I took nine-month-old Sara to a kiddie pool to introduce her to the world. Among eighty children, a painful shoulder, and plenty of chlorine, I discovered that she was bringing me back to it as well—
I never thought I would be so happy to swim in the pee of eighty children.
Okay, pee diluted with chlorine—but still, a pool of pee.
I also never imagined that I could enjoy myself while suffering from an injured shoulder. It hurt with almost every movement.
Disgusted? Confused?
I know. It sounds both revolting and absurd when I put it that way, but I am not exaggerating.
Apparently, when your child’s happiness is at stake, even a pool of pee and an injured shoulder can add up to a successful day out.
Yesterday was Saturday, and Sara turned nine months old. To mark the occasion, I decided to take her to the local country club.
A friend from work had told me that it had an outdoor kiddie pool. I hoped the afternoon sun would have warmed the water and made it pleasant.
This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was part of a plan I had been following for the past month.
Sara starts daycare in early September, only two months from now. Until then, I want to get her out of the house, introduce her to other babies and children, and gently expose her to a shocking fact: she is not the only baby on Earth.
Until now, Sara had lived in the little bubble my parents and I had naturally created around her. In that bubble, she happened to be the only baby in the world—and the amount of attention she received reflected her status.
But the protective bubble we created for her is not the world.
It was time for Sara to meet it.
For Sara to Enter the World, I Had to Reenter It Too
Anyone who has read previous posts on the Sara and Me blog already knows that my own life stopped when I was twelve. The reasons are something I have not yet revealed.
At that age, without a ceremony or an announcement, I unofficially retired from the human race.
I became a lonely, anxious child and, eventually, a lonely, anxious adult. Crushed by deep feelings of inferiority, I walked with my head permanently lowered.
I became a shadow of myself.
Being alone felt safe. When I was alone, nobody could hurt me. When I was alone, my social anxiety disappeared, and I could be the real Yaniv.
By the age of twelve, I was already convinced that I would always be alone. The thought did not make me sad. On the contrary, it brought a certain sense of relief.
I built an enormous, fortified wall around myself. Behind it, I created a warm, protected space. I enjoyed my own company and never felt that anything was missing.
Saturdays were the highlight of my week. I would shut myself inside my small apartment with everything that made me happy: movies and television shows, my PlayStation 4 and Xbox 360, books, and plenty of peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.
Four walls. Everything I loved. Not another human being in sight.
Paradise.
That was how I lived for forty years.
Then, at the age of fifty-two, Sara was born.
Her birth confronted me with a truth I could not avoid. If I wanted Sara to have a different life, I could not raise her behind the wall I had built.
If she was going to discover the world, I would have to step back into it too.
For the first time in my life, I loved someone more than I loved being alone.
To my surprise, returning was not as difficult as I had feared. The old wounds had not disappeared. Over the years, however, they had stopped bleeding and turned into ugly scars I could live with.
Besides, I was no longer returning to the world as a vulnerable twelve-year-old boy. I was returning as a fifty-three-year-old man, armed with decades of life experience.
And the best thing that had ever happened to me was sitting in a stroller beside me.
Sara is my secret weapon.
When she is with me, not even the entire world can defeat me.
How Sara Made an Invisible Man Impossible to Ignore
Since I started going out with Sara, something strange has been happening: people notice me.
More accurately, they notice Sara. But since I happen to be attached to the stroller she is sitting in, I benefit by association.
Whenever we leave the house, strangers stop in front of the magical little creature sitting peacefully in her stroller.
Sara draws them in.
They look at her perfect round face and smile at her. Then they turn their attention to the old man pushing her.
Most of them assume I am her grandfather.
I correct them.
That is how I went from being humiliated, defeated, and invisible to being someone strangers approach every day. They congratulate me on my beautiful baby girl.
Forty years after I stopped looking at the world, the world is looking back at me. This time, it is even smiling.
Without realizing it, Sara became the mediator between me and the rest of humanity.
She brought the world and me to the negotiating table. She helped us leave the past behind and brokered a historic peace agreement.
But that peace is more than a gift Sara has given me. It also places a responsibility on my shoulders.
I cannot allow her to grow up believing that the world is a place she needs to hide from.
This is the most important mission I have undertaken in my fifty-three years.
