The Summer I Learned to Dive

A few summers ago, I was trying to get my daughter, who was five at the time, to try new things. She was very anxious to try anything that was out of her comfort zone. In particular, I was trying to get her more comfortable with going in the pool and learning to swim. I tried to cajole her and I tried to show her how much fun the pool was. I even tried to bribe her. Nothing was working.

Then, one day, the whole family was outside playing in the pool. My husband went to the deep end and did a beautiful shallow dive into the water, swimming all the way across to the stairs at the other end. My daughter thought that was wonderful, and screamed, “Okay Mommy! Your turn!”

I sputtered and said, “Uh, I don’t dive.”

Of course, Arianna gave me a sticky-sweet smile and said, “Well, you don’t dive and I don’t swim.” Uh oh. Point taken.

I realized that if I was ever going to get my daughter to learn to swim, I was going to have to face my diving fears. I outlined my plan to my daughter, and got to work learning to dive.

My first step was to watch my husband for a while, trying to figure out a technique. When I finally felt comfortable with the idea, I headed to the end of the pool and prepared myself to dive. I bent down at the waist, raised my arms above my head, prepared to dive, and chickened out! I simply jumped in feet first. I did this again and again and again. I could not work up the never to dive in headfirst. I finally gave up for the day, discouraged.

The next day, though, I went back out, determined as ever. Shaking, I went to the end of the pool, and just jumped in headfirst. Unfortunately, it was not a dive. It was a belly flop. Undeterred, and proud that I actually had the nerve to try to go in headfirst, I continued for the rest of the afternoon to try diving. I could not get past the belly flop. By that evening, my stomach was as red as a tomato.

The rest of the week, I continued, sore stomach and all, to practice my diving. Eventually, I was able to start lifting my feet at the beginning of the dive and tucking my head in further. By the end of the week, I had, if not a beautiful dive, a functional dive. My daughter was thrilled!

That last afternoon of the week, my daughter told me, “I guess if you can dive, I can swim!” She let me help her float on her stomach, and by the end of the summer, she could doggy-paddle with the best of them.

Hard-Headed Gardener

My kids and I decided to plant some radishes, peas, and onions in our garden the other day. I was a little hesitant because even though the package says, “As soon as the soil can be worked”, I always worry that a big frost will come and demolish my new little sprouts.

My Dad was the ultimate gardener. He knew how to grow the biggest and best possible garden on our little third of an acre lot. We always had an abundance of everything from tomatoes and potatoes to raspberries and strawberries. He really had techniques to get his garden to grow the maximum amount with the least amount of fertilizers and pesticides. Even today, after deciding to go completely organic, his gardens still always produce a bumper crop.

So why then, do I bristle every time he tries to give me gardening advice? He really does know more about gardening then I do. The problem also is not in the way he delivers the advice. It’s not criticizing or demeaning. He simply offers tips to help improve my garden.

Initially, I thought that part of the reason it bothers me so much is that I need to make my own mistakes; I need to be able to have a bad year (s) where my garden does poorly. The problem with this is, I am not usually so pig-headed, and frankly stupid, about taking advice. Normally I appreciate people giving me advice.

Why then do I seem to be determined to learn gardening the hard way?

Does it have to do with the actual act of gardening? Is gardening such a primal act that I feel like this is one lesson I have to learn on my own?

Rantings of a Perfectionist

I have come to realize lately that my perfectionist tendencies seem to be getting in the way of writing a good, frequent blog. I feel like I cannot post until I have a perfectly formed, grammatically correct story. Unfortunately, to come up with that many stories while going to school and taking care of two young children is a bit unrealistic. Besides, all the blogs I follow tend to be a quick paragraph every so often, not a full length expose on one’s life.

I am not the only one in my family who is a perfectionist. My son is the same way. The other day he was trying to write the word “sat”. He wrote and erased the letter “s” eight times before I finally told him that he was not allowed to erase it any more. “But Mommy, it’s not right,” he told me in his sweet, angelic little voice. I tried to explain to him how his writing was fine, as long as someone could read it. It told him that since I could read it just fine, he should leave it alone. He proceeded to pick up his paper, jam his pencil in his pocket, and go work on his writing in his room, where I could not stop his frenetic erasing.

So is there hope? Can a perfectionist streak be overcome? I don’t know. I would love to hear what others think.

If I Were a Professional Photographer...

Sick and Tired

My daughter is home from school today with a stomach bug. Unlike my son, she is miserable when she is sick. My son is just a chipper as usual when comes down with a bug. My daughter, on the other hand, would be best described as possessed. The sounds that come from her when she gets sick are scary. Not only that, she is grumpy and grouchy.

Her illness reminds me of when I was just a little older than she is now. I was in the fourth grade. My teacher was one of those “old school” teachers who believed in a very traditional classroom. There very were few fun projects and the children needed to work at grade level, not above or below. Unfortunately, fourth grade work was simply too easy for me.

