Brave and Strong

I survived my first swimming lesson.

And I didn't panic, drown, or - worst of all - pee my swimsuit.

I was, however, super nervous.

I got to the gym 20 minutes early, quickly changed into my swimsuit (and yes, hair clip and goggles) and then hid out in a bathroom stall until my lesson. Also, I might've texted my husband and a couple close friends from said stall. (Hey, I wasn't actually using it at the time; I was just hiding in there.)

This thought kept crossing my mind: "I can still back out. I can still back out." No, I didn't act on it. Instead, I forced myself to walk out to the pool area and meet my swimming instructor, Linda. The one who isn't a drill sergeant, by the way. Yes, she's direct and opinionated. But she's also patient and funny and an awesome swimmer.

She's the perfect teacher for me.

Linda was right about the goggles and the hair clips - they helped a lot. I do need a more functional swimsuit, though, as my instructor may have (tactfully) pointed out. My cute navy tankini with the little skirt bottom was ridiculous in the pool. Every time I got into the water, my skirt ballooned out and then "passed gas."

Lovely.

Linda told me that learning when and how to breathe in the water is the most important skill in swimming. So I spent most of my time face down in the water. It started with blowing bubbles in water that I cupped in my hands, which I'm certain looked ridiculous to everyone around us. Then we moved on to lots of front floating and some back floating. This wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.

I'd like to say that the lesson was fun and easy, and that as soon as I got into the water, my fears just floated away...

...but that's not what happened.

It was hard and it was scary, especially at first. I did get more comfortable as the lesson progressed, but it never felt easy. Every time I had to put my face down in that water and blow air and float (or whatever), I had to give myself a little pep talk. I looked at the bottom of the pool and counted to ten to take my mind off my fears. Being underwater definitely takes some getting used to.

Still, I'm doing it. I can't believe I'm finally doing it. And I've signed up for at least six more lessons.

This post might sound dumb to those of you who have been swimming most of your lives. It probably would to me if I'd figured out this stuff at age 5 instead of 35.

For me, though, it's kind-of a big deal. It takes courage to face your fears, whatever they may be.

My sweet Sunshine understands this oh, so well. She struggles with a couple big fears of her own. Ever since I mentioned taking swimming lessons, she's been my cheerleader and number one fan. Last night, before I left the house for my swimming lesson, I told her that I didn't want to go.

She gave me a hug and she prayed with me.

"Dear Jesus. Please help my mom at her swimming lesson. Help her to be brave and strong. Amen."

I know that He answered her prayer.

Time to Panic

Which mixed-up (but well-intentioned) person wrote a blog post about how she's scared of the water and needs to overcome that fear? Who made learning to swim her New Year's Resolution? Who asked her blogging friends to support her in that goal?

This crazy girl.

I may be reconsidering the wisdom of that - the resolution and posting it to my blog. Seriously reconsidering.

Why?

My first lesson is tomorrow.

TOMORROW!

Last week, I visited a local gym that offers adult swimming lessons. I toured the gym and checked out the swimming pools. I felt fine. No fear, no panic. Nothing. After all, overcoming your biggest fear sounds smart in theory. Just like asking your blogging friends to hold you accountable sounds mature in theory.

My future swimming instructor sounded pretty great too - in theory.

Back to the gym tour...my conversation with the aquatics director (AD) went something like this:

Me: "Do you offer swimming lessons for adults?"
AD: "Yes. Are you interested in a class or private lessons?"

(Do I really need to humiliate myself in a class? I think not.)

Me: "Private lessons."
AD: "Are you training for a triathlon? We have a great instructor who teaches techniques for triathlon swimming. She's got excellent form."
Me: "That might be a little advanced for me."

(And I just won Understatement of the Year.)

Me: "I probably need to learn to swim first."
AD: "Oh." Long pause. "How comfortable are you with being underwater?"

(Hmm. Let's see. On a scale of one to ten, with 1 being uncomfortable and ten being comfortable? I'd be a zero.)

