Life with Little Boys

It's Saturday afternoon and my house is clean. Floors are swept, vacuumed and mopped. Tables are polished. Tub is scrubbed. Mirrored doors and window panes are muck-free. The laundry is done and put away. As is the most of the general this 'n that—the clutter that builds up around the house during the course of a busy week. There are, however, a few notable exceptions.

One: the fireplace and reading chair in the living room are connected by a pirate bridge made of leftover foam strips from the interlocking mats we picked up for the school library. Two: the bare dining room wall is adorned with the tracing paper pages of a Bakugan story Sam spent the better part of the day creating. These things I will leave be.

My Neat Freak single self couldn't imagine maneuvering a vacuum cleaner gingerly around a 10-foot pirate bridge (which went up three days ago), and she would have thought twice about agreeing to scotch tape anything to the walls. She couldn't understand why mothers would let the house be taken over by toys, why all that stuff couldn't be squared away where it belonged. In fact, she couldn't even imagine slapping a child's artwork on the fridge...and leaving it there. Wasn't that why children had their own bedrooms? No, Neat Freak Angie was happy in clean, tidy spaces that were geared to grown-ups and smelled faintly of vanilla or pear.

As Angie-Mommy, I still very much prefer a clean house, but I don't often have a neat and tidy one. Those "signs of Sammy"—the messy evidence of his play—are part of the landscape of life with a little boy. They make my heart sing with the remembrance of his joys and frustrations as he created them and then showed them off, confident in his right to fully inhabit the house—to re-engineer and redecorate as he pleases. They're wonderful in a way that you can feel only when you are fully, completely in love with a little boy whose imaginary worlds bring energy and colour and quirkiness to your real one.

Is It Just Us...?

...Or is there a really good chance that (baby teeth aside) this will be what Sam looks like in his high school graduation photo?

And THEN ...

When Sam gets on a roll with an inventive story, it can go for hours. He strings the wild-and-crazy elements together with a not-so-inventive but delightfully emphatic "and THEN..." before taking a big breath and carrying on. Sometimes, he follows me around the house as I clean it, filling me in on the latest chapter of his fictional life. As long as I keep the questions coming or murmer the occasional "really?" or "fascinating!", he's assured of my attention (which barely qualifies as "divided," given that table polishing doesn't require much thought) and the story flows. This is how I know so much about his adventures on Tarzkon, his home planet, and how it is he came to earth to pretend to be our son. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

Thing is, I haven't posted for 10 weeks. I'd need a huge "and THEN" post to catch up. Sam started senior kindergarden; and then we went on a week's holiday in Nova Scotia, where he was a ring bearer in Jacquie & Brent's wedding; and then we went to Innisfil for Thanksgiving; and then he was the Hulk for Halloween; and then Grandma & Grandpa Arnold came for a visit in their motor home; and then Sam and Jeremy went out to BC to visit Grandma & Grandpa Ashe; and then we celebrated Daddy's birthday. And those are just the headlines.

In the background of all of this, Mommy's been working on her side projects—Garnish and School Council—in the wee hours of the morning and, more often than not, falling asleep before coming to the computer at night. Hence, no storytelling. In fact, I've even fallen out of the habit of making a mental note when something is said or done that should be recorded in this blog. While visiting Spencer Robert Webb (!) for the first time this weekend, however, Angelika roundly (but lovingly) chastized me for my long hiatus from the role of "Samstorian."

And looking at the enormous gap between baby Webb and big boy Arnold had me thinking, again, about the speed at which our children transform in front of our very eyes. The old saying "The years tell much of what the days never know" came to mind. I think the days do know, but in such small ways that you have to be watching for it—you have to be tuned in to the little leaps of maturity and appreciate them as they happen. And, to remember them for any amount of time, you have to write them down.

I promised Angelika not to let the weekend pass without logging a post. It's 5:30 a.m. on Monday. My post is about not posting. But that counts :) There's much more "and THEN" to come.

His Favourite Thing

Isn't this the cutest? Sam drew a himself and his Daddy at the Plant Pool. The composition includes both pools (one deep and one shallow), the clock with mutiple second hands for lane swimmers, and pokey-haired father and son holding hands on the way in. Sam's favourite summer memory...

He was to start swimming lessons last Saturday, but there was a "pool fouling" and the whole thing was called off. I hope he doesn't draw that picture...

And Puppy Dog Tails

A week or so ago, I was gathering sweet slice cucumbers and golden cherry tomatoes from the garden, when I spotted a little brown rabbit along the hedgerow. Our eyes locked and he froze for a moment, but then he calmly resumed nibbling on the long grass. I whisper-called Trace and told her to get Anabel’s quiet attention. A bunny sighting in this neighbourhood is hardly rare, but it’s one thing to catch a glimpse of one bounding across the lawn as you drive in and quite another to watch one enjoying a nice, light snack a few feet away.

Anabel was awestruck as only a 22-month old girl can be at the spectacle of a plush toy come to life and wiggling its nose at her. She allowed Trace to hold her for a minute or two, then squirmed from her mother’s arms and introduced herself to her new pet. Bunny scampered away, of course, and Anabel burst into tears, of course. “Gone?!” she wailed, checking and rechecking the thick (admittedly weedy) growth around the tomato plants. “Gone!? Gone!?” Poor Anabel. She was grief-stricken at the loss.

Poorer still was the baby bunny that ventured into our yard the following afternoon. We don’t know for sure what happened to him—and we’re not entirely unconvinced that Huddie wasn’t involved—but this little guy lay quite dead on the patio stones in front of the BBQ. The girls all kept a squeamish distance, but the boys had a good look. In fact, Sam and Carter edged up repeatedly and then took turns fleeing the scene of fly-encrusted carnage, squealing the words “It’s aliivvvve: I saw it move!” When Jeremy arrived on the scene, he decided that a proper burial, rather than an unseemly Glad bag send-off, was in order.

Now, I can remember burying the bodies of little sparrows that had broken their necks flying into our windows, of bidding teary farewells to round after round of gerbils, hamsters, guinea pigs, and budgies. Little girls would do this up right—a gravemarker would be fashioned; someone would say a few words; poetry might be read. But this isn’t, apparently, how boys do animal death at all. When Jeremy came in to report that the grisly deed was done, I asked how Sam and Carter reacted. “Oh, they’re fine,” he answered. “In fact, they’d like to know if we can dig the bunny up in the spring and look at the skeleton.”

The skeleton.

So sugar & spice laments losing the mere sight of her bunny friend, while snakes & snails remain happy in the knowledge that their bunny may be gone, but he certainly won’t be forgotten.

Post 100

One hundred Sam stories in the archives. Wow. That makes me happy.

I no longer rue the fact that I didn’t start recording my impressions sooner, that I missed getting down the details of infancy and toddlerhood, so busy was I — what, with an infant and then a toddler on my hands. And there’s something nicely literary in starting this epic with Chapter 4 (years old), something satisfying in filling in the back story in brief glimpses as we follow our hero into his fifth and sixth years. Besides, everyone knows that doubling back to focus on those early chapters only disappoints an audience hooked on the middle part of the tale. Just look at the Star Wars series. So I’ll continue to indulge the odd flashback when the mood strikes, but I won’t continue to regret the missing portions and wonder what post I'd be on today if I'd created the blog the very first time I uttered the words "I should be writing this down."

