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...

The Black Squiggle

The "black squiggle" has been hard on your heels for a while now, Sam. It wakes up at dusk and lays in wait for you somewhere on the dim staircases that lead from the family room, past the kitchen, and up to your bedroom. Never one to show itself when grown-ups are about, the black squiggle bides its time, knowing that sooner or later you’ll come up from goodnight kisses or come down for a glass of water. Alone. And then the chase is on.

I can tell from the speed of your scamper, from the echo of your pounding feet on the hardwood as you round the corner and break for the second staircase that the squiggle is on the loose. More often than not, you let out a little yelp before you burst into the light of your room or ours, eyes wide with fright and your breath coming in ragged gasps. "It caught right up to me!" you exclaim, casting a wary backwards glance into the shadows. But it can't be seen head on. The squiggle is detected only in the peripheral vision. Only on the run.

This week, the squiggle took shape as a black dog. Not a large dog, but a menacing one nonetheless. You awoke to find it standing stock still in your cubby door corner, panting quietly, its eyes fixed on yours. Later you’ll tell me it took 20 minutes to screw up the courage to flee the room for the safety of our bed. When I ask why you didn’t call out for us, you answer slowly and softly: "Because if I move a muscle, if I make a sound … something will happen."

And my heart breaks for you as my own night terrors leap to mind. The impossibly large spider scrabbling its way down the wall towards my bed. The kidnapper drilling holes through the bedroom door to spy on me. I, too, was a petrified seven year old pinned down to my bed, unable to draw a full breath. So when you ask me to go make sure there isn’t a black dog next to your bed, I do—although I know it won’t make a difference to suggest that it's just a trick of the eye, or a figment of your imagination. He’ll be back. "Yes, he’s not here now," you concede, "But can I still sleep with you?"

The following night, you toss and turn anxiously, willing yourself to fall asleep in your own bedroom, the new haunt of a terrifying black dog. After kisses & cuddles, and stories and more stories, and cups of water, and yes-the-night-light and no-the-night-light, you call out in frustration, "I’m trying so hard to sleep that I can hear time passing!" Turns out your wristwatch is hiding behind your books. Tic, tic, tic…

Half an hour later, I catch the sound of you stifling sobs. You can’t sleep. Not in this bed. Yes, yes of course you can crawl in with me. It’s only 9:30, so I feign sleep for a little while, listening as you begin to relax. Your breathing comes easier, your body lets go of the tension generated by your wild imagination. You find my hand resting on the pillow between us and gently slide yours into my grasp, so as not to wake me.

Then very carefully, you wiggle closer and closer still, so that your forehead is touching the back of our clasped hands. Just before you fall asleep, you press a long, tender kiss onto my hand. Loving, grateful, happy—that kiss thanks me for believing in the squiggle, for knowing that a dog that isn’t there is also a dog that is there, and for soothing that all away.

I love you, too, Sam.

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.

Report Card: Personal and Social Development

Excerpt from Sam's report card: "Sam demonstrates an awareness of his surroundings and curiousity about the world around him." Yes, yes he does. This is becoming something of a problem around the house, actually. While some of his questions are rather easy to answer—for instance, "Were there bunnies in pirate times?"—he's asking more challenging ones all the time.

Consider this one. "If it takes one day for the earth to spin around and face the sun again and we always see the same side of the moon at night, does that mean the moon is spinning at the same speed as the earth?"

Ummmmm. Makes sense. To be honest, I never thought much about the moon spinning. In all the space movies I saw, the astronauts landed on the sunny side of the moon and then didn't camp out there for any length of time, really. Hhhmm. I don't know Sam. We can look that up.

Or this. "All these ants that are crawling around in the house now, did they hibernate in our house? Are there ant families in the walls?"

Ummmmmm. Makes sense. To be honest, I never thought much about where they sprung from. I capture and release and make mental notes to buy ant traps, but I haven't considered that there might be whole ant farms tunneling in the walls. In all the bug cartoons I've seen, the ants live in cosy apartments tucked safely away on a little oasis near the trash can in a public park. Hhhmm. I really don't know, Sam. We can check that out.

Or this. I hope that when they redecorate the Tim Horton's, they take down the pictures of the soliders. I like soldiers, but seeing those pictures makes me think of what happens to them... Why do they die in wars?

