Uninvited

Lunch was interrupted last Sunday by the hiss & hum of Lucas and Yasmeen’s jumpy castle being inflated. Sam had a ball with them in it last summer. Maybe he'd have something fun to do, while his parents worked in the garden. But stepping out back to see what was up, I quickly realized that the yard was being laid out for a birthday party. Sam wasn’t invited.

My first instinct was to nix our planting plans and whisk Sam out of the neighbourhood for the afternoon. But Jeremy was already at the garden centre loading the car with sod and seedlings, so we couldn’t cut and run. Besides, I knew that the stinging bewilderment of seeming social injustice was part of life and there was no protecting Sam from it forever. My heart clenched as I watched him walk the length of the hedgerow, piecing the party elements together in glimpses through the cedar boughs: “They’re filling the pool! I see balloons! Let’s go over!” I explained that Lucas was having a special day, and so we couldn’t just pop over to play. Not this time.

Sam wasn’t disheartened. On the contrary, he was wiggly with anticipation. He simply couldn’t imagine not going. And then Lucas did shout out from the back corner of the garden. Sam was there in a flash. “It’s my birthday!” the party-boy announced. Sam was silent, holding his breath for the anticipated invitation. So I called out a prompting “What do you say, Sammy?” and he graciously offered “Happy birthday, Lucas.” Lucas must have sensed the awkwardness of the moment because he hastily explained that you’d have to be at least four-and-a-half to go to his party. Sam uttered a surprised “oh!” and then ducked back out into the sunlight. Still processing the unarticulated rejection, and clipped by me into the house.

I found him collapsed on the stairs: “It wasn’t nice of Lucas to say that!” he sobbed. Hugging him, I explained that Lucas was probably allowed to have a only few kids over and that he likely picked his school friends, who were also six. And I reminded him that we’d had ten kids here for a BBQ on Friday and didn’t invite Lucas because we were already a full house. Sam drank this all in—nodding at my declaration that Lucas was still a nice boy. But it wasn’t as soothing as I’d hoped. Sam whispered that he wanted to play alone in his room, so I kissed the top of his head and went back to the garden with a heavy heart. When Jeremy called a few minutes later, I asked if maybe he’d fielded the party invitation. Could barely get the words out past the lump in my throat.

After a while, though, Sam ventured back outside. By this time, the party was in full gear, so he had to endure the carnivalesque sounds of excited pool splashing and bouncy castle jumping and tag games won and lost and hot dogs shared and cake divvied up and yo-yo’s handed out. Now and then he would perk up with a laugh or smile at something he overheard, before he drooped again in wistful sadness. He got over it, though. Even before the last of the gifts had been opened next door, Sam lost interest in his dejected eavesdropping and went to play on his swing, talking to himself in a private game that seemed pleasant enough.

He hasn't mentioned the party since, but I’ve thought of it every day this week. I remember well the crushing feeling of being inexplicably shut out of grade school fun. Didn’t expect for it to be harder to see that feeling play across the sadly puzzled face of my little boy. As proud as I am for the way he picked himself up from the disappointment, I'll never get used to seeing him knocked down by it.

On the Wrong Page

Two recent conversations with Sam.

Among the peas and corn

Sam: Can you eat the Jelly Green Giant?

Mommy: Oh, it's not 'jelly'; it's 'jolly.' He's the Jolly Green Giant. Jolly means 'really happy.' That's why he laughs in the commercial they used to play when I was a kid, (singing). "Ho! ho! ho! Gre-en Gi-ant!"

- long pause -

Sam: But. .. can you eat the Jolly Green Giant?

Mommy: You still want to eat him? Um, I guess so; maybe. Looks like he's made out of peas.

Reading in bed

Sam: Why does the blind man have a dog?

Mommy: Well, the dog helps him get around. It's called a Seeing-Eye Dog. It tells him when there is a walk signal, and when to step down off of curbs, and when there is a sign in the way on the sidewalk. Things like that.

Sam: The dog tells him!?

