growing-up

Your hope may be the only hope someone else has

I know that, in spite of her cheerful and enthusiastic demeanor, my daughter suffers from time to time. She has told me that she gets lonely. As an only child, I fear that we have made it difficult for her to relate to other children.

It doesn’t help that she is different. She is different because she is half-Asian and doesn’t look like the other kids. She is different because her mother and I are older than most of the parents of her peers. She is different because she was raised in a multi-generational household with grandparents to guide and teach her, so she has always been ahead of her grade level. She is different because she is creative, she’s a leader, and she is so damn smart, and I’m not just saying that as a doting father. The truth is that she is smarter than both her mother and myself.

I just don’t want to see her lose heart. I don’t want to see her become cynical. We joke about being weird. I can joke about it now because I have found solace in my weirdness, but it wasn’t always funny. It has also been lonely, painful, and confusing. To her, it is just lonely, painful, and confusing.

She doesn’t understand why the other kids don’t want to play with her. She is frustrated and hurt by the fact that some of the kids who are friends with her one-on-one choose to ignore her play on the playground while playing with other kids who exclude her from their games. She calls these kids “half-friends.” At least she knows that, but that knowledge hurts.

This pains and saddens me. I can feel it in my marrow. I have been there. I have been her. It made no sense to me then and it makes no sense to me now. She is full of life, full of joy and enthusiasm, and as sincere and loyal as they come. Why can’t the other kids see that? Why don’t they see how kind, smart, and generous she is? Why is she excluded? It makes no sense. No child should feel alone and unaccepted amongst their peers.

I know life is not fair, but I refuse to accept the unfairness of this. So we talk about it. I try to make it make sense. I try to give her hope. I tell her she is loved and appreciated, and that she will find her place in the world someday.

It may take a while and it may not be easy, but this is all temporary. And sometimes she cries. And sometimes I cry, but I try to stay strong for her because I know, even if she can’t see it now, there is meaning in all of this.

There are lessons in all of this. It makes no sense now. It feels wrong and it feels unfair. But these struggles will become her story someday and her story will help others through their pain, their loneliness, and their confusion. It is so important not to lose hope because your hope may be the only hope someone else has.

Thinking about swimming

I’ve been thinking a lot about swimming lately. My sister-in-law’s pool just opened for the season and both my daughter and I love to swim. In fact, I don’t remember a time when I was didn’t love being in or around the water. And like me, my daughter has been attracted to the water since she could walk. 

The first time we took her to the ocean, when she was still in diapers, my daughter tried to run straight into the water with no fear or hesitation. We would pull her back and, as soon as we let her go, she would try to run back in. It was like a scene straight out of Moana (an amazing movie, by the way). 

Now that the pool is open, she wants to go swimming every chance she gets. The only problem is that the water is really, really cold. That doesn’t stop her though. She eases her way in and will swim until we make her get out. It has, however, stopped me from joining her. 

The reason I’ve been thinking a lot about swimming lately is because I’ve been finding myself avoiding going in with her because the water is too cold. She all but begs me to join her, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I have a mental block that keeps me from taking the plunge, as it were. But this was not always the case. 

I used to have no fear nor hesitation about swimming whatsoever. Regardless of the temperature, if I was allowed in, I was jumping in. I swam in lakes, rivers, pools, and the ocean, and I didn’t care how cold it was. I was just happy to be in the water. 

So what changed? That’s what I’ve been pondering. What is it about getting older that makes us more hesitant, more reluctant, that keeps us from jumping in head or feet first, and that prevents us from simply enjoying ourselves? Why am I resistant to the cold water when I used to just be grateful to be able to swim? This may all seem silly, but there is something that happens to us as we get older that I’m just not okay with. 

In spite of my daughter’s pleading and her subsequent disappointment, I didn’t go swimming with her and, quite frankly, I’m bothered by that. I don’t want to be the kind of parent who says, “No,” to my child when she wants me to join her in the pool simply because I may be uncomfortable. I don’t want to be the kind of parent who avoids treats spending time with my child as an inconvenience. 

Beyond that, I don’t want to be the kind of person who never truly lives. Yeah, I know, it’s just a pool, but for whatever reason, it feels like more than that to me. My reluctance to jump in feels like a sign that I’ve taken this growing up thing too far, that I’ve mistaken being uptight, avoiding discomfort, and being unable to enjoy the moment as a sign of maturity. Growing up is for old people and I’d rather live.