On my way home from Trader Joe's with T. yesterday, I contemplated why my approach to life has become so fast-paced lately. What sparked this off was the fact that as soon as we arrived at Trader Joe's, at 10:05 exactly, I found myself switching into high gear: quickly unbuckling T. from her seat, walking too quickly to the entrance to the store, with T. lagging behind and pulling on my hand.

"Mama, you walking too fast!" she complained, and I was.

One year ago today, L. swam by himself at the pool for the very first time. He was almost seven and had been holding back for over three years—afraid, but also ashamed of his own fear. The water always tormented him, as did the kids—unintentionally—as they danced and played in the deep end, striking out across clear water, or diving below to retrieve coins and sharks and plastic torpedoes. But last year, on June 4, L. swam. As I watched from the pool's edge, it was unmistakably clear to everyone that his feet had indeed left the bottom of the pool.