I can forgive myself the long delay because I see how even 100 stories doesn’t do it, even 100 stories doesn't begin to convey who Sam is and what he means to us. I can’t believe the breadth and depth and detail of what I haven’t got to yet, of what came and went with no acknowledgement in I Have a Word for You. Sam played eight weeks of soccer this summer, and Jeremy coached his team (for crying out loud!). How could I not have written about that? Seriously. That’s blog-worthy.

Another case in point: Just five minutes after I started this post, Sam burst through the front door with a colourful Kung-Fu Panda stylized karate certificate declaring “Sam Arnold, You Are Great!” He puffed his chest out proudly, explaining “I had the loudest HUSSAH! and KEE-YI! in the whole class!” He graduated out of the Little Dragon program this summer and into the White Belt class, and he’s just starting to get his bearings there among the bigger kids and the new-to-the-sport grown-ups. Have I mentioned karate since he joined a year ago? I don’t think I have. It's a constant in the background of our lives, but the blog doesn't capture that. Well, except just now.

But, really, it’s the tiny moments that are hard to get down while fresh. Like Sam under the breakfast table hoping to pull off some sleight of hand and instructing Jeremy and I, by way of diversion, “don’t look over here: look at your chuther.” Your chuther. That’s funny. And yesterday morning he tried a new phrase on for size, telling me that, according to his standards, his knee didn’t feel so good. Only he said “according to my stempers,” mumbling the word he wasn’t so sure of. We were taking Huddie on his morning walk, and I squeezed Sam’s hand tight, so happy was I to catch the little vocabulary leap in person.

These are just the things I remember several days after the fact. There are so many more fleeting moments that I want to file away here for sharing with friends and family now, for smiling over later, for Sam’s benefit in the long run—a full record of how much he’s loved, how often he delights us. But those moments happen when I’m with my little boy, and I’d ruin them by fumbling for a pen and a scrap of paper. I know that. I’m content with what I have captured, and I’m already enjoying revisiting last year’s posts and imagining how an older Sam will respond to some of these tales. Already so many things have changed. The band-aid fascination of Spring 2007? Over. We’d likely have forgotten his brief addiction if not for this blog.

So I think I'll try to sit down here a little more often and sketch a short note when I don't have the time to craft a longer story. In fact, I’ll start with this photo. That’s a shot of Sam taken the day he figured out how to spider up the inside of the kitchen doorframe. Jeremy’s laughing in the background because he remembers doing just the same thing in his own kitchen doorway decades ago, and he loves the feeling of seeing his childhood self reflected in his exuberant little boy. And I love watching Jeremy love Sammy.

Enough said.

66 Days

Back in June, Sam was gobsmacked to learn that he had sixty-six days of summer vacation stretching out before him — that he’d be staying home to play or going to Carter & Anabel’s nearly every single day of July and August. Instead of logging long weeks in the child care centre, he’d pop in on Thursdays to partake of a field trip, a swim at the community pool or some other special event. I’m sure it was hard for him to fathom: Sam’s been spending close to 50 hours a week at Carleton Heights since he was three and a half. But this summer, there’s Arlene.

Arlene is Tracey’s live-in nanny, caregiver to her kids since last September and key to Sam’s summer break. Twice a week, she and the kids have been coming over to spend the day in our backyard, and twice a week we’ve been dropping Sam to spend the day in the parks near Tracey’s. The boys usually disappear into some imaginary pirate world, surfacing only for food. So most days it’s been a relief rather than a burden to her (I hope) to have Sam around to occupy Carter while she keeps up with the mischevious Anabel. Other days? Well, yes, there have been a some squabbles—but nothing so serious that the separated “brothers” aren’t begging to be reunited within 20 minutes.

This has been a summer in the sandbox, on the swing, in the “woods” and out in the parks. A summer of fresh-cooked lunches at the kitchen table instead of cold packed lunches in Room 5. A summer of waking up late and staying in jammies if that’s what Sam wants — no hurry up and where are your shoes and grab your knapsack, we gotta get going. A summer when “gross motor play,” and “drama time,” and “reading readiness,” and “tactile activity” aren’t predetermined by ECE staff, but rather unfold naturally in the simple course of solving a playground mystery.

Those are the summer breaks Jeremy and I remember, and we’re so happy Sam had a chance to experience the spontaneity, the self-direction, and the focused laziness of it all. It’ll be tough for him to re-adjust to the long, structured days at school, I’m sure. And we’ll have to skew his bedtime back towards 8:00, now that sleep-ins or sleepy days aren’t an option. Toughest of all, Sam’ll miss Carter when their play time is cut back to routine Saturdays and one, maybe two, short evenings during the week. But a summer break enjoyed makes all that “back to school” stuff worth it.

60 days down. 6 to go. Have fun, Bunny.

P's & Q's

I came across this drawing when sorting through Sam’s craft drawer this week. It dates back to the fall of 2005, when he was two and a half years old. We used to sit colouring together, and I’d slip in little lessons where I could. “Do you want me to draw a circle? Do you remember what a triangle looks like? These are stripes, and these are polka dots.” The colourful patterns of the world sketched across the palm of my hand. The page filled me with nostalgia. For those stay-at-home mom days, yes — but also for the sheer simplicity of my concerns when raising a toddler. It seemed important then that Sam knew his crescents from his half-circles.

I’m struck by the irony of having so much less time with Sam now, when the scope and import of what’s left to teach him has multiplied exponentially. He’s bound to learn the geometry in school; it’s the basic rules of social living that have to come from his working parents. But when? How do we squeeze in pointers on table manners, when dinner conversation is all we get in a day? How do we stress the value of good sportsmanship, when he loses the first game of Trouble we've sat down for in months? It pains us to have to pepper our quality time with lectures and rules, with coaching and correcting. Is it that important that he minds his P's and Q's?

Yes. Yes it is. I've had it up to here, I tell ya, with the casual “yup” in place of “yes, please” when I offer a snack, the impatient “wha-at?” shouted from his bedroom when I call him for dinner, the petulant slouch at the table once he’s declared that the food is yucky, and the dramatic "oh brother!" eye-rolling in response to being called out on any of this. Worse, he’s taken to offering his own snotty Miss Manners pointers when the opportunity arises: “You just interupted me!” he retorts, when I can’t bear his affected “Could I have. .. could I have …. could I have…” stammer another instant before breaking in and suggesting Mini Wheats as a fine breakfast option. Did I ever correct my mother’s manners? Oh, I think not.

Polite language and behaviour is only partly about courtesy and tactfulness. It's also tied to respect and appreciation — for property, for other people's kindness, efforts, experience ... a whole range of things it'll take a while to teach. There’s a lot more to it than knee-jerk please and thank yous (though we’re admittedly not at reflex levels there yet either). I'm happy that Sam says “pardon me?” when he doesn’t catch a question, that he asks to be excused from the table, rather than coming and going as he pleases throughout the meal. And I have seen a heightened appreciation for people’s unexpected generosity. When the neighbours up the street offered him some Spiderman fruit chews last week, he commented on it repeatedly: “That was so nice. So nice of them to give me this treat.”

