Swim Lesson Fiasco

This summer we signed the girls up for their second round of swim lessons. Kenzie has become pretty confident in the water so I signed her up for a Level 2 class where she could start to learn some strokes and get better at swimming.

All summer long the girls asked me when swim lessons would start. Finally at the end of July, we put on our swim suits, grabbed our towels and headed to the Roy Complex for our lessons. They were so excited. Hannah even headed off to class (even though the teacher was a boy!) without any trouble at all.

I was playing with Ellie in the bleachers, watching the action and thinking how wonderful swim lessons would be and the next thing I know, a sobbing, screeching Kenzie is next to me crying about how she doesn't like swim lessons. I am puzzled. Kenzie won't tell me what happened and I didn't see anything. I try giving her a hug (drenching my clothes) and sending her back. "You like swimming. Look you can do what your class is doing. You can do it. You've floated on your back before. Go on."

I try gently directing her back to her class. She refuses, crying and crying.

"Here I'll walk you back out there. Come on." I take her hand and we walk over to her class. Her teacher spends some valuable class time trying to convince Kenzie back to the water. She starts to get back in. I am walking away when the crying Kenzie comes back to my side again.

My patience, which I did not think would be tried by my children refusing to do things I paid for that are supposed to be fun, runs thin. I try the reward mode.

"Look Kenz. If you go back to swim lessons I have an ice cream cone with your name on it that you can have when we get home. But you have to go swim and stay in your class."

She sits next to me and cries harder.

"Come on don't you want an ice cream cone? Mmm. You love ice cream." (Just like she loves swimming, I thought)

The forty-five minutes of class are ticking away as her class members practice floating and swimming to the teacher, things that Kenzie can do. Things she needs to practice. I give her a five minute time limit to get back to her class, or no ice cream!  The five minutes tick away. My patience ticks away.

"Fine. Kenz, these lessons cost $45. Do you understand how many chores that is?  That's 180 chores. You're going to swim lessons or you're doing chores for the rest of your life to pay for them. Do you like chores? Because you're going to have to do four a day. Remember how you hate doing two a day? Well it's going to be worse. Four a day. It's going to take you all day. And they'll be chores I chose."

"I don't want to go to swim lessons," Kenzie sobs. "And I won't do chores! I won't!"

"Well how are you going to pay me?" I'm getting angrier by the minute. "Just go out there and swim! You like swimming! Don't be a quitter." (resorting to name calling always works with children)

At this point, my sister-in-law, steps in. "Hey Kenz, we're going to Uncle Josh's work to swim after lessons today. Do you want to go?"

A tear-streaked Kenzie nods.

"Well, you have to go and finish your lessons."

"Did you hear that Kenz? Go on. Go!"  Kenzie finally (with ten minutes left in the class), goes back to class.

After class we had a great time swimming with Josh and Sherrie and their kids and Kenzie showed her prowess at swimming underwater and back floating. I know the class isn't too advanced for her.

"Next time I'll go to class," says Kenzie.

But it was the same pattern at the next lesson. What the heck? She even started acting the same way at tumbling lessons, coming out of class crying at me. Finally, when she refused to put her swimsuit on for the third lesson, I gave up. Luckily I was still able to get a refund, or she really would have been doing 180 chores.

I never thought I would have to teach my children everything. When they are babies it's things like teaching a child not to throw themselves off of surfaces taller than they are, how to get food to their mouth instead of their ear, and how to go to sleep and stay asleep, that surprise me. I thought survival skills were somewhat innate.

Now that my kids are getting a little older it's lessons like "don't give up at the first sign of hard work," or "throwing fits makes people want to run away from you," and "if you're not nice no one will want to be around you," that surprise me. And the fact that we have to learn these lessons OVER AND OVER AND OVER.

It's hard to teach them how to be happy.

The RULES

1. Don't wake up the baby.
2. Don't make extra work for Mom.

We could have some peace around here if these darn kids would just cooperate.

Rage, Rage Against Trifles

When I was little from inside our house we could hear our neighbor yelling from inside her house at her boys. She had quite a set of pipes and I remember thinking, "She must be a pretty angry person. I won't ever yell like that."

Since parenthood is all about dining sumptuously on the words you previously said, of course I have yelled like that.

Yesterday in fact. And it was stupid.
Here, let me set the scene:
Hannah and Kenzie had their cousins over to play. I had gone in to use the bathroom and when I came out, Ellie, who had just been put down for her nap 30 minutes ago, was crying. ARGHHHHH.  Hannah and Koy were downstairs playing loudly by Ellie's bedroom. "Out!" I said in a furious whisper, pointing up the stairs with fire in my eyes. I wasn't at yelling level because that would only exacerbate the situation.

Right now the largest goal in my life is Naps and Bedtime. I suppose I'm OCD about it.

I hoped Ellie would go back to sleep if I took the kids outside and let it be quiet for a bit. She really should have been sleeping. Really. She missed her morning nap and needed a good couple hours to make up for it.

We headed outside and I put some sunscreen on Kenzie and squirted some into my hands to get ready for Hannah. "Hannah come and get some sunscreen."  She looked at me and stayed where she was.

