Part of his therapy is to listen to music for half an hour, and do some sort of movement. We get through twenty five minutes just fine, and at the final stretch he starts to cry, from nowhere. So we rock. "Rock-a-baby", he calls it, and he cries into my shirt. My little boy. When I get to rock him back into calmness is when I feel most maternal, when I want desperately to have my own child and comfort them, but that's not for a few years, and in the meantime, kids are always screaming at swim lessons.