Swimming

To quote a mother I met at swimming several weeks ago, there’s nothing like a bit of incentive.

Term one marks the start of school swimming and Master Five was keen to sit it out.

His water confidence had taken a nose dive in recent years so we realised we’d better get with the programme and enroll him for lessons.

He’d been taking lessons for two years since he was four months old. But when the next two babies came along the juggling act became too difficult and the swimming lapsed.

Shortly after, his dad took him down to the beach with friends while I stayed back at camp with the newborn twins. When they returned someone let it slip there’d been a mishap at the beach. It turned out Cade had fallen in the estuary and they’d agreed not to tell me. However, the sight of a two-year-old face down with arms and legs splayed was a scary wake-up call.

We rejoined swimming lessons – this time at another swim school closer to home - but it was obvious he was back to square one. In fact, he’d regressed to the point where he wouldn’t even enter the pool without kicking and screaming – something that doesn’t occur to many oblivious water babies.

Swimming ceased once again until this summer. I took his reluctant self along to the local swim school (by now I think we’d been to all the swim schools in town) for an assessment and, within half an hour, he was going under and had his bubble blowing down pat.

We went back for several more shared private lessons in order to bring kids up to scratch to join one of the after school groups. As the swimming instructor said, there was no point learning arms until they could float. Then, in the last week of holidays, the group was down to just Cade and another girl.

Then one day the other five-year-old girl could, all of a sudden, float. This was when her mother leaned over and, winking, said “There’s nothing like a bit of incentive.”

“What was it?” I was eager to know her secret – we were running out of days here.

“Well I wouldn’t call it bribery, it was more of an incentive,” she grinned. “I just told her that once she was floating I’d take her out to a café for a cake and a fluffy.”

I shamelessly stole her idea and after the next lesson Cade came home with his dad and promptly informed me I was to take him out for his cake and “fluff”.

Phew, he nailed it just in time.

So incentive, bribery, whatever you may call it, it works and his togs and towel were duly packed for the first day of school.

Now, you’ll have to excuse me, I have a date with a five-year-old for a cake and “fluff”.

Says Whangarei Aquotic Centre’s SwimMagic Co-Ordinator Catherine Bagley: “The importance of teaching young tots to swim is that they learn to wait before entering the pool when they are invited in. It teaches them hesitation and that can give parents that few seconds needed. It gets them out of the typical child reaction which is to rush headlong in.

“Swimming lessons also give young children confidence in the water. With mum or dad in the lesson it is a great way to spend bonding time learning that confidence along with water safety skills.”

Music

Somewhere along the line my children have grown out of nursery rhymes.
From the backseat, and unbeknown to me, they’ve been taking in the tunes and lyrics of the songs belting out over the car stereo and, it turns out, they each have their favourite.

Jayla’s is the classic kiwi Maori club song Poi E, Cade’s is a song from the 90s he discovered on one of my old homie cds Jump Around but Jai prefers the slower Better Be Home Soon  by Crowded House.

He takes it very seriously, his singing.

“Mum, let’s put on number 9 for Jai,” Cade will say from next to me in the front seat with a gleam in his eye.

We both adjust our mirrors to watch.

“Somewhere deep inside, something’s got a hold on you,” Jai sings looking straight back at us with prolonged blinks while nodding his head in all seriousness.

Cade and I exchange smirks.

“And I know I’m riiiiiiight, for the first time in my life,” he croons.

“It’s funny hearing him sing about his life,” hubby commented once after yet another rendition. “He’s all of three.”

I must say, they have good taste. Admittedly all the music is mine and the Jump Around one’s a bit embarrassing, especially when Master Five insists on rolling down the window at the lights and turning up the volume.

Apparently he did this to his father, much to his horror.

“We were going through Cameron St Mall and someone opened their window and turned up the music really loud,” he reported when they returned.

Why is he telling me this? I wondered. Teenagers do that all the time.

Then I realised he was talking about our son.

