The Breaststroke

I watched my kid struggle tonight... struggle and battle through it.  I'm not really used to it -- he typically either quits when he quickly realizes he can't do it (or can't do it perfectly) or just doesn't struggle at all.

Tonight, though... tonight was a different story.  It was Cal's first time in the "level 6" swimming class.  He had earned his last patch for "level 5" a little over a week ago, making him a "swimmer for life."  Level 6, the "competitive strokes" level, is a whole new ballgame; and we learned that tonight.

He started off great.  He and the other kid in the class did the backstroke across the length of the pool several times.  He looked good.  He was strong.  Up and down the lane a few times.  This was the first five (maybe more, but not more than ten) minutes of the half-hour class.

Next, the instructor gave the kids a quick explanation and demonstration of the breaststroke and had them try it.  Holy cats -- it wasn't the lazy version of the breaststroke I've been doing for years.  This was Cal's first exposure to the breaststroke, the only swimming stroke he hadn't learned yet.

Initially, Cal's legs naturally fell into a dolphin kick as he tried to figure out the motion of the arms which looked like half breaststroke, half butterfly.  He moved forward slowly and awkwardly.

After a few attempts at trying the stroke in its entirety (legs and arms), the instructor started working with Cal's legs.  He'd stand behind him, hold Cal's ankles and get his legs moving the correct way as Cal attempted to get the motion of the arms right while occasionally dipping his head in the water out of synch with his arms.

The instructor would let go, and Cal couldn't propell himself forward.  Either his legs weren't moving in the right motion or they just weren't moving strong enough to do so.

The next thing I knew Cal was on his back with a swimming noodle wrapped around him, the instructor again holding and moving his legs in the right motion for the breaststroke.  He'd let go and, again, the propelling forward (or backward, in this case) would virtually stop.

Meanwhile, the other kid was practicing the same stroke on her own, passing Cal up as she did.  From what I could tell, she had the leg motion nailed and was working on coordinating it with the arms.  I wondered how long she had been in level 6.  She was so tall.  Easily 9 years old.

Soon, the noodle was replaced by a kickboard; and Cal was back on his stomach, still working on the motion of the legs and just not getting it.  As he worked, he made sure to dip his head in the water, just as he will when he does the full stroke.  The instructor worked his legs for him again.

With the instructor by his side, Cal went up and down the lane several times trying different learning tools, none more effective than the other in helping this kid learn the breaststroke kick.  Clearly, this was going to take time.

With the half hour almost up, Cal was being zig-zagged across and down the lane.  At first, I couldn't tell what the instructor was doing with him.  Then I noticed Cal's foot hitting the side of the pool and pushing him away from it, his one leg moving in the path that it should for the breaststroke.  Brilliant? I wondered.  Possibly.

I'm sure Cal made huge yet unnoticeable strides tonight.

He was so uncoordinated.

He struggled so much.

He was so unfazed by the challenges.

He battled through it and tried... and tried... and tried.

As difficult as it was to watch him struggle, I am so stinkin' proud of that kid for battling through it and emerging from the water unbeaten.  "It's the hardest stroke," he told me as we headed to the locker room to change.  And from there it was like every other time we left the facility these past couple of years.

Happy Birthday to Me

Yesterday was my birthday.  I've had enough of them that I don't really play it up and promote much hype, if any, about it.  Actually, I think it's always been that way -- I'm just not someone who likes a lot of attention.  I have low expectations around the celebratory nature of the day... my day.  A simple "happy birthday" from the ones I love is perfect; and if a couple of ones I love don't get around to it, that's cool, too.

To expect my Leatherkids to suspend the craziness that comes with their being kids on my birthday... in my presence... just for me would be ridiculous and setting myself for a letdown before 10am.  So I didn't. I did, however, use it being my birthday as a reason or justification for my seemingly irrational, unfair or harsh response to them many times throughout the day.

Instead of explaining my rationale and getting sucked in to a long whine session with my Leatherkids -- typical of my interaction with my kids when I'm telling them something they don't want to hear -- I delivered a short, "because it's my birthday."  I think I first used it as justification for not letting Cal watch an episode of Ninjago.

"WHYEEEEEE can't I watch an episode?!?!!!" he probed, completely aghast that I would deny him this entertainment that makes him happy.

"Because it's my birthday, and I want to watch NCIS," I responded.  I did.  Watching NCIS is a guilty pleasure of mine, and I was going to watch an episode or two of the marathon of NCIS episodes that day because it was my birthday. 

