Somewhere along the way—whether it was seconds, minutes, or years—I transformed from a national champion swimmer and swim coach to being the mom of an 11-year-old on the swim team. I used to conquer the clock; now, it feels like the clock is winning.
When my son, Ethan, first started swim lessons at the community YMCA at age 2, he declared he would never join a swim team. “No racing for me!” he insisted year after year, progressing through the program at a leisurely pace. While we lived in Abu Dhabi last year, he continued his slow and steady journey at the Gulf Swim School, remaining firm in his anti-racing stance.
Ethan has always been a non-racer—he took nearly 36 hours to make his grand entrance into the world! I often joked with my coaching colleagues at James Madison University back in 2004 that the sprinter had turned into a distance swimmer.
But just before we left Abu Dhabi in mid-June, Ethan surprised us all by declaring that he wanted to join the swim team as soon as we got back to Vermont. Without hesitation, I signed him up on the YMCA website. “BOOM! You’re in, kiddo!” I exclaimed, resisting the urge to lift my laptop like a trophy.
Watching Ethan’s initial practice sessions was a revelation; his natural endurance was impressive. He swam lap after lap, seemingly unfazed by fatigue. He kept a steady pace, never complaining, and while he did crash into lane dividers a few times, he brushed it off with ease. Diving from the starting blocks resulted in a few belly flops, but he was getting the hang of it.
Then came the evening of June 23, 2015—an event I had been waiting for without ever expecting it to happen. Ethan was set to compete in his first swim meet. As he approached the starting block for the 50-yard backstroke, a tiny smile crept across his face. I quickly wiped away tears of joy. My dual role for the evening was to be his mom and a timer.
The other parents at the YMCA had no idea about my swimming background—I was a Florida State High School Champion, National Record Holder, and even an Olympic Trials Qualifier. When the head timer explained how to use the stopwatch, I simply listened, not wanting to reveal how the fate of my life had been dictated by that little device for two decades.
Ethan’s strokes were steady and smooth. He mostly stayed in the center of the lane, but at the halfway mark, he flipped from his back to his stomach and was promptly disqualified. I briefly considered giving the official a piece of my mind for disqualifying my son in his very first race, but I reminded myself that this sport, much like life, can be unforgiving. I felt a wave of emotion, reflecting on how the lessons from the pool had shaped my life and how they might do the same for Ethan.
Next up was the 50-yard breaststroke, which was not just one of his best events but also one of mine. He swam with a grin, even though he finished last. At the end of the race, he shook hands with the swimmers in adjacent lanes. I was relieved to see that they waited for him to finish before leaving the pool. Unfortunately (for me), Ethan was disqualified again for not touching the wall with both hands simultaneously.
Tears flowed as I realized he was proud of himself despite the outcomes. I thought of my parents, who endured decades of my highs and lows in competitive swimming. My heart especially ached for my mom, who took me to 5 a.m. swim practices and then again at 4 p.m., all while managing a full-time job and our household. I also felt the absence of my father, a neurologist who could recite every one of my records. Now, I stood where he once stood, hoping to remember my child’s times as vividly.
For his final race, Ethan took on the 50-yard freestyle, my signature event. This race mirrors the 50-meter dash on land—victories decided by mere inches. Years of my life had gone into trimming down tenths of seconds to become one of the best. As he walked to the block, Ethan paused to let me know he was ready for a hot dog. Yet, he raced with remarkable form, finishing next-to-last without disqualification this time.
I hugged him tightly and repeated, “I’m so proud of you!” More tears streamed down my cheeks. I had forgotten to record the time of the competitor in my lane and used that as a chance to step back. Another parent kindly took over.
Ethan shrugged off my compliments and headed to the snack bar. I rummaged through my wallet and found six quarters and a single Rupee. It was amusing to think about how we had just visited the Taj Mahal in India and now found ourselves on a pool deck in Vermont. Life’s absurdities never cease to make me chuckle. Thankfully, $1.50 was sufficient for one hot dog, and I left the Rupee as a tip. Ethan laughed at my antics.
Why was I crying so much at a kids’ swim meet? Because I was witnessing my child dip his toes into the waters I had once conquered, and it stirred up a flood of emotions.
In Summary
The journey of transitioning from a national champion swimmer to a swim meet mom is filled with nostalgia, pride, and a bit of humor. As I watched Ethan dive into the world of competitive swimming, I reflected on my own experiences while cherishing his milestones.