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."

Director's vision

Last night, the three of us were cuddled in bed watching a National Geographic special on the problems (and pain) that whales, dolphins and porpoises are suffering as a result of man-made ocean noise—particularly the navy's sonic exercises. It was full of incredible footage, of course—National Geographic does it up right—from research projects the world over, telling the stories of passionate marine biologists engaged in the fight to save hosts of aquatic animals who are having a tough time making it clear to us humans that their brains are bleeding.

In one especially moving scene, a scientist and his team move frantically along a beach attempting to rescue 17 stranded __ whales, who had thrown themselves onto the sand in an effort to get their heads out of the water as a Navy destroyer on exercises moved through the bay. Two of the whales couldn't be saved. In the name of science, the team cut their heads off to send to the lab—and later tests would show intercranial bleeding near the ears. Sad.

And gruesome. The filmmakers didn't pull punches here. A close-up sequence shows the decapitation and the copious blood flowing into the bay. Sam had been chock full of questions about the program to this point: who was doing what and where and why and how and how long ago, etc. At this point, however, he dropped his "Sid the Science Kid" type queries and put on his film director's hat. "Oh, ewww! Oh, that's yucky! Man. That totally should have been an outtake."

Ya, I was thinking, "yeesh, I didn't need to see that." But director Sam zeroed right in on the editing team: in his vision, that clip should have hit the cutting room floor. Everyone's a critic maybe. But Sam's a movie maker.

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.

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.

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.

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...).

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....

The cold, hard floor

Sam was pretty excited at the idea of learning a new Cranium game - a mini-sized kids’ version that came free with a Wendy’s snack that afternoon. While I was whipping up dinner, he began lining the cards up along the small Sam table in the kitchen so we’d be all ready to play the instant dinner was over. I pointed out that the tabletop was a little small for the three of us, and suggested he set up downstairs. By “downstairs,” I meant in the family room, where we play pretty much all of our games. However Sam chose to set up on the laundry room floor. The concrete laundry room floor.

I was a little apologetic, this time, when I explained that he’d picked another troublesome spot: he’d been meticulous in the playing card arrangement, and now dinner was ready and there was no time to start over. Chalk it up to a hunger, fatigue, or an alarming “stage,” but his anger went 0 to 60 and he vehemently replied with hot tears in his eyes that he was NOT moving the game, that we WOULD sit ourselves down in front of the dryer, and that if we refused then he would NEVER play this game EVER.

We attempted to reason with him a bit before deciding that it would be smarter to get a meal into him before preaching the error of his ways. Didn’t matter. He was unyielding to the end, fists balled up in anger, face screwed up in rage at the injustice of it all. So we put the game away. Too late to save the day, we cajoled him towards an early bedtime with the promise of innumerable fairy tales. We read for almost an hour together, through Beauty and the Beast, Rumpelstiltskin, The Frog Prince, The Little Mermaid—at which point he asked, “Why is there so much marrying in these stories?”—so we moved on to the child heroes in Hansel and Gretel, King Midas, Jack and the Beanstalk, The Emperor’s New Clothes and Pinocchio.

At the happy resolution of that last tale, I remarked: “Gepetto is happy that Pinocchio became a real live boy: he’s lucky to get a ‘boy-0’” to which Sam replied, “You and Daddy aren’t lucky to have me…” Gasp! I declared him to be the luckiest thing that ever happened to us and asked why he would say otherwise. “Because we had that big fight before,” he explained. So I took a few minutes to assure Sam that people sometimes have disagreements, and are sometimes upset with each other, but that families love each other and always find a way to work things out. Having arguments sometimes doesn’t mean we’re not always lucky to have each other. Sam seemed mollified. He snuggled down under the covers, flipped over on to his side, and sighed deeply.

But before I could congratulate myself on my superb parenting, I heard him whisper, in the quietest voice he could manage with conviction: “Tomorrow, we are all going to play that game on that floor!” My stubborn little boy. I guess it’s a tough lesson to learn—that all of that righteous fury amounts to so many pebbles tossed against the brick wall of a united Mom and Dad.

