I'm sitting at the pool right now, in an uncomfortable lawn chair that may or may not buckle under the weight of me and the child that fills me to near capacity. I couldn't find my swimsuit today (not that it would have fit) so I'm on the sidelines, watching Peter and Bella swim. My jeans are wet from the hug I just got, and she's blowing me kisses from across the pool.
There's a dog in here. Sitting patiently at the edge of the hot tub, which strikes me as strange. Then a man gets out of the hot tub, and I realize he's blind. Ah, of course. This strikes me as an incredibly stressful place to be without sight. It's so loud, and it's slippery. It's really crowded today, and the lifeguards seem to have their hands full. There are not guard rails but the dog leads him confidently to the edge of the large pool. The man is heavily tattooed, big bushy red beard. He looks like a pirate, someone you may not want to encounter in a dark alley, but something about the dog leading him tentatively across the wet tiles makes him seem vulnerable. Again I try to imagine navigating a public pool blind, and feel anxious at the thought.
Then I see her. The man and his dog have made it to the edge of the large pool and a little girl who seems a little too old and too confident for the life jacket she's wearing runs up, the strap that's meant to go between her legs dragging behind her. The man passes the dog off to an older woman who, like me, is occupying a lawn chair. He takes hold of the little girls dangling strap, like a tail, and she leads him into the deeper pool. She's done this before, and seems totally confident with it just being the two of them.
And then they play. He is WILD with her, and I can't take my eyes off them. They're laughing and he's bumping into things, splashing people as they get too close. She leads him into the rushing river, where Bella doesn't like to go because the water moves too quickly, and it's usually so crowded. Today, it's like cattle in a chute, all being pushed wildly in the same direction. He's trying to keep his stick between them but they're laughing too hard. She's trying to keep him from bumping into others but the water pushes them into the walls. The make it out of the river and back into deep water. He tosses her in the air, she continually whacks him in the head with a pool noodle because he can't see to duck. She couldn't care less that he's "disabled". She's not careful with him. She points things out to him and doesn't notice that he doesn't look because he is solely focused on her. She's just a little girl playing with her daddy, and she has his attention. Totally and completely.
I'm smiling and trying not to cry. I think of him not being able to see her, not knowing one day what her wedding dress looks like and for a moment I'm so sad for him. But then I think of the things I don't see. Things I allow myself to be blind to because I'm tired or lazy or distracted. I know his life has more challenges than mine, but as parenting is concerned, I don't see a disability. He's just a dad playing with his little girl, and from where I'm sitting he's doing better than I am, likely because he can't take her for granted in the same way I can with Bella. If they're playing, they're touching, connected. She has to tell him everything and he listens. I wonder what it would be like to spend a day like that with Bella, and I can't help but think that she'd probably love it. His little girl is having the time of her life.
Eventually they get out of the pool and suddenly he's tentative again. His steps less sure. I have no right to have spent my morning being so unashamedly interested. To have even begun to make a call on what his life must be like. To assume anything about him at all or apply some lesson to myself that I don't begin to earn. His life has so much more purpose than to simply serve as an inspiration to my own. I want to tell him what an amazing dad he is, but I don't want him to think that I'm saying it because he's blind. Because he isn't. All I could see when I looked at them was his sight and my own disability.
There's a dog in here. Sitting patiently at the edge of the hot tub, which strikes me as strange. Then a man gets out of the hot tub, and I realize he's blind. Ah, of course. This strikes me as an incredibly stressful place to be without sight. It's so loud, and it's slippery. It's really crowded today, and the lifeguards seem to have their hands full. There are not guard rails but the dog leads him confidently to the edge of the large pool. The man is heavily tattooed, big bushy red beard. He looks like a pirate, someone you may not want to encounter in a dark alley, but something about the dog leading him tentatively across the wet tiles makes him seem vulnerable. Again I try to imagine navigating a public pool blind, and feel anxious at the thought.
Then I see her. The man and his dog have made it to the edge of the large pool and a little girl who seems a little too old and too confident for the life jacket she's wearing runs up, the strap that's meant to go between her legs dragging behind her. The man passes the dog off to an older woman who, like me, is occupying a lawn chair. He takes hold of the little girls dangling strap, like a tail, and she leads him into the deeper pool. She's done this before, and seems totally confident with it just being the two of them.
And then they play. He is WILD with her, and I can't take my eyes off them. They're laughing and he's bumping into things, splashing people as they get too close. She leads him into the rushing river, where Bella doesn't like to go because the water moves too quickly, and it's usually so crowded. Today, it's like cattle in a chute, all being pushed wildly in the same direction. He's trying to keep his stick between them but they're laughing too hard. She's trying to keep him from bumping into others but the water pushes them into the walls. The make it out of the river and back into deep water. He tosses her in the air, she continually whacks him in the head with a pool noodle because he can't see to duck. She couldn't care less that he's "disabled". She's not careful with him. She points things out to him and doesn't notice that he doesn't look because he is solely focused on her. She's just a little girl playing with her daddy, and she has his attention. Totally and completely.
I'm smiling and trying not to cry. I think of him not being able to see her, not knowing one day what her wedding dress looks like and for a moment I'm so sad for him. But then I think of the things I don't see. Things I allow myself to be blind to because I'm tired or lazy or distracted. I know his life has more challenges than mine, but as parenting is concerned, I don't see a disability. He's just a dad playing with his little girl, and from where I'm sitting he's doing better than I am, likely because he can't take her for granted in the same way I can with Bella. If they're playing, they're touching, connected. She has to tell him everything and he listens. I wonder what it would be like to spend a day like that with Bella, and I can't help but think that she'd probably love it. His little girl is having the time of her life.
Eventually they get out of the pool and suddenly he's tentative again. His steps less sure. I have no right to have spent my morning being so unashamedly interested. To have even begun to make a call on what his life must be like. To assume anything about him at all or apply some lesson to myself that I don't begin to earn. His life has so much more purpose than to simply serve as an inspiration to my own. I want to tell him what an amazing dad he is, but I don't want him to think that I'm saying it because he's blind. Because he isn't. All I could see when I looked at them was his sight and my own disability.