Ummmmm. To be honest, I've never really had a satisfactory answer for that one. In all of the war movies I've seen, soldiers died because they were selfless and committed, brave and determined. They died defeating "bad guys" who were threatening our freedom. But the news from Afghanistan is hard to align with other world conflicts and I'm not sure what to say. Hhhmm. I really don't know, Sam. Let's look up "peacekeeping."

Our inquisitive boy is slowly becoming aware not only of his surroundings (from microcosmic ecosystems, to massive solar systems, to complex international political geography), but also of the fact that his parents don't have all of the answers. Far from it. And while I don't mind saying "let's look it up," I'm less comfortable with the admission that I just haven't given enough thought to a lot of things. A lot a lot a lot of things. It's telling that my mind goes not to edifying books I've read on those subjects, but to entertaining movies I've seen. And Hollywood is considerably less thought-provoking than my kindergarten-aged child.

At one time, I suppose it seemed possible to get the answers to everything, to pin down the how's and why's of it all. But sooner or later, out of necessity or perhaps laziness, we whittle our interests down to a few narrow topics and we leave it at that. That is, until our children hit kindergarden and remind us that archeology is cool, and space travel is fascinating, and the deaths of Canadian soldiers should make us all as sad as a little boy in line at Tim Horton's watching the video display and wondering what is going to happen to those men in Khandahar after they roll up the rim.

"It has been consistently observed that Sam takes responsibility in learning." That's good. That'll serve him well. But his learning is our responsibility too, and I'm trying harder to demonstrate awareness of my surroundings and a curiousity about the world around me.

Sticks and Stones

The other night I was fumbling sleepily through my bedside drawer and I pulled a rock from the corner where my stash of ear plugs belong. I dropped it on my night stand, put in my ear plugs and fell back to sleep. In the morning, I spotted the rock next to the alarm clock and smiled at the fact that its presence in my drawer didn’t surprise me in the least. This house is full of rocks. Sam makes gifts of rocks. Sticks, too. And leaves.

By last summer’s end, there was a bowl of “interesting” and “beautiful” rocks on the kitchen window sill, emptied from all of our pockets after an outing. His child care cubby was littered with bits of playground gravel that caught his eye and thus became art. How does one get rid of such tokens so lovingly collected and bestowed by one’s child? I spread the bowlful in the vegetable garden last fall, thinking that, if asked about them later, I could say the rocks would do some good out there. Aeration, or what have you.

There are mulchy fragments of a leaf in the folds of my wallet, too. When I spy it among the receipts I stuff in there, I’m hit by a fond memory of Sam swimming across the pool at the Fort Wilderness Outpost to give it to me. “Here, Mom,” he whispered in all seriousness, “This is a present for you.” I dried out that little leaf on my deck chair before stashing it away, wondering how it is that the dead vegetation floating in the pool strikes Sam as a keepsake rather than a sign that the skimmer isn’t keeping up. Another leaf, a giant one he picked up while visiting Grandma and Grandpa Ashe last fall, was carefully pressed for the return flight and pinned to his bulletin board in the kitchen.


As funny as it is sometimes to find them piling up, I adore these natural treasures. Last summer he unearthed a smooth hunk of sparkly pink and grey Muskoka rock from the beach at Camp Hideaway and another specimen came home from Bonnechere. They’re lovely. Those rocks and the powerful “ninja stick” he found in the woods along Moccasin Trail are bunched together next to a framed portrait of Sam in the living room. The juxtaposition is fitting. Sam and his sticks and stones. Oh, and that's a clay coil pot he and I made at Bonnechere. Seemed the right place for it.

These things are not entirely out of place around here either, when I come to think of it. A jar of small white seashells sits on the bathroom shelf, a product of my beachcombing during our Madeira vacation three years ago. The pair of larger shells, the ones Grandpa found for the boys, are nestled at the edge of the backyard flower garden. A few feet away, there are two large river rocks lifted from Laddie Lane during our last visit there, a souvenir of our fun times around the pool with Grandma and Grandpa Arnold.

It’s possible that Sam took note of such gatherings while he was a preschooler, and that he’s imbued all of the little bits of the natural world he finds at this feet with meaning. It’s sweet and so much a part of his little boy character that one day I’m sure I’ll miss the rocks in my nightstand drawer, the crumpled leaves in my wallet.

The Daddy-Sammy Holiday

While tidying the kitchen tonight, I noted once again the large sheet of paper held on to the freezer door by a Stanley Hotel fridge magnet. The page always makes me smile, but it's way out of date and needs to be relegated to the history books. This history book.