Mommy: Well, the dog doesn't talk: it stops walking or sits or does other things that the blind man can feel because he's holding on to the dog's special leash.

Sam: Oh... (puzzled)

Mommy: Do you know what I mean? He can feel if the dog sits down and so he stops walking and knows what to do just by knowing the signal the dog gives...

- still puzzled -

Sam: Um, does being 'blind' mean that you don't have any hair?

Mommy: Ohhhh, no. That's bald. Bald men don't need the dogs.

Water Bullets

Summer's here and the machine that can kill other people but can't kill Sam & Carter is back out in the garden firing water bullets. Some homeowners call it a "sprinkler." Of course, those quiet gardeners are not the parents of boys who imagine mayhem in the mundane. And if you're wondering whether or not they worked their potty humour into the game and pretended that the sprinkler was a giant penis, yes: yes they did. It's a good thing we have a "water feature" in the privacy of our own backyard.

Bloom is on the Rose

My Mother's Day present bloomed this weekend, and I've never seen a more beautiful flower in my whole life. It's a smile rendered in pink petals. Thank you, Bunny (and thank you, too, Jeremy :) Perfect.

Pants on Fire

The other day, Sam and I were sitting together on the deck watching Daddy BBQ, when a tiny translucent green worm (tree caterpillar?) descended between us on a wispy thread and landed on my hand. Sam was enthralled. He's long been a bug's best friend, but this was the most delicate specimen he'd seen. I let it wiggle onto the table top beside us, where it became a determined adventurer braving the nooks and crannies of the painted wood at quite a clip. Well, quite a clip for something that was maybe 4 millimeters long.

Sam promptly personified the wiggler, wondering when he left his family and if his parents were worried. He delighted at how quickly the worm switched directions after lifting his impossibly small head seemingly to peer into the distance and gauge the route. Curious, Sam started tapping his plastic cup on the table to influence its decisions. He called Daddy over to take a look at how far the little body could stretch to cross a notch in the wood. All of us, leaning over this little bug and talking about what his plans might be, where he might be trying to go.

Then Jeremy and I turned our backs on the wild kingdom to check the BBQ. A few seconds later, Sam called Daddy back to explain an apparent tragedy: "Look! He stretched so hard last time that he squished himself." He pointed to a greenish black smear on the table for proof. The adventurous worm had been pulverized. Jeremy and I let Sam's words hang in the air while he worked to compose his face into a sort of surprised nonchalance. We were hoping he'd retract the bold-faced lie, but he held our stare and awaited our response. I started with a leading observation: "Sam, I don't think that's true. I think something else happened..." But he didn't take the out. "It squished itself," he reiterated. "I didn't do it."

The swell of pained indignation I felt looking into the eyes of my lying son subsided when I saw that his breathing had become quick and shallow, his eyes a little wider in the effort to hold the gathering tears. Jeremy offered Sam a second chance: "Did you accidentally squish the worm with your cup?" And the floodgates opened. Sam's face crumpled and his body went slack as the knot in his chest released with the admission "I didn't mean for that to happen!" It was hard to tell then if he lied to protect himself from imagined punishments or from the knowledge that he'd killed a plucky worm who missed his family. This is, after all, the boy who makes us repatriate ants and spiders caught in the house.

We sternly rehearsed the "nothing is worse than a lie" speech, during which the telltale smudge called to the chastened boy, pulling his guilty glances repeatedly in its direction. Sure that the real lesson had been covered, we tried to soothe away his upset by explaining how short and tough a bug's life is, and how it was likely that one of us would have stepped on it that night without even realizing it. (Later, Sam would summarize for Tracey with the unsettling declaration, "It takes people longer to die than it takes bugs to die.") As he visibly relaxed and got set for supper, I studied the alteration in Sam's features, trying to commit to memory the differences between the truthful and untruthful countenance--recalling the slight flicker in his eyes, the nervous set of his mouth that makes him look pouty.

