Now with less yelling

This has been a stressful week.  And let's be honest, I'm not handling the stress well at all.  In fact, my stress has turned me into one of those moms who seems unable to communicate with her children at a normal volume.  If my requests are not met, I start yelling.  And I hate yelling.  Problem is, right now it feels really good.  I am beginning to understand that screaming therapy, letting the anger and frustration pour out of you in a burst of angry and very very loud words can be fantastic.  Unless you're yelling at your kids.  Then it really really sucks.  And that's been me the past couple of days.
I hate it.  I feel out of control.  I feel like the kind of mom I don't want to be.  I feel like a failure.
I decided yesterday that instead of feeling the frustration washing over me and carrying me away on a tide of stress and anxiety, I need to take charge.  I've put a no yelling policy in place.  I'm not giving in to that kind of mommy tantrum.  Instead, I'm using the extra creepy, ultra calm voice when I get stressed.  You know the one.  It is the one that sounds all soothing and rational, but there's something off about it.  It's a little too calm, too controlled and then you look in my eyes and you see the crazy welling up back there.  So far it's been very effective.  In fact, it freaks the kids out in a way all of the yelling has never achieved.  And I feel more in control.  I feel like a better parent.  I feel like I'm channeling the emotion instead of just giving in.  I'm one day in, and I think it might work.  If I can make it through this week, I might be able to use this voice when I feel like yelling long term. That would rock.  But I could probably use some more ideas.
What's your strategy for keeping your cool when you're otherwise losing your mind?

The deep end. Well, really she shallow end

I've always loved the water.  I love swimming, watching waves crash onto the shore, walking along creeks, even just gazing at a quiet lake.  One of my favorite trips was spent island hopping in Greece.  I took ferries from island to island, when I'd find a new location much of my time was spent on the beach, looking out on the unearthly aqua water.  My honeymoon was spent SCUBA diving in Belize, diving in the morning and sipping beer at a bar overlooking the ocean I'd just been exploring in the afternoon.  I could spend hours in the water. I find it soothing.  In water I feel weightless.  Like I'm flying.  Carefree.

My mom enrolled Kathleen and me in swim lessons every summer when we were kids,  I've always been a confident swimmer as a result.  I want that for my children too.  When Big Dog was an infant we took classes together. I'm sure he didn't learn a thing, but he was so at home in the water he'd occasionally fall asleep as Mr. Dog floated him around the pool on his back.  Those classes ended and we took a break.  It's hard to fit them in when you work full time and weekend classes were scarce.  We've tried a few times since then, but classes require a commitment to fixed schedule that I find difficult to maintain.

As they've grown, the boys have shown a great love of water.  Give them a pool and a pool noodle, they'll splash about for hours.  After a few family swimming trips, I decided it was time for swim classes again.  I'm committed, and by virtue of my commitment, the boys are committed as well.  Little Dog immediately took to it.  He waits at the edge of the pool bobbing and bounding until it is his turn to splash around, learning the fundamentals of actual swimming under the guidance of the teacher.  He'll blow big masses of  bubbles at the first request.  He happily leaps from the edge of the pool to the waiting arms of his teacher.  After his first class, wrapped in his towel watching his brother take his turn in class Little Dog informed me he wanted to do this every day!  When I said we could probably sign up for a twice a week class next session, he looked at me with a spark of injustice in his eyes and pleaded, "But that's not fair!"  He greets each class eagerly, while I am still asked to walk him to the edge of the pool, as soon as he sees his instructor I'm forgotten and he slips right into the blue.

Sadly it seems that Big Dog is learning to hate the water he once loved.  The problem is the face.  He doesn't want to put it in the water.  And I mean he REALLY doesn't want to do it.  That is not a big problem on its own.  He can gradually build up to it.  Once he decides he's ready to do something, he pretty much becomes unstoppable.   Unfortunately he didn't get to decide.  In her infinite wisdom, or at least the wisdom that college-aged swim instructors choose to exhibit, she talked Big Dog into taking a dunk.  Though he gave a weak nod, I don't think he understood, and god knows he immediately regretted the quick submersion that followed his weak consent.  When he resurfaced, he was so angry he spent a significant portion of that class in furious tears at the edge of the pool.  On our way to the car he informed me he no longer wanted to learn to swim.  It couldn't come at a worse time.  The summer program we've enrolled him in has weekly swim classes as part of the curriculum.  At the time we signed up I thought it would be ideal.  I believed he'd love the classes and doubling up would help him progress much faster than the weekly lesson he was already taking.  No go.  We've had multiple talks about this. I've offered goggles and reassurances and even reminded him that when he learns to swim without help he'll be able to keep his own face out of water, but he needs to learn to swim first.  He tells me he wants to go back to karate instead.  He tells me he wishes he could make a time machine that takes him back to the days before swim classes.  I just listen and remember that learning to swim is a good thing, a life skill, a safety requirement.

