Growing up in the armpit of the USA, you don’t go too many days in a row without taking a dip in somebody’s swimming pool. We were lucky, and one of the benefits of my preacher dad’s job was membership to the community pool. Unfortunately we don’t have that luxury here – not to mention the fact that there are only a handful of English days fit for outdoor swimming.
But last week, I suited Adlai up and took him swimming at the local indoor pool. He looked good enough to eat in his fish-printed swim trunks – down to his knees because I bought a size too big so they’d fit through the summer. I cuddled him close and slid into the water, holding my breath as I waited to see how he’d handle it.
Good news: he’s a water baby like his mama.
He loved it, and I couldn’t have been happier. He was so chilled out, and I felt proud of my little man, taking on this new adventure with a brave and joyful face. I felt all gushy inside, too, that he took so naturally to something I associate with my own childhood in the American South.
It felt like proof that, although he’s yet to visit my home, there’s a little bit of it already inside him.