Straight to Bed, Young Man

So it's not exactly sending him to bed without any supper, but it still weighs heavy on my heart—sending Sam to bed without any stories. I knew he wouldn't be happy to hear the tub running tonight: it's four long school days into a busy week, and Thursdays seem especially draining with 9 hours clocked at Carleton Heights and then off to karate class before heading home for a 6:30 dinner. His one evening hour rushes cruelly past, and then the bedtime rituals start. Sam generally loves his tub, his cartoons, his stories and songs and chats and cuddles. But tonight he staunchly refused to take the first step towards bed.

It's hard to get angry at his petulant displays of frustration and resentment. The flipping of a stuffed toy onto the floor. The deliberate stamping of feet, eyes dramatically ablaze and cheeks puffed out in rebellious pout. It's all still too cute. And we try to cut him a little slack when we know how tired he is and we agree that the nights are too short, that we "just got here." But enough is enough. Tonight, when he was presented with his "choices"—the options he has control over once he has relented to our will—Sam rejected all offers. "I'm NOT going to listen to a Harry Potter chapter, and I'm NOT going to watch a "Go, Diego" and I'm NOT HAVING A BATH! No, no, no, no No NO!"

When a few minutes of gentle chiding on my part failed (often the whole "why are you being mean to Mommy, when Mommy is so nice to you?" ploy works), I wordlessly stepped out of the arena and let Jeremy do his thing. He's the more patient of the two of us—and he has a deeper voice—so he's the man to handle the escalation. He outlined Sam's two choices again and added a third: "Or, I can carry you upstairs, give you your bath, and we'll put you straight to bed without any stories." The punishment of punishments! Unbelievably, Sam didn't budge. Dug his heels in on the stairs and said it again... "No." And then burst into wild tears when Daddy followed through with Plan C. Was in near fits by the end of the tub.

When he was all ready for bed, I gathered the exhausted and sobbing child up in my arms and sat with him in what used to be the "talking chair," back in the brief period towards the end of the 2's when he suffered through the occasional Time Out and then had to allocute to his crimes and apologize and end it all in hugs. I think he realized the significance, because he snuggled in for hugs immediately and listened to us explain why he was heading straight to bed. He calmed down as we spoke, the anger draining from his body. But it was obvious he was really only waiting to talk when he offered, in that hitching voice that comes after a crying jag, "Now .. I choose .. Diego.." Oh, the heartbreak when I stood firm and replied that he'd missed his chance!

I carried the inconsolable child up to bed for the first time in as long as I can remember and tucked him in without even turning on the bedside lamp. Still, he looked longingly at the stack of books on the table, crying now with a sense of his own loss rather than his parents' duplicity. I explained that it's part of our job to make sure that he grows up understanding that he can't behave the way he did and because of that he will always lose out on something good when he defies us. This time, he nodded with the saddest of "ooookkkaayyyss" and asked for a sip of water, saying "I think I can stop my cries now." Then he burrowed under his covers, sighed deeply, and asked if he still got the four kisses. I hope he knows in his heart of hearts that we'd never withhold affection to teach him a lesson. I take it as a good sign that no matter how hurt, how seemingly wronged, he still bid us both a "good night, I love you" with strong hugs.

And then he fell asleep in 90 seconds.

A Thousand Words

And just like that, January is gone. I've missed a month of stories, but I have a nice little collection of photographs that I can caption to catch up.

Sam loves Lego. I think we went a good six months of hearing "I played Lego" as the sum total of the child care report. Nine, ten hour days of a fully structured program with a dozen other kids, and he only remembered the Lego. Not surprisingly, the lego pirate sets are the centre of his bedroom universe. And this Christmas, Grandma & Grandpa Arnold gave him a 380-piece Dinosaur set (but who's counting pieces?), and we've been building fearsome beasts. I took a picture of the beaming boy holding up our first creation, but this is the photo he liked best. It was his idea to pose dino as though he assembled himself and was now crawling out of the box to wreak havoc in Hudson house....