"Hannah come and get some sunscreen right now, or you have to go inside."

"No!"

My blood pressure was already high.  I was already super ticked that she had woken up Ellie, and now I had sunscreen all over my hands and she was going to make me get out of my chair in the shade and act on my threat in front of her friends.

Hannah ran around the yard, hiding behind the trampoline. I think if I was a bull I would have snorted and pawed the ground. I probably did snort. And I wiped the sunscreen on my hands on the grass so I could grab the little sucker.

"Hannah! If you don't get over here right now, you will be very sorry!!!!!"  I was yelling. The cousins cowered in terror. Hannah giggled and in a last ditch effort to avoid my charge jumped into the swim pool.

I waded into the pool, grabbed her by the arm and yelled some more. I managed to keep it a PG sort of yell.  "DANG IT ALL TO HECK! YOU ARE STAYING IN YOUR ROOM UNTIL YOUR FATHER COMES HOME! OR UNTIL YOU STOP DISOBEYING!"

I dragged her unceremoniously up to her room and heard Ellie screaming her guts out. Fantastic. I went back outside and calmed myself down before going back in to get Ellie. I checked on Hannah but she was pretending to sleep (soaking wet in her bed), so I ignored her and went back outside with Ellie.

Later, after my heart rate was restored to normal, I went back in to talk to Hannah. I felt pretty bad for yelling.  And for getting so angry. We made a deal with each other. I would practice not yelling if she would practice obeying.

So I'm going to try a little harder to be a little better. It was sunscreen. I could have handled that situation a lot better.

Sanity Questionable

This dirty doorknob picture was taken last week. It's the outside of the girls' door. Yes, the lock is on the outside. It's so we can play Cinderella more realistically. Of course I get to play the wicked stepmother.

I made good on my word (finally) to put a lock on their door. In my defense it was to save their lives. I've tried reasoning with them, saying in a calm voice, "Well, kicking your sister in the chest is unacceptable in our house. Would you like your time out on the stairs or in your room?"  This calm is met with hatred and kicking and scuzzing by the offender. So I continue in a calm voice, "Well, it looks like you choose your room." Then I gently grab them by both hands and walk their non-compliant self to the room. By this time I have usually suffered some sort of flesh wound and my temper is raising just slightly.  So I say something like, "If you don't stay in your room, you're going to be very sorry. I mean it! Don't open that door."  Then the door bangs open and shut as I try to hold the door closed and the offender tries to come out so they can hit/kick/scream/suck my brain. My temper does not improve and neither does theirs.

Usually I have to flee to my room, which I can lock myself into. But if I'm fleeing from the banshee, that leaves the other children unprotected. And I don't think I should have to lock myself in the room while the offender roams the house terrorizing the natives. Simple solution: a knob with a lock on it put on backwards. It has saved me from a few bruises, it has saved my children from a few yellings/spankings, and it has saved me from the madhouse.

Until this week. This week we had a little summer camp with some friends at our house. We had a great time learning about the water cycle, pretending cotton balls were clouds and playing rain drop tag. Then we went into the bedroom for some play time. I came in and sat down to monitor a little sharing problem.
Hannah said, "I'm going to shut the door!"
"No Hannah," I said. "Don't shut the door. Ellie's coming and she can come in."
"No! She can't!" and Hannah slammed the door before Ellie could come in.
I stood up and went to let Ellie in. The door was locked. Oh.
"Hannah! We're locked in here," I say trying to not fly into a rage that will terrify the six children shut into the room with me.
Hannah laughs. And laughs some more. I pull a bobby pin out of my hair and try picking the lock. I've never picked this type of lock before, so I become increasingly frustrated as the minutes tick by.
Someone wails, "We're going to die in here!"
"No, we're not going to die," I say, calmly thinking that Hannah might die later today. I look out the window and see the mail lady dropping off our mail. I open the window and I'm going to call out to her, but she is on the phone. I pause and the mail lady drives off. Surely Catherine will be coming out to get her mail soon. Won't she?
Ellie starts knocking on the door, getting a little whine in her voice.
"Watch out the window kids," I say. "If you see someone tell me right away." I go back to picking the lock.
"We don't have any water," someone moans.
"Hey Ellie, just a minute. Stay there sweetie."  I envision her crawling into the bathroom and falling in the toilet and drowning. I keep working the hairpin to no avail. I search the room for some other small object to pick the lock. Nothing. Hannah is still laughing. I give her a mean mommy glare.
"Look Mom! Tayson! I see Tayson," says Kenzie.
Hooray! I yell out the window to Tayson's father. "Hey Bryce, the kids have locked us in this room. Can you come and let me out?"
Bryce seems puzzled. "Really?"
"Ummm. Yes. I think the front door is unlocked."
"Are you all in there?" asks Bryce.
"Yes, well no. Ellie is outside the door."
Bryce and Tayson come and unlock the door.
"I wasn't sure if you were serious," said Bryce as he opened the door to let Ellie in and us out. "This'll make a good story."
Yes. A great story that illustrates why I can never own a daycare. I'd have to say that this falls higher on the embarrassment scale than the time I accidentally wore my pants backwards in sixth grade.
To top it off it happened again the next day. Just call me competent and collected.
And yes, I now know how to pick the lock (thanks Kristen).

