Can I Help You Do That?

Sam had another first this week: he climbed into his car seat and buckled his own seat belt. He was pretty proud of his achievement, showing off the new big boy skill to me when he and Daddy returned from a grocery run. Today, however, he's not capable of repeating that independent feat. Today he's pretty sure he needs to be carried to the car, lifted into his seat, and buckled up. Today he's not "such a big boy"; he's "too little."

This is the way Sam's growing up has been going lately. When the mood strikes him, he suddenly can't fasten his shoes, put away his coat, pour his own milk, or tidy up his room. He's not being obstinate. He's just being little. And maybe a little bit tired. So I usually humour him rather than offer coaxing reminders that he was fully capable of dressing himself for school yesterday. He'll take his strides when he's ready. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

It's quite possible I also humour his backslides because, frankly, it's quicker. Undies-pants-shirt-sock-sock-jacket-shoe-shoe: let's hit the road. Standing patiently in the entranceway repeating "you've allllllmost got it!" while Sam fights a stubborn zipper is sometimes the longest 5 minutes of my life. Ditto allowing him to bring blue box items to the curb. One at a time. It's also cleaner to do things my way. The day Sam decided he was ready to move from spectator to baker's apprentice and insisted on measuring flour, breaking eggs, and taking the controls of the electric mixer was the day that Chocolate Fudge Cookie Bites ate my kitchen. Finally, "I can't do it Sam" is less likely to step around the corner as I dial open the garden hose for the very first watering of the season and ask "Can I help you do that?" - a common refrain when I'm taking care of chores. "Of course, yes--thanks for offering to help, bunny"... (and then, with my inside voice: "but watering is my favourite!").

Look at him, though: he's beautiful dousing the flower garden in his bare feet. I couldn't draw his attention towards the camera when I took the photo, so fixated was he on the new task at hand. He spent a few minutes experimenting with water pressure, adjusting the arc of the stream, moving slowly down the long border, all the while asking "is this right? am I doing a good job?" Ya, you're doing a great job, Sam.

And it's my job, I know, to support these forays into independence whenever I can. To let him to go to school with his shirt on backwards, to drop crunchy slivers of eggshell into the cookie batter, to drown a few square feet of sprouting ground cover. It takes up time. It makes a mess. It intrudes into small corners of my life I didn't expect my little boy to go. But for all the eye-rolling tiny frustrations of things like watching him brush his teeth for 5 minutes and miss every single tooth, these moments of progress really do make me happy when I slow down for a second look.

Towel Hug

Most nights, Sam’s bath time is my responsibility. These days there isn’t much to it unless, horrors, it’s hair wash day, but I like the routine of it all. Corralling a spirited (though never bucking) bronco away from his toys and into the bathroom stall. Striking the right balance between the gentle offers to help free him from the grip of a tight pullover and the show of respect for what this big boy can do all by himself. Then, advising that he test the temperature of the soapy water before plunging in. Finally, turning the face of my Dove soap container towards the corner wall because its icon of blueish water circling a drain looks to Sam like the baleful stare of an evil eye. The nights I forget that last step, Sam calls me back in reproach: shrunk tightly against the opposite corner of the tub with a deep frown – “You forgot that I don’t like the drain eye.”

But my favourite part is the end of the bath. Sam calls me back from some household chore or another with the never-changing announcement: “I’m ready to get out of the tuh-UB.” He then pops the plug himself (these days with his toes), my cue for a prompt return to lather and rinse him in the disappearing water. From what I can tell, Sam doesn’t use his bath time to bathe, per se. The tub is really just a wet change of scenery for his continuing game of good guys versus bad guys.

Once the tub has emptied, I gather Sam into a large towel and pull him onto my lap for “towel hug – the best hug of the day.” For a minute or two, he presses his small swaddled body against me and holds his soft damp cheek against mine – sometimes quietly, sometimes humming a satisfied “mmmmm,” and sometimes murmuring about how great our towel hug is. For these minutes, Sam is still the littlest of little boys, still my sweet-smelling warm baby who lies limp with fatigue in my arms as he always has. This ritual marks the end of every single Sam bath in my memory.

And then last week, Sam proclaimed that some of his bath nights wouldn’t be towel hug nights anymore. That some of them would end with him drying for his pj’s and cutting straight to milk & story time. I must have looked stricken, because he half-snatched back the declaration in appeasement, explaining “But not yet! Not this night. This night is a towel hug night.” I quickly composed myself and said it was always up to him which nights had towel hugs in them and which ones didn’t. Time to grant him his non-baby status.

So, it’s coming. Soon the treasured towel hug will be a fond memory. And soon after that, Sam’s bath time won’t include mommy at all. And so I took a picture. Sam’s smile is as winning as ever, but if you look closely you’ll see that mommy’s smile conveys the bittersweet knowledge that this is a limited edition moment. Perhaps 1043/1200. I’ve loved them all.

Off-Duty Prof Has Playoff Laugh

Another term end is upon us and the dining room table is once again groaning under the weight of essays, seminar write-ups and final exams. Or that might be me groaning. I like reading students’ work: I’m just not fond of grading it. What makes the already onerous task a little tougher is Sam’s puckish presence. I have quite a few photos of babe insinuating himself into my workspace—evidence of the dual pull of the working mom. In one, he is just 2 weeks old and resting comfortably on a stack of examination booklets; in another, he’s perched on my chair, the nub of a red pen pressed thoughtfully to his pursed lips in impish imitation of his professor-mommy. In this one, he’s making an over-the-top bid for my lap, having been repelled on all other fronts.

Yes, Sam has long won the battle. And this year he’s also finally won the war. I’m hanging up my cap & gown after 15 years of teaching literature courses. It’s just too hard to carve the time out of my precious few home hours. And, seriously, who can ponder the relative complexities of Atwood’s and Roy’s investigations of the adolescent journey to self-knowledge while sitting within earshot of Bob Cole and Harry Neil calling a playoff game? High time to indulge in some other April traditions.

Sam was delighted to find “the whole family!” (Huddie included), perched on the couch for the hockey game last night. While Mommy & Daddy watched (thankful for the pause button), Sam was half tuned in to both the world of N.H.L and the world of S.A.M. Though he happily dashed upstairs to ring a celebratory doorbell when it was called for, he was more intrigued in his own play than in that of the Senators. Using his coloured magnets and an invisible set of "contructions" (instructions), he built a jewel, a computer, a spaceship, the dwarf planet, an ant head, and a ‘long string of power.’ Spotting my light dumbbells near the tv, he decided to break for some pumping—pausing between sets to check out how strong his elbows were getting (missing the point of the bicep flex). We had to stifle laughter when, seated cross-legged on the floor, he raised the weights recklessly to shoulder level to emphasize a point and tipped right over backwards. He then combined the weights and magnets into a private game that featured the high-pitched warning: “The blender machine is dang-er-rous; it’s chopping you… CHOP-PING YOU … arghguhg.” Suddenly, Sam’s another Hudson and crawling all over us for ear scratches. Then, once Daddy showed him how to hide his arm in his shirt to fool people into thinking he was a one-armed bandit, he ‘fooled’ us 5 times in a row, howling with laughter at each squeeze of his empty sleeve in mock horror.

Somewhere in there, Heatley, Vermette and Kelly scored, Emery recorded a shut out, and the Sens capped a first round victory over the Piss-burgh Penguins (Sam’s pronunciation).

I expect I’ll be a little wistful at the loss of lectern come fall, but for now it’s just too much fun to throw over those professorial duties and watch Sam (and the Sens) play.

The S and the A and the M

Sam threw the front door open tonight to exclaim, "Guess what I did at school?! I did the M! I did the S. I did the A. I did the M!" He's been signing his name on his art work for a few months, but that last letter has eluded his talents so far, coming out as something of a stylish squiggle--perhaps suggestive of the signature to come. Today, however, Sam mastered the M. Attached is the evidence of his latest accomplishment, complete with a captioned picture of his Dad & Mom holding hands. Let me deconstruct the genius for you.

The 'MOM' is pretty easy to spot. Check those M's. The symmetry, the sharp angles, the ebb and flow of purplish pressure. A thing of beauty, that first ever MOM to emit from the artist's pen. Now, the 'PAB' to the right of that is "DAD." Scholars and practitioners the world over agree: D's are hard. This is a brilliant effort. Under these bold titles, there are two near circles: his parents' "funny heads" (to quote the artist). Beneath those is a horizontal line of arms, joined by the symbolic slash of two hands. Simple, forceful--a poignant interpretation of connection, significantly clasped over the semiotic symbol of son. As if to balance the composition, the other arms are casually rendered in loose vertical lines. The adjacent series of vertical lines are, of course, legs. Note the artist's exceeding care not to extend PAB's legs into the first letter of the already signed masterpiece, an obvious allusion to a father's protective care of his child. Finally, the chocolate smudges here and there are from leftover ice cream cake. A metaphorical assertion of the artist's childlike trust in his view of the world. Plus, he'd just eaten dessert.

All in all, a delicious little picture.

Brought to you by our S-A-he-did-the-M.

Retiring Number 3

As the wide smile in this photo clearly indicates, Sam changed his mind about cancelling his birthday this year, but it was a close call. On Thursday evening, he firmly announced from the back seat of the car, "I don't want my birthday anymore: I don't want the cake or the presents or the movie. Nothing." We chalked it up to late-day exhaustion and some resistance to the idea of being the centre of cupcake attention at school the next day. But Sam cut straight to the point: "If I have my birthday, I will still keep my name, but I will lose my number." He didn't want to give up 3. He liked 3.

We tried to describe some of the exciting doors that open to 4 year olds: Junior kindergarten, T-ball registration, and ... well, our list stopped at two doors to be honest. We drew a blank. Sam wasn't so easily mollified, so we swung the conversation in other directions (speaking of feet), expecting that a good night's sleep would change his mind. But he held steady throughout Friday and on into Saturday morning. It didn't help that the gap between was marred by a 6 hour dead-of-night stint in Emergency, waiting for verification that Sam's tenacious ear infection wasn't going to render him deaf. Odd to be sitting in the Civic Hospital, 4 years to the day of my admittance to the Maternity Ward with this quadrupled boy half-asleep on my lap.

He awoke (far too early) on Saturday morning with the diplomatic compromise to enjoy the planned festivities with Carter, so long as we acknowledged that this wasn't a birthday per se, but was only a birthday celebration, and that enjoying it was by no means to be construed as the embracing of 4-ness. The sight of the wrapped and bowed presents from Carter and the bright orange topsy-turvy Quasimodo ice cream cake got him into the spirit, however, and he was all smiles as Daddy counted the candles ... right up to 4. He began to try the number on for size: "Will I be 4 for as long as I was 3?" " Will I turn 5 anyways, just liked I turned 4 anyways?"

And then, on the way to the Ninja Turtles movie today, he came out with this: "Are you sad that I am growing up?" While the math and science questions had been easy, the personal one had us stumbling over ourselves a little. No, but yes. We're proud of how he's growing up and curious to see what lies ahead, but we also ache at the knowledge that he'll move out in to the big wide world one day and not need so much from his mom and dad. In a tiny but insistent case in point tonight, he told me he could button his own pj's, "because I'm 4 now." Yes. All of a sudden, you are.

When he asked how many more times his birthday would come while he lived at home with us, I answered that it would be at least 14, and more if he didn't go to a far away grown-up school. He was thrilled by the answer: "FOURTEEN!? That's awot-awot-awot!" To our little 4 year old, that may be true. But to us it's not that much. It isn't much at all.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.

Speaking of Feet....

The other day Sam announced his intention to wear shoes rather than boots when we took the dog out for a morning walk. He started his sentence with the phrase "Speaking of feet...", which was funny. Because we weren't. We were speaking of breakfast. I wondered if I'd used those words the night before, when we were playing foot puppets in front of his bedroom mirror, or if he adopted the line more consciously, in imitation of his Daddy, who often facetiously pretends he's not changing the tack of a conversation when he has something unrelated to say.

In any event, the line made me smile at the way Sam's vocabulary and facility with language stretches in surprising directions by the day. It's always been a source of fascination. I recall trying to keep a running list of the many dozens of words he was using by the time he turned 2, but I couldn't keep up. I was amazed at how this word sponge drew in the language around him and squelched it back out in amusing variations: trutch for truck, Cargo for Carter, Treechi for Tracey (and, more enduringly, Treechi Juice for a glass of wine). I chuckle at the memory of his first sentences: the reverent exhalation of "ohhhh, dat's hotTT" as he leaned over a steaming teacup, an echo of his mother's routine caution against his curiosity; and the perplexed and pleading "Door is GUCK!", his taut body hanging from the apartment doorknob preventing his escape into the larger world of the second floor hallway.

More recently, I've been chagrined by the oh-so-boyish context of some of his newer words. "The frog isn't QUITE dead yet, so the buzzard isn't IN-TRIST-ed in eating him." Or "My hand isn't ACK-chewally cut right off; it's in my sleeve. See?" But it's not all death and dismemberment. He's also picked up the gracious "As you wish" from The Princess Bride. That's pleasant. So is his over-the-top enthusiasm (shades of teacher-speak) when he congratulates me for such feats as knowing where his Batman mask is at the moment: "You're RIGHT, Mommy! GOOD WORK!" And Tracey reports that he and Carter were playing Repair Man with a new flashlight today, and they approached her to ask politely "Excuse me, young lady; where is your furnace?" Perhaps this civilized role playing will spell the end of the little boy poo talk, in which any sentence seemingly benefits from the random substitution of the word "poo." Where even the tenderly bestowed "sweet dreams" is apt to be met with a gleefully whispered "sweet poo!"

Of course, when that phase is over, I'll miss it. Just as I miss some of the nonsense words that are fading out of his lexicon. It's been a while since Sam last called someone a kunck or a koopy-shappy. And I'll miss the lapses in his pronunciation: already the V has found its way in (no more "bam-pires") and so has the SP (so the fun line in Chattanooga Choo Choo -- "I've got my fare, and just a trifle to FARE" -- has lost its Sam charm; he can say "spare...") . The L has been tougher for him, but too soon the constant request to "Wookit at me" will sound a wot different than it does right now.

But with each loss there are a multitude of fresh new phrases to delight in and as many amusing conversations. Just an hour ago, Daddy washed a Granny Smith apple for Sam, explaining that he wanted to get the wax off of it. Sam hesitantly asked for clarification: "ummm, ear wax?" He only knew the one definition of the word. Such exchanges continue to enrich our family culture, to colour the private language of our daily lives. And he's still just three. Speaking of feet, I have cupcakes to make for the pre-school celebration of Sam's birthday. Good night; sweet poo.

Keeping the peace

One of Sam's favourite pop songs is "All These Things that I Have Done". We often dance to it in the kitchen, holding hands through the early verses, but he always breaks away at the entrancing refrain: "I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier". This he sings alone, standing almost still but with his knees jiggling the rhythm. He loves the beat and the rising inflection of the gospel-like voices as they repeat the line over and over. The lyrics, however, are lost on him. He belts out "I got sold, but I'm not a soldier!", which always brings a smile. I never make it through the whole moment, however, without also feeling the cold pinch of fear in my heart at the thought of Sam as a soldier. The thought of being mother to a child on active duty.

The roadside bombing deaths of six Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan this past weekend had me thinking again about the steely strength it must take to live out months and years in relentless prayer. And when the worst news breaks, I do feel for the widowed and the orphaned, but my heart goes out to the mothers, because I just can't believe they ever really came to grips with the sight of their grown-up babies in fatigues. Myself, I can't twist the image of Private Arnold into clarity: the brain won't allow. He's soundly asleep in his spaceship pajamas.

I am immensely proud of our nation's response to international conflict, both in war efforts and in peacekeeping. And I can only imagine that there is a deeper pride to be found in the knowledge of a son's or daughter's bravery, commitment and final sacrifice. They have given everything in the promotion and protection of peace and democracy. So I silently thank Aaron's mom, and Brent's, and Christopher's and David's and Donald's and Kevin's moms. But I do it somewhat selfishly. My naive wish to see these and all other conflicts resolved is soaked in the self-protective desire to keep from ever feeling the pride that comes from having raised a fallen soldier. Yet, because of them, perhaps, my son sleeps peacefully, my son dances in the kitchen.

from The Sammy Journal

There are only 5 post-birth entries in the pregnancy journal I kept from Sept 11, 2002 to June 14, 2003. These are the last pages of that record.