Cade knows all the song’s numbers off by heart so I have my own personal dj on tap, the trouble is, I’m getting a tad sick of my own music.

One of my New Year’s resolutions is to get with the times and buy an ipod because the kids have handled and thrashed the cds so much they now all skip.

“Sorry, we can’t play Jump Around anymore,” I told Cade with some relief. “You guys played it too much and now it’s broken. You’ll have to come up with another favourite.”

“Mum, play the ‘Yes’ song!” shouted Jai from the back seat.

Yes song?

Cade and I went through our list of favourites until I got it.

“Jets! Bennie and the Jets Jai?”

“Yeah, your favourite,” he nodded enthusiastically.

Elton’s keyboard began belting out the opening bars.

Away they all sung, not having a clue what any of the words were, bar the chorus.

“Bennie and the Jetssssssssssssssss,” they harmonised all the way home.

I’m really going to have to get that ipod because Benny and the Jets is now fast approaching the same fate as its peers.

Holiday Madness

Holiday-makers around the country would have been left feeling short-changed this summer but, weather aside, a series of mini-dramas made me wonder if we were destined to stay home.

It started when we were less than two minutes down the road. As our new place doesn’t have a cat door we were unable to leave the cats with the neighbour feeding them this year so decided to take them with us.

After securing their boxes with packing tape we set off only to be gleefully alerted by the kids that Jesse had escaped.

He’s renown for this (hence the packing tape) and is pretty reliable but, not long after, out popped Trixie.

Two hostile cats on the loose in an already chocka car is far from ideal.

I phoned the grandparents and asked if they could have their cat cage at the ready if we swung by on the way past.

After a quick handover on the side of the road (we had the boat attached) we had one in the cat cage and Jesse roaming freely, which the kids thought hilarious.

My job was to keep him away from the driver’s side, resulting in fur flying and multiple lacerations. 

Usually he’ll perch on top of the luggage looking out the window and sniffing the wind but, for some reason, this time he wouldn’t settle. Then I glanced back just in time to see his haunches in that unmistakable squatting pose on the floor of the backseat.

“No!” I cried swiveling round and moving him over to his box as a trail of poo landed on Care Bear’s face.

The giggling stopped abruptly and the car fell silent as the smell reached everyone.

I can’t imagine life without wet wipes and while I used these to clean the mess, a bubble of mirth began to rise.

Of course the hairbrained idea to bring them in the first place was mine so hubby, unimpressed with the whole situation, was frowning out the window in disgust while I silently convulsed with hilarity.

Even Jayla’s whimpering at the state of her Care Bear and subsequently frowning in confusion at my laughter wouldn’t abate it.

“Mum are you crying?!” Cadeyn accused as he caught sight of the state of me.

I eventually pulled myself together and the rest of the journey was uneventful as everyone in the back, including the cats, slept.

That night I was just drifting off when I heard a child vomiting. On went the lanterns, waking the whole family, as the bedding was stripped. With no water connection yet from our tank we threw the sheets outside to let the predicted torrential rain deal to them.

And the torrential rain came.

During a rare break in showers we decided to chance a trip to Rangiputa. While the men took the boat for a spin I stayed on the beach with the kids. Something at the top of the small sand dune was keeping them occupied and, after a while I climbed to the top to investigate.

I arrived just in time to see my children posing for a bunch of French Canadian tourists taking their picture. Apparently they’d been keeping the group entertained while they lunched.

A large bucketing of water soon after brought the men back and had us running for cover.

That night some of the adults decided to attempt fishing. Within an hour they were home – not with the promised kai moana but because the boat motor had blown up.

On and on went the rain and as 2011 clicked into 2012 nothing changed. New Year’s Day arrived wrapped in clouds and drenched in rain and finally after sticking it out a week, we made the call to go home and try again next week. One can only handle so much mud with no washing machine after-all.

I thought things came in threes but the cat defecating on the way home threw that theory.

Home had never looked better. Pure luxury.