Because years from now, when Sam's standing on the driveway explaining that So-and-So's cottage party will be chaperoned by a dozen sober and upstanding St John's Ambulance attendants, I want to be able to stare him down and have him wonder how I do it. I will call this the "It Squished Itself" moment. (Sam, I really hope there aren't many of those....)

The Sens Army

Last Monday night (May 28), the Sens and Ducks began the final round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs and the city swung into full Sens Army mode. I picked up red "I believe" shirts for Tracey and me as well as a package of temporary tattoos for the boys. We scrambled to meet up after work with the Morley crowd, divvying up the BBQ shopping. While the moms were on a potato salad run, Jeremy suited up the kids, loaded them into the lil' red wagon and pulled them up to Baseline to watch the car rally en route to Scotiabank Place, where the game was being broadcast free to fans.

The parade of Sens-decorated cars had mostly passed by the time Trace & I caught up with the group, but we had a blast watching the kids try to elicit car honking from the evening traffic by jumping up and down on the roadside in their jerseys and tattoos, waving red pom-poms and screaming for the Sens. They were definitely an adorable sight, and most people leaned on their horns and waved as they passed. Sens-sleepers wearing Anabel joined in, too, oblivious to the significance of the night or even to the out-of-the-ordinary behaviour of her family.

Returning to the Morley, we quickly pulled together a yummy BBQ and cleared the table in time to take our seats in front of the large projection screen tv before the puck drop. At this point the boys, who had been talking all day about this event, plunked themselves down with Paul's vintage Star Wars toys and played Bad Guys for the duration--the game carrying on as large as life just over their small heads. Not to worry. They'd done their part to create good Sens Army juju. Watching the game itself can come later.

P.S. Same story for last night's first home game in the series. Whole day is built around getting to the tv in time to shout Game On! But precisely 40 seconds into the first period, Carter turned to Sam to ask "wanna play in my room?" and got an enthusiastic "yup!" in response. Off they went, leaving their moms on the edges of their seats (Jeremy had an arena seat!). In a few years, I'm sure we'll tease them about how they once chose to play "jump off the chair" in Carter's room instead of watching a wild, cup-contending Sens win on home ice.

Sweet Surprises

I let May 23rd's post sit in top spot for entirely too long, leaving a lingering impression that those kinds of nasty exchanges--full of italics and caps and exclamation marks of the worst sort--are the final word on suffering through the process of civilizing male creatures. Not so. Sam and Carter also speak that loudly and emphatically when they have something thrilling to share with each other or with us. The topic can be as little-boy bemusing as the rules of a new game that involves the arrival of Power Rangers and the nth degree destruction of all order in the bedroom (trying to nix this game), or it can be as my-sweet-son touching as the revelation of an unexpected kindness.

Two days following the Car Hell post, the boys came thundering down Tracey's stairs bursting with an announcement: "WE DID SOMETHING! You HAVE to COME and SEE! Come, come, come..!!" Sam half-started the explanation, "We made... " and Carter hissed a quick "Shhh! Don't tell her! It's a SURPRISE!" Right, Sam remembered and switched to secret operator mode, shouting in whispers "You will be soooooOOOOHH surprised!" By this point, Carter was skipping from foot to foot in anticipation and Sam had leaned right into my face, eyes bulging in conspiratorial glee, "It's the best secret!!"

Tracey passed Anabel to me and got set to play along, but with a pinch of trepidation about the vague phrase "We did something..." It wasn't long ago that the two had shuffled downstairs to inquire, not so innocently, "ummmm, can we have the tape?" They'd wanted to repair Carter's radio. But this time the boys were splitting with excitement as they mounted the stairs ahead of her. I craned to hear from the living room level, wincing a little as I realized they were charging into Tracey's room rather than rounding the corner for Carter's. "Lookit! Lookit! LOOKIT! " And Tracey's "ohhhh!" was surprised. Pleasantly surprised. I only had to wait a half second to hear why...

"WE MADE YOUR BED!"

And so they had. Beautifully. How sweet of them to have thought of it. And sweeter still to be that excited to show her. Sometimes the shouting is kinda nice.