Me: "I'm not comfortable being underwater."
AD: "Then I have the perfect instructor for you. She works really well with people of your experience level. I'll have her call you to talk more about your goals."

Great. I like talking about my goals. And thinking about them. And ruminating, discussing, or focusing on them. (Anything but doing, really.) Besides, I could picture this  "beginner's" swimming instructor as a kind, patient person. Someone who helps the struggling non-swimmers. Kinda like a kindergarten teacher for swimming.

She'd be perfect! I wasn't worried; I just waited for her call, so we could talk about my goals.

That call came today, and my conversation with the swimming instructor (SI) wasn't exactly what I expected. Instead, it went something like this:

SI: "This is Linda from the gym. Am I speaking with Denise?"
Me: "Yes, hi. It's good to talk to you."
SI: "You're interested in swimming, right? I can schedule you for tomorrow."
Me: "Oh, um...great. Let me check my calendar."

(Tomorrow is really soon. Can't we talk about my goals first? Darn it. I'm free. Why can't I have a root canal or a pap smear or something fun scheduled for tomorrow?)

Me: "Yeah...I, uh...can do that."
SI: "Do you have a swimsuit?"
Me: "Yes, I do."
SI: "Wear it."

(Hmm. She sounded unusually direct for such a sweet person.)

SI: "How about goggles?"
Me: "I don't have those."
SI: "Well, get some."
Me: "Oh, okay."
SI: "And not those cheap two-dollar kind from the Dollar Store either. Get some that fit tightly against your face to keep water out. Like Speedo."

(Is now be the time to point out that goggles from the Dollar Store would only cost a dollar? No, I didn't think so.)

SI: "Your hair can't be getting in the way all the time, either. You need clips or a cap to keep it out of your face. Understand?"
Me: "Yes."

(Swimsuit...check. Quality goggles...check. Hair holder...check. Should I ask about arm floaties?)

SI: "That's all I can think of for now. Bye."
Me: "Okay. Bye."

Oh, man. Tomorrow, I'm meeting my drill-sargeant-turned-swimming-instructor for my first swimming lesson as an adult. I've moved out of theory and into reality.

It's officially time to panic.

We Got Mail...BIG Mail

About a month ago, we got a very large, heavy package in the mail. No, I'm not talking about our IRS audit letter; it was deceptively light and airy.

By large, I mean that this item wasn't in a box, but on a pallet. And by heavy, I mean that I couldn't lift it myself because it weighed over 700 pounds.

Needless to say, the package did not fit in our mailbox.

It took the delivery truck driver and one of my neighbors half an hour to unload it and move it into our garage. Any guesses about what's in it? (The wavy green slide might be a giveaway.)

Yep, it's a playground. A sturdy one. Here it is a couple weeks later, after my husband unpacked it and took an inventory of the (several hundred) parts and pieces. C.R.'s really handy little brother helped him assemble the thing.

My critical contribution was iced mocha lattes and sloppy joes.

C.R. and I are budget-conscious nerds, so this playground was a (cash) splurge for us. So far, I think it's one of the best purchases we've ever made. My kids love the playground. We've already spent many hours playing on it as a family.

Check out these happy faces!

Year of the Swimmer (that's me)

Happy New Year!

I'm running late. Again. This should come as no surprise to my friends and family, as I always always underestimate the amount of time it will take me to do most anything, and consequently run late for nearly everything.

But never mind all that. The point is that I'm finally posting my New Years Resolution. Yes, I actually have one this year, and no, it's not to be early, prompt, or even on-time. Obviously.

I can deal with tardiness (and procrastination) another year.

This year's big resolution is...

insert splashing sound, please

...to learn to swim.

There you have it: 2012 is the Year of the Swimmer (that's me).

The only thing getting in my way is the itty bitty fact that I'm terrified of water and have been for as long as I can remember.

Like most kids, I took swimming lessons when I was little. But unlike most kids, I never outgrew the tadpole class. At least skill-wise, anyway. Size-wise, I'm sure I was head-and-shoulders above the other tadpoles by the time I finally aged out of the class. That's when my mom gave up and stopped making me take lessons.

