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Chapter 13: Notes From the Deep End
By Jennifer Enderlin Blougouras

I WAS THIRTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD when my husband and I decided it was time to have a baby. We had been married nine years, together for sixteen. We had put off parenting for all this time in order to focus on careers, travel, fun, ourselves.

My job was pretty glamorous: Vice-president of a big publishing company in New York City. My life was filled with interesting writers, fascinating trips, sparkling conversation, fine wine, speaking engagements. I saw having a baby as something to check off my list of "Things To Do In Life." And besides, a baby would go well with my new black suit.

So I signed up for the Gwyneth Paltrow version of motherhood. The Kelly Ripa woman-on-the-go scenario. The version of motherhood that gets glamorized in People magazine. But in my heart of hearts, I was scared. Terrified. I knew my life was going to change, and I didn't want it to.

Still, I had the anticipation of regret and I thought having a baby would be "good for me." So picture this: Parenthood, to me, was like a giant swimming pool. I saw people in the pool and they looked okay. But I didn't want to get wet. I was hesitant to even stick in a toe.

Other parents said to me, "Going into the pool can be really scary. But it's all worth it."

I thought to myself, If they can do it, so can I. And, tentatively, I put my foot in the water.

Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind and threw me in the deep end of the pool. In the deep end! How unfair! You don't take the person most frightened of the water and throw them in the deep end! Throw another person in the deep end, someone who's used to the pool! Someone who knows how to swim!

How did this happen? Who did this to me? Gagging and coughing and choking and sputtering, I railed against the shock of the cold water, the unfairness of it all. My head went under and panic set in. I'm going to die, I thought. But instinct kicked in and clumsily, I moved my arms and legs. And I did not drown.

Now, I was treading water. After a few big breaths I looked around and noticed there were other people in the deep end with me, and they were offering to help. But I didn't want to be in their deep end club. And besides, I didn't think I even belonged here. It was only a matter of time before someone told me it was all a mistake and I'd be pulled out of the pool to safety. I should have left well enough alone. I should never have tried to go into the pool, I thought. But since nobody came to my rescue, I continued to tread water. And I did not drown.

Soon I started to float. My panic subsided. I knew I could survive, although it surely wouldn't e pleasant being stuck at this end of the pool. I was able to rest for short periods, suspended on the surface of the water. I felt pretty much alone. Yet I did not drown.

Then I noticed there was a little boy in the deep end with me, a little boy named Nicholas with eyes that crinkle up like half moons when he smiles. A little boy named Nicholas who loves Bruce Springsteen and Puccini's La Boheme and 1940s big band music. And Nicholas could swim.

Looking at him. I began to realize that someday. I might be able to do more than float. I might be able to swim. And I might even enjoy it. Perhaps I'd even love it.

As I watched Nicholas I discovered that the deep end allows for underwater somersaults, and in the deep end, it' possible to dive. You can't do that in the shallow end. And I realized that perhaps someday, with Nicholas at my side, we'd both wave to the parents at the shallow end of the pool and say, "You don't know what you're missing here in the deep end."

Jennifer is Associate Publisher at St. Martin's Press in New York City. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, Arthur, and their two children, Nicholas (2005), and June (2006).