I Accomplished Something, No really. I swear.

Things that make me feel successful:
1. Taking a shower
2. Not yelling.
3. Putting all the breakfast and lunch dishes in the dishwasher by 4:57 p.m.
4. Washing off Ellie's high chair tray while the oatmeal/yogurt/goo is still fresh.
5. Walking out the door with shoes on everyone's feet.
6. Getting my girls' hair done without someone falling to the floor and yelling that they hate me.
7. Planning out dinners for a week, writing a grocery list and buying everything on the list
8. Working out.
9. Getting 20 minutes of reading from Kenzie
10. Not flipping my children off when they are whining at me
11. Swearing only in my head
12. Walking on the floor without getting crumby feet.
13. Changing Ellie's diaper right when she wakes up
14. Getting swimsuits on, making sure everyone is sunscreened, blowing up the pool, filling up the pool, and sitting in the shade while the girls play in it.
15. Finishing a story
16. Clean sheets
17. Going to bed before 10:00
18. Having all the laundry done by Tuesday
19. Not having laundry on the end of my bed, waiting to be hung up
20. Having our morning routine (dressed, comb hair, make bed, breakfast, regular chore, screen chore*) completed by 10:00.
21. Returning borrowed/left items
22. Sewing anything
23. Making dinner
24. Planning things
25. Being up to date on the blog
26. Writing on the whiteboard calendar our weekly schedule.
27. When the girls say "thank-you" unprompted
28. When Mike says I look nice
29. A skinny compliment
30. Lists, checked off
31. Any sort of home decor
32. If a pepper would grow on my plants
33. Having the girls asleep by 9:00.
34. A smile from Kenzie, Hannah or Ellie
35. Reading a good book
36. Getting my Visiting Teaching done

And that's it for now. I'm sure I'll think of some more. What are the little things that make you feel successful?
*A screen chore is an extra chore that the girls have to do every day since they stuck a screwdriver through their window screen in multiple places and they have to earn the money to replace it.

The Blogger-Formerly-Known-As-Quitting

Sometimes the weight of motherhood pushes my shoulders down and instead of looking up, I'm counting the cracks in the sidewalk and watching ants, thinking, "Man, it would suck to be an ant. What if we are ants in a giant world and our personal tragedies are merely the cause of giants walking around to important meetings and trying to keep us out of their houses?"

And then my head explodes.

I miss you blog. I think I'm going to have to come back. My sugary all-happy all-the-time blog is not doing it for me. It's a fantastic family journal and I still plan to use it as a tool to convince my children that they had happy childhoods ("fake it till you feel it" all the way baby!), but I like this outlet. I also have running as an outlet, but writing with feedback from friends? That's a nice outlet too. And it's a great coping mechanism. I just have to be careful that I don't have so many outlets that I check out of my family. Right?

Consider me as the Blogger-Formerly-Known-As-Quitting, but you can call me Steph or &. That would be a funny name for a child. Ampersand. Hahaha. I kill me. Okay sorry.

So what I'm trying to say here, (why does this feel like an awkward DTR with a boy that I like more than he likes me?) is that I think I'm going to try blogging once a week again. (Did I ever do that? Kind of. I was mostly consistent.) And I hope you'll read and once in awhile, just because you like good deeds, you can leave me a comment. (Please.)

Warning Signs

Ahhh! How I've missed you little blog and readers. I'm still not sure what to do with this blog, but in the meantime, we've inherited a riding lawn mower. And what could be more interesting than a riding lawn mower? Who doesn't blog about their riding lawn mower? Aren't you glad you stopped by, just to read about it? Wait, don't go! This will be funny I promise.
It needs a new fuel pump, but Mike's pretty excited to try it out. I was excited too, until Mike pointed out these Warning! drawings in the operating manual:

Warning! Your friends will be crushed if they attempt cartwheels near your lawnmower. Also, don't push your friend off the lawnmower while driving it.

Warning! Do not do cartwheels off your lawnmower onto rocks.

Warning! Don't stand on one leg while filling a milk can with gasoline in the back of an old truck.

Warning! Don't magically suspend your lawn mower above your head by conjuring from a book of spells.

Warning! Don't make gasoline ice cream cones while smoking. They will explode.

Warning! The Golden Plates will blind you.

Warning! Uncut grass will prick you and you will die on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

Warning! The UFOs will get you in the back of the head (or in the butt) while driving your lawnmower.

Warning! If provoked, your lawnmower will fire upon you at will.

Warning! Your left arm will disappear if you slip in a puddle while wearing unfashionable boots. (And then your lawnmower will laugh at you.)

Warning! Your body will disappear while riding forward and crushing small children, but reappear while going backward and crushing small children.

Warning! Your lawnmower will try to consume you from the legs up.

Warning! Your lawnmower will cut off your appendages.

Warning! Your tires are filled with poisonous arrows that will poke you in the chin if you attach a hose to them.

All the fun is spoiled now. How are we supposed to mow our lawn if we can't do cartwheels off our lawnmower? What are we supposed to tell the children?