While rooting through a back seat pile of commuter-parent baggage (lunchkits, laptops, gym bag, backpacks, snowpants, groceries, art work) during a Sam drop-off a few weeks back, I spotted a colourful hexagon next to his booster. I spun around to ask Sam if he made it ... and broke his heart. He let out a wailing "ooohhh, nooo!" that made it clear I'd spoiled a surprise. Holding back tears, he explained: "I wanted to wrap that up for you!", the thrill of Christmas still fresh in his mind. I knelt down for a big hug, declaring my love of the little craft to help soothe his obvious disappointment. "Is this an ornament?" I asked ... and then had to stifle my laugh when he answered earnestly, "Yes. I wanted you to have something beautiful to look at while you washed the dishes."

Unlike the 'housework hexagon,' most of Sam's drawings are monochrome. He favoured a simple pencil for the longest time before moving on to the brown crayon. Then he went through a festive red stage through Christmas before settling on blues, where he's remained—aptly—for the chilly month of January. Before taking down the December bulletin board, I want to commit a few things to memory. First, Sam and made the wreath together during the Centre's "Annual Cup of Cheer" breakfast reception. Perched on the wee chairs together, we had a fun conversation about Christmas decorations. Another night, we coloured the Santa pic together, and Sam tried once again to decide if he preferred spelling his name with his left or his right hand. Finally, the figure at the bottom left that struck me as a lynched cowboy is Spiderman, lowering off a wall to battle the muscled stickmen in the centre of the drawing (click the photo to enlarge). I've developed quite a skill at eliciting details from him rather than guessing at the picture's content. I love these little Sam collages: I wish we could keep them all forever.

And speaking of wishes and forever, I will never tire of the sight of my slumbering son. Somehow in sleep, the infant's chubby cheeks, shallow breathing and tousled hair return and he's my baby bunny once again. He stays perfectly still through the night, with those small hands tucked up between face and pillow in a portrait of pure peace. I hope he always sleeps like that. I call this picture "Four Kisses," because that's how every day ends. Once the stories and songs are finished, I kiss his forehead and both cheeks before our goodnight kiss. And each kiss has its own statement: "Good night (kiss), sleep tight (kiss), sweet dreams (kiss), I love you (kiss)." Sleep well, Sammy.

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

Sam Was Struck by Lightening (and other tall tales)

I remember Savannah going through an amusing stage when she was about Sam's age, which saw her making up the funniest stories and passing them off as fact to family members and strangers alike. Our favourite was "One time, my mom left me in a river of lava. It burned off my legs." Another time, while I was babysitting the girls—and Jazzie might have been 18 months old—Janey called to check in, and Savannah told her that her baby sister had fallen backwards off some patio furniture into the swimming pool. Never happened.

Turns out that Sam's bent the same way. He likes to play a starring role in exciting stories. On the drive to school the other day he set in with some difficult questions about lightening. "Does it ever hit people?" he asked? Okay, first of all, why does he do this to me? He's 4. Can't we talk about how choo-choo trains get their power? I briefly considered going the "Of course not. Bad things never happen" route, but I had to hedge against the possibility that he'd heard something on the radio and this was a test of my honesty. So I conceded that it happens very rarely and mostly to golfers. Then I fumbled through the tougher follow-up questions: "Does it hurt? Can you get dead?" Bloody hell. What was this?

This was research. Once he had the facts straight, he put on his story voice and told me that when he was a very little baby and I wasn't looking at him, he was hit by lightening. That it made him "glow up in the dark" as he calls it, but it didn't hurt at all, because babies don't feel eel-leck-TRISS-ity. When I said that I don't remember that happening, he reminded me of the foundational detail: I wasn't looking. Ohhh, that explains it. Well, then. That must have been quite a shock. We've revisited that scene several times since. It's the next generation "Burning Lava" story.

The trouble with the tall tales is that they're taking the place of most reality-based conversation. "How was school, Sam?" is bound to be answered with a wildly improbable list of calamities, abuse, failed projects and superhuman playground feats. One evening, he added "And I learned French: 'mimsy' means 'I hope you're having a nice day.'" So jaded was I about these reports, I chalked up the "French lesson" tidbit to just another Sam Story ... until the first JK newsletter came home. Twenty minutes daily. Ah, c'est vrai.

