She never does go in. She sits in her chair looking cranky, while I watch her little brother, Ty, splash through his toddler lesson without complaint. But the next morning she smiles and hikes her T-shirt to reveal her swimsuit. I smile back, allowing myself a smug mental note about motherly instincts but saying nothing. It's not unusual for her to put her foot down about something one day, then comply the next. At the pool she goes straight in (but still won't dunk). Maybe Pool Mom was right and this really will work.

Or not. For three weeks we trek across town, and I never know until her lesson begins whether Leah will participate. Some days she sits in the chair. She hates diving-board day and the idea of jumping. On others she willingly practices "windmills" and "ice cream scoops." But throughout, she refuses to dunk.

The fourth week arrives and holds no more magic than the others. Leah still won't go under. I feel alternately let down by Pool Mom's promise and silly for believing it, for subjecting Leah to my need. The following summer we skip the lessons at her request, which feels to me a bit like failure.

That July we drive from Washington down to California for a vacation. The ride back is hot, 104 degrees in the shade, so when we finally stop in Redding, CA, the motel pool is a clean, sparkling antidote. Apart from a short dinner break, we stay there all evening.

"Like this?" says Leah, now 7. Pinching her nose and puffing her cheeks, she disappears below the surface, then bobs up to grin at me, hair plastered to her head.