When Ella jumped on the bandwagon shortly thereafter seeking to watch an episode of "Sophia" (I'd rather watch Ninjago), I nipped it in the bud and insisted they leave me alone in my room "because it's my birthday."  And then they actually obliged my request and scurried out of the room, certain to return.

Cal drew this for me when I caved and said he could
watch a Ninjago episode if he drew me a picture for
my birthday.  He overachieved by drawing an
8-scene comic of the Bulls destroying Kentucky
followed by setting up for the Blackhawks game

I used it a little later on our way home from Cal's friend's birthday party.  The kids were acting up in the back seat of the car... I don't know, I think Ella was holding Cal's book that he wasn't interested in reading until she held it... Cal leaned toward Ella and started to reach for her, Ella started crying about the prospect of being squeezed, and I jumped in with, "C'mon.  Please stop it.  It's my birthday."  They stopped.

I tried to blog in the afternoon but failed miserably because the kids were yapping at me for one thing or another.  Cal wanted computer time.  Ella wanted to paint.  Neither wanted to get along with the other, and both couldn't help but complain about it.  And I just wanted to write.  Eventually, it came to my pleading, "can you just leave me alone? It's my birthday."  I don't remember if they did.

I even used it on Ella when, at the tail end of our 3-mile run outside, she announced that she'd take a shower with me when we got home "because I'm sweaty from running."  Not. She had been sitting in the jogging stroller the whole time eating her (nutrition) "bar."  I probably take more showers with someone than I do by myself. This really isn't my choice.  But my birthday shower was going to be of the solo type; so when Ella asked "why?" when I told her that "Mommy would be showering alone," I responded with, "because it's my birthday."

Ella and I took a selfie during our run

So despite my low-key take on my birthday, I did feel special on my day.  I made some of that specialness happen with my "because it's my birthday" responses. I did get some special attention from others in pockets througout the day, too.  I was delivered presents and breakfast in bed, the former opened in the presence of my excited gift givers and the latter eaten alone and in the quiet of my room (aside from the first episode of NCIS that I caught, of course).  It was sunny and relatively warm, making for a nice run with Ella.  My dad came over early to spend some time with me before Dan and I would be leaving for our bowling league while he stayed and watched the Leatherkids.  My friend (and bowling teammate), Pam, made a "Happy Birthday, Carla" sign and taped it to "my" chair at bowling.  This garnered a few "happy birthdays" from fellow league members.  After a couple of sub-average games, I managed to bowl a 187 my third game,  saving my series -- who wants to bowl a bad series on her birthday?  And then we went next door for some drinks, pizza, fun banter and some birthday ice cream slathered with whipped cream, which I promptly removed (I'd rather watch "Sophia" than eat whipped cream) and gave to the boys who were eating a slice of tiramisu.

My birthday sign (in Garfield font)

And then today I had a nice lunch with my mom at a restaurant in downtown that I've been looking to try for a couple of months now.  We shared a bottle of wine and a nice conversation.

Even the many "happy birthday" messages posted on my Facebook page played a role in making my day special.  

It was special.  Happy birthday to me and thanks to everyone who helped make it so.

The Naughty Leprechaun Strikes Again

The naughty leprechaun paid us a visit last night, the eve of St. Patrick's Day. Technically, it was St. Patrick's Day (the first hour of it) when he struck.  That the leprechaun was up that late and paying us a visit is a whole other topic for a blog post.

How do we know that he was in our house?  Well, other than the obvious, he made a huge mess in both of the kids' rooms. In Cal's he pulled most books off of the bookshelves and threw them all over the floor. I'm certain he didn't read any of them.  He threw Cal's dinosaurs on the floor, too, turned his big stuffed lion upside down, and tipped the chair at his desk on its side.

The leprechaun pulled stuffed animals that haven't been touched in awhile out of their home in Cal's closet and threw those on the floor, too.  And he pulled Cal's comforter half way off of his bed leaving Cal to keep warm beneath a sheet.  The leprechaun must know that Cal gets hot in the middle of the night and uncovers himself anyway -- the leprechaun's naughty, not mean.

The naughty leprechaun hit Ella's room in much the same manner, throwing books and infrequently used stuffed animals all over the floor of her bedroom.  He tipped over her garbage can and unfolded and turned upside down her foam "Mickey" chair-converted-to-bed after throwing the Mickey and Minnie pillows that had been sitting on it on, yes, the floor.