I'm pissed off.  Not at him, but at the arrogance of the instructor who ignored the timidity in his agreement to be dunked.  After a week of negotiations, Big Dog complied with my request to go back for his second class.   I told him he would not have to put his face in the water unless he felt ok with that.

The class went off without a hitch.  At one point he dipped the lower half of his face into the water, then one side of his face and the other.  I could see his confidence returning. After class he was thrilled with his success, and I praised it heartily knowing that he'd taken at least one big step forward.

Today was our third week of class.  Little Dog met the water with his boundless enthusiasm.  So much so that the teacher had him sit on the side of the pool for a minute when he kept "forgetting" to keep one hand on the pool edge for safety sake.  Then it was Big Dog's turn.  "Please don't make me put my face in the water," he started with the reluctance beginning to grow and I reassured him this was his choice.  I said it would be great if he could continue to dip his chin and ears like last week, but we all respect his decisions and rate of progress.  Once he was in the water, he was all focus and dedication.  While he may not have put any more of his face in the water, he approached each exercise with purpose and did his best.

I'm just hoping one day the fear from that initial dunk will recede and he'll recapture the comfort he used to find in the pool. Until then, I'm waiting patiently and sportively for the playfulness that was washed away when he was forced beyond his comfort zone to return and I have my swimming buddy back.

Guess What

Chicken Butt!
Yes, another post about an ailing hen. But this time it's good news. It's healing. I'm so proud of my poultry tending skills, I may have just saved my son's pet from impending doom. And to do so, I have spent more time looking at a ruined chicken hoo-ha than I ever imagined possible. I have purchased ointments, creams and rinses to properly wash and treat the poor bird. I have left the pharmacy with enough hemorrhoid medications that the counter staff must wonder how I manage to sit down. But it has paid off!
While I cannot say with absolute certainty that she will survive, the prolapse is now gone. What once looked like a finger from a decomposing corpse sticking out of my chicken's ass has left and all we have now is a fairly normal looking behind.

The hard stuff

A few days ago Big Dog's chicken Odile laid a giant egg. It was easily twice the size of a normal egg. More like a goose egg than chicken egg. At the time it was fascinating. It was even kind of funny. Unfortunately laying this giant egg may have actually injured her. She's continued to lay every day, but today I noticed she looked odd from behind. In other words, she has a prolapsed vent. Not good.
I consulted my online resources and it seems it can easily go either way. If you treat it, it can heal. Or it may not. Some people recommend treating it, some say don't bother. Some chickens recover, some don't. Not a lot of reassurance out there. But I'm trying to treat it, which oddly involves either honey, sugar or Preparation H. Doing the best I can and hoping for the best. I'm also preparing for the worst. And by that, I mean I had a serious talk with Big Dog about the real possibility that Odile may not get better. He was a trooper. He cried a bit, but we talked about what would happen if she did die. I told him we'd get another chicken for him. Another hen, not a baby chick because they need to be raised with other chicks. A grown hen would be easier to integrate with the flock, even if it was less cute than the fluffy baby chicks we got last time. Big Dog agreed it would be best because the other hens might pick on a fluffy little baby. He also told me he'd name it Odile. I guess that's ok. I'm certainly not going to argue with his potential grief. I also told him I'd do what I could and that it was possible she'd recover, I just couldn't promise anything and I didn't want to keep anything from him.
The talk went better than expected. Although he was sad, he seemed to brace himself for the worst while still hoping it would turn out ok. And I certainly hope it will.

