Tis the Season

The holidays have zipped past in their usual way, leaving a blur of sweet memories. Seems best to capture the family moments like so many snapshots.

(1) Sammy is (to my mind) the star of the school's Holiday Concert, belting out "I Wanna Hippopotamus for Christmas" and miming through all the actions two full verses before his petrified classmates could move their limbs. A born performer :)

(2) Jeremy arrives home in the dead of night two days ahead of schedule and early the next morning, Sam flings himself onto his Daddy for "snowboarding" rides, laughing like a maniac for a minute or two before exclaiming "I know! Let's build something!"

(3) Sam's face lights up when he spots me crossing the street in the market to meet up with him and Daddy after their Christmas shopping. He seems so grown-up and also still so small amid the hustle and bustle of rush hour.

(4) The Morley presents Sam with the gifts he covets most ("The Search for Davy Jones's Locker" MegaBlox set), but Mr Born Performer plays it shy at the unwrapping: "just what I wanted," he mumbles. Once one of the ships is assembled, he hams up his happiness for the camera (above).

(5) We spend Christmas Eve at Tracey's, with Grandma and Grandpa. After dinner, we all sing Christmas carols, just like when we were young. Sam and Carter know all the words. Later, we check in with the NORAD web site to discover that the reindeer are in Panama and heading north (we didn't have that when I was a kid!)

(6) Sam snuggles in for sweet Merry Christmas hugs before asking if we can go downstairs to see if Santa left anything for him. He's more than happy with the Megatron the elves built from his "constructions." He's also quite proud of his involvement in picking out the mommy & daddy presents (almost everything Jeremy gets is hockey-related).

(7) Sam, Jeremy and I play our first game of Trouble after breakfast. Sam wins: "There's trouble in the bubble" becomes his new catch phrase. A few days later, he turns down an offer to play it again, reasoning "I've already won that game: I might lose next time, so no thanks."

(8) Grandpa & Grandma give us a Disney Memory Book, photo frame and spending money for the kids' first trip to Disney World next November. Sam's far more entranced by the Lego sets and Power Rangers, but that's because he can't possibly imagine what's in store for him ....

(9) While the kids revel in presents, the grown-ups play a fun afternoon game of Cranium. Tracey can't whistle, but she comes up with "ferris wheel" from a blob of clay. Grandpa can't act like Marilyn Munro but he jumps like a cheerleader. Grandma confuses Keanu Reeves with River Phoenix but can ID Castro from a high school photo. Jeremy can't draw with his eyes closed but he's Rainman spelling backwards. We have a hoot, and then we have a delicious roast beef dinner.

(10) Sam and Jeremy and I order pizza and watch The Swiss Family Robinson, enjoying a low-key Friday night together. Sam's lovin' having all this time with his mom & dad.

Record-breaker

So it seems I may have offended the Winter Warlock a few posts ago by complaining about the copious shovelling in Jeremy's absence. Yesterday, he sent snowdrifts clearly designed to eat up my young son and his trusty pet. We got somewhere between 31 and 37 cms, depending on the news source. Either way, it's record-breaking and darn near back-breaking. I dug out four times during the storm, trying to stay ahead of the accumulation, but it doesn't matter: the plows haven't shown in Courtland Park yet and it's well past noon on a Monday. We're snowed in. Again!

This morning, I considered tackling the back deck to give us easier access to the freezer and to provide a secondary escape route in an emergency. This is the scene that greeted me when I flung open the garage door: 4 feet of snow and no where to put it! So I closed the door, grabbed some additional supplies from the freezer and figured that--if worse came to worst--Sam and I could easily flee the house by simply walking out his half story window and directly into the hedgerows. It's that snowy. I'm reminded of a long-ago winter in the Red River valley when a drift swallowed our Volkswagon whole.

Sam was joyful and triumphant at the sight of the street this morning. He did a little "no plow" dance on the couch to jinx my hopes of taking him to school and then attending our office Christmas party at the Heart & Crown today. He back-peddled a little when I countered with my "pro plow" dance, explaining that he just didn't want to see me out there digging the end of the driveway out since it's been "too bad for you," as he puts it. Very sweet, but he immediately followed up with a request that I crawl into his dining room table tent fort and play Tic-tac-toe with him. We did that, as well as some pages in his Ready to Read activity book. He's watching movies now and eating his lunch straight out of his optimistically packed lunchkit. I'm wondering what we'll do for the rest of the day on this, our third day home alone together. The snow's too deep to walk in and we've been through all the usual games, activities, crafts, puzzles, movies, baking and more. It's been fun, but I'm worn out!

I don't know how home-schoolers do it.

Five Years Ago

On December 16, 2002, Daddy wrote these words in The Sammy Journal:

When I saw the portable play-pen that someone bought for you, it made me realize how excited I am to have you on the outside with us. Hurry up in there, will ya! Oh.. and another thing... As long as you are still in there, how's about you give me a kick in the chin when you hear my voice, hey? Thay's all I ask.

I'm glad you are going to have so many cousins and friends your age so close to you. You have 4 other cousins, but they all live out in B.C. Their names are Vanessa, Amanda, Marissa and Taylor and -- you guessed it! -- they're all girls. It's too bad that all my family lives so far away, but you will have plenty of lovin' from the Arnold side of the family, I'm sure.

