Bus Kid

The summer re-cap is to follow, but — for now — here's a picture worth a thousand words. It's also been 1,825 days coming. Sam's been a "drop-off" kid at CHCCC/CHPS since September 2006. Today, he became a "bus kid." He climbed aboard at 8:44 this morning, and I'll meet him back there at 3:35 this afternoon. That's the new world order every day but Wednesday, which will be (at his request) his day to connect with child care friends.

We've all been looking forward to this day for years ("When can I be a bus kid?" was a common refrain when he was wiped out by the 9 hour+ days at school). Still, change is hard. When he woke up this morning, Sam placed a hand on his chest and said, "I feel a little uncomfortable here" — nervous about riding the bus and finding the right one after school. But it'll be old hat for him by this time next week. I know the extra time at home will be good for him—especially in the dead of winter, when coming home from school in the dark feels so wrong. It's a bit of a leap for us, this work-from-home plan of mine, but I've got a really good feeling about it.

First day of grade 3. First day of my new working life. Happy, happy day.

Spring Falls

And there goes the snow. Just like that, winter loosens its icy grip and the waters rage through Hog's Back Falls once again ... nearly cresting the "hog's back" itself — that ridge of limestone you can see from the river. We glance at these Falls from the car maybe a dozen times a week all year round. But we park and get out to look just once. On a sunny weekend morning in late March or early April, we walk the length of pathway around the rapids, and we marvel at the volume and power of the spring run-off. Sam says, "I could stand and watch this all day..." Amazing.

Spilled Paint

One thing few people notice about me is that I have heterochromia. More specifically, central and sectoral heterochromia. It's not serious, but it does make it hard to fill in that little box on a driver's licence that asks "Eye colour." It would seem that during this particular genetic struggle, my mom's brown eyes lost the war, but they won a few battles.

And so I have dad's green eyes, but with several haphazard brown freckles (as I've always thought of them) and a brown ring around the pupil. It's apparently uncommon in humans, but vets see a lot of this sort of variegated iris pattern. Hmm. I've always gone with "hazel"—but I've since learned I'm a fraud and should have been saying "green" all along. The secondary colour in heterochromia is reportedly beside the point. Sorry, Mom.

Anyways, my odd eyes are noticeable only after a really good cry or when I stare into the sun, which I enjoy equally rarely. So it's no surprise that Sam just recently became aware of my genetic mutation and close eyeball relation to Border Collies, Turkish Angoras, and palomino horses. Sitting together on the couch on a bright winter morning, he suddenly caught my face in his hands to still my movement, leaned in close and asked, "What is that in your eyes!?" Geneology, baby.

Sam's got Jeremy's green eyes straight up, and they're gorgeous. I tried to think of a way to describe them ("Like the sea after a storm...") and told him he was lucky to have such big beautiful eyes. He tried to return the compliment, saying "Your eyes are nice, too. They look like, well, green eyes... but like somebody accidentally spilled some brown paint in there." Clean up in Iris Two.

It could be worse. This is partial heterochromia. If it had been complete, I'd have one fully brown eye and one fully green eye. And that's just spiders-from-mars freaky. For now, we're having fun coming up with new descriptions of my mixed eye colour. My fave so far: "Time-to-clean-the-fish-tank green."

Spider Tale

The other night, Sam was taking a long, hot tub before bed, happily playing with action figures and minding his own business, when he spotted a spider on the ceiling.

“Mommy or daddy”, he called out, in a calm voice, just reporting in. “There’s a spider in the bathroom!” Jeremy was watching hockey all the way upstairs and I was creating an online photo album all the way downstairs. So, between us, we were unconcerned. And busy. We simply answered, “Okay!”

A little more splashing and then Sam calls out again, this time not so breezily, “I think it’s a Daddy Long Legs. And it’s crawling onto the pile of towels!” Again, his distracted parents answer, “That’s alright! He’s not hurting anyone!” or something along those lines.

A little more splashing and then Sam calls out, this time with some measure of agitation, “I’m actually not that comfortable with being in the bathroom with a spider!”

This is enough to jolt me from the mesmerizing task at hand. Of course! Doesn’t the spider come washing out of the water spout in the children’s song? Who wants to be in the vicinity for that? Gives me the willies now that I'm thinking about it.

“I’m on my way, Sam!” I call out, climbing the stairs, adding “I understand exactly how you feel!”

But then he offers this additional confession, which shows we’re not quite on the same page after all. “It’s just that I’m afraid that when I use the toilet, the spider might get up my bum. Then I’d have a spider inside of me…”

Oh.

Shame that Mr. Daddy Long Legs had taken advantage of the ample opportunity to escape. Now we don’t know where that creepy spider is...

Breathe

Breathe. Breathe, Sam. Breathe. Please. I can’t believe how hard your heart is pounding. And how fast. Too fast. Is this okay? Should we wake you up, bundle you off to the hospital? You need to breathe. Real breaths. You’re panting, panting like a petrified rabbit - an image that keeps coming to mind. I want to calm you down, but you’re sleeping. Somehow you’re sleeping. I’m the one who can’t. Just breathe, Sam. Come on … please.

I’m counting again. Fifty breaths a minute. Fifty to my twelve. That can’t be right, can it? I want to do something to help – but you’re sleeping. You’re sleeping and your heart is beating 120 times a minute. So hard, so fast, I can see your pulse in your neck, your temple. I can feel your labouring heart pounding against my hand – my hand that I cannot lift from your chest. Not for hours now. I have this idea that somehow – by strength of will – I can slow your pulse, can deepen your breathing – that by wishing it hard enough I can make your body stop this, stop it – stop. Please breathe, Sam. Please.

I can’t stop it. I couldn’t all day. I gave you your puffers. I gave you cold medicine. I gave you drinks. I lay with you to watch Batman. And when you couldn’t chew your food at dinner time and began to panic, I gathered you onto my lap. I told you that – for your whole life – mommy’s hugs have always made you feel better. But not this time. This time you couldn’t quell the panic. Couldn’t get on top of the cough. Couldn’t take a big enough breathe to speak a full sentence. Time to go.

I had to carry you to the car. Your pounding heart hurts your chest – though maybe that’s the muscles that are pulled in tight around your ribcage. We drive. Drive in the cool and rainy winter night, trying to decide – is this an emergency? Do you need to go to the hospital? You’re breathing. Shallow and rapid, yes – but you’re breathing. Is this respiratory distress? You’ve eaten ice cream and now you’re sleepy. Can you be in distress and still enjoy Tiger Tail. Still fall asleep? Daddy and I exchange worried looks. We decide to wait. To let you sleep. To see if it gets any worse.

At midnight, you spike a fever, your skin suddenly hot to the touch, your hair soaked in sweat – your small body fighting off the virus that has caused this attack. My own worried heart beats a little harder, but you slumber on, your arm flung over my side, your shoulders rising and falling so fast. So fast. It’s a long, long night.

And then it’s sunrise and you’re using your inhaler. I’m counting again. Thirty-three breaths and 88 heart beats a minute. So much better. You’re going to be okay. You’ll stay home today and you’ll get better and better. And you’ll stay on your asthma meds this winter, so this can’t happen again. But if it does, you’re going to the hospital.

Your heart did just fine, but mine simply can’t take it.

Boy in the House: 1

Cabbage Roles

I spent part of Friday afternoon making cabbage rolls and thinking about Nan. It's her recipe book I use, and the delicious dish always brings childhood memories to mind. I found myself wishing that we could create little folds in the fabric of time that would allow Sam to walk right into 24 Rouge St. in 1975 to spend a day at Nan & Granddad's the way I did at his age.

Sam would love the yard, of course. The steep hill out back that ran down past the big vegetable garden and dipped into a conservation area—so perfect for exploring in summer and tobogganing in winter (oh that long walk back up!). The cemetery across the road with its imagination-fuelling tombstone tales. The pergola along one wall where grapes vines cast cool shadows on hot summer days. And the house was fun, too. An enclosed porch wrapped around from the kitchen door across the back as a high overhang above the walk-out basement below. It felt like a secret space full of neat things, and playing back there made you feel as though you were far away from the grown-ups—even though I'm sure they heard every word from the kitchen window.

Then there were the treats. In addition to the ever-present candy bowl in the living room, the kitchen cupboard were stocked with rows of "store bought cookies" and "sugar cereals" (as we called them), and the fridge was full of Pop Shoppe pop of every variety. Nan made yummy homemade meals and delicious pies, but she knew that those Oreos, Cocoa Puffs, and Cream Sodas were quite the draw for kids being raised on healthy food at home! A grandma's prerogative.

But the real excitement of a visit to Nan & Granddad's wasn't the fun yard and the cool house and the junk food. It was simply the way it felt to be there. As though we granddaughters were the most remarkable creatures to walk the face of the earth. So smart! So pretty! So talented! We spent many an hour in that living room performing songs and skits and gymnastics and anything else we were up to. Nan wasn't a captive audience; she was a captivated one. We couldn't have been more perfect to her and she made sure we knew it.

I'm sad sometimes that Sam came along a little too late to know Nan, but it makes my heart happy to tell him stories from my childhood and to explain that making cabbage rolls is part of our family story, one that connects him to his heritage.

When I first opened up Traditional Ukrainian Cookery, I found that the cabbage rolls recipe was bookmarked with a copy of "Footprints," the poem in which God assures the author that he never left him alone on his life's journey, that two sets of footprints dropped to one when God carried him through tough times. It's nice to think that Nan is following along on our journeys, too. Not leaving footprints in the snow from car to door anymore, but still leaving footprints in our hearts and lives. I snapped the photos for this post before sliding the cabbage rolls in the oven. And when I did, I whispered, "I love you, Nan." And I heard her answer clear as a bell: "I love you, too, darling."