But we have a long way to go when it comes both to practising social niceities in an increasingly rude world and to developing the more crucial character traits that are telltale signs of a child well raised. He’s only five, of course. Some would say there’s plenty of time yet before he's in danger of being labelled a rude brat. But it seems I traced my hand for little Sammy just yesterday, filling it with rainbows, stars and happy faces. It’s high time now to take him firmly in hand and show him how to spread a little of that in the real world. Oh, he'll likely roll his eyes at me for a while, but mark my words! He'll learn to do that when I'm not looking...

Bonne Time

And just like that, we are a camping family. We camp. In campgrounds. We get up with the sun, we cook delicious picnic meals over a charcoal bbq and a Coleman stove, we make friends with the forest critters (but don’t feed them), we explore dark pathways by flashlight, we fall into exhausted sleeping-bag sleep shortly after night fall. The three of us spent a beautiful long weekend in Bonnechere Provincial Park, and we’ll do it again. In fact, we’ve already scoped out our favourite sites—close to the comfort station, the beach, the water supply, the additional vehicle parking. Close, but not too close: forest and river in the foreground and amenities just out of sight. Perfect.

I don’t remember much about the planning and the packing and the set-up and the tear-down and the busyness of the this-and-that when thinking back to the summer camping trips of my childhood. Mom and Dad somehow managed all that without catching our notice, calling us in from sandcastles and air mattresses, from card games and random play when it was time to eat or sleep or climb back in the car. I’m not sure how they pulled it off, to be honest. Perhaps they had the routine down pat by the time I was old enough to form memories of our trips to Kilbear, Balsalm Lake and, later, Sable Beach. Or perhaps we didn’t hover at their elbows asking if it was time yet to head to the beach, finally giving up and throwing a casual “meet you there!” over our shoulders as we sauntered down a woodland path at 8:30 in the morning.

More likely it was the “we” that made the difference. Camping takes constant effort, but it’s not just keeping the site ordered and the meals coming; it’s keeping up with the Tasmanian Devil-like energy that bursts forth from an only child. Siblings spin towards one another, each bearing the brunt of the other’s “play with me” force. An excited only child on a camping trip — and a five-year-old boy, to boot — is practically unstoppable. We’d been parked at site 63 for all of two minutes when Sam finished his preliminary inspection and declared, “Yup! These are the right kind of woods! Who’s coming on a ninja hunt with me?” It was tough, but we held him off for long enough to throw up the dining tent in case of rain before tramping through the forest behind him, buying into each improbable sighting of Japanese feudal-era warrior spies in the foliage.

And so it carried on through the weekend. In and out of the cool (okay, cold) water, swimming out to “rescue” the buoys that mark the swim area, Sam riding on our backs for a good deal of the way. Over and back to the playground boat structures, playing Elizabeth and Gibbs to his Will Turner in an ongoing re-enactment of The Pirates of the Caribbean. Following a few strides behind as he scampers along the dark camp road tracking two different kinds of ghosts: the see-through kind and the ones with skeletons showing through their skin. Incidentally, they both leave shiny tracks that resemble bits of granite mixed in pavement.

That’s not to say Sam didn’t find shoreline playmates. He did. I loved watching him walk up to a little boy or girl playing near his or her parents and ask “How old are you?” before swapping names and agreeing to the terms of a game. Their age never actually mattered. He played as happily with two-and-a-half-year-old Janelle as he did with four-and-a-half-year-old Jake. Those interludes would seem to offer up a parent-play break, but instead they required a different kind of attention: overseeing the play from the sidelines, exchanging small-talk and knowing smiles with the other set of parents. We did manage to read maybe a chapter of our novels, but there simply ain’t no “put your feet up and relax” vacations at this stage of the parenting game. We were good and wiped when we got home!

Even still, it was really great to feel the full weekend as it unfolded—to let whim, inclination and appetite direct our movements—rather than to schedule as much as possible into those short days, planning for the moments when Sam would get our time and attention. He felt the difference right away. Snuggling in between us on Friday night, he sighed “What a great day!” and gave us both multiple “Good night, I love you” kisses, adding “you’re the best dad in the world.” Jeremy had gone for the firewood to make the s’mores. That was the title clincher, I’ll bet. In any event, I like to think that despite his privileged perspective from the centre of the universe (the rightful place of all small children), Sam appreciated our efforts to make this a fun family getaway, to indulge his existing interests and introduce him to new experiences.

Myself, I can't wait till next year.

Knight in Shining Tupperware

Rummaging through the kitchen cabinets one morning a few years back, Sam pulled out a pair of black plastic mixing bowls and stuck one on his head. That was the last day those mixing bowls lived in the kitchen. Right then and there, they became essential pieces of a makeshift knight costume that Sam (and Cargo) wore around the apartment for months. He’d have gone to the park wearing the black mixing bowl if I’d let him, but a sunhat seemed a better idea on a hot day.

The bowl-turned-helmet was always pulled low over his eyes in an attempt to achieve the look Shrek sports while rescuing Princess Fiona from the highest room in the tallest tower. Of course, this tactic made it rather difficult for Sam to see where he was going, so eventually I had to coax that length of metal dowel (where did that come from?) out of his hands in favour of the relatively harmless yard stick. From the kitchen, I often heard the sounds of helmet and sword bouncing off the walls, the radiator, the fireplace, the dining room table, the computer desk. Sir Sam’s valiant quests were tough on the décor, though he seemed to weather them well.

These days, Sam has an old steam trunk overflowing with costumes. A lot of it is cool head gear: pirate skull caps, a fireman helmet, a construction worker’s hard hat, scary masks, a sombrero, hooded robes—even a knight’s helmet (and visor!) complete with a matching breast plate, cape and sword. But I’m pretty sure that years from now, when I recall how much Sam liked to dress up in costumes to play as a child, the image that’ll first spring to mind is that of two-year-old boy with a mixing bowl on his head charging through an imaginary world and running headlong into the solid one.

A Little Piece of Navan

I’m always surprised by how quickly we find ourselves ‘in the middle of nowhere’ when we head off in search of some rural destination or another. Two quick rights from Tracey’s driveway and we’re soon skirting the boundaries of farm fields, marshes and forests—the cityscape fast disappearing in the rearview mirror. Ten minutes into the trip and we’ve slipped back in time to enjoy a little tour of pre-industrial Canada. Because once you’ve swung onto Leitrim Road and passed the community centre and the Canadian Forces station, there’s no there there. It’s countryside plain and simple, and it’s lovely.

Entering the nearby town of Navan last Saturday did little to destroy the time-travelling flavour of the drive. The welcome sign is carved in wood and proudly proclaims that the town was the site of the astounding “Fifty horse hitch.” Fifty horses on a single hitch, their lead reins nearly 170 feet long, were paraded down the quaint main street and into the world record books. In this very town. As we made our way towards the fair grounds, promising the boys that the heavy odour of fresh hay and fresher manure would subside, I realized that the past we had entered was my own.