I look foward to spending time on the benches or in the audience watching you with all the other parents while you play or do whatever sport or hobby or interest you choose to pursue. I love you Sammy. I look forward to holding you.

Love, daddy

Now, five years later, Jeremy is spending the weekend with his brother (it's been 3 years!) and will see Vanessa, who lives in Alberta now, too. And the full Arnold clan is in Innisfil enjoying an early Christmas celebration. We planned to make the trip yesterday morning, but called it off when the storm watch went into effect ("road travel will be next to impossible"). So, Sam and I have built a tent fort in the dining room, and we're hunkering down there for the duration—loved and missed by family, but, for the day at least, "secret agents" who've given all that up for the good of the country...

Baby's First Christmas

Watching Sam scamper around the aisles of Toys R Us today ranking the relative degrees of coolness among stacks of superheroes, villains, robots and wrestlers, I couldn't help but think back to his first Christmas and the search for the right toys for our 8-month old. We didn't find them at Toys R Us: we found them at Pet Smart.

Sam loved bouncy balls, and he loved to chew on things. So, yes, Sam's first Christmas presents were doggie chew toys. Oh, we tried to find soft, lightweight, durable sports balls everywhere else first, but who could top something a German Shepherd couldn't rip through? And the price was pretty good, too.

When Sam discovered his first gifts on Christmas morning, he stared lovingly at them for a moment, reached up and held them on top of his head (a sign of approval), and then promptly sunk his teeth into them. Perfect.

We spent the rest of the morning rolling them up and down the hall and giggle-crawling after them, both he and I .... so it was less like "fetch" than it may sound....

The Toy Maker

Because we're fan-tas-tic parents, we've managed to convince Sam that he can make any toy he wants and do a better job of it than the factories that crank out all of the advertised toys that viewers of Saturday morning cartoons covet the world over. Lately, he's been apprenticing as a ship builder, studying at the elbow of his accomplished father. His bedroom is overrun with a fleet of pirate vessels fashioned out of granola bar boxes, disposable dinnerware, straws, construction paper, styrofoam, duct tape and popsicle sticks. Sam designs each ship's "special features" and draws distinct Jolly Roger-style logos for their sails. The Bloody Eagle is still in dry-dock, awaiting the master builder's return.

What I couldn't figure out for the longest time was why he'd tape his ship "plans" up on the dining room wall for safe-keeping. Then it hit me one night while we were watching the Bugs Bunny & Tweety show together: Sylvester studies blueprints posted above a work bench whenever he's assembling some dastardly device or another designed to bring about Tweety's demise. Sam's following in Looney Toons footsteps. Now I find it especially funny to look at his two failed attempts to fit the name Ferocious Wolf across his first boat drawing. You can almost hear Porky Pig saying "Fero - .. Fero- ... Bad Wolf!"

The only downside to encouraging Sam's efforts to make better toys than he can possibly find anywhere else is that his imagination is running wild in all toy-related endeavours. Check out this picture of him proudly displaying his letter to Santa this year. In it, he asks for a Megatron transformer... but not just any Megatron transformer. He'd like Santa to fashion one that shoots cannonballs out of its head. If Sam can envision it, Santa can surely do it. Hhhm. I recall asking for Thumbalina and Spiral Graph and Digger the Dawg--all without special North Pole modifications. Never occured to me to invent a toy to test the talents of Santa's elves. Some fancy footwork will be required to dance around this one...

In the meantime, it's pretty sweet to hear him talk so enthusiastically about how he's "full of good ideas" about how to build robots and action figures and pirate boats and forts. I love his confidence, his imagination and the little foot to foot dance he does as we haul out the craft supplies to get to work on another project.

Baby, Please Come Home...

Okay, so far my three work-week stint as a single parent has included a late diagnosis of Sam's 2nd ever asthma attack, a 4-hour vigil beside "the bucket" while he vomited uncontrollably, and more freakin' snow shovelling than I care to do in three winters. In addition, I've made just one meal that comes close to resembling a proper dinner, the laundry is piling up, the garbage & recycling didn't go out this week, the dog hasn't seen the end of the driveway nevermind been walked (mind you, the dog isn't complaining - see "snow" above). I'm surprised I haven't been fired, I'm nervous that I haven't done my Christmas shopping or cards, I'm flabbergasted that we're running low on groceries (see "proper dinner" above), I'm waiting for the odd-shaped yellow light illuminated on the Jetta's dashboard to start blinking red, and I have a vague sense that cheques may be bouncing. In short, I'm not exactly holding down the fort. The fort is in serious shambles.

And yet, Sam is (when not wheezing and vomiting) the happiest of little boys. When he was feeling his ol' self this afternoon, he asked if I wanted to take a break from my work to come dance to the music that his new race car plays. We rocked it out in the family room. That part, I'm doing right. And that's all that really matters. So Fort Hudson is snowed under and filling with refuse. We're dancing, we're singling carols, we're reading Captain Jack Sparrow stories. The rest of it can slide a bit till Daddy is back.

Well, maybe not the shovelling...

The 12 Days of Christmas

It's the first morning of Jeremy's 12-day business trip and we miss him already: it's just not right when Daddy's not home. Sam and I had a practice run last week, with a Sunday-Friday Daddy absence, but this count is much longer. The happy news is that he'll offset his long trip with 12 days of holidays when he returns, taking us right through Christmas and New Year's. So Sam knows that these next two school weeks are banked against a Daddy Extravaganza that's all tied up with winter break and Santa bounty and Grandma & Grandpa's visit, and building snow forts and staying in pj's all day. This year, Daddy is Christmas. We can't wait ....

The Christmas Tree

We hauled the Christmas tree home this weekend with the 4-ways flashing (since we weren't sure we strapped it to the roof just right), and we fastened it in its new stand before cutting the ties that bound it—an improvement over last year's lack of foresight that had us uncermoniously shoving the expanding tree through the front door, leaving prematurely dropped needles in our wake. Then, much to Sam's chagrin, we let the new arrival relax for the afternoon so its snowy boughs would open and dry before we got to the night-time trimming. We passed those long hours by making and decorating gingerbread boys and girls at Tracey's.

However different the tree from year to year, and whatever adventures we have selecting it and getting it home and set up in its corner, the tree-trimming traditions remain unchanged. Its elements are lifted or adapted from my much-loved childhood memories. Mom would put the lights on herself, while we were out of the room. Then, when it was dark outside, we'd be called to come decorate. We'd listen to our favourite kids' Christmas carols and sip egg nog (the first taste in a short season) and take turns lifting the treasured ornaments out of the box, sharing the special significance of each piece with one another, though we all knew the stories by heart. When we were finished, we'd all bask in the soft glow for a while and affirm that this was the most beautiful tree ever.

I love passing those traditions on to Sam. Granted, he may have taken the reverent edge off of the annual review of our special ornaments by noisly slurping his egg nog through his Santa straw, but he seemed to enjoy the tales of where each item had come from. Grandma Arnold made this ceramic gingerbread boy, and Sam made this sand-paper gingerbread boy. Mommy gave this snowman to Sam, and he gave this snowman to Mommy. This is the first ornament Sam ever picked out, and this is the ornament that Mommy has had on every Christmas tree since she was born. These ornaments are gifts from Tracey, those ones are from Jillie and Lynnie and Kimmie and Missy. And these are from our Sandy Hill neighbours who loved Sam's smile. It's a story of love and friendship, the ornament review. It tells a family's history.

After hanging them all carefully on the fragrant branches, we fill in the empty spots with Christmas balls and berries and trinkets—things we'll need fewer of as the years go by and the ornament collection grows. In the end, it is indeed the most beautiful tree ever. I imagine the far-off day when we say the same thing of Sam's family tree, which I hope will display some of his favourite childhood ornaments, and perhaps one of two of mine. Nothing says Christmas to me quite like that pink rocking horse. This time, Sam gently rubbed its surface before handing it to me to hang, asking "why does it feel like sugar?" I'd forgotten, over the years, that this sweet piece was originally from a larger "sugar cookie" set. That finish gives it a sparkle that I've always loved.

Today, Jeremy and I (mostly Jeremy:) hung the outdoor lights across the house and up and around the huge spruce out front. Sam waited for us indoors, choosing a warm lunch and some Christmas specials over a refreshing hour in the snow with his parents. While we may marvel at how big the tree out front is getting (we needed the ladder and a hockey stick to hang the lights this year!), today's experience was a far cry from our first Christmas in Hudson House—just two years ago—when it would have been inconceivable to let Sam stay inside alone. He's growing up. Fast.

Later, after dark, when Sam and I pulled on our coats and boots to step outside and view the festive spectacle for the first time, he sighed in appreciation, saying "This is even more beautiful than last year." In the long run, Sam won't remember being three or four; in fact, chances are he won't have many solid memories of being five or six either. But I hope, somehow, that his heart will hold a collective memory of "Christmas" that delves back to his youngest years and includes fleeting impressions of happy moments like these.

Go Sens Go!

The whole family joined "The Morley" on Saturday afternoon to nearly fill a row of seats at Scotiabank Place, where we watched the Sens take on the Rangers. Our boys are on the skids at the moment (we're not worried), so it wasn't pretty--but Sam had a ball anyways. Here's the top five.

(1) Sam was seated right beside the loudest and most enthusiastic "Go Sens go!" guy in the place. So team spirit was pretty high in our section despite the 5-2 loss. Daddy loves the Sens.

(2) Those two goals were celebrated in high style, so Sam got to jump up and throw the big high fives and pull out the woo-hoo's. Well, he did that the second time. The first time, he may have cowered a little, a tiny bit afraid that the honkin' loud train whistle was an actual "clear the tracks" warning...

(3) We had great seats seven rows up at the face-off circle, which meant that we saw a good deal of face-smunching hits on the board right in front of us. Lots of opportunity to join in the "ohhaff!" sound the crowd makes in appreciation of a glass-jarring hit. Very fun.

(4) There were treats. Sam had french fries with ketchup for lunch and an ice cream drumstick for dessert. Hence the mucky face. They do it up right at the 'Bank.

(5) Spartacat is wicked cool. Sam crawled down to the aisle while he was in our section and the two of them became fast friends, with Sparty even sprawling backwards, cat-style, to lay across Sam's lap so the surrounding people could see the play. We went straight to the Senszone on 2nd intermission to get him his own Spartacat plush toy. He sleeps with it now.

We go again on March 1st. Between now and then, we're hoping for a whole lot of bell-ringing wins for the Sennies.

Wanna Walk Like You, Talk Like You, Too

Today Sam sat down to a complete lunch ... complete except for the absence of the usual note from his Mommy and/or Daddy. Today, no tall teacher crouched down beside his little seat to read him the secret message of the day, the little missive from the heart that we've been tucking between sandwich and fruit ever since Sam started JK. Why? Because Sam's not the only kid at the table, but he is the only kid getting special notes from home ... and he doesn't like it.

It's not the notes themselves, which were archived in the front flap of his Pirates of the Caribbean lunch kit. Clearly he liked those, as he can still recite most of them back to me based on the shape of the card stock we cut into letters and numbers or from the images on the fronts of those snipped from greeting cards. And, really, who wouldn't like to be reminded of fun weekend plans, or be thanked for something, or be told (again and again) how much they're loved?

No, it's the simple fact of being signaled out as different that makes him squirm. When he asked me to stop putting notes in his lunch, I was a little taken aback but casually (I think) asked "how come?" He offered that no one else had secret messages, so I explained (with only a trace of smugness), "maybe the other moms and daddies forget? maybe they don't have time? But we like to send you notes..." Sam repeated that he's the only one being read to at lunch, to which I opened this fateful door: "It's not important for you to be just like the other kids." After a beat or two, Sam protested softly, "It's important to me...".

Ouch. I remember the feeling, the desperate desire to blend in with the class each of the 12 times that I was the New Girl. And I remember my mom making sure I didn't feel like an outcast, no matter how silly the norms were. In fact, at the moment Sam uttered those words, I had a fleeting but powerful memory of the gratitude I felt when my mom overruled my dad in what was supposed to be a private conversation about whether or not they'd take me shopping in downtown Vancouver to find a discount pair of the "French jeans" that every girl was wearing in my new grade 6 class in Maple Ridge, B.C. We'd already bought all my school clothes in Ontario, but they were of the corduroy jumper and matching leotard variety, and these west coast snots were teasing me. Dad didn't understand how much that mattered, given our tight financial situation at the time, but mom knew better. I got those jeans because in a sad sort of way, I needed them. And crazy as it sounds, I loved my parents fiercely for granting me the unreasonable request. French jeans. Seriously.

So I barely hesitated when Sam justified his own little request by explaining that the notes made him stand out uncomfortably in front of his friends. As much as I hate the idea of him tailoring his behaviour and preferences to fit in with a peer group, I know the power of that group and I promise to respect it as far as I can. The next day, however, Sam hit me with the reverse jab. As we were climbing out of the car at Loblaws, I ran a quick check: "I've got my keys, I've got my wallet; I've got my Bunny. Let's go!" Sam's innocent question brought a rush of tears to my eyes: "When are you going to stop calling me 'Bunny'?" . Gulp. Silently, I retorted, "When are you going to stop twisting the knife?!" But I regained my composure before he saw my face and honestly replied that I'd probably call him Bunny forever, "but I promise not to do it when anyone but Daddy can hear us, okay?" This seemed to appease him.

On the way into the store, I reminded him that he came home from the hospital on an Easter weekend, and I've thought of him as my little bunny ever since. "It's hard for mommies to stop using their special nicknames for their babies, even tho they get big..." He nodded as though he understood, but he doesn't. Not yet. Maybe later, when he's a daddy himself and he's reading through these posts, he'll realize what it cost me to throw away the secret messages, to skip the terms of endearment, to treat him like a boy separate and complete—an individual in his own right—when to me he's still so much the tiny child forever connected to my heart.

Mommy loves Bunny.

xoxo

Here Comes Santa Claus

Sam loved the Help Santa Toy Parade. He waved at everyone who looked his way with such enthusiasm that I suspect he was secretly auditioning for a position on one of the floats. I can almost imagine him participating some year, especially since several of the people around us were keeping their eyes peeled for dads and sisters and friends and neighbours parading past in costumes, marching bands, and firefighter uniforms.

It was a beautiful day in Ottawa: chilly enough for Santa's appearance to be appropriate, but with that brilliant blue sky that graces only the best winter days. We nabbed a curbside seat at Bank and Fourth, snuggling up together in the sunshine to watch the sites. Not one to crane expectantly for a view up the street, Sam was content to let the parade come to him. In fact, he stood up in excitement only a few times: to check out a Clydesdale-drawn float, to track a crazy Spartacat through the crowd, and to wave to Santa. And he burst onto the street itself just once, and that was in shocked delight at the sight of a Star Wars float complete with candycane-armed Storm Troopers (why stop at Peace on Earth?).

Sam had asked maybe three (or five) times if he'd be getting a gift at the parade, and I'd explained that this was a special chance for fortunate families to help out those who didn't have enough to make a beautiful, exciting Christmas for their kids. He quietly accepted the concept of "helping Santa," but I don't think it meant anything to him until he saw the Boy Scouts gathering presents from the crowds and running them back to the Toy Mountain float. At that point, he'd desperately wanted to have something to offer. I told him that we'd brought coins instead for dropping into the boots and stockings carried by the firefighters who present this parade.

Sam cleaned out my wallet, flagging down those firefighters repeatedly. At first, I wondered if the reciprocal candycane had something to do with that, but he declined the offer on the third donation. He wasn't in it for the sweets. As we trailed behind Santa's float in the wake of the parade, Sam asked me if I thought enough money had been collected to allow Santa's workshop to make extra presents for the kids in poor homes. How come I hadn't hit on that twist while I was fumbling for an explanation as to why Santa Claus—a toymaker—needed gifts and cash from us? To have extra presents for some of the kids on his long, long list. Of course. Thanks, Sam, for a sweet memory.

Happy Birthday, dear Anabel...

Sam and Jeremy are relaxing on the family room couch, chuckling together over the antics of Bugs Bunny and the rest of the Looney Tunes gang. It's a quiet end to a 3-day weekend that was a cousin-fest of exuberant play. Anabel celebrated her first birthday in princess-pink style, and Janey and the boys came to town for the party. Although the champagne & cake drop-in lasted just a short time on Saturday afternoon, the boys made a party of it for a full 72 hours. They explored the Waltham Woods, ran ragged around a new play structure in Courtland Park, modelled the outfits of two costume trunks, dumped the contents of several toy chests, watched movies, played video games, and had three sleepover parties. It was loud and messy and sometimes downright chaotic, but it was also joyous and notably punch-free. In fact, there was just one casualty this weekend, the sad outcome of an ill-advised indoor baseball game, which smashed a family antique of sorts. Mom made Tracey that ceramic Ernie 25 years ago. Soon, Anabel will share a room with Carter and a play space with her visiting cousins. So far, her toys are made of durable plastic and soft, dolly cottons. But if her tastes run to china dolls and tea sets down the line, some plexiglass cabinets might be in order. No matter how much pink velvet and ribbon we wrap her in, Anabel is growing up in a boys' club!

The Sam Spot

One of the things that I first loved about this house was the fact that it has a 10-foot expanse of kitchen countertop. Some people look for walk-in closets or a jacuzzi tub. Me? I wanted to be able to stretch out and nap on the counter, if it came to that. Contrary to the postage-stamp work spaces in my apartment kitchens of the past, Hudson House offers a wide open stage on which to perform my (messy) culinary genius. And it also has a spot for Sam.

From the get-go, Sam's claimed the space down by the radio: a little-boy vantage point on the goings-on during meal prep and clean up. Soon, he began having breakfast and snacks and special drinks up there rather than at the little table at the other end of the kitchen. And eventually, he started helping me make muffins and cookies, kneeling beside the electric mixer and feeding it ingredients with the utmost care. It's one of my favourite sights, Sam on the counter.

When he was two, I lifted him up and down (he especially liked the huggy trip to the floor). At three, he started dragging his "superchair" over to the spot to climb up on his own. At four, he's more expedient, asking for a boost instead (I squat down so he can climb up from my bended knee). And lately he's been figuring out how to scramble up himself without using the drawer handles as toeholds. By 5 or 6, he'll be bounding up there easily. But how many more years will this growing boy choose to sit up on the counter to chat with me as I make dinner or join me to watch the birds and squirrels play in the big apple tree? It's hard to say.

I do know that some of my best memories of his early childhood will be tied to that end of the countertop. Those few square feet will always evoke Sam's quirky conversation over morning oatmeal, his smile of satisfaction on finishing a well-earned afternoon hot chocolate, his after dinner delight in opening another miniature door on the Christmas advent calendar, and the happy concentration of baking a batch of muffins with mommy on Sunday morning. I haven't taken a moment of his countertop company for granted ... nor, I think, has Sam—as my collection of happy photos may already have proved.

Spooky Sammy

This week, the Carleton Heights Child Care Centre put on its Annual General Assembly, which includes a children's variety show. Sam was cute as a button in his technicolour clown wig and big red nose, up there singing "Get Your Sillies Out" and "Singing in the Rain." It's not often one sees Sam in a goofy costume: his tastes run more to vampires and Batman. It didn't surprise me, later, to note that Sam's profile in the large "About Me" art display listed black as his favourite colour. "It's the spookiest," he declared. He's a big fan of spooky.

This year, he trick-or-treated as The Gatekeeper, a slightly demonic skeletal figure that stalks graveyards. The bloodcurdling mask was the main attraction. His buddy, Connor, on the contrary, was tricked out as an adorable purple dinosaur, his cherubic face and blond curls smiling out from the hole where the dinosaur's mouth would be. Sam was unimpressed. As self-appointed costume judge, he spent a good deal of his candy rounds quietly condemning of all those cutesy costumes. "Not spooky, not spooky, not spooky..." I could hear him whispering, as the Cat in the Hat, a princess, and a large M&M passed by him on the street. It's All Hallows Eve, people! Bring on the ghosts and goblins: this ain't no Dora and Diego holiday.

It's been a long-standing tradition, actually. He dressed as a vampire last year and a pirate the year before that (costumes he resurrected this year to attend no-mask Halloween parties at school and at the Yates'). It's a little funny to me, still, to see him play with the Bad Guy persona, since he's nothing but cute and soft-hearted. No matter how much he screws up his face into what he believes is a look of madness, his playful eyes and chubby cheeks give him away. Perhaps it's because I can still see my baby in that face—a baby we dressed like a lil' devil for his first Halloween (hmmm...). He doesn't look like a demon seed, but we've certainly spawned a child who is thrilled to dabble on a cartoon version of The Dark Side.

Unwittingly Divine

On Sunday night, after an early supper of beef bourguignon (mmmm-fall-food), we went out to the back garden to gather the last of the late harvest. Sam, Tracey and I flocked around the apple tree, for starters, with Anabel looking on in starfish contentment (she was rendered doubly immobile, tucked straight-armed into her pink suede winter coat and strapped into a bouncy chair). We harvesters formed a tag team: me up on the ladder passing apples down to Trace, who handed them off to Sammy for inspection and then storage or tossing. To our surprise, we filled a bushel basket with the crisp, deep-red fruit. We've got the makings of oodles more jam and muffins. Yum!

Then we checked out the overgrown zucchini patch, with its broad leafs as big as pup tents hiding surprising numbers of puppy-sized specimens. We must have pulled a dozen huge zucchinis out from their hiding places. I planted that crop so late that I didn’t expect a harvest at all. Now I have some grating ahead of me. After all, the only thing a gardener can do with a boatload of zucchini flesh is make zucchini bread. Tracey, for one, is pretty excited. And so was Sam that night. In high spirits, he ferried the veggies one at a time up to the deck (note: I didn’t pay the ferryman; I didn’t even fix a price). He even got right in there to help pick a few, wowing at the force it took to separate the (sas)squash from their mega-vines.

We did it, though. The garden was laid bare as the last blush of sunset left the sky on a nippy October evening. Just then, a flock of Canada Geese passed overhead, due south. We all looked up at the sound of their plaintive departure and Trace laughed, “Now this is a fall moment.” Standing there rosy-cheeked, with the smell of wood-smoke in the air and two big baskets of freshly-picked fruits and vegetables at our feet, we felt like reaper figures from some Charles G.D. Roberts poem.

Sam may not have fully appreciated the quiet thrill of that moment for me—for as long as I can remember, I’ve imagined myself working this garden—but he certainly seems to love the cycle of it all: the planting and the harvesting, the baking and the eating. He’s looking forward to taking his place up on the counter and helping to turn the Hudson harvest into loads of treats to share.

Myself, I’m already thinking about what to plant next year. High time, I think, for a pumpkin patch. Fall harvest is good times.

Sam Was Struck by Lightening (and other tall tales)

I remember Savannah going through an amusing stage when she was about Sam's age, which saw her making up the funniest stories and passing them off as fact to family members and strangers alike. Our favourite was "One time, my mom left me in a river of lava. It burned off my legs." Another time, while I was babysitting the girls—and Jazzie might have been 18 months old—Janey called to check in, and Savannah told her that her baby sister had fallen backwards off some patio furniture into the swimming pool. Never happened.

Turns out that Sam's bent the same way. He likes to play a starring role in exciting stories. On the drive to school the other day he set in with some difficult questions about lightening. "Does it ever hit people?" he asked? Okay, first of all, why does he do this to me? He's 4. Can't we talk about how choo-choo trains get their power? I briefly considered going the "Of course not. Bad things never happen" route, but I had to hedge against the possibility that he'd heard something on the radio and this was a test of my honesty. So I conceded that it happens very rarely and mostly to golfers. Then I fumbled through the tougher follow-up questions: "Does it hurt? Can you get dead?" Bloody hell. What was this?

This was research. Once he had the facts straight, he put on his story voice and told me that when he was a very little baby and I wasn't looking at him, he was hit by lightening. That it made him "glow up in the dark" as he calls it, but it didn't hurt at all, because babies don't feel eel-leck-TRISS-ity. When I said that I don't remember that happening, he reminded me of the foundational detail: I wasn't looking. Ohhh, that explains it. Well, then. That must have been quite a shock. We've revisited that scene several times since. It's the next generation "Burning Lava" story.

The trouble with the tall tales is that they're taking the place of most reality-based conversation. "How was school, Sam?" is bound to be answered with a wildly improbable list of calamities, abuse, failed projects and superhuman playground feats. One evening, he added "And I learned French: 'mimsy' means 'I hope you're having a nice day.'" So jaded was I about these reports, I chalked up the "French lesson" tidbit to just another Sam Story ... until the first JK newsletter came home. Twenty minutes daily. Ah, c'est vrai.

This week, Sam revealed his narrative power to bemuse and then, later, to embarrass. Picking him up on Tuesday evening, I noticed the class had done one of those thematic Q&A sheets that has a common question in the middle of the page, and little squiggly lines leading out to various answers attributed to the students. The question of the week was "What are you grateful for?" I read clockwise around the answers, scanning for Sam's name, so I got a good taste of the group response—kids grateful for their parents' hugs, their baby brothers, their food, their pets. Finally, I spotted Sam's answer: "Sam is grateful for his mom buying him a new skateboard." I didn't buy Sam a skateboard. I'm not buying Sam a skateboard. Did Sam misunderstand the question? I called him on it at the cubbies, and he smiled and said he was just imagining that he'd like that. Over his shoulder, one of the teachers started chuckling and admitted, "We were wondering..."

Thankfully, Arlene (Tracey's new nanny) didn't have to wonder long when Sam regaled her with stories over supper about how sometimes, when his parents are not in the room, he pops in a Grown-Up Movie that shows people's bums (and their penises?", Carter asked. "Oh yes, their bums and their penises"). "Ohhhh..." said Arlene. Okay, we don't own that movie. Really, we don't. And he's not home alone much either! Luckily, Tracey overheard the story and called out a chiding "Sammmm?" and he cut the tale short.

When I saw him later that night, I asked him about this so-called "bum movie" and he backpeddled into a corner: "I borrowed it," he offered, "Then I gave it back to that person." I pressed my advantage: "Who was it?" Gulp. "It was in my imagination!" he confessed. I'm only a little concerned that his imaginary movie sounds like porn: in fact, I'm pretty sure he simply couldn't think of anything funnier to say than "bum". But I'm half-tempted to write a pre-emptive note to the teacher, "Please don't call Child Services if..."

So how long before Sam's "imagination" becomes Sam's "big fat lie"? I laughed when he begged off finishing his breakfast this morning, explaining that somehow, when I wasn't looking, caffeine got on it ... and we all know that kids shouldn't have caffeine. He thinks he's hit on quite the little trick, that blanket phrase — "When you weren't looking..." What he doesn't realize is that I see more than he knows. That's the way of the Mother. It helps that he's incredibly transparent, always overtly covering his tracks by blatantly asking me not to fact check his tales. "That new girl over there is called Mambooboola. Umm, but don't say 'hi Mambooboola' to her...."

Lightening. Skateboards. Bums. Caffeine. Mambooboola. He's got 1000 of them, I'll bet. I'm sure we haven't heard the funniest, the craziest, the most embarrassing tall tale. But, as difficult as it is to get the plain and simple truth out of him sometimes, I'm a little proud of Sam's ability to spin a story out of absolutely nothing. I imagine him as a film director, a novelist maybe. Of course, in the last Q&A, Sam declared that he'd be a doctor when he grew up. I wonder what the story is there.

Man About the House (for a fee)

Back in April, I wrote a post about Sam's interest in helping to complete whatever chore, project or batch of muffins he discovered me in the midst of. "Can I help you do that?" was a constant refrain of his, and it was a source of genuine pleasure but also (sometimes) ever-so-mild annoyance for his parents, who found themselves in the position of either rebuffing the proffered assistance or slowing down progress to a snail's pace to teach our four-year-old how to re-pot plants or string road hockey nets (this afternoon's projects). Part of the job, I know, but the weekends are only so long...

Lately, there's been a follow-up refrain once the offer of help has been accepted: "How much would a job like that pay?" Okay, so Sam doesn't actually quote one of my favourite Kids in the Hall sketches, but he comes darned close. He started out with subtle expressions of his mercenary motives, sort of mumbling under his breath while engaged in the task—as though unconscious of being overheard—"maybe I will get some dollars for this..." Later, he became bolder. He's offered to pick up yard waste, clean his room, help make cookies, and put away his clothes... all for the tidy sum of two dollars. He still loves being a help (you should have seen him playing apprentice during the dishwasher installation), but he's also learning the (monetary) value of an honest day's work. Pay up!

And we have, from time to time. Not too long ago, he "babysat" Anabel for $5. That is, he kept her entertained in her playpen a few feet from the dining room table for the length of time it took for the screecher's mommy to enjoy her meal. He loves his five dollar bill. He's got big plans for it. It's going towards the purchase of a new section of the Pirate World that's taking over his bedroom. And that's where this all started, really. Sam's lust for the pirate's life has had him looting his parents' treasure chest a little too freely this summer.

He received a Megablox "Pyrate" fort for Christmas from Grandma and Grandpa Arnold last year, little knowing that he was the proud owner of but a token of the full suite of fortresses, islands, ships and crews (human crews, skeleton crews, "goobie" crews...). When we picked up a small island set to go with the original kit, Sam pulled a giant "here's what you're still missing, kids" page out of the box and his head exploded. Bounty like he'd never imagined in his wildest dreams. He was so enamoured of these little (mostly cheap) toys, that it was fun to surprise him from time to time over the next few weeks with additional sets: Maroon Galley, Dubloon Mystery, and so on. Sam was thrilled. .. and then expectant. He'd lay out the "menu" to point out what he still needed.

So we had to reign it in. I found myself explaining again and again that he was lucky to have as many toys as he'd already collected, that there were plenty of kids with nothing. I bordered on exclaiming "do you realize how many starving orphans there are in Africa?" But if Sam was spoiled, commanding him to be grateful for his privileged life and a little bit scared that it could be unravelled by drought and epidemics wasn't going to change anything. Perhaps earning money towards toy purchases would teach him some restraint, some patience, and some awareness of the effort that goes into producing coins from the Magic Wallet of Plenty.

So while he's angling for extra pay and having to learn the line between what he's expected to do as a member of this household and what counts as a chore for his allowance, this little experiment might be working. While shopping for household supplies at Wal-Mart this morning, Sam asked if he could buy a $1 pirate (of course) Halloween bag. We explained that we had a perfectly good ghost bag at home. ("Perfectly good." I am such a mom). But, we added, if he thought it was worth it, he could buy it with his own money. He jumped at the chance to throw the bag in the cart. But when he saw some ghost and pirate craft stickers a few minutes later, he considered the same offer for several minutes. Did he need them? How many, really? And which ones? He spent the second $1.80 very carefully. Maybe it's sinking in a little.

Jeremy has taken the musical approach to this dilemma throughout: he's taught Sam the chorus to the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want." That seems to be working, too. Or, at least, Sam sagely shares the lyrics with Carter whenever he pouts at being stonewalled by Tracey. We can't fault little boys for so much want in this commercial culture, and we can't limit them to basic needs simply to teach a lesson. So we're groping towards some middle ground: the land of allowances and wish lists and reasonable gifts. Hopefully, that's where Sam will learn greater respect for his belongings and gratitude for just how many of them there are. And to stop asking to be paid for brushing his teeth.

Cannamore Amour

Every year since Sam and Carter could walk, Trace and I have taken them out to the apple orchard on a sunny Saturday in late September. In 2004, '05 and '06, we made the one hour trip to Balderson for some pick-your-own fun. There is an old caboose on the property, outfitted with tables and chairs and a fun little loft. The boys usually tore around in there for a while before we all climbed aboard the farmer's hay wagon for the three-minute rumble to the dwarf trees.

After filling up our bags and buying up some fresh cider and orchard honey, we loaded the bounty into the car and headed for the nearby cheese shop and chocolate factory for a few more traditional treats. We passed almost as much time watching the boys decide which shape they wanted their chocolate-on-a-stick to take as we did in the orchard itself. But we didn't mind. Those shops smelled wonderful and were brightly decorated for fall: it was almost like spending time at the home of Quintessential Grandma. In fact, in those early years, the boys took a seat right there on the floor to eat their chocolate.

Last year, there was a little glitch in the tradition: Balderson had a scant crop, so we arrived to signs indicating that we could buy apples from the shop and tour the orchard on the hay wagon, but we couldn't pick our own. It was somewhat disappointing, but still a really lovely day. This year, however, Balderson didn't get a saleable crop at all. Seems a number of neighbouring orchards suffered the same fate. The ones that did produce a good crop were overwhelmed by demand in early September and had run clean out of pick-your-own. Our tradition was about to take a twist.

After a quick survey of our choices, we settled on Cannamore Orchards about half an hour from here. It offered not only the necessary elements of this favourite tradition—the beautiful drive, the wagon ride, and the nice-smelling gift shop—but also a great play field with a 'climb aboard' train, and fish pond, some mazes, and a choice of picnic areas. We met up with Danielle, Tristan and Simon and Anne-Marie, Dave and Other Sam for lunch and some afternoon fun in the Indian Summer sun. We spent three hours there, and it was so pleasant we could easily have whiled away several more (the adults whiled; the kids whirled).

Trace and I missed the pleasures of pick-your-own, but the boys didn't seem to notice—it has been half their lives now since we got out there in the trees. Next year, we'll have to plan for early September orchard trips. To Balderson and to Cannamore. We want to support our (chronological) first choice when it's back in business, but we have a new (preferential) first choice we'll be frequenting, too. I wonder how long it'll be before the orchard charms are upstaged by requests to visit the terrifying Haunted House or go on the after-dark Spooky Wagon Ride with its flying monsters and body snatchers? For now, they're happy tearing around the grounds, sampling apple butter and pumpkin fudge, and playing at being "spooky guys" themselves....

Inuksuk 2: This Time, it's Personal

So we're putting in a dishwasher (insert mom's squeal of delight), which means ripping out and relocating Sam's 3-level craft cupboard. Wow, there was a boatload of stuff in there. We're swimming in crayons, markers, coloured paper, stickers, pipe cleaners, crepe paper, glue sticks, elastics, cardboard rolls, bits of ribbon, sequins, and foam shapes. In short, everything required to make a rocket. And then more rockets.

We'd also collected a "let's do this later" miscellany, including colouring pages from bike or fire safety campaigns and itsy bitsy kinder-egg puzzles. While sorting through that stuff this week, I came across a small give-away we picked up on the Winterlude Ice Sculpture tour at Confederation Park: a 'build it yourself' mini cardboard Inuksuk. Sam was enthralled. We punched the pieces out and carefully assembled the icon. Then I read him the little info card provided by the Department of Indian and Northern Affairs, explaining the cultural significance of the stone marker to the Inuit.

A while later, I found myself eavesdropping on Sam's play, all smiles that he was repeating bits and pieces of what he heard in a kind of solemn 'voice over' fashion as he marched Inuksuk down the length of the couch: "The Inuksuk is used to show hunters the way home .. and sometimes to warn of dangerous places... and sometimes to mark where food is stored..." Just look at my little erudite boy having fun with this venerable symbol of the Canadian North.

Then, with that shift in tone you hear in movies to dramatize the alternate personality taking over the dominant one, Sam continued in a slower and deeper voice: ".... but that was in his childhood, when he was a superhero. One day, a FRACK of rocks fell on Inuksuk (sound effects of pummelling and horror), and he was turned into a Rock Man. He fought his enemies (sound effects of thrashing and pain) and beat them. When they tried to fight back, he turned into liquid rock!! (sound effects of molten transformation) and no one could touch him. If they tried, they were burned alive! (sound effects of people melting in agony). Inuksuk was angry that was made out of rocks and he blamed it on the people and that's why he fought everyone he could find!!"

Ironically, the info card is called "Sharing a Story." Ya. Sam heard your story. Then he took your 4,000 years of Inuit cultural history and pimped it with a dash of Fantastic 4 and the Batman villain formula. He likes your story better now. Inuksuk may have "become a symbol of leadership, cooperation and the human spirit," but when 4-year old boys play mythmaker, there's gonna be shape-shifting fisticuffs and mayhem. I should have started with the coyote and raven tales.