It wasn’t your turn, But you declined to wait. Rather than perch on the pool’s edge, pearly toddler skin glistening with water, hair plastered to your head, grin plastered to your face, watching your sister splash in my arms, You chose: kerplash! The simple expedient method of shimmy-scoot-hopping yourself into the cool blue, And kerplash! (Thank God for floatie vests) I glimpsed your future: Water. Simple, magnificent, splendid water. Somewhere coastal, maybe? Moving sleek, powerful muscles down a chlorinated race track? Balancing in graceful tension atop a surfboard carving through foam-frosted saltwater? Kicking down, down into otherworldly depths to retrieve epicurean treasure? You are so beautifully, uncomplicatedly bold, little one. And here I pause to thank God, to say Thank You for the mantle that lies beneath the frissons, the tremors of fear and irritation at your two-year-old self-assurance. That mantle is made of sturdier stuff than any frisson or tremor; It’s layered with wonder, awe, with steady faith that oh yes, My water baby, my runner, my climber, my picture of pig-tailed precocity, You are someone special.