And then to top it off, the leprechaun peed his green pee in the toilet upstairs and down, (a nice touch not noticed by the kids until later this evening).

When he woke to the mess, Cal knew exactly who had done it and why.  The naughty leprechaun has visited us on past St. Patrick's Days, maybe the last 2 or 3 of them.  To be honest, it's Cal's fault that the leprechaun visited us at all last night.  All of his talk about wearing green, certainly not red, to bed that night because the leprechaun would be visiting him and the leprechaun doesn't like red -- I'm not sure, but it might make him mad? -- reminded the leprechaun that he should pay us a visit else make for one disappointed kid.  The leprechaun didn't remember in 2015 that he should visit on the eve of St. Patrick's Day.

Once he was reminded that he should pay the Leatherkids a visit, the leprechaun felt very lucky that Cal's many Lego sets had been taken away from for having made too many "sad choices" a couple of weekends before. The leprechaun would surely have been torn as to what to do with those Legos when making the mess.  Had they not been strewn all over the floor, it just wouldn't have been as convincing of a leprechaun-sized mess; had they been... well... Mommy would be picking up Legos for a month, maybe more.

Ella wasn't sure what had happened.  "Mommy, there's a mess in my room!" she declared from her room as I got ready for work this morning.  "Mommy, there's a mess in my room!" she repeated. She then made her way to our room where she stated it again.  "There's a mess in my room."  She was concerned.

"There is?" I asked, innocently.  "Hmm... I wonder if the naughty leprechaun visited your room and made a mess last night."

With just the suggestion, Ella proceeded to rattle off a bunch of statements of fact about this leprechaun about whom she really didn't know (or remember) a thing.  She does this, talk about stuff as if she's the voice of authority and experience.  There was no longer any concern in her tone, just a matter-of-factness that the leprechaun had visited her, that he made a big mess and that he's naughty and, "Mommy, will you help me?"  She needed help cleaning up the mess the leprechaun had made.

And this is rub -- the whole time the leprechaun was making the mess in the kids' rooms, he thought about the effort that would be needed to clean it up.  I... I mean, the leprechaun, does enough picking up after the kids that it's just counterintuitive that he'd purposely make a mess entirely on his own knowing full well that it would eventually have to be picked up by him... I mean, me.

I guess it's a small price to pay for the simple and terribly cheap joy it brings the kids.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!!!

Ella Lets Me Choose... Sort Of

It's been awhile since my last post, and I feel compelled to explain why.  Nothing bad. Just a little overwhelmed, I guess.  I hope to write about it soon.  In the meantime, a little story from this morning to get this thing going again...

This morning, I sat with Ella, dressed in her Rapunzel dress, at the kitchen table as she drew a couple of pictures with her crayons for me. One had a pink butterfly and a purple sidewalk (yes, she said it was a sidewalk... it did look like one... I just don't really know many people who draw sidewalks).  The other had a band of pink colored vertically on one side of the paper.  It wasn't a sidewalk.  I'm not sure what it was, but it really doesn't matter.

She was talking constantly as she drew.  Ella talks a lot.  A LOT.  Incessantly from the moment she wakes up until the moment she goes to sleep.  About anything and everything and oftentimes looking for feedback from me or whomever she's talking to.  Only Zoe, our cat, gets off the hook for having to respond to Ella's comments and questions.

Anyway, Ella had just finished writing her name in blue, green and pink block letters (the L and A were both pink, and the A eventually became a pink circle) when she declared that she would write my name on the picture, too. Afterall, it was for me.

"What color do you want, Mommy?"  She always includes my name in her comments and questions, even when we're the only ones in the room and I'm the only person to whom she could possibly be talking.

"You pick," I told her.

"You pick, Mommy," she came threw back at me.

"Okay, blue."  Not only is blue my favorite color, it's not pink.  Ella's world is pink (with hints of purple).  I think it's time we mix this up a bit.

"How 'bout pink?"  Without skipping a beat, she then picked up a soft pink crayon and proceeded write the letters "M O M M" right under her name.

"That's right!  And what's the next letter?"

She wasn't sure but air drew the letter Y, starting with the vertical line and two angled lines at the top, one shooting off to the right, the other to the left.

"That's right!" I told her.  "Y.  Y is the next letter."

And then she wrote it -- a big fat PINK "Y" -- right after the last "M."  So there it was.  My name in soft pink letters. Not even one blue letter.  Not my choice, but it was sweet nonetheless.

Pink M O M M Y