This week, Sam revealed his narrative power to bemuse and then, later, to embarrass. Picking him up on Tuesday evening, I noticed the class had done one of those thematic Q&A sheets that has a common question in the middle of the page, and little squiggly lines leading out to various answers attributed to the students. The question of the week was "What are you grateful for?" I read clockwise around the answers, scanning for Sam's name, so I got a good taste of the group response—kids grateful for their parents' hugs, their baby brothers, their food, their pets. Finally, I spotted Sam's answer: "Sam is grateful for his mom buying him a new skateboard." I didn't buy Sam a skateboard. I'm not buying Sam a skateboard. Did Sam misunderstand the question? I called him on it at the cubbies, and he smiled and said he was just imagining that he'd like that. Over his shoulder, one of the teachers started chuckling and admitted, "We were wondering..."

Thankfully, Arlene (Tracey's new nanny) didn't have to wonder long when Sam regaled her with stories over supper about how sometimes, when his parents are not in the room, he pops in a Grown-Up Movie that shows people's bums (and their penises?", Carter asked. "Oh yes, their bums and their penises"). "Ohhhh..." said Arlene. Okay, we don't own that movie. Really, we don't. And he's not home alone much either! Luckily, Tracey overheard the story and called out a chiding "Sammmm?" and he cut the tale short.

When I saw him later that night, I asked him about this so-called "bum movie" and he backpeddled into a corner: "I borrowed it," he offered, "Then I gave it back to that person." I pressed my advantage: "Who was it?" Gulp. "It was in my imagination!" he confessed. I'm only a little concerned that his imaginary movie sounds like porn: in fact, I'm pretty sure he simply couldn't think of anything funnier to say than "bum". But I'm half-tempted to write a pre-emptive note to the teacher, "Please don't call Child Services if..."

So how long before Sam's "imagination" becomes Sam's "big fat lie"? I laughed when he begged off finishing his breakfast this morning, explaining that somehow, when I wasn't looking, caffeine got on it ... and we all know that kids shouldn't have caffeine. He thinks he's hit on quite the little trick, that blanket phrase — "When you weren't looking..." What he doesn't realize is that I see more than he knows. That's the way of the Mother. It helps that he's incredibly transparent, always overtly covering his tracks by blatantly asking me not to fact check his tales. "That new girl over there is called Mambooboola. Umm, but don't say 'hi Mambooboola' to her...."

Lightening. Skateboards. Bums. Caffeine. Mambooboola. He's got 1000 of them, I'll bet. I'm sure we haven't heard the funniest, the craziest, the most embarrassing tall tale. But, as difficult as it is to get the plain and simple truth out of him sometimes, I'm a little proud of Sam's ability to spin a story out of absolutely nothing. I imagine him as a film director, a novelist maybe. Of course, in the last Q&A, Sam declared that he'd be a doctor when he grew up. I wonder what the story is there.

Inuksuk 2: This Time, it's Personal

So we're putting in a dishwasher (insert mom's squeal of delight), which means ripping out and relocating Sam's 3-level craft cupboard. Wow, there was a boatload of stuff in there. We're swimming in crayons, markers, coloured paper, stickers, pipe cleaners, crepe paper, glue sticks, elastics, cardboard rolls, bits of ribbon, sequins, and foam shapes. In short, everything required to make a rocket. And then more rockets.

We'd also collected a "let's do this later" miscellany, including colouring pages from bike or fire safety campaigns and itsy bitsy kinder-egg puzzles. While sorting through that stuff this week, I came across a small give-away we picked up on the Winterlude Ice Sculpture tour at Confederation Park: a 'build it yourself' mini cardboard Inuksuk. Sam was enthralled. We punched the pieces out and carefully assembled the icon. Then I read him the little info card provided by the Department of Indian and Northern Affairs, explaining the cultural significance of the stone marker to the Inuit.

A while later, I found myself eavesdropping on Sam's play, all smiles that he was repeating bits and pieces of what he heard in a kind of solemn 'voice over' fashion as he marched Inuksuk down the length of the couch: "The Inuksuk is used to show hunters the way home .. and sometimes to warn of dangerous places... and sometimes to mark where food is stored..." Just look at my little erudite boy having fun with this venerable symbol of the Canadian North.

