Parenting has its moments, doesn’t it? Lots of them: sweet ones, crazy ones, some you never want to forget and others you wish you could.

Some of my all-time favorite moments with my 20-month old son involve swimming. Of course, by swimming I mean holding on tightly to something akin to a squirming, splashing baby seal. Pure bliss.

Neither of us was afraid of the water until we were schooled last weekend in how quickly bliss can turn into terror. Did you know a child can drown in the time it takes to answer the phone? Or, that according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Oregon is one of 10 states where drowning surpasses all other causes of death to children age 14 and under?

And here’s one more sobering statistic from the Orange County Fire Authority in California, “of all preschoolers who drown, 70 percent are in the care of one or both parents at the time of the drowning.” I suppose I’m in good company, then, because when Sam slipped facedown into a friend’s pool this weekend, I was standing right there.

What kid hasn’t been asked what they’d do if their friends jumped off the (insert name of local bridge)? For me, it was the Tacoma Narrows Bridge and I always assured Mom that I would not jump. And yet, here I am a mother and I gave in, against my gut instinct, and let my kid do what other kids were doing so that I didn’t seem mean.

I’d been trying to keep Sam busy playing inside while he watched his little friends playing near the pool. There were balls in the pool. I know my son. He’s like our Labrador. Nothing gets between him and his desire to get a ball. Which will serve him well on the field someday but as a fully dressed toddler near a swimming pool? Not so much.

I let him outside to play anyway. I warned him that if he tried to get in the pool even once we would leave immediately.

“That is so mean!” I heard someone exclaim. Is it? How many warnings should I give when it comes to something as important as life or death? It didn’t take long before the wind carried his ball into the pool, just out of reach. He went after it, tripping over his titch-too-big Tevas and landing in the pool. Face first. Watching his little body floating there was one of the worst moments in my life. The world went mute as I went in after him.

“Breathe!” I heard my voice pleading. I held him against me, both of us soaked, and listened to him breathe. As soon as I knew he was OK, I did what any normal mother would do. I freaked out.

As my friend took care of Sam, I took a moment to lose it completely, collect myself and change into dry clothes. I found Sam bundled up in dry towels and propped up on my friends’ cushy bed. They were watching Motocross, Sam leaning forward watching the bikes make laps around the muddy tracks. “Bike, vroom! Vroom! Bike!”

All the way home I kept going over what happened. I let some stranger’s opinion of me get in the way of ensuring my son’s safety. What was I thinking? How in the world are we going to get to preschool safely, much less through high school and beyond?

Sam seemed to be playing a different tape in his mind. There in the backseat, I saw him grinning ear to ear, “vroom … vroom … vroom. Mama, bike?”

Since then, I hug Sam a little tighter, watch a little closer and concern myself less with what others think. Also, I’ve added worrying about whether or not he’ll remember to wear his helmet on rides when he’s older to my list of things that keep me up at night. Oh, and I plan to take a CPR refresher course this summer. Other than that, we’ll see you at the pool.

Nathalie Hardy is a local freelance writer who can be found at random hours, taking notes as she walks Sam in his stroller. She invites your feedback — provided it doesn’t include the phrase “unfit mother” — at nathaliesnotes@comcast.net.