A different kind of waiting

It’s so calm in the changing area during the summer compared to the bustle of the school year.  It is still loud at times, the tiled floor and walls echoing little girls squeals and the cyclonic swimsuit dryer.  But the vibe is definitely summer and I see it on the other mom’s faces as they shoo their children into changing stalls with smiles.

I watch them while I sit on the wooden bench and wait.

It’s a different kind of waiting now.

All those months of watching but not helping.  The pressure I felt as I saw the door handle jiggle while the Roc screeched and pleaded for me to help him.  I forced myself to be still, rooted to the floor, fingers pressed against my sides back in March.

Now I sit, heels crossed, toe tapping as I watch his feet under the door.

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I see his swimsuit flop onto the floor, watch the bottom of his towel move about, and I hear his voice.

He is singing to himself.  He has a beautiful voice.

I sift my weight, rest my ankle on my knee, watch as a little boy exits another changing stall.  He entered after the Roc.  “Come on Mom!” he yells to his mother who is waiting across the little room from me.

I listen to the Roc, still singing to himself.

I smile and put both feet on the floor.  Check the time on my phone.

He is still singing.

Now I see his feet wiggling into his sandals as he grabs his suit.  I see him in my mind stuffing his suit and towel into his bag.

He is still singing.

Then there is this:

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It’s been worth the wait.

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