I was relieved. Now I regret it. Being a tadpole at age seven was a little embarrassing, but it doesn't compare with the humiliation of being a tadpole at age...well, thirty-something.

Last summer, I enrolled Sunshine in swimming lessons for the first time. (I don't ever want her to be as fearful and helpless around water as I am. Fortunately, she likes the water.) I watched in awe as a group of kids who are barely old enough to use the potty by themselves performed feats in the kiddie pool that I'd never even imagine attempting.

Things like doing the front and back float, and retrieving objects underwater. I watched those four- and five-year-olds learn the proper techniques for moving their arms, kicking their legs, and breathing while swimming.

Then I looked over at the kids taking lessons in the big pool. I noticed the six- and seven-year-olds swimming laps, the eight- and nine-year-olds learning how to rescue someone who's drowning, and the ten-year-olds learning to dive.

I was fascinated.

It got me thinking. If these kids could learn to do all that, why couldn't I?

I could and I would, darn it! Or at least that's what I decided last summer.

Fast forward six months, and I have yet to take a single swimming lesson. Sigh. I find myself conveniently procrastinating. (2013: Year of the Proactive.) So, I figure, what better way to motivate myself to face my fear of water and learn to swim than to make it my New Years Resolution? And post it on the old blog?

I'm going to conquer this fear this year.

I will.

Now, dear blogging friends, will you please hold me to it?

Warning: Never do decongestants and shop

Decongestants do not play well with others.

Other drugs, that is. Although I only know that about the prescription kind. It's a lesson I learned this week.

It's been a doozy of a week. My whole family has been sick with some nasty bug. I took both of my kids to the emergency room for croup - on different days at different ungodly hours, of course - and both needed breathing treatments. The baby also had chest xrays that showed patches of viral pneumonia in his lungs. Meanwhile, I managed to develop a sinus infection and my doctor started me on a couple medications.

(Now is probably a good time for an aside about how you should always read that packet of information stapled to your prescription medicine when you pick it up from the pharmacy. But since I never bother reading them, I won't get into it here. Just consider yourself foreshadowed.)

I started the new medication at dinner on Thursday, around the time I took a dose of Sudafed. Fast forward about an hour, and I'm following my mom around Target as she fills our cart with birthday gifts for the grandkids. We spend an inordinate amount of time in the dollar section and that's when I notice I'm feeling just a little queasy. I absently wonder if the stomach flu has chosen this week to strike my family.

It would.

Nah, I brush it off. I'm just having a little indigestion. Back to shopping. But the nausea is getting stronger. By the time we reach the clearance toy aisle, I know I'm going to be sick. I mention this to my mom and she calmly responds.

"Want a stick of mint gum?"

Well, yeah. Only gum really makes sense when you're about to lose your dinner on the floor of a major retailer.

I'm desperate, so I take the gum.

No good.

I turn to tell my mom that I think I need to leave the store, when suddenly everything is tilting around me. I'm feeling very dizzy and lightheaded. I sit Indian-style (er, crisscross applesauce) next to our shopping cart.

"Mom," I say. "I think I'm going to pass out."

Now she looks worried and comments on how dilated my eyes are. This helps.

"Should I call C.R.?" She asks. I briefly picture C.R. holding the baby, hauling me out of Target in a shopping cart, while our 5-year-old fires off questions like a reporter at a press conference.

I shake my head.

"Maybe someone from the store can help," I say.

She hurries down the aisle and out of sight.

Meanwhile, there I sit, in the middle of the toy section, trying not to pass out. Or look conspicuous. It must be working because a woman skirts around me to get a better look at the toy train sets. I can hear her on her cell phone.

"No, they don't have the Thomas train set. No, no. I said it's NOT here." She sounds irritated. "There's just the Circo set."

"And a young woman sitting on the floor."

Busted.