This is Erin, circa 1982. The same small Irish village turning itself inside out to host a weekend fair, the same three long-time Lion’s Club members working the ticket booth, the same muddy assortment of John Deere and Massey Ferguson tractors lined up behind the agricultural buildings, the same cheesy glitz and laughter on the midway. Tracey felt it too, as she heaved Anabel’s stroller across the rough muddy tracks left by a horse trailer, jokingly calling the boys “city kids” as they screwed up their faces in disgust at having to pick around the ‘road apples.’ It’s a familiar scene to a pair of small town girls, but their children don’t know from rural fairs. We need to get them out of Centretown more often.

We let the boys have the run of the midway for an hour or so, following them from ferris wheel, to giant slide, to pirate den, to house of mirrors, to spinning strawberries. Carter even braved the Dragon Wagon rollercoaster, while Sam staunchly defended his right to sit out. They watched in slack-jawed awe as the big kids screeched their way through the startling drop zone ride, the speedy polar express, the gravity-defying tilt-a-whirl. Not this year for these two. Not next either. Much as they like to try teenager mannerisms on for size lately, declaring with conviction that they’re 18 years old, they look very much their age as they weigh their midway options and head for the cute stuff.

After a nice break in a shady playground on the edge of the fairgrounds, we walked back through the thick of it, explaining to the boys that the grown-ups wanted to see the exhibits. I loved that stuff in high school—the arts and crafts, the student projects, the baking, the prize vegetables. The sight of those ribbons pinned to the best in class still twists me up with irrational excitement. It’s nuts. I expected the kids to humour us, but they had a blast. Look at the scarecrows! Look at these bird feeders! Look at the Lego sets. Look! Look! Look! They ran circles through the exhibition hall and Anabel toddled after them, caught up in their excitement.

We’ve long been meaning to do the fairs, but they come early around these parts, with most towns staging them by Labour Day weekend rather than waiting for Thanksgiving. By the time my inner voice whispers “fall fair time,” we’ve missed out. But we’ll pay more attention now. It was nice to spend the afternoon out of the city, to participate in farm-based community events, simple celebration, and age-old fun that is all wrapped up in a small town fair. It’s the first time I got a strong sense of “Ontario,” as I know it, from anything connected to Ottawa. I like sharing that with Sam. Maybe next year we’ll catch the demolition derby, too.

Silly Fun

We kicked off the second half of the boys’ summer vacation by taking advantage of some of the free clowning around going on in Ottawa this August long weekend. On Sunday, Gatineau hosted the Red Bull Flugtag competition, billed this way: “32 wild and wacky teams from across the country will be strapping themselves to their totally outrageous flying machines and launching them off a 30-foot ramp into the wild blue yonder, and ultimately, straight into the Ottawa River.” Now that’s entertainment!

We figured there’d be a sizeable crowd, so we crossed the bridge a few hours before show time. Jeremy used beach towels to stake out a section of lawn next to the judging platform, while Trace and I took the kids to the nearby Children’s Museum to play for a few hours. The event kicked off with four skydivers spilling out of a Cessna overhead and then twirling through the air to land one right after the other on the launch platform—a few of them zipped low over the riverside crowds. Carter’s already asked where we can go to see that again (a tough question!).

We endured the hot summer sun for two hours, watching teams put on short comedy skits and then fling themselves off the end of the two-story high platform in a bid to fly. Sam had his money on anything shaped like a bird or a plane, but most of those machines flipped over and fell straight into the river. We did catch the winning team— Surf and the City—whose fashionistas used a cardboard taxicab to launch a pink handglider-type contraption 82 feet. The whole thing was hilarious! When I tucked Sam in that night, he enthused, “I loved the flugtag: if I didn’t get the chance to go, I would have cried my whole house down!” High praise…

The next day we headed downtown again, this time to the Sparks Street Busker Festival. We spent a couple of hours in the Kid Zone, alternating our attention between a pair of street performers and the large slide ride set up in the shadow of the Parliament buildings. Skateboard tricks, firey batons, sword swallowing, cotton candy and a slide ride? What’s not to love here? We spotted Nick & Debbie on the street and so added Michael to our little party: it was cute to see the three boys cross-legged in the front row chatting about the performers. “He didn’t actually swallow the sword … He just stuck it in and pulled it back out.”

I read later that 50,000 people flocked to the Flugtag and 250,000 people took in the 4-day Busker Festival, but somehow I still felt a little best-parent-in-the-world satisfied when we called it a day on the holiday Monday afternoon and tumbled the happy and tired group back into the car to head home. Sure, we made the same plans as hundreds of other families, but it still feels good to design a whole weekend around making the kids laugh.

Grand Time at Granby Zoo

While the minivan round trip was a zoo of one variety, le Zoo Granby (as the French say) was a delight! First of all, it's a manageable size, featuring animals from just two continents. We walked the Africa loop and saw most of the South America loop from the overhead train. The shady trails are punctuated by little kid points of interest—like crashed Cessnas and abandoned safari jeeps to climb on—so the boys had something fun to do when the sight of genuflecting giraffes at the waterhole or enormous elephants scratching their rumps on trees became passé. Even better, the grounds include a petting zoo, a small amusement park, a picnic area with playstructure and a big waterpark, so we could really mix up the entertainment over the two days. The boys all had a blast, though each of them named different highlights.

Charlie loved the hippos, the "jungle training zone" indoor maze and bouncy jumpers (our boys had the run of the place on their own); James loved the bat cave at feeding time, the ferris wheel, and talking about how much he wished he could ride the Anaconda rollercoaster; Carter loved the shark tank, the helicopter ride and the water slides; and Sam loved the zebras, the playground and hand-feeding the goats. They all got a kick out of popping up inside the in-pen plexiglass bubbles that offered an up close and personal view of the merkats and fishing cats. They also got a pretty good look at a massive gorilla slouched nonchalantly in the bed of a pick-up truck made to look as though it'd half-smashed through the enclosure: the boys scrambled into the cab, pressing their noses to the glass like little apes themselves. It was fun to watch them chart their progress through the park on the zoo map, to choose the places they still wanted to visit.

And we did try to create the sense of freedom where we could. Did they want to roll down the hill in their towels after lunch? Go ahead: try not to steamroll anyone's picnic. Did they want to ride the ferris wheel again? Why not? The line up is short. We tucked big snack bags into everyone's backpack and gave them free reign to manage them. Cheesies at 10:30 a.m.? It's your call. We stopped to watch the dozing flamingos because somehow they grabbed attention but passed right by the playful ring-tailed lemurs because somehow they didn't. We stopped for ice cream, we played fair games (Carter won a stuffed animal with a dart throw), we got giant lion-head souvenir cups, we let them have as much gum as they wanted. Zoo weekends seem the right time to let the world revolve around little boys, to keep the rules to a minimim. They thoroughly enjoyed it.

Mini-Mayhem

It’s been a long time since I’ve travelled in a minivan packed with kids. In fact, the last time I did so, I myself was one of those kids, riding with my parents, my little sisters, and some half-adopted friend or another. From that first-generation maroon Dodge Caravan on through till well after I left home, the current model year minivan was Dad’s company car. Given the pervasiveness of the “breeder wagon” now, it’s funny to think of how odd it looked to everyone back in 1983. Three doors, three rows of seats, three feet higher off the ground than a regular car … or so it seemed. Yes, it was quite the conversation piece rolling through the village of Erin, fresh off the line.

The biggest difference, I think, between that Caravan and the Sienna I climbed into this weekend—25 years later—is that no one would use the word “conversation” in a sentence related to the latter vehicle. Even as an adjectival phrase. Granted, any enclosed space containing all four Arnold girls is going to scale the decibel chart (a fave parental plea was to “keep it down to a dull roar!”), but loud, laughey, pause-free conversation is still conversation. That acoustic nightmare simply can’t compare to having all four of said sisters’ young boys strapped into their boosters for a long trip. So go ahead and smile, Mom, about how “what goes around comes around,” but you have no idea what it’s like to be in this front seat.

Last weekend, Trace and I took Sam and Carter up to Barrie for an overnight. We swapped her Corolla for the Fowler van and scooped James and Charlie for a weekend of cousin craziness. From that point, we clocked perhaps 12 hours in the car together, first riding back to Ottawa and then heading out on a weekend road trip to the Granby Zoo in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. While some might chalk it up to the boys being just 4 or 5 years old, I imagine that all future group road trips will run pretty much like this one did.

Here is a random sampling of sound bites.

Them: “You’re a dumb, dumb stupid head!” “Well, your head’s a baseball made of ear wax!” “You’re a poopy, slurpy, yucky pile of poop!” “No, you’re a poopy, slurpy, yucky pile of poop!”
Us: “Hey, no copy-cats. If you’re going to name-call, be creative. That’s a van rule.”

Them: “I farted!” “No, that was me!” “I did it, too — it was three farts!” “Okay, how did the car really make that noise? Do it again!”
Us: “It’s van magic. No questions!” (It’s the highway rumble strip actually. It grabs attention when they’re shouting.)

Them: “I don’t like my seatbelt strap! I hate it! I’m not wearing it! It’s UN-comfortable.”

Us: “So is busting windshield glass with your cheek bones; put it back on!”

Them: “Carter! You slept through it! Sam barfed right into the goldfish cracker bag! Twice!” “Aww, really? Where is it?”
Us: “It’s going in the garbage. You can go back to sleep.”

Them: “James! … Hey, James! … James, look! … James? … James! …”

Us: “James, Sam’s talking to you.”

Them: “I see a rollercoaster!” “That’s not a rollercoaster; it’s a hydro tower.” “Noooooooo: he’s right! It’s a rollercoaster.” “It’s not!” “It is!” Mom!!”
Us: “We don’t see anything. Who wants Smarties?”

Them: Look! A sideways traffic light!” “Another one!” “Another one!” “Another one!”

Us: “Yes, they’re all like that here. Neat, eh? Now let’s stop pointing them out with shrieks.”

Them: “French, French, French. Why is everything French in French-land?”

Us: “They’re weird that way…”

Them: “blbnmmmm” “bkljvvvaaammm!” “bllamalalamm!” “bblbmlbmblbm!”

Us: “Please, please, please use words while you’re driving us crazy … ”

And, of course –

Them: “Are we there yet?”

Us: “Yes, we are. See that crow in the field over there? That’s the zoo. Enjoy!”

Where was Jeremy in all this? In the driver’s seat for one, but also midway between “Us” and “Them.” He is, after all, a boy. And one who half-secretly believes that loud Arnold Sister conversation is tougher to bear than a minivan full of kindergarden boys.

It might be a gender thing.

Impressions of Sam at Camp Hideaway

The hitch in Sam’s small shoulders as he gingerly picks his barefooted way down the gravel driveway before rounding on to the dewy lawn and breaking into an eager run towards the tree fort. Summer freedom. He nearly always comes back with a wild daisy for me, hidden behind his back.

The big, silly gestures, the too-loud voice, the sideways glances and smiley jokes: these are Sam’s overtures of friendship when playing in the vicinity of another small boy, an over-the-top performance offered with such confidence in his likeability that it hurts my heart a little.

Sam standing halfway up the rock with Jeremy, arms raised like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, as if he alone is summoning the dazzling display of Canada Day firecrackers. Cracking people up with his joyful exuberance, his theatrical commentary between rounds of explosions: “Who disturbs my village!?” — “Rise up, my minions!” — I am the most powerful wizard!” — “Did you like that one? Cuz I’m getting tired!”

The smell of light rain misting the tree canopy as Sam and I swing lazily on the lakeside hammock together, snuggled under a sleeping bag and playing 20 Questions. We’re hungry for lunch but don’t want to crawl out, not yet. And then we spot Jeremy coming up the hill with a platter of BBQ hot dogs to share. “You read our minds!” Sam shouts gleefully.

The slight strain in Sam’s voice as he stands alongside the fishing boat with Jeremy and Paul, declaring with false bravado: “Babies would probably think this boat is going to sink.” As they putter up the inlet, Sam clutching a fishing rod, a proud grin splits his face. Later, he’ll report, “We didn’t catch a fish, but anyways it’s still called fishing!”

Sam’s soft, contented hmmmmm as he drifts to sleep in the mid-afternoon, lake-cold limbs flung over me, a smile fleeting over his features as he considers the last thing he said before giving submitting to exhaustion: “I’m going to be the last kid to leave the campfire tonight.”

Midnight at the campfire, and Sam’s cuddled on my lap. The familiar camp-smell of his hair—a mixture of shampoo and wood smoke, marshmallow and bug repellant. The almost-forgotten feeling of his limbs gradually growing heavy and floppy with fatigue. “Time for bed,” he says. We finish the 12th installment of The Magic Tree House books by flashlight.

Sam playing on the floor at the foot of the couch where Jeremy snoozes away a rainy afternoon. I’m lost in my book and Sam’s lost in his imagination. But he looks up at his Daddy suddenly and whispers softly, thinking no one hears him, “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

Heads bent together as Sam and I examine yet another small rock he has pulled from the shoreline and rinsed in the gentle waves, the better to see its composition—its streaks and sparkles—and so identify which “family” it belongs to. Families of rocks build up across the sunny beach towel on my lap: little bits of the broken Canadian shield, briefly rescued from inevitable fragmentation by a small boy who will, like these beautiful pebbles, one day split from his family, be born away by the tides of his own life. May he always be compelled to reunite the matching pieces, to find beauty and comfort in the notion of rock families. May his own childhood memories make it so.

On Finishing Call of the Wild

And so we leave Buck howling at the moon, surrounded by an adoptive wolf pack and free to roam the boreal forests for the rest of his life. A lovely ending to a tale of grueling hardship and perseverance, don't you think? Sam, for one, thinks not. Sam has been raised on circular narratives, poetic justice and happily ever after. Sam saw the Hollywood ending coming from the get go and, frankly, he's not impressed by Jack London's failure to deliver some teary reunions for the good guys and harsh retribution for the bad guys.

Sam: Is that it?

Mom: Ya, that was the last scene. These other pages are Questions for Discussion....

Sam: There are no more chapters?

Mom: No. It's over. He finds a wolf family. That's how it ends.

Sam: But what about California?

Mom: What do you mean?

Sam: He was stolen. When does he get back to his house?

Mom: He doesn't.

Sam: WHAT?!

Mom: Well, it's way too far away—he's deep into the wild woods... He couldn't get there if he tried; and besides, he seems happy now.

Sam: But his family doesn't know where he is: they will think he's gone forever!

Mom: I know. They were probably sad for a long time, but that happens to some dogs. That's what happened to Huddie once—but now we have him, and that's a happy ending.

Sam: Yeah. Hhm. (double checking) So Buck's wild now.

Mom: M-hmm. That's the "call" part: he felt himself wanting to run free of men and sleds.

Sam: And that's the ending. That he's wild.

Mom: That's it. No more masters. There's nothing else.

Sam : All right. (long pause) So let's read the Discussion Questions, I guess.

Pirate Parrgghhty!

April is the birthdayest month at Sam's school. For starters, the four "inseparables," as their teacher calls them—Sam, Sai, Michael and Miki—were born within two weeks of each other. Sam went to his first three non-relative birthday parties during the run-up to his own celebration—all of them at PlayTime4Kids, a hamster-like habitat on a JK-friendly scale. Once he unglued himself from my leg, he had fun: but the wilds of such an indoor playground wasn't the celebration Sam had in mind for himself. He wanted to bring the playground home.

So we hosted a Pirate Party at Hudson House, inviting the inseparables, Connor and Carter. Michael, who was celebrating his own birthday with family that day, was reportedly devestated to have to turn down the invitation—which came in the form of a tied scroll covered with pirate clip art and reading:

Sam Ashe Arnold, the terror of the seven seas, needs shipmates!
His ship—The Clutcher—sets sail on
Saturday, April 12th at 11:30! You’ll find him docked on the Hudson, slip 216!

Sam’s on the hunt for fabulous treasure! If you want to share in the booty, send an “Arrrrrr!” to the captain’s folks!*

X Marks the spot for birthday party fun!
216 Hudson Ave – 613.421.0474
* pirate parents need not stay for the adventure, but are welcome to…if they dare!

I made a treasure island cake, decorated the living room in black and gold, picked up eye patches, bandanas and tattoos for the guest pirates and hung the skeleton on the front porch (with a sign that said "I was at Sam's last party..."). When the boys arrived, they were told that we expected them to be loud and rude and to break all the rules. The pirates ran around the house, ate with their mouths open, pounded the table for "more food! more rum!"—they loved it!

We played a form of Hot Potato with rubbery balloon creatures, Pin the Dubloon onto Captain Jack's hand (a game Sam announced he'd like a lot more if there wasn't a blindfold involved), and Treasure Hunt. The clues for that were colour-based, each with a rhyme sending the boys in search of another coloured clue: "Now me hearties, use your head: This next colour rhymes with dead!" When they'd collected all seven, they were directed to a "parrot's tail" that pointed the way to a treasure chest containing five suede drawstring bags filled with gold nuggets. It was a hit!

Sam was overjoyed to play in pirate character for a couple of hours with his favourite playmates. And I was really happy that our first friends party was such a success, especially since I wasn't here on Sam's 5th birthday. I left on the Sunday morning for Tulum, Mexico, where Angelika & Kevin got married on April 16. I knew it would be tough to miss Sam's actual birthday, but I had a pretty good feeling that the memories of the celebration would last longer in his mind than my absence on the 15th would. So far, it seems I was right. He's already planning his next Pirate Party, for when he turns 6.

Where's the Beef?

Today I joined two bus loads of kids and a handful of other awesome parent volunteers to spend four hours at the Experimental Farm touring the barns, the grounds, the museum and the playground. It was hectic and wet and fun and educational. And it wasn't so tough corralling the kids this time (compared to a nightmare trip to the Science & Tech Museum last year). This trip matched the JKs with their Grade 5 reading buddies and the SKs with their Grade 6 buddies. Sam adores his buddy, David, and the feeling seems to be mutual: they often walked hand in hand through the exhibits. Nice.

When we reached the cow barn, Brynn the Tour Guide explained quite matter-of-factly that the two-day-old calves we were all ohhing and ahhing over had just been separated from their mama cows and would spend about six months in a special section of the barn, where kids could pet them and watch them grow. After that, they'd be transported to a feed lot where they'd spend another six months eating like it was their job. I knew where this was going, and wondered how Sam would react to the Story of Beef. He's heard it before, of course, but not while looking into the dewy eyes of baby Claudette standing there on her shaky limbs and ingratiating herself to Sam by trying to eat his Gap hoodie.

So Brynn gets to the part where the cows are hauled off to the slaughterhouse and Sam spins around to ask "Do we kill them?" Well, not "we" exactly, but I suppose we're complicit in the supply-and-demand equation, so I say "Yes, they are born to be food. Farms grow all kinds of food, including animal food." The kids around us are rhyming off all manner of meaty goodness to show Brynn that they know their cows: hamburgers! steaks! angus beef! teriyaki! souvlaki! I'm watching my son for signs of burgeoning vegetarianism, thinking "Here we go. The boy who won't kill an ant is putting two and moo together in a whole new way. It's going to be soy from here on in..." Sam leans against the pen to speak softly to the baby calf, and I have to strain to hear the words over the din. "I love you, " he whispers and I wince a little, touched by his tender heart—until he finishes his sentence: "I love to eat you. You're so tasty!"

See you soon, Claudette.

Yo-ho-ho and a saucer of cream

The Child Care Centre has a new mascot of sorts—a black and white stuffed cat that will be accompanying the kids on all of their summer outings. Today, the 'webbing' exercise was posted for parents to see at pick-up time. The question, written in the centre of the page, was "What should we call our new cat?". The answers branched off in all directions, but this time the children's names weren't added in parentheses. I figured it might be a challenge to spot Sam's answer in the mix, but it wasn't tough at all. Halfway round the circle, under suggestions like "Fluffy" and "Princess" was the name "Pirate." Pirate, the Cat. Ya, that sounds like Sam. Not surprisingly, his answer seemed to change the tack of the brainstorming, as further round the circle were the suggestions "Hot Wheels," "Power Ranger," and "Pikachu." In the end, the group went with "CiCi Sunshine." Cici for the double C's in 'child care,' and Sunshine for the summer session. Cute.

I doubt Sam's impressed...

Falling Down (in Memorium)

Sam, we didn't tell you about Dennis. You saw the look of shock on my face when I took the phone call that night. You heard me cry in Daddy's arms. But you accepted our explanation that our good friend was very sick. For a few days, you asked after him... then you stopped. It didn't seem right, somehow, not to tell you we'd lost someone special to us, someone who saw how special you were. But it was worse to flounder for an explanation, to admit that sometimes people don't wake up—even people younger than your parents. We wanted to protect you from that unfair fact, keep you from fretting over it, for just a little longer. Dennis would understand. Below is a note he wrote on his own blog the day Daddy went to tell him you were on the way. And the picture here is from the day Dennis met you, when—at 10 days old—you were introduced to The Morley. He's just out of the frame. I like to think that's still true.

Falling Down
September 16th, 2002 · 5 Comments

Today I received news from a friend that genuinely surprised me. News, that in another situation, with another group of people, may have been frowned upon. Instead, it made me feel like sometimes things work out right after all. I've got a sense of excitement about things to come.

For where-e'er the sun does shine,
And where-e'er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
— William Blake, Songs of Experience (1794)

Tags: · Nostalgia, Personal
5 comments for this entry ↓

1 Angelika // Sep 17, 2002 at 12:48 pm
"I've got a sense of excitement about things to come"
Nicely said Dennis! You and me both. :)

2 dennis // Sep 18, 2002 at 9:02 am
Can we say "spoiled rotten"?

3 ang // Sep 23, 2002 at 11:25 am
:) Very touching, Dennis: thanks. I transcribed the Blake quotation into my journal. I love Blake....not as a first name though ;)
And I'm working on the premise that people can be "spoiled good"? :) Heck, even "great."

4 dennis // Sep 23, 2002 at 6:44 pm
I was talking about buying Leafs tickets for myself this season. What the hell did you think I meant? ;-)

5 ang // Sep 26, 2002 at 1:46 pm
Why, I was talking about you stopping by the little souvenir kiosk on the way out... There could be trouble with this whole Leafs thing, but I think a mother knows best...

That's a Lot of Love, Hey??

Two months! Two months have slipped with nary a single post to capture Sam's transition to a five year old. I'm determined to catch up on what's been going on, but for the moment (I have a massive Sunday To Do list), I simply must get this down.

After finishing up Robin Hood a few nights ago, Sam and I were having our goodnight snuggles and he declared—in his most serious tone—"I love you so much, I love you more than a horrible shock pains. And I love you so much that it feels like my heart will explode and my rib cage will explode and pieces of my ribs will shoot up into outer space. That's a lot of love, hey? Is that how much you love me?"

Yes, Sam. Exactly that much.

This morning, he added: "I love you more than all my pirates, my Power Rangers, my Ben 10 guys, my Pokemon, and my Galactic Enforcers. I love you more than all the movies I've ever seen and all of the movies I will ever make. That's a lot of love, hey? Do you love me that much?"

Yes, Sam. More than anything in the universe.

According to some child development theorists I've read, the affectional bond between mother and child becomes the template for all relationships the child will go on to form throughout his life. As Tracey remarked yesterday afternoon, it seems likely that Sam is going to be one of those boys who lays his heart on the line for girls, who writes intense poetry for them, and who gets crushed more than once by opening himself up with the question "That's a lot of love, hey? Do you love me that much?"

But who wouldn't love him that much? He's wonderful (says his mother...).

KW - Chapter 3: A Pirate's Life

Before Sam knew a stitch about its history, he was in love with the name Key West. "It's way cooler than saying 'Florida'," he often asserted, and he found multiple ways of working the words into conversation: "Will there be fun things to do in KEY WEST? Does KEY WEST have beaches?" Imagine how intensely his fascination with the unknown but oh-so-interestingly-named little town grew when he discovered that it was once overrun by pirates. Real ones. He made plans then and there to pack his pirate bandana ... you know, to blend in.

We don't quite recall how Sam and Carter became enamoured of pirates well before their second birthdays. I guess it must be linked to the prevalence of Pirates of the Caribbean advertising, though of course they didn't see the movie. But the tidal wave of piratemania didn't hit the commercial culture full force until this past year—it seems that everything "little boy cool" is stamped with a Jolly Roger. Certainly Sam's favourite Scholastic books are pirate themed, painting a parent-free life that is all fun and games on the high seas. I'll admit that I'm one of those moms who can't help pointing out that actual pirates are nothing to be proud of. Sam rolls his eyes at me: "I already know that...."

He responded to Key West like a scurvy dog who'd take to the seas right then and there ... provided his mother came with him. From the moment we parked the car across from a pair of pirate statues drawing attention to a jewellry (pirate booty) store, Sam adopted his Pirate Speak and didn't drop it for the rest of the day. "Avast, ye mateys! Are ye from Captain Kidd's crew!?" He was all eyes and ears on that walk through town, spotting pirate T-shirts, parrots in cages, and references to the town's pirate exhibits—including a shipwreck museum (which we skipped) and the famous Pirate Soul Museum (which we didn't: how could we?).

It was a remarkable hour for him, playing in the recreated Port Royal street and docked pirate ship. The museum has the only bonafide pirate chest and treasure known to exist, as well as one of only two authentic pirate flags. Grandma, Grandpa and I expected to simply be following Sam around, but we enjoyed seeing all that stuff. History aside, it was the interactive elements that delighted Sam. He manned the swivel canons, sniffed to ID the various cargo boxes, spent 5 mins in the pitch dark (seriously) experiencing a battle wage on the decks above, and listened to Blackbeard's swinging head relate his terrible end. Well, he opted out of that last part, actually, burying his own head in my hair as I carried him past the exhibit. While he was fascinated by the replica of Kidd's tarred remains hanging in a cage at the Execution Dock (yuck), he wasn't so thrilled at the decidedly Disney disembodied talking head. To be honest, though, I was glad to see that my lil' guy still has a threshhold for the freaky and macabre!

Once we exited into the gift shop, he beelined for the pirate figurines, those stylized 'heroes' that have little to do with the terrible men and women we'd just been learning about. And he smiled when a couple of tourists walking by called him "pirate." So, despite catching glimpses of their gruesome ends, the museum did little to dampen Sam's pirate spirit. He played pirate the rest of the day, calling to the boats in the marina as the rest of us looked for tarpon, enacting duels on the patio table of the Conch Island Fish Company where we celebrated Grandpa's 62nd birthday.

In fact, he spent a good deal of the last 3 days in pirate mode, sailing the "Singapore Junk" (the dock) and ordering around a crew of imaginary shipmates. It was wonderful to watch his imagination fired, to see his thrill in playing out his favourite stories not on his landlocked (and carpeted!) bedroom floor, but right out there on the open sea, the Key West sunshine in his eyes.

KW - Chapter 2: Mesmerized

If the number one Key West surprise was the boggling amount of time Sam spent in the pool (see Chapter 1), then the number two surprise was the way he enjoyed a single hour touring the Key West Butterfly & Nature Conservatory on Duval Street. I'd been anxious to go ever since hearing about Jacquie & Brent's tour while they were down visiting, but I wasn't sure how my nearly 5-year-old boy would respond to the suggestion that we stop and smell the flowers. And watch butterflies do the same. It's not that Sam has any sort of hyperactivity disorder: he can be perfectly calm when it's called for. And it's not that I worried he'd have uncontrollable little boy urges to stomp on the poor unfortunate winged insects who'd chosen to land on the cobblestone path in front of him. No, I simply imagined that he'd have no patience for the serenity, no interest in the little miracles — and so I would be managing a child rather than communing with nature.