I will do everything I can to make sure Sara has a healthy social life and grows up with confidence. I do not want her to carry the same feelings of inferiority that burdened me for so long.
I want her to love the world and know that she has a place in it.
And I want the world to love her back.
Perhaps that is why I have begun treating her upcoming transition to daycare almost like a military operation.
Over the past month, I have taken her to an indoor play center, the neighborhood pool, and the beach. I want her to spend time around other children before she arrives at daycare.
There, she will discover that the undisputed queen of our household must suddenly share her kingdom with subjects her own size.
Fortunately, Sara does not require much encouragement. She is extremely social and always searches for new people, especially children.
When she spots one, she sends a welcoming smile in their direction. If the child does not respond, she adopts a slightly less subtle approach.
She simply yells until she receives the attention she deserves.
Anyone who thinks Sara can be ignored has clearly never met her.
The Smallest Baby in the Kiddie Pool
When we reached the kiddie pool at the country club, Sara stared in astonishment at the enormous number of children surrounding her.
Once the initial shock wore off, she began calling out to every child within earshot. She was trying to get their attention.
This time, however, even Sara’s voice struggled to rise above the unbearable noise and commotion around us.
Because she still could not sit steadily on her own, I held her in front of me, facing away. Her back rested against my chest, as though I were a human baby bouncer.
Then I lowered us both into the pool.
The water was indeed warm, but I am not convinced that the scorching sun deserved all the credit.
Dozens of children had contributed their pee to the pool. Combined with a generous amount of chlorine, it may also have helped raise the temperature.
I decided not to investigate further.
Instead, I focused on Sara.
The water interested her, but the children surrounding her were far more exciting.
Although she was the smallest baby in the pool, she was neither intimidated nor discouraged. She continued calling out to the other children in her distinctive little voice.
She hoped someone would notice her.
Many of them did.
They turned to see the adorable baby in the blue hat. When they smiled and approached her, her entire face lit up.
She did not know their names and could not exchange a single word with them. She probably would not remember any of them the following day.
But in those moments, she was happy to be among them.
I watched her and thought about how different she was from me.
At nine months old, she was already asking the world to come closer.
At twelve, I had asked it to stay away.
When another child failed to notice her, she did not give up.
She simply yelled louder.
Perhaps she is already teaching me a thing or two about confidence.
When I decided it was time to leave the water, I placed Sara back in her stroller. She responded with loud sounds of protest.
I had never been so happy to hear my daughter complain.
Her protest expressed what she still could not say in words:
I had fun, and I don’t want to leave.
We stayed until the country club was almost ready to close. Only after Sara had thoroughly enjoyed her first experience in the kiddie pool did we head toward the car.
The outing ended with a shoulder injury.
Another car had parked very close to ours. As I tried to maneuver through the narrow space and place Sara in her infant car seat, I hurt my shoulder.
It throbbed throughout the entire drive home. The pain was still there the following day, as I sat writing these lines.
But it could not spoil my mood.
Sara had enjoyed herself. As far as I was concerned, the mission had been a success.
Like a Nine-Month-Old Fish in Water
Throughout the drive home, I tried to enter the mind of the nine-month-old baby sitting behind me.
I wish I could know exactly what she feels and thinks.
What does a pool filled with children look like through the eyes of a baby who entered the world only nine months ago?
How enormous did that first experience seem to her?
Did the water, the shouting, and the unfamiliar faces stay with her on the way home? Or did everything disappear from her mind the moment I returned her to the stroller?
I will never know exactly what that afternoon felt like to her.
All I can do is read the signs she gives me—her smiles, calls, and protests—and hope I am interpreting them correctly.
This time, the message seemed clear:
Sara felt like a fish in water.
Or, more precisely, like a nine-month-old fish in a pool of pee and chlorine.
I once spent the entire week looking forward to Saturday. It allowed me to close my door and avoid seeing another human being.
Today, I look forward to it for precisely the opposite reason.
It is the only day I can spend with Sara from morning until night. There is no work and no other distraction stealing moments away from us.
My Saturdays are noisier now.
They contain screaming children, strollers, car seats, questionable water, and sometimes even an injured shoulder.
But they contain Sara.
And for the first time in forty years, they contain the world too.
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