At least she called me young. Sick as I am, this doesn't escape my notice.

"Hey, are you okay?" She's holding the phone away from her mouth, so I assume she's talking to me.

"Not really," I say. "I feel like I'm going to pass out."

The woman walks off without responding and minutes later, two pimple-faced Target employees show up at the end of the aisle. They have bewildered expressions and seem frozen in place - more like Walmart than Target employees, really. They seem scared to come near me. Good grief! Do they think I'm crazy or strung out on something? (You know, other than Sudafed and prescription meds...)

At this point, I want to laugh, in spite of the situation. Because of the situation, really. But I don't suppose that will make me look more sober or sane. I'm starting to feel a little less dizzy and a little more self-conscious. I slowly stand up and hold tightly to the shopping cart for balance. I glance around and see a small crowd gathering.

Where is my mom, already?

Finally, a woman about my age - wearing the customary red polo and khakis, and an official-looking name tag - steps through the crowd. She offers to help and hands me a bottle of water.

I'm not sure how water will help, but I take a sip anyway.

"Did my mom send you?" I ask.

She gives me a blank look and then steps back, away from me. Um...apparently not. Great. Yet another Target employee who questions my sobriety/sanity. I take that as my cue to move along.

"Thank you," I tell her, pretending the water actually helped. "I'm feeling a little better now."

I shakily push the cart in the opposite direction and duck down another aisle, hoping to escape the growing crowd of worried store employees converging on the toy department. I can hear them talking about me, but I don't care. Much. I just want to find my mom and get out of the store before I puke, pass out, or both. I've embarrassed myself plenty for one evening.

When I get to the main aisle, I finally see my mom. She's hurrying toward me...and right on her heels are three paramedics with a gurney.

Oh, poop. She called 9-1-1.

I was hoping to escape the store without making a big scene. I can safely cross that off my wishlist.

Miss Official Name Tag is right behind me and spies the paramedics too. She makes a beeline their way. I wonder what she'll say.

I try to head her off and explain the situation to the paramedics myself. They steer us down the fitness aisle and out of the way of other customers.

Still lightheaded, and feeling more than a little foolish now, I take a seat on the gurney while the guys shine a light in my eyes (no idea why they do that) and check my vitals. My pulse and blood pressure are up. They ask if I'm taking any medications, and I tell them, "yes." But I can't remember the name of my new prescription and I space the decongestant altogether.

May as well add these guys to the list of people wondering about my sanity.

The paramedic in charge continues asking me questions, while he fills out paperwork. I apologize for taking up their time. He has kind eyes and looks sympathetic. I can tell he's trying to shield us from curious customers and employees (although Miss Name Tag hasn't budged from her post nearby). I glance at his dark uniform and notice a fire department badge on his arm.

Shoot. These guys are from the fire department? They should be helping fire victims or rescuing people from mangled cars or something. I feel like I'm wasting their time with my nausea and dizziness.

"Ma'am," he says, "You may be reacting to your medication. Would you like us to take you to the emergency room?"

I stare at the exercise DVDs across the aisle and consider this. I don't want to go to the hospital.

"No, I think I'm okay to go home." Although I probably shouldn't be driving. I don't mention this, but the paramedics are already thinking it.

Thankfully, my mom offers to drive.

We leave our cart of grandkid gifts with Miss Name Tag and follow the paramedics out the door. We pass the ambulance at the store entrance, head into the parking lot, and then climb into my car. I'm too embarrassed to notice if anyone is watching us.

I wonder what in the world made me feel so freakishly crummy.

It isn't until I'm home, hours later and still sick from the medicines, that I remember the decongestant. Sure enough, when I call my doctor the next morning, she tells me that my medicine interacted with the decongestant. She says that I need to be more careful, that it could've been much more serious.

Now I'm no longer embarrassed.

Instead, I'm thankful for God's protection, my mom's love, and help from the fire department.

And I've learned a very important lesson. A couple, really. First, always read the information that comes with your medications.

Second, never EVER do decongestants and shop.