On courage
Earlier today I played a prank on my middle son (let’s call him M2).
When he saw his baby brother being carried to the car, he decided he wanted to be carried too. So I picked him up. But when we got to the car, instead of putting him into his seat, I sat him in the boot and pretended to close the door.
Before anyone panics: the boot was large, flat, empty, and perfectly safe. Big SUV. Plenty of space.
M2, however, was not amused.
He started shouting and crying immediately. Laughing, I lifted him out, apologised profusely, and strapped him into his seat.
My wife and my dad, understandably, took his side.
“Daddy’s silly, isn’t he?” my wife said, consoling him.
M2 is a timid child. I vaguely remember his older brother (M1) being similar at that age. Maybe it’s just the phase. Maybe it’s personality.
When we pass through a metal gate, M2 will rush ahead to catch it before it bangs shut, then close it very slowly, making sure it doesn’t make a sound. When we walk past the neighbour’s house, he shields his ears, worried their dog might bark. In fact, shielding his ears is something he does often—noise or not. Sometimes he covers one ear and listens cautiously with the other, which is both endearing and faintly comic.
So I was curious when M1 started swimming lessons and M2 said he wanted to try as well.
The first lesson was full of anticipation. We talked about it beforehand, and though reserved as always, M2 showed his excitement in the quiet way he does.
At the pool, the teacher was friendly but busy with two older, more capable kids. Still, he made time for M2.
Instead of putting him straight into the water, M2 stood at the edge, staring into the pool. I knelt beside him. He clung to my hand. His older brother stood just behind him, clearly aware that support was needed.
The teacher didn’t rush him. He placed some floaties in front of M2 and asked him to throw them into the water. Then he went back to the other kids. A moment later, he returned and asked M2 to throw another. Bit by bit, M2 edged closer. Standing nearer. Sitting down. Dangling his feet in the water. Each time he hesitated, turned back toward me. Each time, his brother urged him on with conversation—directing his attention to the pool.
Eventually, the teacher invited him into the pool to retrieve a floatie.
And M2 did.
By the end of the first lesson, he was in the water. He wouldn’t jump, but he let the teacher swirl him around, holding him securely.
After my ill-judged prank earlier that day, it was time for the second lesson.
This time, I didn’t need to kneel by the pool. M2 got in on his own. And when the teacher asked him to do a big jump into his arms, he did—to my amazement.
The teacher looked over and smiled. I smiled back.
I sat further away this time, watching. The pool was loud and chaotic. M2 kept glancing around, clearly absorbing every sound and movement. When the teacher called for his attention, it sometimes took a few tries.
He looked small. Awkward in his movements—kicking and paddling in uneven bursts.
Watching him there, small and fragile and alert to everything around him, I thought: maybe courage belongs to the weak.
Afterwards, all five of us sat eating hot chips, watching a large kangaroo laze on the grass.
“Do you like swimming?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Are you scared of swimming?”
“No,” he shrugged.
Maybe he had gotten stronger.
Or maybe I had been projecting all along.