It's titled the Daddy-Sammy Holiday and it came about this way. A couple of days before I left for Colorado to be a bridesmaid in Lynnie's wedding (yay!), I reminded Sam that I was going to go on a holiday from January 1 to 4. As in the past, I had my "special occasion" arguments at the ready, but Sam cut me off before I'd barely begun to explain why he wasn't coming. "Can I make a plan for the Daddy-Sammy holiday?" he asked. Why certainly, small boy of mine who apparently no longer frets at his mother's vanishing acts. So we got out the massive tablet of craft paper and a pen and we made this list.

The Daddy-Sammy Holiday

Swimming lesson
See a movie
Wrassle
Play X-Box racing game
Order Chinese food
Watch hockey on TV
Walk Huddie
Tobogganing
Play Champion Battle Chess
Play Pirates
Take a nap
Go to Tim Horton's for a hot chocolate
Daddy haircut
Groceries
Connor's house
Have pizza
Get mommy at the airport (6:13 Air Canada from Toronto)

To finalize plans, Jeremy colour-coded the weekend: blue for Friday, red for Saturday and green for Sunday. They sorted out which things to do on what day. When I got home, everything had been crossed out, save for the dog-walking. Jeremy had penned in "too cold!" Seems Huddie preferred the indoor "wrassling."

While I think my holiday list tops the two (though we all would have killed for pizza at one point!), the Daddy-Sammy list makes me smile. Which is why it spent two months on the fridge under the Stanley Hotel magnet.

His Favourite Thing

Isn't this the cutest? Sam drew a himself and his Daddy at the Plant Pool. The composition includes both pools (one deep and one shallow), the clock with mutiple second hands for lane swimmers, and pokey-haired father and son holding hands on the way in. Sam's favourite summer memory...

He was to start swimming lessons last Saturday, but there was a "pool fouling" and the whole thing was called off. I hope he doesn't draw that picture...

And Puppy Dog Tails

A week or so ago, I was gathering sweet slice cucumbers and golden cherry tomatoes from the garden, when I spotted a little brown rabbit along the hedgerow. Our eyes locked and he froze for a moment, but then he calmly resumed nibbling on the long grass. I whisper-called Trace and told her to get Anabel’s quiet attention. A bunny sighting in this neighbourhood is hardly rare, but it’s one thing to catch a glimpse of one bounding across the lawn as you drive in and quite another to watch one enjoying a nice, light snack a few feet away.

Anabel was awestruck as only a 22-month old girl can be at the spectacle of a plush toy come to life and wiggling its nose at her. She allowed Trace to hold her for a minute or two, then squirmed from her mother’s arms and introduced herself to her new pet. Bunny scampered away, of course, and Anabel burst into tears, of course. “Gone?!” she wailed, checking and rechecking the thick (admittedly weedy) growth around the tomato plants. “Gone!? Gone!?” Poor Anabel. She was grief-stricken at the loss.

Poorer still was the baby bunny that ventured into our yard the following afternoon. We don’t know for sure what happened to him—and we’re not entirely unconvinced that Huddie wasn’t involved—but this little guy lay quite dead on the patio stones in front of the BBQ. The girls all kept a squeamish distance, but the boys had a good look. In fact, Sam and Carter edged up repeatedly and then took turns fleeing the scene of fly-encrusted carnage, squealing the words “It’s aliivvvve: I saw it move!” When Jeremy arrived on the scene, he decided that a proper burial, rather than an unseemly Glad bag send-off, was in order.

Now, I can remember burying the bodies of little sparrows that had broken their necks flying into our windows, of bidding teary farewells to round after round of gerbils, hamsters, guinea pigs, and budgies. Little girls would do this up right—a gravemarker would be fashioned; someone would say a few words; poetry might be read. But this isn’t, apparently, how boys do animal death at all. When Jeremy came in to report that the grisly deed was done, I asked how Sam and Carter reacted. “Oh, they’re fine,” he answered. “In fact, they’d like to know if we can dig the bunny up in the spring and look at the skeleton.”

The skeleton.

So sugar & spice laments losing the mere sight of her bunny friend, while snakes & snails remain happy in the knowledge that their bunny may be gone, but he certainly won’t be forgotten.

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.

