Wanna Walk Like You, Talk Like You, Too

Today Sam sat down to a complete lunch ... complete except for the absence of the usual note from his Mommy and/or Daddy. Today, no tall teacher crouched down beside his little seat to read him the secret message of the day, the little missive from the heart that we've been tucking between sandwich and fruit ever since Sam started JK. Why? Because Sam's not the only kid at the table, but he is the only kid getting special notes from home ... and he doesn't like it.

It's not the notes themselves, which were archived in the front flap of his Pirates of the Caribbean lunch kit. Clearly he liked those, as he can still recite most of them back to me based on the shape of the card stock we cut into letters and numbers or from the images on the fronts of those snipped from greeting cards. And, really, who wouldn't like to be reminded of fun weekend plans, or be thanked for something, or be told (again and again) how much they're loved?

No, it's the simple fact of being signaled out as different that makes him squirm. When he asked me to stop putting notes in his lunch, I was a little taken aback but casually (I think) asked "how come?" He offered that no one else had secret messages, so I explained (with only a trace of smugness), "maybe the other moms and daddies forget? maybe they don't have time? But we like to send you notes..." Sam repeated that he's the only one being read to at lunch, to which I opened this fateful door: "It's not important for you to be just like the other kids." After a beat or two, Sam protested softly, "It's important to me...".

Ouch. I remember the feeling, the desperate desire to blend in with the class each of the 12 times that I was the New Girl. And I remember my mom making sure I didn't feel like an outcast, no matter how silly the norms were. In fact, at the moment Sam uttered those words, I had a fleeting but powerful memory of the gratitude I felt when my mom overruled my dad in what was supposed to be a private conversation about whether or not they'd take me shopping in downtown Vancouver to find a discount pair of the "French jeans" that every girl was wearing in my new grade 6 class in Maple Ridge, B.C. We'd already bought all my school clothes in Ontario, but they were of the corduroy jumper and matching leotard variety, and these west coast snots were teasing me. Dad didn't understand how much that mattered, given our tight financial situation at the time, but mom knew better. I got those jeans because in a sad sort of way, I needed them. And crazy as it sounds, I loved my parents fiercely for granting me the unreasonable request. French jeans. Seriously.

So I barely hesitated when Sam justified his own little request by explaining that the notes made him stand out uncomfortably in front of his friends. As much as I hate the idea of him tailoring his behaviour and preferences to fit in with a peer group, I know the power of that group and I promise to respect it as far as I can. The next day, however, Sam hit me with the reverse jab. As we were climbing out of the car at Loblaws, I ran a quick check: "I've got my keys, I've got my wallet; I've got my Bunny. Let's go!" Sam's innocent question brought a rush of tears to my eyes: "When are you going to stop calling me 'Bunny'?" . Gulp. Silently, I retorted, "When are you going to stop twisting the knife?!" But I regained my composure before he saw my face and honestly replied that I'd probably call him Bunny forever, "but I promise not to do it when anyone but Daddy can hear us, okay?" This seemed to appease him.

On the way into the store, I reminded him that he came home from the hospital on an Easter weekend, and I've thought of him as my little bunny ever since. "It's hard for mommies to stop using their special nicknames for their babies, even tho they get big..." He nodded as though he understood, but he doesn't. Not yet. Maybe later, when he's a daddy himself and he's reading through these posts, he'll realize what it cost me to throw away the secret messages, to skip the terms of endearment, to treat him like a boy separate and complete—an individual in his own right—when to me he's still so much the tiny child forever connected to my heart.

Mommy loves Bunny.

xoxo

Here Comes Santa Claus

Sam loved the Help Santa Toy Parade. He waved at everyone who looked his way with such enthusiasm that I suspect he was secretly auditioning for a position on one of the floats. I can almost imagine him participating some year, especially since several of the people around us were keeping their eyes peeled for dads and sisters and friends and neighbours parading past in costumes, marching bands, and firefighter uniforms.

It was a beautiful day in Ottawa: chilly enough for Santa's appearance to be appropriate, but with that brilliant blue sky that graces only the best winter days. We nabbed a curbside seat at Bank and Fourth, snuggling up together in the sunshine to watch the sites. Not one to crane expectantly for a view up the street, Sam was content to let the parade come to him. In fact, he stood up in excitement only a few times: to check out a Clydesdale-drawn float, to track a crazy Spartacat through the crowd, and to wave to Santa. And he burst onto the street itself just once, and that was in shocked delight at the sight of a Star Wars float complete with candycane-armed Storm Troopers (why stop at Peace on Earth?).

Sam had asked maybe three (or five) times if he'd be getting a gift at the parade, and I'd explained that this was a special chance for fortunate families to help out those who didn't have enough to make a beautiful, exciting Christmas for their kids. He quietly accepted the concept of "helping Santa," but I don't think it meant anything to him until he saw the Boy Scouts gathering presents from the crowds and running them back to the Toy Mountain float. At that point, he'd desperately wanted to have something to offer. I told him that we'd brought coins instead for dropping into the boots and stockings carried by the firefighters who present this parade.

