get in again and have one more swim. Historically, Char and I compete over silly things, but when she was younger I let her win more often than not. I knew she would keep walking toward home; she wouldn’t expect me to turn back and show her up.

At that moment, I didn’t think too hard; I just pivoted and ran as fast as possible toward the ocean, tumbling into the water. I submerged myself in a shallow foot of water, wanting to be the first, knowing that she would be mere seconds behind me.

She had dragged me in for that first swim. I wanted to beat her in for the last.

In the empty nest articles I read last summer, there was a lot of advice about relationships with other people, but I had no idea that becoming an empty nester would improve my relationship with myself. I had forgotten over the years that I am more than the roles I fulfill in relation to others — mother, wife, sister, colleague. I am also just me.

Char’s becoming a determined, brave young woman, diving headfirst into life. I might hesitate a second longer, but I am right behind her.

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