Yo-ho-ho and a saucer of cream

The Child Care Centre has a new mascot of sorts—a black and white stuffed cat that will be accompanying the kids on all of their summer outings. Today, the 'webbing' exercise was posted for parents to see at pick-up time. The question, written in the centre of the page, was "What should we call our new cat?". The answers branched off in all directions, but this time the children's names weren't added in parentheses. I figured it might be a challenge to spot Sam's answer in the mix, but it wasn't tough at all. Halfway round the circle, under suggestions like "Fluffy" and "Princess" was the name "Pirate." Pirate, the Cat. Ya, that sounds like Sam. Not surprisingly, his answer seemed to change the tack of the brainstorming, as further round the circle were the suggestions "Hot Wheels," "Power Ranger," and "Pikachu." In the end, the group went with "CiCi Sunshine." Cici for the double C's in 'child care,' and Sunshine for the summer session. Cute.

I doubt Sam's impressed...

Sense of Snow

Watching the boys climb these gargantuan mountains—created by plows clearing the parking lot of the nearby public school—I come within a whisper of fully reliving my own school-age delight in the sheer joy of playing in the snow. I wonder how many hours I spent fashioning drifts and banks into multi-room snow forts, imprinting angels on a fresh field of powder, stacking the arsenal for a mock-ferocious snowball fight, and flying down the hills on colourful Krazy Karpets. A good snowfall brought the whole neighbourhood to life—and a bad one promised the thrill of a "snow day," the electrifying news crackling over the kitchen radio as my sisters and I ate breakfast. Who doesn't love snow?

Driveway shovellers. That's who.

We've already hauled some 10 feet of the white stuff out of our way this season, and it shows no sign of letting up. As I write, there is a Winter Storm Warning in effect that forecasts 40-50 cms this weekend. In fact, we're closing in on the city's snowfall record. Now that I have to push it out of the way so that the car can cautiously nose out from between dwarfing drifts, it seems to me that the weather outside is frightful. Perhaps if I saw the snow as Sam and Carter do, as a perfect canvas upon which to paint a new world, I wouldn't be thinking that this winter season has rendered them the "kings of the castle," and me the "dirty rascal" ...

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.

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.

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.

Four (generations) on the Floor

The family converged on Barrie this weekend to celebrate Janey’s 37th birthday chez Fowler, and then to check out Grandma & Grandpa’s new ride and KOA accommodations. Sam loved it all (with the possible exception of two sad facts: grown-ups don’t hand out goodie bags at their birthday parties, and “grandpa & grandpa” don’t actually live in a giant playground now).

It’s always fun to get the four boy cousins together and watch them pretty much spin in continuous circles until we load the protesting Ottawa half in the car for departure. They splashed in pools, climbed rocks and trees, bounded on the trampoline, monkeyed around on three playstructures, ran with sticks (we can’t watch them all the time), played Spiderman videogames, staged not-so-stealthy “wake up sleepy parents” operations, dressed in costumes, chased bad guys, and stopped every now and then to wolf down everything on the table. We expect it’ll go this way for another decade or so. By then, some of them should be able to get a basketball through the hoop, so the games may change but I imagine the intensity of the reunion won’t.

As for getting the four sisters together, well we may not spin per se, but we can talk circles around any takers, so we spent the weekend catching up on each other’s stories, enjoying good food and wine, losing and finding the family dog, and marvelling at how big the kids are getting. Factor in “the girls” (Savannah, Jasmyn, and Anabel), Jeremy and Darren, Grandma & Grandpa, and four special guests — John & Barbara, and Fantastic Granddad (he’s not just Great) & Dorothy — and there was a four-generation full house to sing Brett in with the birthday cake. It was a lot of noisy and yummy fun that carried on around the dinner table until midnight.

Day 2 at the nearby KOA campground was the first of many such stops for Grandma & Grandpa, who have traded in their bumpy fifth wheel for the smooth (and sumptuous) ride of a beautiful Magellan motor home. The whole family piled in for a look-see. It’s astonishingly large: somebody (Jacquie) can go ahead and “get more kids,” as Sam terms it. They’ll fit! From the soft white leather couch, Sam called out to Charlie: “This is just like a house, hey? Only it has seatbelts!” The campground was an even bigger revelation: people can live like this? Pools. Playgrounds. Giant checkerboard sets. A picnic for every meal. Sam was impressed. And Carter’s face nearly fell right off in shocked despair when we told him it was time to pack up. I think he felt we’d moved in to Paradise (we had brought suitcases…). So we may be in the market for a tent trailer next summer.

