I’ve never been a helicopter mom. Maybe it’s because I have two thrill-seeking, risk-taking, energizer-bunny boys and I don’t have time or space to hover. Or perhaps it’s because my boys are already demonstrating athletic aptitude and are remarkably unclumsy. Possibly it’s because I believe the process of falling down and getting up is useful in developing confidence and resilience. But in the case of my 4YO, I’m not a helicopter mom because frankly, I’ve never needed to be.
Zachary Claude Paddock. Like me, he is the first born. He is a rule follower and a cautious observer. When he was still an only child we would toddle to the playground. He would squeal with delight when being pushed in the baby swing or coaxed down the slide. But as soon as others joined us, he would retreat to the periphery where he was more content soaking it in than getting in the game. I have never described him as shy, just hyperaware.
He will recite what all thirteen classmates had for snack at preschool and who got new shoes over the weekend. He’ll recall with accuracy fender benders in specific intersections months later when we pass through again. He has never wet the bed. He holds my hand in parking lots. He remembers names and dates, incidents and accidents, melodies and words.
So it never would have dawned on me to pay extra attention to Zach that afternoon at the pool.
On Wednesday evening, July 11th, the four of us decided to head to our neighborhood pool. We had been the two previous nights and countless other daytimes throughout our Summer. We explained to the boys on our short drive that it was 5:35PM and the lifeguards would be whistling for the safety break in ten minutes. We weren’t going to swim in those ten minutes; we were going to unpack and eat our picnic dinner. We would plan on getting in the pool at 6PM when the safety break was over.
Zach and Noah saw their friends splashing in the 1 1/2 foot deep baby pool when we arrived. Despite our plan being to avoid the pool till after dinner, we didn’t see any harm in letting our boys join their friends for less than ten minutes. We didn’t bother “gearing up,” and their life vests remained tucked inside our pool bag. (We don’t always use life vests/water wings in the baby pool, anyway.)
The pool was busy that night, at least for a Wednesday. Eric and I became engrossed in conversation with our close friends while watching our boys squirt water guns and play catch out of the corners of our eyes. We weren’t on our phones; our backs were not turned to the pool; there were countless parents nearby.
The lifeguard was in her stand and the whistle blew. 5:45PM. Safety break. I left our adult conversation and began to rally the troops. Eric had his eyes on Noah and we called for him to make his way to us. I stood at the inlaid tile passageway that connects our baby pool to the big pool. It’s a beautiful design, but not a safe one. This passageway allows you to swim from one pool to the other without getting out of the pool entirely. My eyes were only on the baby pool.
There was a mass exodus taking place. Adults and older children were clambering out of the deep end and toddlers and young kiddos were splashing their way to the side of the baby pool to meet up with their parents. Casta, the older sister of Zach’s classmates parted the chaos and swam directly to where I was standing on the side of the pool. She gazed up at me and asked the question that would change everything: “Where is Zach??”
If you’ve ever left the living room to grab your phone and reentered to find your walls crayon colored, you know. If you have found a lock of your child’s hair next to the kids scissors, you know. If you’ve grabbed your coffee out of the microwave and heard a box of cereal being emptied onto the kitchen island behind you, you know. Coincidentally, none of these things have ever happened to us. But that night we looked away for the proverbial “split second,” and now we know.
Where was Zach? It dawned on me that I hadn’t laid my eyes on him within the last few minutes. In my gut I knew something was terribly wrong. I quickly scanned the baby pool and then turned to look in the deep end. The big pool was still, now. Zach was wearing a white swim shirt that day, so it was the yellow and navy of his swim trunks and his dark head of hair that caught my eye. He was drowning the way I have read it happens: silently and without struggle.
You picture flailing arms creating giants splashes. You imagine a head bobbing on the surface gulping for air and dipping back below. Maybe you even envision screams. But Zach was floating silently in the deep end—his toes were several inches above the floor of the pool and his head was several inches below the surface. He was like an insect preserved in amber, completely motionless. The only movement was his mouth that opened and closed like a fish. He was floating upright, but his face tilted skyward. His eyes were unblinking, cemented wide open in utter fear.
Zach had drifted a good distance off the ledge, so it took a giant leap for me to get to him. I hoisted him out of the water. His face and lips were blue. I guess I expected him to take a deep breath of air when I raised him out of the water, like Wesley and Buttercup emerging from quicksand in The Princess Bride. The best way I can describe it is that his eyes and brain were further along than his body. He knew he needed to breathe air, but his lungs were full of water and he was incapable. All he could do was make a gurgling moan. His eyes were locked on mine in panic.
In my cotton dress and with Zach in my arms I waded to the pool ledge where things begin to blur. I became crazed and maniacal and I screamed for Eric in such a way that I couldn’t even recognize my own voice. A man names Jacques lifted Zach from my arms and I bloodied my knee climbing out of the pool. Zach was laying on the pool deck and Eric and Jacques were tending to him, helping him vomit water and start breathing again. The pool was absolutely silent.
The lifeguards approached the huddle and I stood inches from their young faces and screamed, “WHERE WERE YOU? HE WAS FUCKING DROWNING!!” My girlfriend was by my side assuring me that Zach was going to be ok and I was pacing back and forth like a wild, caged animal. These are the minutes that puzzle me. Why was I not by Zach’s side? Why was I pacing the pool deck screaming at lifeguards? Why was I not concerned about Noah’s whereabouts? Shock. It’s the only thing I can deduce that makes sense.
I snapped out of it, elbowed my way to Zach and picked him up off the ground. I carried him to a pool chair and rested him on my lap with Eric right by my side. Zach’s color had returned. He was breathing. He was crying in a way that was more like a steady moan. He vomited large amounts of water on three separate instances. The paramedics had been contacted by five separate adults and when they marched in like a military brigade, their presence was simultaneously comforting and haunting. They encircled us and began to ask Zach questions. He nodded and shook his head appropriately, but wouldn’t speak. The only word he did speak was in response to the question of who Zach wanted to ride with him in the ambulance.
“Daddy.”
Dramatic Paddocks 