Swim lessons: the boob method

Asher is swimming thanks to boobs.

As we all know by now, Asher is the kind of kid who takes his time with new people, places and things. He may be small, but his will is great, and there is little anyone can do or say to get the horse to drink once you’ve lead him to water. I learned that lesson the hard way when I registered Asher for soccer when he was in preschool. I asked him if he wanted to try soccer, and he responded with an emphatic “YES”. Throughout the entire season, he sat on the sidelines and observed. I tried to convince, cajole, bribe and sternly advise Asher to participate but he would not budge.

The only good news was the ice cream truck parked right in front of the field. I discovered that ice cream was the only way this soccer experience would not be a complete tanker. For a Push-up, Asher agreed to run around with the other kids while he tried to avoid the ball at all cost. His heart wasn’t it. In the end, he did not care for soccer, and I did not care to be out of pocket $130 plus t-shirt plus weekly Push-ups.
Since that time, we haven’t participated in much outside of school or camp. Last year, he took swimming lessons at his insistence. One of the teachers at his preschool also teaches swimming, and Asher agreed to take lessons with her and only with her as long as he could do what he liked to do and not do what he didn’t like to do. After a year, he could paddle on his own for seconds at a time, but he refused to put his face in the water and was forever terrified to leave the shallow end of the pool. After a year, our overly-patient instructor gave up teaching during our only available time, and I had to find another swim class.

A friend recommended The Swim Factory (not real name). This wasn’t just any swim class. This was the military school of swimming. For a large sum of non-refundable money, your kid could be swimming with the fishes in a matter of weeks-not in the cosa nostra kind of way, of course. Before I could register Asher, he had to attend a “water evaluation” to determine his level. After ten minutes in the pool with the swim proctor, Asher announced that he would not be returning to this particular school. “The teacher told me that my homework was to put my face in the water during my bath. I am not going to do homework, and I am not going to put my face in the water. Let’s find another teacher.” I lied. I told him that he wouldn’t have to put his face in the water, but I knew these guys meant business.

What an operation. They had it down to a 30 minute science. There were three teachers for this class of 7 kids. Each teacher spent a few minutes with a small group focusing on different aspects of swimming and then trade off so that the kids had no time to complain. Asher seemed to connect to the one guy teacher who was covered in tattoos one of which was a HELLO MY NAME IS tattoo above his right nipple.
“Man nipples?!? Where’s the boobage, Deborah? We thought you said that Asher was swimming thanks to boobs. Well?!?”

Ok, ok, keep your pasties on. I was just getting to the last teacher he met-the most buxomest of the swim instructors. We'll call her Rackajawea. She was a curvy lass with a rack for days. I could tell she was Asher’s favourite. The goofy grin frozen on his face was a give-away. From the moment she took his hands and guided him in the water, he was smitten. I heard her say, “Ok, Asher. You’re going to stand on the step right here in the pool, and you’re going to push off of that step, extend your arms and swim right to me.” Shyah! Good luck, Toots!!

That little... Wouldn’t you know, Asher immediately launched himself from the steps, stuck that goofy grin right into the water and swam with his arms extended parking his hands right on top of Rackajewea's boobs. Once he made contact and she shuffled out of arm’s reach, he picked up his head-goofy grin and all-and insisted on doing it again. With every launch, he swam further and held his breath longer and did whatever necessary to reach the rack-tastic prize.

Oh he was suave alright with his head in the water and his face pointing to the bottom of the pool. He knew where his target was without ever having to peek. It was as if her hooters were sending sonar signals to him, and her breasts accidentally got in the way of his grabby hands each and every time.

Well, I’ve learned a valuable lesson from Asher’s swimming success. Asher will do anything for a great pair. Who can blame him? Now, if I can only figure out how to safely position an ample bosomed gal behind a soccer net.

When the cat's away

Gabriella has been in Vegas all week for work. Vegas for work. Did you ever write or type a word and look at it over and over again thinking, “I’m sure that’s how you spell it, but it just doesn’t look right”? The phrase Vegas for work is like that for me. If Gabriella were a different person, I might have hired a private investigator to shadow her every move. I could have bugged her blackberry or sewn a surveillance camera into her knickers. But Gabriella is not the carousing type. That said, I probably should have sewn a surveillance camera into her knickers for my own personal amusement. Perhaps I’ll work on that for the next business trip.

She called as soon as she got into her hotel room because she’s a dutiful wife and misses me terribly when we’re apart, bless her cotton socks.

Gabriella: Look at that. You can see the Hooters Hotel from my window. Who knew they had a hotel?

Deborah: Bet the pillows are nice.

G: Or really stiff.

gratuitous Hooters shot

D: You’re getting reimbursed for everything, yes?

G: Yes, of course.

D: Do hookers give receipts?

G: They probably do in Vegas.

