L Is for Lily

Diving, continued. To read the first post on Lily’s summer diving experience, click here.

I may have learned more this summer about parenting than I have in the last few years.
Lily continues to amaze me. After conquering her inward dive, she moved on to the reverse (a gainer). Somehow, her body just won’t conform to the laws of physics needed to complete this dive. She has practiced and practiced—hours in our pool and hours at diving, fighting with it. Her biggest issue? She couldn’t compete in the last meet if she didn’t have a reverse dive on her list of dives. And she wanted to compete.
I spent hours with her in our pool, offering encouragement and very little substance, to no avail. When she went to practice the morning of meet day, she had her game face on. Neglecting the other three dives she’d be competing, she repeatedly threw herself up into the air, attempting to rotate and enter the water hands first.
She never did. I was heartbroken for her, in a way mothers can only be for their children. What was she going to do that night? I watched her coach take her aside and talk with her. He wisely counseled her that sometimes you just have to step back after you’ve given something your best effort, and stop for a while. He told her she shouldn’t be embarrassed. I told her maybe next summer.
My admiration for her tenacity went up markedly as we tearfully discussed her options on the way home from practice. Most of the other girls on her team weren’t even attending the meet that night because of this cursed dive. Lily spat the words, “That’s so chicken, just to quit because something’s hard.” Her solution to the dilemma was to still go to the meet, attempt the dive, knowing she couldn’t complete it, take zero points for an incomplete dive, looking that demon straight in the eye and telling him, “You may have won this time, but I won’t quit. No matter what.”

Her resolve was unwavering. We got to the pool, and she warmed up, never even trying the reverse even though it was first on her list. I sat there, holding my breath as she approached the board, and without hesitation jumped, threw herself in the air, and promptly landed on her back, just as she had every attempt before. She swam to the side of the pool with her head held high, no shame in her failure, just resigned at her attempt. At least the demon had been faced and squarely told to go to hell.

Two good dives and one great inward off the high board later, we were waiting as they read the final standings. “In ninth place . . .” “In fifth place . . .” “In fourth place . . .” With the absence of her name each time, her excitement grew. Was this even possible?

“In second place, Lily Denton.”

I will never ever ever forget the look on her face as she was handed that ribbon, her squeals of excitement, the smell of genuine triumph in the air. Her best had been good enough.

Lily’s coach asked me before the meet how Lily was doing, and I honestly told him that she was struggling, but she was determined to try, even if she failed. I could see the admiration in his face when he said, “That stubborn, that tenacity, that fight to be the best? That can’t be taught. And she has it.” I can’t wait to see where that fight will take her in life.

I so often fall into the trap that I’m the mom and I need to teach my kids this or show them that. That since I'm the mom, Mom knows best. Little do they know--often we know less than they. I wish I still had that fight, that tenacity to look something in the eye and win or lose, give it my all. As a spectator of this epic battle—the battle we each fight to beat that lurking demon telling us to quit—I know I will never parent the same. And maybe, just maybe, I will tell him to go to hell myself someday very soon.

Linking up to L at Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday.