Hi, Two Hats!

When we moved to Courtland Park in 2005, we continued to drop little Sammy off at our caregiver’s home in Sandy Hill on our way to work. He knew the routine, the neighbourhood and the children (one of whom was Cargo), so it seemed smart to keep that constant in his life. He was just two and a half then and not yet talking about wanting to go to school instead. That would come when he turned three.

So every weekday morning and afternoon, we took the Queen Elizabeth Driveway through the Experimental Farm, along the canal and into the old neighbourhood. On the way, we’d pass by this statue and shout out in unison, “Hi, Two Hats!” Over the months, the joke was embellished a little (“It’s cold outside! Put on a hat!” or “Make up your mind, already! Choose a hat!”) but I don’t think we ever missed a hello. When we were 10 seconds out, we’d tell Sam which window to look out of and he’d get his shouting voice ready …. “Hi, Two Hats!” We didn’t know what the real name of the 15-foot statue was or why it stood there overlooking Dow’s Lake.

During Winterlude, Sam and I strollered down to the marina to check out the festivities and decided to take a closer look at Two Hats. To my surprise, we discovered that his name is actually “The Man with Two Hats.” So “Two Hats” seems a reasonable nickname. He stands as a monument of thanks from the Dutch government—not only did we lose 7,000 soldiers in the liberation of Holland during WWII, but we provided safe haven for Queen Wilhelmina, who gave birth to Princess Margriet at the Civic Hospital.

The Man’s hands are raised in joyful celebration of freedom, though his face is melancholic—subdued by the memory of the lives lost in the war. He’s encircled by some of the 20,000 tulips that the Dutch government continues to send to Canada each year as a token of gratitude and friendship. To underscore the countries’ historic connection, an identical statue stands in Apeldoorn. I read all this from the plaque next to the monument. Sam seemed to take it in, and then he added solemnly, “Yes, and he also has big feet.” True.

These days, we drive by Two Hats maybe twice a month en route to a weekend breakfast at Elgin Street Diner. We still interrupt our conversation to throw a communal shout out to our old friend. Nearly four years later, and it still makes us all smile to remind him that he hasn’t yet put on a hat.

Monopoly

In the last month or so of school, we’d often arrive in the child care centre for pick up to find Sam playing Connect 4 or Battleship with his friends or one of the staff (depending on how late we were). Given that his interests in family-friendly games was growing, we figured it was a good time to add to our rather small collection and to make an effort to sit down more often to play with him. We’ve had Trouble, Perfection, and Cariboo for years—and we’ve pretty much played those out.

Yesterday, I picked up the Disney-Pixar version of Monopoly. Sure, the concepts of mortgaging yourself out of debt, raising the rents on improved properties, and calculating insurance premiums on demand are a little beyond his capabilities. But then, so is simply reading the name of the property he’d landed on. So we figure we’ll lend him a hand with the reading, math and money management this year and he’ll kick our butts next year.

As it turns out, by the time we called it a night on his first ever Monopoly game, Sam was well in the lead. He held 10 properties, had double safety cone “houses” on the orange lot—The Eiffel Tower, Gusteau’s Restaurant, and the Sewers of Paris—and had hundreds in the bank. He rolled doubles for extra turns like he was playing with his own loaded dice, and he was quick to demand his rent when his rent was due. It was so much fun to see him catch on to the object of the game and the spirit of the competition. Early on, after picking up his first two properties while his folks were either in jail or paying speeding fines, he graciously turned down the chance to buy Tow Mater’s Junk Yard. “No thanks!” he reasoned. “I don’t want to spend my money on junk.” The second time he had to hand me cash for landing there, he realized his missed opportunity. Junk pays.

Having sat down for a short demo following an evening of yard work, we ended up playing well past Sam’s bedtime. And his first question this morning was whether or not there’d be time enough to squeeze a game in today. After all, he didn’t get a chance to set up any Al’s Toy Barn “hotels” on his properties. He’s a Monopoly mogul in the making for sure. A chip off the Ashe block.

Here’s the mini album!

Sam's photo is the best of the bunch—a shot of my playing piece (Sully & Boo) passing by jail.

Sam buys his first property, the Parr (Incredible) Family home, from Banker Daddy. And he collects his first rent from Mommy...

The Chore Chart

About a year ago, we posted Sam’s first chore chart on the fridge. We came up with six different responsibilities we wanted him to start assuming around the house and found clip art images for each. Then we added five blank squares below each image, space for the initials that would attest that a job was done. We didn’t ask him to make sure he did one or more of his ‘chores’ every day; in fact, it generally takes him about two months to fill in the 30 squares. When he’s done that, he can buy a new toy valued at about $25.

I can’t recall for certain what his first six responsibilities were, but his latest chart details these jobs:
(1) Help us get out the door in the morning by 8:00
(2) Help feed, water, walk and treat Hudson
(3) Help with grocery shopping, meal prep, table setting, or dishwasher loading
(4) Complete some reading/math activity sheets (forerunner to homework)
(5) Tidy his room
(6) Go to sleep in his own bed

Sam finished that sheet yesterday, planning to post two more activity sheets on the fridge and then “cash in” all three for a massive King Arthur's Castle Lego set he’s had his eye on for these many months. This is his first experiment with ‘saving up’ for a big purchase (the barrel of Lego costs nearly $100, but to make him work through four charts seems cruel) and he’s shown admirable resolve. That is, he did show admirable resolve. Right up until he inadvertantly found himself smack dab in the middle of the Loblaws toy section. The sloppy navigation was an obvious error on my part, but some sale-priced sports equipment caught my eye and slowed my steps on the way to the check-out.

And that’s when Sam saw The Joker. He’s wanted to own this “bad guy” for as long as he’s been a Batman fan. And that’s for a lot longer than he’s wanted the barrel-o-Lego. Speaking tentatively, he tested the idea of changing his mind about how to spend his earnings. “Mayyyyybe, maybe this time… I might want to get the Joker…” but then he pulled it right back, “Noooo. N-no. No. I really want the Lego set.” Had I been conscious of the dilemma brewing, I likely would have said “Smart choice!” and rolled out of the action figure aisle, but I was only half-listening to his angst-ridden conversation with Jeremy as I contemplated the relative merits of the T-ball and the junior lacrosse sets a little ways away.

Despite Daddy’s best efforts, the “should I spend” or “should I save” quandary reached a fever pitch—Sam was fighting back anxious tears, his heart racing as he tried to figure out which decision would make him happiest. It might sound like a rather silly predicament, but this is serious business to a young boy who's earned the right to freely choose. He fears Buyer’s Remorse. How could he not? If The Joker doesn’t live up to its packaged promise, then the fact that he’d be a whole chore chart behind in saving up for the Lego would sting for weeks. We respected his misgivings and tried to advise without deciding for him, to give him a comforting hug without drawing embarrassing attention.

In the end, he decided to risk that The Joker wouldn’t be there in a few months’ time, once he’d completed three more charts. He was carrying on with his original plan, and he felt good about the decision. A little proud of himself, too, I think. And so were we. But make no mistake: I’ll be ducking back to Loblaws this week to scoop up that toy and stash it away until the charts are filed. Sam’s learning plenty enough about delayed gratification, setting priorities and the value of a hard-earned dollar. At this age, he should be rewarded for those lessons.

Who’d have thought that a chance encounter with a cheap plastic clown could be so edifying?

A Loose Tooth

Sam's got a loose tooth. The adult teeth are coming! And we all know it takes a good 10 years before those big chicklets look like they belong to the face they pop up in far, far too early. Luckily, he's not that interested in hastening the process. I had to ask him to wiggle his tooth for the camera and haven't seen him do it since.

And he's avoiding hard foods, asking things like "When you have a loose tooth, is there anything against apples?" So I figure I've got a few weeks or so. Time enough to snap a bunch more photos of his cute grin.

Like this one from the top of the Ferris Wheel at the Victoria Day Fair at Dow's Lake.

I hope he keeps the dimples.

The Water Park

During Sam's toddlerhood in Sandy Hill, we spent many long summer afternoons in our two neighbourhood water parks—the splash pad at Chapel Street Park and the wading pool at Strathcona Park—later moving to Owl Park (or Pirate Park, as he called it) when we became suburbanites, or nearly so. So much a part of his city-kid summer were those parks, that when Grandpa pulled out the sprinkler at Laddie Lane, two-year old Sam called out excitedly to Carter, "Wookit! A water feature!" As hectic as it could sometimes be chasing after mischevious boys, I loved our time there: our little camp in the shade, complete with picnic blanket, snacks and drinks, towels, pull-ups, sunscreen, wet wipes, dry clothes ... the list goes on—honestly, I don't know how I fit it all (plus the boys!) in the wagon.

In the last year or two, we've managed just a handful of picnics at Brewer Park, where the two-level water pads complete with a high-powered canon is only part of the attraction—Sam spends as much time on the play structures as he does enjoying the water. Maybe the fact that he's in swimming lessons now and so heading to a real pool once a week is part of the reason we've not been out to the wading pools. But I think it's really just a vague sense that he might better enjoy something else. Now that Anabel is two, however, and we're looking for activities all the kids can partake in, we've renewed our interest in visiting some of Ottawa's 56 outdoor pools this summer.

When Jacquie was in town, we spent a fun afternoon and pizza picnic at Pebble Park, the kids moving back and forth between the large wading pool and the play structure. And yesterday, we logged three blast-from-the-past hours at Strathcona Park, enjoying some play time in the shallow splash pool. In this shot, Anabel and Sam are playing catch while Carter swings in the background. The kids "dove" for rings, sailed Titanic excursions, and repeatedly climbed in an out of the pool with a beach ball (chances are you can line each activity up with the right child). We took a break to feed the ducks on the river, but otherwise the kids paused their pool play only to reapply sunscreen or slurp another juice. It was like old times.

I couldn't help pseudo-spying on some of the moms who were following close on the heels of their little ones—making sure they didn't run along the pool side, that they shared their toys nicely, that they kept their sunhats on, that they were happy. I looked at their packed strollers, their little camps in the shade, and I appreciated their efforts in a way I don't remember appreciating my own. It's wonderful to be out in the park with your toddlers, of course, but it's also an exhausting undertaking—the packing, the vigilance, the lessons, the care. Looking around the pool, you can see that it's all about the kids. Every ounce of effort is about making the day a good day for them.

Sitting in the shade for a few minutes on my own, I felt the difference between this visit and our last. Sam now moves independently between the "ruins," the swings and the pool, capable of park play without a hovering mother heading off any number of potential catastrophes. Oh, he still includes me, taking me on pretend sea voyages or asking me to watch how far he can throw bread crumbs into the river. He trusts that I'm still fully available to him, still interested in his every move. But he no longer needs me to stick close by as he ventures nervously through the water. And he doesn't need help doing up his sandals, getting the straw into his juice box, etc.etc. I'm a want, but not a need.

As I watch Tracey trail along behind Anabel (making sure she doesn't slip, that she's sharing pool toys, that she keeps her sunhat on...) I realize I'm okay with leaving the "arm's reach" stage behind. I take the phrase from the wading pool rules: parents of non-swimmers and young children must stay within arm's reach. Me, I can sit up the hill a ways, enjoying the antics from a slight remove. It's nice, this relaxing of effort. Still, it's telling that this is my favourite photo of the day. The boys are sipping juice on the picnic blanket, waiting for the attendants to re-open the pool following a chlorine treatment. True, their focus may be elsewhere, but they're still very much a part of our little family camp in the shade. In so many ways they don't yet understand, they couldn't do this without us. We're still making great days for our kids. It's what moms do.

Grad Party

Sam had his first graduation party last night (and I say “first” because, if he’s anything like his mother, there may be a six more graduations in his future). Only 3 of his 16 fellow students were able to make it, but they—together with Carter & Anabel and Lucas & Yasmeen—made up in energy what we lacked in numbers. The kids thundered up and down the stairs, drawn equally (but undecidedly) between the pirate gear and costume trunk in Sam’s room and the couch fort and Hot Wheels sets in the play room. Then it seemed as though the running and shrieking (and Sam did most of the shrieking) was the game itself.

Why weren’t we outside for the SK Graduation BBQ? Well, because it poured on us. Again (just for the duration of the party, actually. It was sunny at arrival and departure). Here’s a shot of Daddy at the grill—he’s pulled it up against the house in an effort to stay dry beneath the eaves. We’d tried to postpone the whole event, but people who hadn’t received the message pulled into the driveway shortly after we arrived home from work, so we made a few calls and scurried about getting hot dogs on the BBQ, thawing out the giant cake, and setting up for our on again-off again celebration.

Last week, I was feeling a little melancholy about Sam’s move to the primary program. That may be in part because he completed kindergarten on the day that both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, I’m certain: my son graduates into grade school just as the biggest pop icons of my youth pass away. He seemed to be growing up too fast, changing in leaps and bounds before our eyes. But last night I was reminded again of just how young 6 is. Masked and caped and weilding foam swords, these squealing kids played tag, got icing on their noses, cried about having to leave, and hugged each other into a big heap on the front porch.

It was two hours of mayhem and Sam had a hoot. He’s been asking to host a class party for over a year now, and it was nice to fulfil a promise to him—however small the group. He certainly gets a kick out of entertaining people at his house. So I imagine it won’t be long before he comes up with another reason to gather his friends for some food and fun (he might get that from his mother, too, along with this notion that goofing for the camera with your friends is about as much fun as anyone can have at a party). Maybe next time, he'll get to show them his back yard.

Congratulations, kindergarten graduate. We love you.

It Was Sad When The Great Ship Went Down

I guess it started with the children's folk song, "Titanic"—which I'd learned at camp and sang every now and then when Sam outlasted the usual bedtime song repertoire. The jaunty beat and schadenfreude lyrics belie the tragedy: "Watersnakes and turtles, little ladies lost their girdles, it was sad when the great ship went down!" Sam loves the chanting conclusion: "Kerplunk. It sunk. What a lousy piece of junk. The end. Amen. Splash! Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle..." It's rather cruel, when you think about it. So, in a way, I blame myself for Sam's current fascination with all things Titanic.

He first brought it up himself at Hog's Back this spring. Something about the rushing water must have brought the bottom of the sea to mind. As it happens, I caught it on video.

The ship with the dent in it. Yes, well, there's more to the story than that. And, for some reason, I told him so. Over the weeks he asked and re-asked for the details, committing them to fastidious memory. If I confirmed that, yes, it sure was a bad idea not to have enough lifeboats for all 2000 people on board," he'd correct me: "There were 2200 passengers and crew." The thing is, he seemed a little too cavalier for my liking, a little too eager to reproduce the iceberg strike in drawing after drawing. He and two of his classmates banded together into a little Titanic Fan Club, each critiquing the other's art projects. "You can't see very many decks on this part of your ship because they're already under water. Cool." On page one of a scribbler entitled "Things I Like" Sam drew the sinking ship and captioned it, "I lc too play Titanc."

It all bothered me a little. Hypocritical, I know, since I'm the one who happily crooned to a three year old, "Uncles and aunts, little children lost their pants, it was sad when the great ship went down!" before wishing him sweet dreams and leaving him alone with his huge imagination. Even still, it seemed important that he realize he was celebrating a catastrophe. So I bought a children's book called All Stations, Distress! The Night the Titanic Sunk. Despite its cartoon illustrations, it was a rather staid account of the disaster. But the sinking just didn't sink in. So I bought the movie, too. We couldn't let him see all of it, of course. There's an almost-risqué love scene and a remorseful suicide, for starters; and the fear and panic levels ramp up a little too high for a 6-year-old. But we watched most of it in hopes that he'd see the story from a new angle. We wanted him to get a sense of how it must have been to go into that icy water. It wasn't "cool," it was impossily cold. When Millvina Dean, the last Titanic survivor, died on May 31, I called Sam to the computer and showed him. Look, a real person.

This did seem to sober him for a while. But the appalling scenes in the movie that truly touched his heart were the ones behind this verse: "They were off the coast of England when they heard a mighty roar, and the rich refused to associate with the poor - So they put them down below, and they were the first to go - It was sad when the great ship went down!" The idea of first class passengers getting first crack at the lifeboats horrified Sam. The injustice of class discrimination was something he could get his mind around. He brings up those scenes at random moments—the locking of the lower decks, the men who broke out and stormed the lifeboats, the families who gave up and tucked back into bed, even as the water was washing up the hallways. Not fair, he'd say.

It occured to me then that he never asked about drowning or hypothermia. Psychologists generally agree that children learn to grasp the finality of death at some point between age six and nine...so it's quite possible that he simply can't fathom that part of the tale. In fact, when I hear him playing in his room, he's acting out the rescues, not the failures. And there are never any people bobbing in the icy water in his drawings. In his homemade Titanic book, the pages skip from the sinking to the lifeboats to the return home. I expected too much of a boy who can say the words of death and destruction but can't know their import. For Sam, the Titanic is an exciting story of survival— a heroic shipwreck tale, in which hundreds of people escape with their lives and are left singing "It was sad, so sad (too bad!), it was sad when the great ship went down to the bottom of the sea-ee-ee-ee ... It was sad when the great ship went down."

Now and Then

Right now, Sam is eating his cereal inside his couch fort and watching Teletoon. After breakfast, we're going to take the bike & trailer out and ride along the canal on Colonel By Drive, which closes to traffic on Sunday mornings so throngs of happy, healthy families (or so they seem from a distance) can enjoy some time together on one of the most beautiful cycling routes in Canada. That's the Now of July 5.

But I want to talk about the Then of April 10-12. We spent the Easter weekend at Mont Tremblant, a ski resort and village on the Quebec side. There are few things Sam takes more delight in than exploring hotels, and this gorgeous château—with its zigzag hallways, private balconies, games room, indoor pool and outdoor hot tubs—was especially fun. And his folks liked it, too. It's been a busy winter, and it felt good to take some time to smell the snow melt.

Most of Sam's exploring took the form of swimming: he must have clocked 6 hours during our short stay. Often we had the small pool to ourselves, since many guests were there to get in some spring skiiing. But, as much as he appreciated our attempts to play along (well, mostly Daddy's attempts: I enjoyed the games from the sidelines, nestled in a cedar deck chair beneath the glow of the heat lamps), Sam liked it best when other kids arrived to put on cannonball clinics or races, or to join in his shipwrecked pirates game. Since many kids spoke French, Sam was a little shier than usual. My fave moment was when he swam up to a mother trailing her 18-month old boy through the water and asked "Is he 'je suis trés excité' to be in the pool?" She looked confused for a moment and then laughed and answered yes, and they struck up quite a conversation (in English).

We spent a fun afternoon up in the village at the foot of the mountain. There was a goofy race going on, in which competitors had to dress up in fun costumes, ski the mountain—trying to clear a small 'lake' at the end of the run—then snap off their skiis and run in the boots down through the village. Sam got a high five from one guy dressed like Barney. We grabbed some hot dogs and sat for a while in the crowded outdoor ampitheatre, taking in a rock performance by a good cover band ("Proud Mary" was a hit!) and then took a peek into a few of the village stores. The sunshiney blue skies and festive atmosphere had everyone smiling. Beautiful day!

We also enjoyed a walking tour of a nearby town, some nice chillax' time together watching movies in the evenings, and a very successful Easter egg hunt (Sam had left a note at home ☺). All in all, it was a wonderful weekend away. Sam took this picture of us in the village: his first ever portrait of his parents. The smiles on the ski mice say it all.

Tempus Fugit ... and So Does Sam

Somehow, 11 weeks have slipped by since I last posted in I Have a Word for You. Hard to believe. I'm been making mental notes—so many lost mental notes!—of things I want to capture here, but it's been a challenge to keep up with regular life (and the gardens:), so I don't get to the computer for fun stuff much these days. But it's 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and I figure I can make weekend tea time my blog time and add a story or two a week. Let's see how that goes.

First item of business on the catch up?
The training wheels have come off.

Let this record show that on Saturday, June 20, 2009, following a full spring season of riding his two-wheeler and barely using the raised training wheels, Sam agreed to their removal. Then, with a little seat steadying from Daddy, who ran along behind him (a little choked up, he admits), Sam flew up the street like he was born to ride. He shot a few glances back to check that the extra wheels were actually gone, and I braced for a wipe-out, but he kept it steady. I'd always imagined that teaching Sam to ride a two-wheeler would mean numerous spills and the fighting back of tears as we dressed skinned knees and elbows and reassured him that it was practically a rite of passage to go flying over the handlebars at least once. But he'd trained well and was ready to roll.

This short video captures his first little loop up the street. A couple of neighbours caught the action, too—you can hear Lucas shout out the question "Do you have training wheels?!" to which Sam answers triumphantly, "No training wheels!" as he dismounts (the dismount needs work!).

Tracey and Jacquie and the kids arrived a few minutes later from the airport, so they were in on the street party congratulations, too. Now Sam has learned to walk, run, swim, skate, throw a high block, catch a ball and stop a puck: between now and Driver's Ed, it's all gravy.