D: I wonder where they attach the meter. Is receipt tape water proof? Speaking of hookers, what’s the plan for tonight?

G: I’m going to unpack and relax. I’ve got back to back meetings tomorrow.

D: I’m going flip through the channels and find a show about Siamese twinned little people.

Gabriella does not care for this genre of programming whereas I am inspired by people overcoming obstacles. For Gabriella, it’s a mother thing. She starts imagining what it would be like if her own children had physical challenges, and then she gets all upset and yells at me to change the channel. I find watching the news far more disturbing. Senseless violence and corrupt politics upset me almost as much as the news anchors who are actually aliens from far away worlds trying unsuccessfully to walk seamlessly amongst us. [shudder]

When Gabriella is out of town, I am exhausted. I’m in over-drive with the kids. I try to keep us all busy so that the time goes by quickly while still squeezing in the essentials like meals and homework and laundry. Parents get a bad rap for over-scheduling their children, but I’d like to stand up for all of us who are simply trying to get through each day. You can’t assume we’re taking our kids to this class and that one because we’re trying to guarantee places in Ivy League schools. Believe you, me, our kids are not on that track. OUCH!! I just felt Gabriella kick me in the shin all the way from Vegas. She does not care for the cracks I make about our children’s limitations. Thing is, I love them just the way they are-even if they are on the simple side. She’s going to hurt me when she gets home. I think I’m already starting to bruise. My point is that children need to stay busy or else everyone gets stir-crazy and cranky and bad things happen. And when Mommy is out of town, we get busy. I’m knackered.

The Mrs. arrives late tonight only to leave for work early tomorrow morning. I might not have the opportunity to confess the obscene amount of money I spent at Staples during her absence. You’d never know it to look at my desk, but I actually love organizing. I can’t explain it, but I experience a not insignificant, spiritual high when the automatic doors at Staples part and eagerly invite me in to the sacred temple of administrative accessorization. I envision life-changing systems and colour-coded simplicity in each and every aisle, and I understand the meaning of inspiration. Too much, you say? You can’t put a price tag on the grateful smile on Asher’s face when I presented him with the special box I bought specifically for his Bakugan collection. ...should I? Ok, if you insist. Yes it’s true about the apple that doesn’t fall from the tree when it comes to our appreciation of special boxes. Speaking of special boxes, I’d better clean up a bit before Gabriella gets home. Wouldn’t want her to think I let things go while she was away.

special boxes

HEY HEY HEY!

Last week on As The Ear Clogs, our heroine was still stumbling around suburbia in a partially deaf stupor with a confused look on her face muttering, “What? I can’t hear you. I can’t hear anything. Did you say something? Can you repeat that? I’ve got a banana in my ear. Wait, no. I’m just happy to see you. It’s lonely in my head.”

On this episode, we see that the pain has abated, but my hearing is still not fully restored and there’s an occasional crackling that makes me hungry for Rice Krispies. It’s annoying to say the least. While it’s lonely in my silent world, there’s a party on the internet. After conferring with friends and surfing the web and receiving more than my fair share of unsolicited advice and finger waving, I have set off on a path to free my ear...and the rest will follow. (queue En Vogue)

Yesterday, both boys were back in school after what seemed like a lifetime of vacation. How I loathe you, Spring Break! The small one is only at school for a few hours, so I had to use my time wisely. I booked myself an appointment for an Ear Candling.

Ear Canoodling?

No, Ear Candling.

What?!?

Are you deaf, too? Is it contagious? Ear Candling. I didn’t know from Ear Candling either until a friend introduced me to the practice. Ear Candling is an ancient, alternative practice used to suck out excess ear wax and promote general well-being by lighting one end of a hollow candle and placing the other end in the ear. You can learn more about it here.

I’m a little embarrassed that I didn’t know anything about it. While I may not live a completely crunchy-granola life, I always thought of myself slightly more aware of alternative, holistic stuff than your average American. I guess I’ve been living under a rock because even my anti-crunch sister knows what Ear Candling is...because she learned about it watching Rosie O’Donnell's show. And I thought I wasn’t missing anything.

Many medical websites claim that it’s quackery and even potentially dangerous, but that’s not enough to deter me from the opportunity to hear. I figured it was worth a go. That’s just the kind of gal I am. I’ll do just about anything once that is legal, tested and recommended by reliable sources and is sanctioned by my lady friend. Tsila Trager at Alist Wellness Center in Millburn was kind enough to give me all sorts of literature about Ear Candling and recruited an assistant to document the experience for your viewing pleasure. Because I love you, I will not post the pictures that I took of my wax waste. You’re welcome. I promise you that if I ever get a colonic, I will also spare you that visual. Ew.

The room was dimly lit and filled with soothing music and pleasing scents. While the candles burned, Tsila massaged my neck and face, and I waited for the magic. I did hear amplified firewood cracking sounds, and I allowed myself to relax.

