night swim

A spontaneous weeknight turns into a night swim - glowing pool lights, palm trees at dusk, childhood memories, and the quiet magic that shows up when routines bend just a little. A reflection on instinct, habit, and letting kids lead us somewhere unexpected.

hosted by Kathy Patalsky

healthyhappylife.com

IG: KathyPatalsky + notes.kathy

Transcript

 "by the time we got to the pool, the sun had basically set just this soft glow of pink and  📍 orange echoing through the palm trees, towering over the aqua water." 

 You're listening to Notes with Kathy Patalsky.

Night Swim.  

Tonight was one of those nights that quietly reminds you just how fast time flies, how precious this window is when your kid is still young and free and not fully tapped into the rules and rhythms of the world yet.

The phase when kids are still led by instinct and heart. And yes, sometimes that's the most frustrating thing about them, but it's also the thing that builds a bridge between regular everyday life, monday afternoons, routines, bedtime, and those unpredictable moments of magic that show up when you least expect them.

So tonight we ended up stumbling home around 7:00 PM. Wet hair, no shoes on her feet, a towel wrapped around her shoulders as she walked up the porch into the light, waiting for me to open the front door. It had been a night swim kind of night.

I picked my kid up around four already, late in the afternoon for a 5-year-old.

I fully expected that we'd go home, slide into our usual routine, decompress, dinner, bath, bedtime. The first thing she said to me when she got into the car, "mom, I wanna go to the Children's Museum. They have that veterinarian thing. I really wanna do that right now." I knew what she was talking about. I know she loves it. And for a second I actually considered it.

But the Children's Museum was actually closed, and almost without thinking, I blurted it out. Uh, do you wanna go swimming? When I think about it, I kind of have to laugh because why did I say that? I don't know. But I did.

The look in her eyes when I said that truly unhinged joy. She yelled, "yes!" In the happiest tone.

So we stopped at home, we grabbed our pool stuff, the sun was already dipping low, that periwinkle sky turning pale orange and lavender. We didn't have much daylight left.

By the time we got to the pool, the sun had basically set just this soft glow of pink and orange echoing through the palm trees, towering over the aqua water.

To my surprise, there were actually a few kids in the pool, usually on a weeknight, this pool is empty. The weather's been beautiful lately. And it felt like we were suddenly at a summertime resort with families and laughter and smiles.

My kid peeled off her clothes, jumped in the pool, eyes sparkly, laughing, giggling, showing me summer salts and handstands. Diving down to collect shiny gems with her goggles on. Proudly telling me she could swim farther than the last time we came.

The pool was heated, the sky was beautiful. Off in the corner, families gathered around a fire pit, flames flickering, as they ate pizza in baggy sweatshirts over their wetsuits.

There was the hum of nighttime. Splashing water. And then the pool lights came on. Tiny flickers glowing beneath the surface, blinking on and off as the water moved like sparkly, sapphires and diamonds dancing. It unlocked something in me. Those nighttime pool lights that I hadn't seen in so long, it reminded me so much of my own childhood.

Those weeknights when we go to our local sports club and swim at night. Tiptoeing up the stone path in wet suits and towels. Cold air on our skin, rushing into the locker room, bolting for the hot tub, the sauna, the showers. Tennis balls, cracking against rackets under the light, in the distance, stars overhead.

There's something about swimming at night, that flicker of fear mixed with adrenaline.

The way the sunlight turns into moonlight, the way the pool shifts from bright to playful to something quieter.

At one point we noticed a spider, a really big spider poking out from under a lounge chair. At first I was startled. Then I realized it was just weaving, its web. Dipping up and down in the dark, because nighttime was its night to find its dinner. We watched it together. She asked me, "mommy, are you going to smash it?"

And I said, " this is his house." This one lived here. It was just doing its thing and I'm pretty sure it only comes out at night. And somehow that felt part of the magic too.

Everything out and about under the moonlight, just existing as it is.

When Rosalie was a baby, I would walk at night here, with her on my back. She won't remember that, of course, but I do that nighttime magic.

We finished up, we piled into the car.

The house was quiet. The cats were there. And I realized we were closer to bedtime and more tired than we would've been if we had just stuck the plan and gotten home right on schedule. But nothing about it felt reckless. It actually felt oddly smart. Sometimes breaking your routine shifts your entire perspective.

It awakens something in you. Jolts you alert like, oh, you're living life. You don't have to do the thing you do every day. Wake up. We're creatures of habit like that spider. Building, the same web every night in the same corner. But tonight reminded me that magic doesn't just appear. It needs a catalyst.

And tonight that catalyst was my kid.

Children are made for finding magic. Fire and ice, flowers, and stardust. Moonbeams and hummingbird wings. The everyday magic is in them. I'm completely sure of that. And sometimes when you let them take the lead, the world opens up just a little.

But yes, it could have gone a completely different way. Overtired, meltdowns, chaos, and regret. Throwing her over my shoulder, dragging her back to the car screaming because she was just too tired, needed to eat, and had swam a little too long.

I've lived that version a few times, but tonight it didn't happen. And that gives me confidence to say yes more often. To do the wild things. Because childhood deserves to be speckled with magic. It's right there, happening in front of you. If you just let it take the reins.

This was Notes by Kathy Patalsky

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