As I stood on the edge of the diving block, my classmates offered supportive smiles. At 38, I was acutely aware of my age and insecurities as a novice diver. I avoided eye contact, feeling the weight of my self-consciousness. Yet, I realized that sometimes, not trying is far more noticeable than putting yourself out there. Joining my hands in a silent prayer, I leaped into the water, slicing through its surface with surprising grace.
I found myself in that diving class at a pivotal moment; my youngest child was halfway through kindergarten, and I felt ready to focus on self-improvement. While many friends were taking on triathlons, I knew my swimming skills were lacking. Growing up near the ocean, I adored the waves and the gentle flow of rivers, but my swimming laps often left me feeling as if I were on the verge of drowning.
During our third lesson, the instructor posed a question: “Who wants to learn to dive?” I had dreamt of diving since I was ten, spending carefree afternoons by the pool with friends, but it never materialized. I watched my older kids dive effortlessly at swim meets, feeling a mix of envy and admiration.
Later, as I rinsed off in the shower, I was startled to find tears streaming down my face. It felt strange to achieve a goal I had long since abandoned, yet I was overcome with joy. I had convinced myself that diving was a dream beyond my reach, that I was too old, too fearful, and too embarrassed to pursue it.
A few months later, I discovered I was pregnant with my fourth child. Excitement bubbled within me; I felt like a seasoned parent. I had mastered nursing in awkward chairs, excelled in PTA roles, and could whip up meals from sparse pantry supplies. We had three wonderful children and eagerly anticipated our new arrival.
However, the pregnancy was fraught with complications, leading to an emergency cesarean delivery at 32 weeks. My son was tiny but perfect, lovingly dubbed “a feeder and a grower” by the NICU staff. Just six days later, a group B strep infection struck, causing severe complications. As we left the hospital, we felt as if we were drowning in uncertainty, especially after he was diagnosed with cerebral palsy.
Every day presented new challenges, and the early years were a whirlwind of appointments and therapies, leaving little time for reflection. I had to be an advocate, an administrator, and a teacher to my children, all while navigating the complexities of my son’s needs.
This year, my son started taking the bus to kindergarten in his adorable little red wheelchair. I feel as if I’m resurfacing for air again, though my plate is still full with endless responsibilities. Questions swirl in my mind: Is there a new therapy we should try? Would a different school suit him better? How do we plan financially for a lifetime of care?
I refuse to let age, fear, or embarrassment dictate my role as his mother. Most days, I dive in headfirst. I may never have that cathartic moment of crying in the shower to wash away my worries and regrets, but I’ve made strides—like completing a triathlon, where the swim was the most daunting part. Battling through the waves, I learned to harness their energy on my return to shore, and I didn’t cry at the finish line because I knew I could do it. Once I took the plunge, there was no turning back.
For those exploring parenthood or considering options like at-home insemination, check out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination for more information. If you’re in the market for supplies, visit this reputable retailer for at-home insemination kits. Meanwhile, if you’re curious about similar experiences, you can read more in this related blog post.
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