14 june 03

Saturday morning and I'm up before 8 a.m. with a smile on my own face because of how happy you always are to see me when you wake up. This early weekend rising is fairly new to me (your mommy loves her sleep), but it's funny how quickly it's become my preference. And last night, some old friends met up for a reunion of sorts at a local bar while I stayed home to watch Peter Pan and cuddle with my baby boy. I played along when a few commiserated at my having to miss the fun, but I really wasn't missing a thing: a Disney Friday night with you sounds just about perfect, Sammy.

Which isn't to say that I've thrown over all social contact in favour of hermit-mothering: in fact, we have more invitations than we can accept and have routinely met up with Lia at the Second Cup and Mary at the department in addition to taking daily walks with your aunt & cousin. This week we have two lunches and next weekend is Heather & Russ's wedding (for which you have the sharpest outfit!). We've also kept up our Girls' Dinners on Thursdays with Trace, Jillie, Kim, Kat and Deb. So far, the three babies have been pretty easy to manage!

My friends have asked me to describe what it feels like to be a mother, and the fact is that I feel like I did before you arrived. I expected that my world view, my character, my whole being would shift dramatically upon giving birth, but it didn't. I'm fundamentally still "Angie," but with exponentially more love in my life. And, minute to minute, I'm motivated by the strong desire to ensure that you are loved and cared for. So my best response for how I feel to be a mother is to say that you have become the focus of all that I have in me to give and the source of a kind of happiness I knew nothing about before. I feel (for the lack of better, non-yoga words) grounded and purposeful. Without losing a bit of myself, your needs and wishes are also mine; your happiness engenders mine. It's as though my heart and soul are bigger than they used to be because they are tied so absolutely to yours.

Watching you nod to sleep in your swing has me marvelling at your existence. I often find myself wondering "where did you come from?", thinking--as philosopher Gilbran suggests--that you have come through me, not from me. That you are made of stars. I'm thrilled by the simple fact of you, nevermind by the amazing things you do everyday. ... And now it would seem that the time for such reflection is over, as the prevailing breeze informs me that you need a diaper change in the worst way. Back to the daily practicalities of motherhood.

Love, Mommy

Sunday Bunny Sunday

The satisfying sight of Sam's earless bunny tucked back into its box just before 7 a.m. this morning brought back a flood of Easter memories that made me smile. Like the time Janey and I (it was just the two of us then) woke up in the dead of night and found everything in a whisper-quiet hunt while Mom & Dad slept. We'd divvied and stored the loot in our rooms before the pre-dawn dawning that we'd robbed our parents of the spectator fun. So we stole around the house and put everything back, feigning a take-two surprise an hour or so later. Look! A Laura Secord egg right on top of my electric Snoopy-Brusha-Brusha-Toothbrush! Growing up, I used to wonder how a 7 and 3 year old pulled off the ruse. Now I know. Mom & Dad were some tired...

Tired as we were ourselves this morning, it was great fun to watch Sam scope out the living room, first with that Looney Toon inspired wide-eyed tiptoeing, and then with a quick bunny scamper whenever he spotted a bright plastic egg (in near plain sight). He'd gathered perhaps 6 or 7 of them before he even realized that there were goodies inside, the sweetie. Truly the game is the thing. The discovery of a chocolate bunny, an egg and a rabbit sucker were icing on the cake, if I can twist my sugary metaphors. I explained the "ears only" before breakfast Easter rule and promised generous doling out through Easter Day. Sam was gobsmacked: "It's Easter FOR THE WHOLE DAY?!" He's a happy, hippity-hoppity boy.

And, true to form, he spent part of the morning reinventing the myth so that the bounty was delivered by Darth Vader, who travels the world on a motorcycle, bringing treats to girls and boys. That's my bunny.

One sentence shy of Nihilism

Here's a snippet of convo with Sam & Carter as we drove down the Airport Parkway today:

Carter: When I get bigger, I'm going to a brick-filled school.
Angie: Brick-filled? Do you mean a school made out of bricks?
Carter: No, brick-filled. I just saw it.
Angie: Ohhh, Brookfield High School. That's right: and Sam will be going there, too! So you're going to go to different schools when you're little boys and then the same school when you're big boys. When you're about 13.
Sam: When Carter is 13 and a big boy, will he still come to my house to play?
Angie: Of course! You'll see each other all the time, and you'll probably do the same thing you did this morning (video games and plenty of eating). You two will be friends forever.
Sam: And then we'll get old-old-old-old-OHWALD and die.
Carter: Ya. Everything dies. Even trees die.
Sam: There's two kinds of "old": Anabel getting old and old people getting died.
Angie: True, but there's lots of time in the middle. You won't be old for a very long time.
Sam: You are alive on the earth for a long time, but then you're dead for a REALLY long time.
Carter: Ya. Dead on the earth.
Angie: But for now we'll just make plans for kindergarten, okay?
Sam: Ya. First we'll turn school-age.

Shades away from the a question I thought I might one day field from a scraggly haired, sloppily dressed, angling for a piercing, taller-than-me 10th grader: "What difference does school make if I'm just gonna grow old and die?" Not the conversation I imagined having with two sippy cup drinking, Spidey jacket wearing, booster seated, almost 4 year old boys.

The Goodest of Fridays

Four Good Fridays ago, Jeremy and I carefully slid newborn Sam out of his hospital gown and into his first real baby clothes and his impossibly small snugly snowsuit, and then we tucked him into his car seat for the trip home from the Civic Hospital. Already deeply in love with this bundle of bunny, we took the greatest care with the straps and buckles and tried to cluck and soothe away his puzzled frown and disapproving squawks. Having spent three nights under the efficient care of the nursing staff, we were nervous about heading home alone with our boy, the awesome weight of that responsibility rendered nearly ironic by the bag-of-groceries feel of the baby carrier in our hands.

Still, we were moved by the incredible "here-ness" of Sam's long-awaited presence and foolishly proud of his wee scrunched up face, his banshee-wailing, and his 57 cms of length (the tape measure evidence already hanging from the Jetta's rearview mirror). Within the hour, we welcomed most of the Arnold family for a full Easter weekend of sharing our sweet son and marvelling at how his furrowed brow and intent eyes made him appear to be actually concentrating on his surroundings. Even the nurses had remarked that he seemed unusually absorbed by the goings on around him. Later, we'd come to wonder if that expression wasn't a harbinger of the colicky days to come. While he kept us on our exhausted toes in the early weeks with implacable fussing and crying jags, he also delighted us with the most beguiling of baby smiles complete with wide shining eyes, a crinkled nose and giggle-speak. It was all we could do not to smother him endlessly in kisses.

Fast forward four years (and it was fast), and the impulse to hug and kiss and cuddle our boy-o hasn't abated, really. We're ever more conscious that those days are numbered and that the time will come when he's simply too big a boy to be carried in sound asleep from the car, to be scooped up for a soothing hug when he's hurt or sad, to be kissed on the nose for saying the cutest things. But we've got that still, and I want to record it all: that he throws himself into my arms when I pick him up from pre-school, no self-consciousness in his celebratory shout of "Mummy!"; that he needs an extra tuck-in hug when he's scared of the dark; that he watches hockey sitting on his Daddy's lap; that he's wrapped around me right now, having approached me at the computer to ask quietly, "Can I spend a few minutes with you?". Though I can't imagine forgetting any of this, I have to admit that so many of his 48 months have faded in our memories into a fuzzy amalgamation of dim recollections, so many milestones are only vaguely recalled.

This isn't simply to be a record for the sake of posterity, however. As much as we might regret the passing of all the little bits and pieces of Sam's baby- and toddlerhood, we're also amazed by the little boy our son is growing up to be. I want to celebrate that, too. And I know that the pleasant task of describing Sam's "baby steps" towards becoming his own person will make me enjoy the process all the more. He's next to me now, demonstrating his ability to do jumping jacks (his EX-er-cises), a gentle reminder that I promised he could do my cardio DVD alongside me this morning. Back to it. But see? There. I started it. Here begins the journal of daily life with Sam and the repository of recollections of days past. One phrase from the memory bank gave this blog its title: "I have a word for you" is Sam's solemn way of announcing that he has something important to say. I have a word for you too, Sam. Lots of them....