This weekend I took Finn to the pool twice. Once on Saturday, preceded by crying and pleading and tears; the second time on Sunday by happy giggles. She’s been traumatized, I think, by Mrs. J, her swim teacher, who comes from the throw-em-in-the-pool-and-let-Darwin-sort-it-out school, and who has little time for Finn’s method of learning things: slow, steady increments of progress. I forsee that trying to teach Finn something she doesn’t like will be a long, slow process and teaching her something she does like will be impossible to tear her away from—in short, she’s her father’s child. I just hope she takes to math better than I did.

Once I’d gotten her in the pool (after a car ride marked by nonstop reassurances) and on a float, she was a giggling, happy tadpole with crazy legs that didn’t stop moving. She was having so much fun, in fact, that when we bumped up against our time limit, I had to promise her I’d bring her back to get her out of the pool.

Sunday was much easier. She vibrated with excitement as we put her swimsuit on, and skipped as we walked through the parking lot. And then, as we opened the door to the pool, she saw Mrs. J, who was leading a completely unrelated class for older handicapped adults, and she shrieked in terror. I held her close and explained that we were going to swim by ourselves, that I would be with her, and that calmed her down. Once we were in the pool, she was the same tadpole I swam with on Saturday. I spent about thirty seconds holding her hand, and the rest of the time she paddled and kicked around the shallow end by herself, making friends and having a great time. She even stuck her head in the water and blew bubbles.

Sunday evening, after dinner, we walked down the street for some ice cream to celebrate. Returning home, we walked out back to put our lawn tools away, and when that was done Jen and I sat under the big maple tree to watch her catch fireflies as dusk fell, past her bedtime.