Then, with that shift in tone you hear in movies to dramatize the alternate personality taking over the dominant one, Sam continued in a slower and deeper voice: ".... but that was in his childhood, when he was a superhero. One day, a FRACK of rocks fell on Inuksuk (sound effects of pummelling and horror), and he was turned into a Rock Man. He fought his enemies (sound effects of thrashing and pain) and beat them. When they tried to fight back, he turned into liquid rock!! (sound effects of molten transformation) and no one could touch him. If they tried, they were burned alive! (sound effects of people melting in agony). Inuksuk was angry that was made out of rocks and he blamed it on the people and that's why he fought everyone he could find!!"

Ironically, the info card is called "Sharing a Story." Ya. Sam heard your story. Then he took your 4,000 years of Inuit cultural history and pimped it with a dash of Fantastic 4 and the Batman villain formula. He likes your story better now. Inuksuk may have "become a symbol of leadership, cooperation and the human spirit," but when 4-year old boys play mythmaker, there's gonna be shape-shifting fisticuffs and mayhem. I should have started with the coyote and raven tales.

You've Got a Friend in Me

A very short bedtime conversation:

Sam: I need to sleep in your bed right now. I don't want to fall asleep in my bed and then go to your bed when I wake up later.

Mommy: Why, Sam? Your bed is comfy and you have a night light and nice music. This is a great room. Why do you like mine better for sleeping?

Sam: Because your room has just a bed in it. The toys don't move in there.

Angie: You think you see your toys move? Which ones?

Sam: All of them. When I look at them.

(long pause, memories of my childhood fears flooding in...)

Angie: My room it is. Come on...

Sam: :)

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.

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....)

Road Trip: Timelapse Audio

From the back seat : Rama Road to Hudson Avenue

Don't do that with your feet: it's bugging me. Stop it. Stop it! Move your arm! Arghhhh! (elbow, wiggle, smack). You're annoying me. That's my armrest! Mine! HE SCRATCHED ME! I can't hear the movie. Beeeeee quiet! Ouch! OWWWWchhhh. He's kicking me! (kick, wiggle, smack) You're hurting me! AM NOT! YOU ARE! You're bad!! No: I'm the goodest!! Can I have a treaaaaatt? Ya, can we have a treeeeaaatt? Please. PLEASE. Okay - Please can we have a treat? Yuck: not that treat. I want something else. Yup!- I can be good! Deal. I'll be good. Me too. The goodest.

(chocolate dipped soft serve ice cream pause)

Put your fist down! I can't ignore it: it's bugging me! He pinched my boo-boo! On purpose! IT WAS AN ACCIDENT! Was not (slap, wiggle, smack - smack - flurry of smacks). Move your head: it's on my side. Move it! Hey?! You're not supposed to have your penis out! 'I love my snowwwwboarrrrrrrddd: I love my skaaaattteeboard' -- I am not singing. It's not singing! 'I looovvvee (ow!) my snowwwbooarrrd (ow!!)'. I can't stop! It's my song! HE BIT ME! He did! Here are the marks! I never never never want Sam to come in my car again!! Never! And I never never never want Carter at my house again!! Ever!

Anabel's crying. She's annoying! ANA-BEL!! It's hurting my ears. Mine too! She's TOOOO loud! There. She's sleeping. Took a long time to stop crying. Did so! 15 minutes is a super long time! Okay: we'll be good. (whisper, whisper, smack). He's BUGGING me! Stop poking me! HEY!

{6.5 hours later}

What? We're home?

Can Sam come over now? Why not?!

I wanna go to Carterrrrrrr's!!

Measuring out his Life in Pancake Bites

Sam loves Elgin Street Diner pancakes. With the possible exception of beef & bean tacos, I can’t think of anything he consumes with more gusto or hearty appetite than the plate-sized flapjacks they serve up at our favourite breakfast spot. My own recipe isn’t a satisfying substitute for the diner’s thin, hint-of-vanilla, griddle hot treats—but then I haven’t tried that hard to imitate greatness. The pancakes are only part of Elgin Street’s Saturday morning charms. Sam loves it all: spotting the façade from the street while we’re parking; the self-conscious pleasure of walking alongside the crowded booths as we’re led to our table; the moot moment of deciding what to order before shyly requesting “pancakes and chock-lit milk please.”

