It's been years since we've been to our community pool. We've tried out other smaller pools because Max was never a fan of our local one: Too many kids, too much noise. I never loved it, either. That's because I couldn't get past the sad memories I had of being there with Max as a baby.
We'd try to dip him in the baby pool, but he'd cry. So I'd sit with him under the shade of a huge blue tarp and Dave would go for a swim. I'd watch other tots splashing happily in the pool and crawling on the grass as I held Max in my arms, because he wasn't yet able to crawl. I felt so despondent and alone, as I often did during the first year of Max's life.
So we were back at the pool on Sunday. My eyes immediately went to that big blue tarp, and I remembered. But that was then—and now, Max was so excited to be there. He waded right into the smallest pool, splashed around, made a beeline for a steering wheel that controlled the flow of a mini waterfall.
I sat on the side watching him enjoy. "Does he have autism?" a girl asked me. "No, he has cerebral palsy, and he understands you—go say hello!" And she did, and then Max and her played for a bit.
Slowly but surely, the sad memories of Max's early years have been replaced with good ones. The park where Max couldn't do much except sit on my lap is now a place where he roams free. The mall he refused to go into is a favorite of his. One of the only places I haven't yet reclaimed is the hospital where Max was born. To me, it is the closest place to hell.
Around Max's tenth birthday this past year, I started thinking about going back to the hospital and just sitting in the lobby. I thought it might help replace the memories I have of Max's birth and the two weeks he was in the NICU. I still haven't done it.
This weekend, though, Max and I both found a whole lot of happiness at the pool.