One day, halfway through the year, I came down with a stomach bug. My parents had me stay home. Oh what fun! I was able to watch television, read whatever books I wanted to read, and eat whatever felt like. My father, who was home, but sleeping due to working second shift, really did little to intervene with whatever I felt like doing. It was so much better than school, where I would have to sit and listen to my boring teacher drone on about things I already learned years ago.

A few weeks later, I decided to try a little experiment. I moaned and groaned, and pretended I was sick. My mother, who was busy getting ready for work, said, “Oh honey, why don’t you stay home today and just take it easy?” It worked!! I stayed home not only that day, but also for the rest of the week. I quickly learned the tricks needed to convince my parents that I was really sick. Heating up the thermometer next to the radiator, moaning about an unspecific pain in my stomach, and even, when needed, throwing cupfuls of water into the toilet while making retching noises.

So for the next few months, every other week or so, I would take a “break”. In no way did I fall behind at school, so my parents did not really question my repeated illnesses. Finally, when summer break came, my recurring sickness simply vanished. By the following year, I had a different teacher who, if not exactly scintillating, was better than my fourth grade teacher was.

Looking back now, I am of course ashamed at my behavior. I should have been more upfront with my parents about what my problems were with school instead of playing hooky. I had complained earlier in the year about my teacher, though, with no results. Even now, I am unsure of what else I could have done.

Is Shorter Better?

This is part of my new effort at shorter blogs. It’s hard for me, so try to bear with me!! The other night we were driving back from Lake Placid around seven. It was rather dark out. My kids were in the back seat, bickering over who had which toy first. Finally, exasperated, I turned around and yelled, “The first person to see a deer gets a quarter.” Immediately, my children were engrossed in looking out the window for deer.

My husband, being the joker that he is said, “Anyone who can find a giraffe gets a hundred dollars”. Soon, regardless of the lure of the quarter, my daughter starting yawning.

She said, “I’m tired, but I don’t want to miss out on the quarter”. My husband told her that if she wanted to go to sleep, we would give her a quarter for dreaming about a deer. All of a sudden, from the back seat, we heard a loud, bear-like sound. I turned around and looked at my son, whose head was tilted back. He was making the loudest snore he could possibly manage.

“What are you doing Braden? Are you dreaming of a deer too?” I said.

Braden looked at me squarely in the eye and said, “No mom, I’m dreaming of a giraffe”.

Whose Afriad of the Big, Bad Wolf

Last night, as I was tucking my daughter in, the phone rang. I ran to get it, interrupting our nightly routine. After wrestling with the telemarketer, I came back to find her looking under her dresser for a missing stuffed teddy. Picking up her white and yellow dress from the floor and placing it gently in the hamper I said, “Okay munchkin. You have a good night sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow morning”. I then turned to switch off the light and that’s when it happened. She bolted upright and leapt across the room to her bed like her feet were on fire. She yanked her blankets up over her so only the top third of her face was not covered. She peered at me through wide, unblinking eyes, not saying a word.

“Arianna, there is no so such thing as monsters, “I said, trying to hide my grin.

“Oh I know. I’m seven now. Seven year olds don’t believe in monsters, Mom. I just am really tired. Time for bed,” Arianna said with a rather fake yawn. I reached over and gave her quick kiss on the nose.

“Okay sweetie. I understand.” I left feeling a bit sheepish, because the truth is, I do understand.

Because I am afraid of the dark.

There, I said it. Thirty-two years old, and I have never quite gotten over my fear of the dark. Now don’t get me wrong, I know that there is nothing that is going to hurt me. I am not overly superstitious and I certainly do not think the boogieman is coming to get me. I just know what happens when I turn out the light.

Once that light goes off, every scary movie, every strange occurrence, and every childhood imagination comes blasting through my head like a freight train. Every night, I come out of the bathroom, tiptoeing to the bed so I don’t wake my husband, and I can feel my fear like a tangible force. I have to remind myself continually that there is nothing to be afraid of. Unfortunately, that mind show I call a brain does not seem to think so.

As I walk past the mirror, I am reminded of the Bloody Mary tales my friend Leslie used to tell me when having a sleepover.

The wind howls, and I remember the stories of the Irish Banshees that my friend Tara used to scare me with at 4-H camp.

Even in the middle of the night, when my child calls out for a drink of water, I can’t help flash back to the movie The Exorcist, wondering if this is the time my child’s head is going to spin like Regan’s.

When my daughter asks to watch the new Harry Potter movies or any of the Tim Burton movies, it’s hard not to give in to those big, pleading eyes. All I need to do to realize that she should not, is to remind myself of the last time I stayed in a hotel room all by myself.

“Heeere's Johnny!”