He and I went on our own this past Saturday (Daddy is in Vegas on a “holli-trip,” as Sam has termed an absence that isn’t a business trip but also can’t be a holiday, obviously, since it doesn’t include him). As per tradition, we crayoned in the figures on the kids’ menu, Sam asking for the umpteenth time why it features a pig and a chicken (making me explain once again the origins of bacon and eggs: and if you think the pork convo is awkward, try explaining why a chicken squeezes out breakfast food!). With an anxious eye out for the arrival of pancake goodness, Sam strikes and re-strikes deals with himself about how much chocolate milk he’ll drink before his meal arrives. Same as it ever was.

But just as I’m thinking that this is a deja vu repeat of every diner visit we’ve ever enjoyed, I spot a toddler in the next booth peaking mischievously over the barrier. And I suddenly realize that I can’t remember the last time I had to give Sam the “bum down” reminder to sit while he eats. When did he stop standing up on his seat? Stop soliciting the smiles of strangers with his sticky grin? Stop trying to crawl under the table to see if anyone had dropped anything interesting and gummy? He was sitting there across from me, just chatting and colouring and waiting for breakfast.

While it was certainly strange for Jeremy and I to frequent this diner during my pregnancy and then in the early months of our baby’s life because the place had historically been associated with a raucous 2 a.m. pit-stop for poutine on the way home from the clubs up the street, I must admit that the chasm between Sam’s babyhood and his pre-schooler status sometimes gapes wider than that first rift. Another example, I suppose, of how ‘the years tell much of what the days never know.’

But then we cross Elgin to spend an hour or so in St Luke’s Park (the “Second Cup” park, as we termed it when Tracey used to drop Carter there with me & Sam on her way to work years ago). It was the first visit of the new season and Sam took an excited tour of the almost forgotten play structures, bravely trying the rock wall and checking to see if he was tall enough yet to survey the sights through the railing-mounted spy scope (yes!). All the while, he narrated his discoveries to me, pretending that he was a wizard and that he had built this castle for himself. As he rattled off its features, he paused for a long moment at a series of staggered Frisbee-style steps that ascend straight up to the second level and have always spooked him in the past. Then he turned, in character, to explain bewilderingly, “I don’t know WHY I built these in my castle. I can’t even use them!” before dashing for the safer staircase.

Baby steps, my little wizard. You’ll be scaling those heights this summer, I’m sure. And you’ll probably be cutting your own pancakes, too.

Retiring Number 3

As the wide smile in this photo clearly indicates, Sam changed his mind about cancelling his birthday this year, but it was a close call. On Thursday evening, he firmly announced from the back seat of the car, "I don't want my birthday anymore: I don't want the cake or the presents or the movie. Nothing." We chalked it up to late-day exhaustion and some resistance to the idea of being the centre of cupcake attention at school the next day. But Sam cut straight to the point: "If I have my birthday, I will still keep my name, but I will lose my number." He didn't want to give up 3. He liked 3.

We tried to describe some of the exciting doors that open to 4 year olds: Junior kindergarten, T-ball registration, and ... well, our list stopped at two doors to be honest. We drew a blank. Sam wasn't so easily mollified, so we swung the conversation in other directions (speaking of feet), expecting that a good night's sleep would change his mind. But he held steady throughout Friday and on into Saturday morning. It didn't help that the gap between was marred by a 6 hour dead-of-night stint in Emergency, waiting for verification that Sam's tenacious ear infection wasn't going to render him deaf. Odd to be sitting in the Civic Hospital, 4 years to the day of my admittance to the Maternity Ward with this quadrupled boy half-asleep on my lap.

He awoke (far too early) on Saturday morning with the diplomatic compromise to enjoy the planned festivities with Carter, so long as we acknowledged that this wasn't a birthday per se, but was only a birthday celebration, and that enjoying it was by no means to be construed as the embracing of 4-ness. The sight of the wrapped and bowed presents from Carter and the bright orange topsy-turvy Quasimodo ice cream cake got him into the spirit, however, and he was all smiles as Daddy counted the candles ... right up to 4. He began to try the number on for size: "Will I be 4 for as long as I was 3?" " Will I turn 5 anyways, just liked I turned 4 anyways?"