What I didn't expect at all was that Sam would be awe-struck from the moment we stepped into the greenhouse. Hundreds of butterflies were fluttering among the most beautiful garden walk you can imagine—winding among exotic flowering plants and trees, over a stream and through gazebos. A small butterfly lit on the flowers directly in front of Sam and we crept close to watch it open and close its beautiful wings in the sunshine. Up ahead on the pathway, Grandma and Grandpa motioned for us to come peak into a yellow finch's nest. "Let's go see, Sam" I suggested. Without breaking his butterfly gaze, he answered slowly and quietly, "I'm just going to stay here for a minute." He was mezmerized.

Together, we wound through the conservatory pathway and back twice, watching countless butterflies in flight, at rest, muching on fruit, pollinating flowers — even hatching out of their cocoons (well, we missed the actual breakthrough, but the newborns were still dewy and tentative). The highlight of the visit happened when a Blue Morpho jumped on to my wrist and then agreed to crawl onto Sam's arm, where it hitched a ride for a few minutes. He grinned in happy amazement the whole time. That species (shimmering blue while in flight, but the plain brown of tree bark when its wings are closed) is the featured butterfly of the conservatory, and the staff told Sam it was a sign of good luck that it chose to ride on his arm.

In the gift shop, Sam helped Grandma and Grandpa choose a piece of butterfly art for their birthdays. And we picked up a little postcard of a Blue Morpho. We'll hang it in the bathroom next to the little glass jar of seashells we collected from Madeira Beach in 2006. A little Florida corner to remind us of peaceful holiday moments, of quiet walks together, of amazing sights on distant shores.

KW - Chapter 1: Sam Swims

Sam didn't have to think long and hard about his favourite part of our week in Key West. Was it the Dolphin Research Centre? The Pirate Soul Museum? The Butterfly Conservatory? Was it spending seven whole days playing in the tiki hut and on the ocean waterfront of his grandparents' beautiful RV lot, the centre of their attention — and his mom at his beck & call, to boot? Well, ya, that was all wonderful of course. He wouldn't have missed any of it. But the trip highlights happened at the Bluewater pool. Sam became a swimmer in Key West.

The pool was our first (and last) holiday stop. On day one, Sam was his usual tentative self. No water baby, this one, he claimed the sweeping stairway into the shallow end as his private playground. He was wet, but he wasn't "in the pool."Cautiously, however, he began to test our assertions that the water wasn't over his head at the bottom stair. Just 3 feet deep along the shallow wall, he found he could easily walk about, at least one hand on the side. By the time we packed up, he was expanding his territory, pinning his mouth shut and wading in to nearly-nose deep. Pretty impressive, considering it used to take a full day on Laddie Lane before he'd think about leaving the stairs. We had to coax him out, promising there'd be a lots of time for swimming.

But I had no idea how much time we'd end up clocking at the pool. We went morning and afternoon for the rest of the week, spending 3-4 hours total there each day. And, at that, Sam was always disappointed when it was time to go. On Day two, we brought the pool noodle down and it became Sam's "boat," taking him around the shallow end for hours and finally (horsey style) around the full pool, with one hand on me (I was cast as Elizabeth Swann to his Will Turner for the duration. Believe me, it's more than a little weird to be called "Miss Swann" and to be the object of hours of dramatic infatuation when you're trying to surreptitiously teach your son to swim...). Sam's sustained effort was exhausting, and he fell asleep in my arms almost every afternoon as we lounged in the tiki hut, restoring his energy for a second swim.

On day five, Sam agreed to waterwings—an unthinkable prospect in the past, treated as though they were inflatable concrete slabs, sure to cause swift watery death. Within minutes, he was repeatedly racing the length of the pool thanks to his "muscles," cheering over and over "Canada wins!" He wasn't simply bobbing about: he was "swimming" like he'd been at it all this time. If I tried to offer a suggestion—cup your hands, kick your legs under the water—he'd shout back "I know!" as though he'd been in lessons and had heard it all before. It was a joy and a relief to watch. A joy because he never stopped smiling and laughing, and a relief because I thought he was going to have to be forced to learn to swim ... when he was 10.

By the end of the week, Grandma and Grandpa had Sam jumping in to them, sending huge waves over their heads and soaking his own as well (this, the boy who can hardly stand having his hair washed: oh the horrors of a trickle of water down the face, the terrors of water in the ears!). Grandma laughs that he'll likely end up as an Olympic swimmer now that he's conquered his fears. While he may not become an international champion, he's a champion to me. I'll not miss the look of abject terror, the fingers clawed into my shoulders as we move about the shallow end locked in an uncomfortable embrace. Unexpectedly, our Key West memories mark the divide between the boy who won't swim and the boy who won't get out of the pool.

Sense of Snow

Watching the boys climb these gargantuan mountains—created by plows clearing the parking lot of the nearby public school—I come within a whisper of fully reliving my own school-age delight in the sheer joy of playing in the snow. I wonder how many hours I spent fashioning drifts and banks into multi-room snow forts, imprinting angels on a fresh field of powder, stacking the arsenal for a mock-ferocious snowball fight, and flying down the hills on colourful Krazy Karpets. A good snowfall brought the whole neighbourhood to life—and a bad one promised the thrill of a "snow day," the electrifying news crackling over the kitchen radio as my sisters and I ate breakfast. Who doesn't love snow?

Driveway shovellers. That's who.

We've already hauled some 10 feet of the white stuff out of our way this season, and it shows no sign of letting up. As I write, there is a Winter Storm Warning in effect that forecasts 40-50 cms this weekend. In fact, we're closing in on the city's snowfall record. Now that I have to push it out of the way so that the car can cautiously nose out from between dwarfing drifts, it seems to me that the weather outside is frightful. Perhaps if I saw the snow as Sam and Carter do, as a perfect canvas upon which to paint a new world, I wouldn't be thinking that this winter season has rendered them the "kings of the castle," and me the "dirty rascal" ...

The Hockey Sweater

Jeremy suffered a heart-wrenching moment a few weeks back, when Sam made this stunning announcement out of the blue: "I like the Maple Leafs hockey team, now ... more than the Senators." Betrayed Papa couldn't speak for a moment, but tried hard to remember the tenants of unconditional love as he regained his composure. In the calmest voice he could manage, he enquired, "Why? WHY would you want to cheer for the Leafs instead?" He wasn't prepared for the answer from one so young, but there it was: "I like the Leafs now because they are Caitlyn's favourite team." Ahhhhh. There's a girl involved. A sweet-faced, smiley girl with blonde ringlets. An SK girl whose school cubby is just a few doors down from his. Nearly understandable. But, even still: all of those future father-son hockey cheering moments left uncelebrated flashed before Jeremy's eyes. A Leafs fan! It was almost too much to bear....

But the agony was short-lived. Dropping Sam off at Tracey's the next day, Carter came flying to the door in a Team Canada jersey. "Hey!" says Sam. "You like the Maple Leafs, too?" Well, that explains it. The Team Canada logo is a hockey player silhouette emblazoned on a red & black maple leaf. Not the Toronto Maple Leafs. The Canadian Maple Leafs. And when it comes to Team Canada, the Sens Army and the Leafs Nation are on the same side. Reprieve! It'll be a while yet, it seems, before Sam's interest in impressing the girls overrides his allegiance to father, to city and to (good) hockey....