Somewhere in the fun family chaos, Babybel took her first assisted steps down the length of the coffee table (we baited her with Cheerios). She’ll be tearing off in the direction of the playground with the big boys in no time. With cousins a-plenty, there'll never be a dull moment! (On a sidenote, we got Janey a full Nordic spa day with her sisters. Apparently, there's no admittance to anyone under 18. We barely noticed that when we picked it out.... ;-)

The Meaning of Brown

While sitting at the breakfast table this morning, Sam cast curious glances at my cereal bar. Pushing his bowl away, he casually asked, "What's that?" and I explained that it was a healthy breakfast bar that grown-ups liked. He followed up with "Is it allergic to children?", and I laughed and replied that most kids weren't allergic to them, no, but that some might find them too dry. Did he want to try a piece? He nodded eagerly. I started to tell him that it was sweeter than it looked, expecting him to take a cautious nibble. Instead, he popped the whole chunk into his mouth and got to chewing. Obviously surprised, he slowed down the chewing pace and swallowed with difficulty. Then he pointed to the wrapper on the table and asked, with a hint of betrayal in his voice, "Why are the words written in chocolate?" That would explain it. Given the large dark brown font of the ALL BRAN lettering, Sam was counting on something a tad sweeter. And now he's learned there's no judging a snack by its wrapper.

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: :)

Ungrounded at the Fair Grounds

Here are a few pics of Sammy enjoying the midway rides at Andrew Haydon Park's Canada Day party. In the first, he's giggling on the upswing of the ferris wheel, as relaxed as if he was enjoying a mere piggy-back ride. In the second, he's offering a frozen smile of fear as his carousel horse giddy-ups its 4 inches of post before plunging recklessly back towards the earth. The twin sides of Sam make fair going an interesting prospect.

Sam has never cared to venture to the second level of the McDonald's Play Place climbing structure: he finds plenty to do on the ground level. At Cosmic Adventures, he sticks close to the ball pools and gentle grade slides, ignoring the sky-high tubing and twirly slides. So when he spotted the ferris wheel from the parking lot (3 or 4 miles away ;-) we figured his interest would evaporate when he got a closer look. When it didn't, I had my money on him ducking out of the line-up as soon as we got to the stairway. That's what Carter did. Suddenly remembered that his mom had told him he wasn't big enough for ferris wheels. I didn't blame him. I was getting a little nervous myself.

But Sam was steadfast. Asked once or twice (or 6 times) if this ride went upside down. Then he handed over his tickets and plunked into his seat. I crossed my fingers that we wouldn't be halted at the top to let on more riders. So, of course, that's exactly what happened. Sam asked if the wheel was breaking. I tried very hard not to look closely at the rusty bolts as I assured him otherwise and braced for his freak out. But he took the "up in the sky" opportunity to check out the full midway and choose other rides to go on. Surprising. When we lurched over the apex Sam gleefully declared, "I'm CRAZY FROOOOOOGGG!!" (thinking of how that character zooms off the end of buildings on his invisible flying motorcycle.)

It was a blast. He narrated the whole ride in his goofy way, once proclaiming at the height of the wheel, "I have a monster under my bed!!" - a nod to the book-on-tape we were listening to on the short drive in. The kids in front of us turned around to laugh. He was the happiest boy on the wheel. Sam, of all kids.

Emboldened by his ferris wheel experience, Sam then decided to take on the Tilt-o-Whirl with Daddy and Carter. They loved it. Until the ride started. Three minutes later, I begged the operator to let Sam off. While Carter and Jeremy looked merely ill, Sammy was terrified. Too scared to cry, his face was a mask of "this railing is going to break and I'm going to be flung to my death" fear. Was awful, but he recovered quickly. Carter proclaimed a number of times, "That was a mistake. We're never going to do that again." He repeatedly verified the name of the ride, committing it to memory on the "Forget It" list. The rest of the morning was pleasant, tho. They went nuts in the jumpy castle; rode motor boats, and spinning strawberries and motorcycles and carousel horses; fed some sheep and goats at the petting zoo; got a maple leaf tattoo; and decided on candy floss as their treat.

When we were down to the last of the tickets, we lined up at the ferris wheel again. Sam's request. He enjoyed a rare opportunity to try talking Carter into attempting something: the shoe is not usually on that foot. Brave as he tried to be, Carter began trembling and chewing nervously on his shirt sleeves as we neared the front of the line. Jeremy gave him the bumper car out and the two of them ducked away.

So Sam and I finished the Canada Day fair the way we started it. With giggles and silly talk and sightseeing together on the ferris wheel. The ferris wheel.

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....)