I’m still not fully cured of my ear blockage, but according to the Ear Candling Technician, it may take a time to clear. Dubious? So am I. I’m game for anything, but I’m not an idiot. I can’t deny, however, that something remarkable did, in fact, happen immediately after my session. As soon as I left, I discovered that I could actually hear people’s thoughts! No, not really. I have ALWAYS been able to hear what people are thinking. Hey, I heard that! That wasn’t very nice.

On a serious note, I am no longer hearing ocean waves. Now, I hear peculiar sounds that I can only liken to the twang of a mouth harp in my Eustachian tube. Perhaps, Tsila is really an alien of some sort who embeds mouth harps into people’s ears and transmits coded messages that sound like the opening to the theme song to Fat Albert. Listen to the first few bars, and you’ll know what I mean, and why I can’t stop saying, “HEY HEY HEY!”

What could the message be? “Seek only holistic health care providers”? “Evangelise the wonders of Ear Candling”? “When we invade Earth, you will do our bidding without resistance, and you will be our sex slave”? Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?

I suppose that alien mouth harp implantation is better than an alien anal probe though I can’t really say having not yet experienced an extra terrestrially inserted anal probe. Should it ever happen, I’ll get back to you and let you know which experience is more unpleasant. In the meantime, I will tell you that I am on the mend. It may be a result of time healing all wounds, and it may be an Ear Candling success story. Either way, I’m feeling better and hearing most of the world around me. HEY HEY HEY!

Say what?

Still deaf. What?!? I SAID, I’m STILL deaf! Oh right. YOU are not deaf. I am. Unless you are deaf in which case yelling wouldn’t do much good anyway, would it? Antibiotics, shmantiobiotics! I’ve had it up to hear with this ear infection. If I’m not listening to the rushing waves of the ocean or the static from the analogue channel we could just never receive on our television in 1979, I keep hearing the phone ring when no one is actually calling.

I recall my childhood dog Mitzvah (aka Mitzie) Goldstein who lived to be 16, aleha hashalom. In her senior years, she’d walk around the house bumping into walls in the house she had occupied most of her life and occasionally perked an ear to listen to the sound of no one knew what. Mitzie, if you’re with me now, I want to tell you that I feel your pain. I’m walking around my own house feeling dizzy and disoriented and perking my ears to phantom phone calls. I’m sorry that I ever giggled when you walked into the sofa or when I yelled your name right into your ear, and you looked around the room trying to figure out who was calling you. I should have been more kind to my most loyal friend. I should have hired a seeing-eye person or attached you to my body with a baby carrier sling.

If I bend over, I’m punished with searing shots of pain to my inner ear. “Well don’t bend over,” you say? Well, that’s about the most original and clever piece of advice I’ve received yet, Dr. SmartyPantz! Well, I have to bend over because there are matzah crumbs all over my house. I’ve got to bend over and risk the darts inside my ear and the heartburn from the Passover diet. I’ve got affliction digestion issues.
I used to look forward to Passover every year as a child. Seder night was always festive and fun even if we celebrated the holiday in a bubble. My mother had cut us off from my extended family for mysterious reasons since before I can remember, so my little family celebrated on our own while seders of around 80 of our family members were eating homemade gefilte fish and dipping parsley in salt water just a few suburbs away. Still, we sang and laughed and tried to imagine a time when Jews did manual labour.

I didn’t mind the 8 day Passover diet, and I don’t remember feeling so nutritionally deprived. I could have eaten tuna sandwiches on matzah for weeks, and I even enjoyed snacking on gefilte fish smothered with horseradish. There was a never-ending supply of Passover candies and treats manufactured in Willy Wonka’s distant Jewish cousin’s factory that were unnatural and bizarre and somehow delicious when I was a child. Now, I’m counting down the hours until I allow myself normal food.

There are two benefits to this ear infection of mine. The antibiotics and probiotics I’m taking are the perfect antidote to the cruel, digestive blockage resulting from a gross consumption of matzoh meal and potato starch. The other benefit to hearing loss is that when I’m washing dishes and the radio is on, I can’t hear my children whining or screaming or beating the crap out of each other. There’s a strange peace that comes with hearing loss. Don’t get me wrong. I am frustrated and annoyed and totally out of sorts in this monophonic life I’m living. But I’d like to rejoin the stereo world having experienced something of value. I can honestly say that in between the discomfort and the throbbing DOOOZH DOOOZH DOOOZH in my ear, there have been moments of delicious silence. I try to treasure these slivers of quiet and store them somewhere in my brain so that I can recall them the next time the boys reach the shrill pitch that inevitably leads to mean-mom moments.

I’ve learned something from my suffering. Can I click my heels together and go back to Kansas now? Tomorrow night, I’ll celebrate the end of this torture by uncorking a beautiful bottle of wine that is NOT kosher for Passover. Fingers crossed my left ear shall be uncorked, as well.