P.S. We do have her isolated from the other hens. She spent last night in a small dog crate and the day in the enclosed run and coop. The other hens were in the outer yard locked away so they can't get at her. I've cleaned the inflamed area with a sterile wound wash, slathered it with Preparation H and antibiotic ointment. I've tried to re-insert it (ick) but it pops back out as soon as I set her down (double ick). I've ready just about every website, article and discussion board about this. I'm hoping for the best and really doing everything I can, no matter how crazy or disgusting it sounds. I'm also bracing myself should it come to the worst outcome. At this point I think I'm having a harder time accepting this than Big Dog is. I guess that's one of the advantages of youth, you don't feel the ultimate responsibility for the happiness and well being of others.

Plausible Deniability

Little Dog has recently become quite accident prone. Well, he has if you're willing to take him at his word. It seems that he discovered that some things, even painful or messy things, are easily forgiven if they are accidental. A glass of milk spilled on the table, even if it take a while to clean up and ruins things around it, is easily forgiven if it wasn't intentional. A misplaced elbow that causes a bloody nose is not a punishable offense if you really weren't trying to hurt anyone as you danced in the living room. It's like a light went on for him. Now he's using this knowledge to his advantage.

"Mom, Little Dog bit me!" screams Big Dog.
"It was an accident!" says Little Dog, voice dripping with false sincerity.

"Mom, Little Dog threw that at me!"
"It was an accident!"

"Mom, Little Dog tore up my paper airplane!"
"It was an accident!"

We've tried to explain the difference between deliberate and accidental injuries and wrongs and stressed the importance of honesty, but he remains intentionally obtuse on the topic. And the accidents keep coming. I hope this is just a phase, otherwise I guess I should just begin preparing for his career in politics.

Big Dog, on the other hand, is a little more creative about his attempts to elude punishments.
(For this story to make sense, I'm going to have to give him a name. And honestly, I'm just not comfortable putting his real name on the blog given the wealth of other information I post about him here. I owe him at least a tiny bit of internet anonymity at his tender age. Fear not we can still make this work. Big Dog is named after a famous person, a long dead famous person. He knows this and we talk about the person he is named for on a pretty regular basis. In fact, he thinks it is pretty cool to have this name with the history attached. So let's pretend for a moment his name is "Harry" after Harry Houdini. It isn't, but it works for the sake of this story.)

While we were in Colorado, the boys continued their fine tradition of beating the tar out of each other every time they were sitting in the car. To be honest, it extends well beyond the car, but the car is where this particular incident took place.
Smack!
"Stop it!" says Little Dog, freshly hit by his brother for some unknown reason.
"What happened?" I ask from the front seat, blind to the incidents unfolding in the back seat.
"He hit me!" says Little Dog.
"Who hit you?" ask Big Dog.
"Harry did it."
"Harry? Which Harry?" asks Big Dog, "Do you mean me, or Harry Houdini?" And I honestly think he believed this little stunt might work. That thought was crushed when Mr. Dog and I both started laughing.

Overheard while on vacation

Little Dog, after sniffing my arm: "Mama, why do you smell like sun scream?"

Mr Dog took pride in showing off the wheat that still grows along the road near his childhood home.
"This is wheat. Wheat is used to make flour, which makes bread and cookies and cakes. See, it still grows here from when this was a wheat field before Grandma and Grandpa built the house here."
Big Dog replies, "How nice for them."
Mr. Dog is still uncertain if he was honestly pleased or just being subtle with his sarcasm.

Little Dog, helping Mr. Dog close the windows in their bedroom, "Good thing this window has a scream on it." (Ok, that's two with the screen-scream error, but it's really freakin' cute!)

While driving to the Colorado Railroad Museum as I was enjoying the scenery, Big Dog exclaims, "I like Colorado!"
"Yeah? What do you like?" I ask, expecting to hear about the horses, the mountains or the bunnies that seem to be everywhere.
"They speak English here!"

The sweetest thing

Since the boys were born, I've been singing to them on an almost nightly basis. While Big Dog likes to listen as he drifts off to sleep, Little Dog is a more active listener. He corrects me when I miss a lyric, makes requests for specific songs and sometimes, when I'm very lucky he sings back to me.
The other night, after asking me to sing "Dream a Little Dream" about 40 times, he told me he had a song to sing. And as it happened, I had my iPhone in my hand and was able to capture his sweet serenade in a voice memo.
If you can listen to this and your heart does not turn into a big puddle of goo, you should seek professional help.