Sam cleaned out my wallet, flagging down those firefighters repeatedly. At first, I wondered if the reciprocal candycane had something to do with that, but he declined the offer on the third donation. He wasn't in it for the sweets. As we trailed behind Santa's float in the wake of the parade, Sam asked me if I thought enough money had been collected to allow Santa's workshop to make extra presents for the kids in poor homes. How come I hadn't hit on that twist while I was fumbling for an explanation as to why Santa Claus—a toymaker—needed gifts and cash from us? To have extra presents for some of the kids on his long, long list. Of course. Thanks, Sam, for a sweet memory.

Happy Birthday, dear Anabel...

Sam and Jeremy are relaxing on the family room couch, chuckling together over the antics of Bugs Bunny and the rest of the Looney Tunes gang. It's a quiet end to a 3-day weekend that was a cousin-fest of exuberant play. Anabel celebrated her first birthday in princess-pink style, and Janey and the boys came to town for the party. Although the champagne & cake drop-in lasted just a short time on Saturday afternoon, the boys made a party of it for a full 72 hours. They explored the Waltham Woods, ran ragged around a new play structure in Courtland Park, modelled the outfits of two costume trunks, dumped the contents of several toy chests, watched movies, played video games, and had three sleepover parties. It was loud and messy and sometimes downright chaotic, but it was also joyous and notably punch-free. In fact, there was just one casualty this weekend, the sad outcome of an ill-advised indoor baseball game, which smashed a family antique of sorts. Mom made Tracey that ceramic Ernie 25 years ago. Soon, Anabel will share a room with Carter and a play space with her visiting cousins. So far, her toys are made of durable plastic and soft, dolly cottons. But if her tastes run to china dolls and tea sets down the line, some plexiglass cabinets might be in order. No matter how much pink velvet and ribbon we wrap her in, Anabel is growing up in a boys' club!

The Sam Spot

One of the things that I first loved about this house was the fact that it has a 10-foot expanse of kitchen countertop. Some people look for walk-in closets or a jacuzzi tub. Me? I wanted to be able to stretch out and nap on the counter, if it came to that. Contrary to the postage-stamp work spaces in my apartment kitchens of the past, Hudson House offers a wide open stage on which to perform my (messy) culinary genius. And it also has a spot for Sam.

From the get-go, Sam's claimed the space down by the radio: a little-boy vantage point on the goings-on during meal prep and clean up. Soon, he began having breakfast and snacks and special drinks up there rather than at the little table at the other end of the kitchen. And eventually, he started helping me make muffins and cookies, kneeling beside the electric mixer and feeding it ingredients with the utmost care. It's one of my favourite sights, Sam on the counter.

When he was two, I lifted him up and down (he especially liked the huggy trip to the floor). At three, he started dragging his "superchair" over to the spot to climb up on his own. At four, he's more expedient, asking for a boost instead (I squat down so he can climb up from my bended knee). And lately he's been figuring out how to scramble up himself without using the drawer handles as toeholds. By 5 or 6, he'll be bounding up there easily. But how many more years will this growing boy choose to sit up on the counter to chat with me as I make dinner or join me to watch the birds and squirrels play in the big apple tree? It's hard to say.

I do know that some of my best memories of his early childhood will be tied to that end of the countertop. Those few square feet will always evoke Sam's quirky conversation over morning oatmeal, his smile of satisfaction on finishing a well-earned afternoon hot chocolate, his after dinner delight in opening another miniature door on the Christmas advent calendar, and the happy concentration of baking a batch of muffins with mommy on Sunday morning. I haven't taken a moment of his countertop company for granted ... nor, I think, has Sam—as my collection of happy photos may already have proved.

Spooky Sammy

This week, the Carleton Heights Child Care Centre put on its Annual General Assembly, which includes a children's variety show. Sam was cute as a button in his technicolour clown wig and big red nose, up there singing "Get Your Sillies Out" and "Singing in the Rain." It's not often one sees Sam in a goofy costume: his tastes run more to vampires and Batman. It didn't surprise me, later, to note that Sam's profile in the large "About Me" art display listed black as his favourite colour. "It's the spookiest," he declared. He's a big fan of spooky.

This year, he trick-or-treated as The Gatekeeper, a slightly demonic skeletal figure that stalks graveyards. The bloodcurdling mask was the main attraction. His buddy, Connor, on the contrary, was tricked out as an adorable purple dinosaur, his cherubic face and blond curls smiling out from the hole where the dinosaur's mouth would be. Sam was unimpressed. As self-appointed costume judge, he spent a good deal of his candy rounds quietly condemning of all those cutesy costumes. "Not spooky, not spooky, not spooky..." I could hear him whispering, as the Cat in the Hat, a princess, and a large M&M passed by him on the street. It's All Hallows Eve, people! Bring on the ghosts and goblins: this ain't no Dora and Diego holiday.

It's been a long-standing tradition, actually. He dressed as a vampire last year and a pirate the year before that (costumes he resurrected this year to attend no-mask Halloween parties at school and at the Yates'). It's a little funny to me, still, to see him play with the Bad Guy persona, since he's nothing but cute and soft-hearted. No matter how much he screws up his face into what he believes is a look of madness, his playful eyes and chubby cheeks give him away. Perhaps it's because I can still see my baby in that face—a baby we dressed like a lil' devil for his first Halloween (hmmm...). He doesn't look like a demon seed, but we've certainly spawned a child who is thrilled to dabble on a cartoon version of The Dark Side.