“The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived lives of his parents.”
—Carl Jung

I spent three hours at a swim meet at Mack Pool in Ann Arbor last Tuesday, packed thigh to thigh on bleachers with a hundred other parents, cheering on my 9-year-old, who was in the water for exactly 3 minutes and 34 seconds. It was hot, it was loud, it was uncomfortable. It was everything you would not want after a full day of work on little sleep. I could have been working, exercising, reading, listening to a podcast, talking to a friend, mindlessly surfing the internet, organizing my clothes, napping, or doing any number of “more valuable” activities. Sitting among the pool echoes, getting progressively wet, I was bored, restless, and a little resentful. Thanks to the aforementioned bleachers, I was literally butt-hurt.

My friends warned me to stay away from youth baseball (no clock), hockey (expensive ice time), and swimming (95% of the time, your kid is not a part of the action). Nearly a decade in, I was three for three and congratulating myself. But Sam had other plans.

Sam’s umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck when he was born, and he didn’t breathe for several seconds. I should have taken this as a sign that he prefers to be underwater. As a baby, he charged into the Lake Huron waves, laughing as the ice-cold water cascaded over him. My brother nicknamed him “Sammy the Shark” after a family reunion at Lake Michigan, where he was the first in and the last out every day. If there’s a body of water that’s not directly connected to a sewage plant, he’s going in, with or without a swimsuit. And the way he moves through the water, man. It sounds cliché, but the kid was born to swim.

Sam does basketball on Mondays and Fridays. I feel at home on those days. The sneakers squeaking on the newly waxed floor, the balls bouncing—a different kind of echo. At basketball, I can sit in an actual chair, stay dry, and watch Sam play a game that I grew up loving. I love to watch Sam play basketball. But what I think I love more is watching Sam love to swim.

I don’t know how fast Sam will get, or if he’ll swim in high school, or if he’ll even want to be on a team next session. But what I do know is that when he’s in the water, he’s fully present and bubbling with the unbridled joy we all remember feeling as kids but find much more elusive as adults.

I realize all of this could change, but for now, Sam has stopped playing guitar (I wanted to be a rock star), is ambivalent about tennis (my first love), and golf (my lifelong love), and basketball he likes, but he doesn’t wake up asking about it like he does swimming.

This is all instructive as I—like Jung said I would—steer Sam toward this and that, pruning him like a bonsai tree so he ends up exactly how I wish I had. This is his life, not mine. And if it means I have a sore ass and wet jeans every few weeks, so be it.

Questions for the comments:
Is there something your kid loves that you don’t? Or is there something you love that your kid doesn’t? Tell me more.