And then, on the way to the Ninja Turtles movie today, he came out with this: "Are you sad that I am growing up?" While the math and science questions had been easy, the personal one had us stumbling over ourselves a little. No, but yes. We're proud of how he's growing up and curious to see what lies ahead, but we also ache at the knowledge that he'll move out in to the big wide world one day and not need so much from his mom and dad. In a tiny but insistent case in point tonight, he told me he could button his own pj's, "because I'm 4 now." Yes. All of a sudden, you are.

When he asked how many more times his birthday would come while he lived at home with us, I answered that it would be at least 14, and more if he didn't go to a far away grown-up school. He was thrilled by the answer: "FOURTEEN!? That's awot-awot-awot!" To our little 4 year old, that may be true. But to us it's not that much. It isn't much at all.

Happy birthday, sweet boy.

Speaking of Feet....

The other day Sam announced his intention to wear shoes rather than boots when we took the dog out for a morning walk. He started his sentence with the phrase "Speaking of feet...", which was funny. Because we weren't. We were speaking of breakfast. I wondered if I'd used those words the night before, when we were playing foot puppets in front of his bedroom mirror, or if he adopted the line more consciously, in imitation of his Daddy, who often facetiously pretends he's not changing the tack of a conversation when he has something unrelated to say.

In any event, the line made me smile at the way Sam's vocabulary and facility with language stretches in surprising directions by the day. It's always been a source of fascination. I recall trying to keep a running list of the many dozens of words he was using by the time he turned 2, but I couldn't keep up. I was amazed at how this word sponge drew in the language around him and squelched it back out in amusing variations: trutch for truck, Cargo for Carter, Treechi for Tracey (and, more enduringly, Treechi Juice for a glass of wine). I chuckle at the memory of his first sentences: the reverent exhalation of "ohhhh, dat's hotTT" as he leaned over a steaming teacup, an echo of his mother's routine caution against his curiosity; and the perplexed and pleading "Door is GUCK!", his taut body hanging from the apartment doorknob preventing his escape into the larger world of the second floor hallway.

More recently, I've been chagrined by the oh-so-boyish context of some of his newer words. "The frog isn't QUITE dead yet, so the buzzard isn't IN-TRIST-ed in eating him." Or "My hand isn't ACK-chewally cut right off; it's in my sleeve. See?" But it's not all death and dismemberment. He's also picked up the gracious "As you wish" from The Princess Bride. That's pleasant. So is his over-the-top enthusiasm (shades of teacher-speak) when he congratulates me for such feats as knowing where his Batman mask is at the moment: "You're RIGHT, Mommy! GOOD WORK!" And Tracey reports that he and Carter were playing Repair Man with a new flashlight today, and they approached her to ask politely "Excuse me, young lady; where is your furnace?" Perhaps this civilized role playing will spell the end of the little boy poo talk, in which any sentence seemingly benefits from the random substitution of the word "poo." Where even the tenderly bestowed "sweet dreams" is apt to be met with a gleefully whispered "sweet poo!"

Of course, when that phase is over, I'll miss it. Just as I miss some of the nonsense words that are fading out of his lexicon. It's been a while since Sam last called someone a kunck or a koopy-shappy. And I'll miss the lapses in his pronunciation: already the V has found its way in (no more "bam-pires") and so has the SP (so the fun line in Chattanooga Choo Choo -- "I've got my fare, and just a trifle to FARE" -- has lost its Sam charm; he can say "spare...") . The L has been tougher for him, but too soon the constant request to "Wookit at me" will sound a wot different than it does right now.

But with each loss there are a multitude of fresh new phrases to delight in and as many amusing conversations. Just an hour ago, Daddy washed a Granny Smith apple for Sam, explaining that he wanted to get the wax off of it. Sam hesitantly asked for clarification: "ummm, ear wax?" He only knew the one definition of the word. Such exchanges continue to enrich our family culture, to colour the private language of our daily lives. And he's still just three. Speaking of feet, I have cupcakes to make for the pre-school celebration of Sam's birthday. Good night; sweet poo.