Ring Bearer

A year ago today, Sam suited up in his fanciest duds ever and served as a ring bearer in Jacquie and Brent's wedding. He, Carter and Anabel made terrific attendants, adding just the right cute factor without doing anything overshadowingly worthy of America's Funniest Home Videos. Well, Carter split his chin open on the hotel's waterslide stairway a few hours before the ceremony, and hospital staff had to be pleaded with to sneak his stitches in promptly without angering the sick-and-injured droves in the waiting room and without Tracey fainting... but that all happened out of sight of the guests.

The wedding itself was a lovely affair, held in a beautiful white wooden church... and that's on account of Hurricane Juan bearing down on the Atlantic, which made the move to the indoor venue seem wise. Stitches and a hurricane—there was little chance of Sam, even at his most theatrical, stealing the bride's (or the storm's) thunder! The week's run-up to the Big Day was filled with the this and that and the other thing of prepping for a wedding. The boys helped to make sugar cookies for the post-ceremony tea, but for the most part they simply steered clear of the grown-ups and their To Do lists, opting for such things as coating themselves head to foot in red clay and running down hills with sticks. We were happy they were happy.

At the wedding rehearsal, however, the boys paid careful attention to their important roles. Without the rings, the whole thing was moot, really. They practiced their ceremonial walk, learned where to stand, got a feel for what kind of attention they'd get. "What if I forget what to do?" Sam worried. "Just carry that box up the aisle," I answered. "Brent will reach for it when you get close." As it turns out, the reverand reached for it and Sam shot a quick, terrified look over his shoulder, searching for me in the pews. Someone must have given him a smiling "all clear" before he spotted me, because he visibly relaxed and then paid as much attention to the ceremony as he could. The stained glass windows were a real attention grabber. All the while, however, he kept the same expression on his face: a comically-subdued happiness, as though a full blown smile would be inappropriate while people were talking about love being patient and kind.

The reception was a huge hit! After a delicious buffet dinner (and does it get any better than 25 feet of pick-and-choose yummies?) the tables were shuffled aside and the DJ got spinning. It took some of the guests a few warm-up songs before they hit the dance floor, but the 5-and-under set got their groove on right from the get-go. It was hilarious watching their musical interpretations—somehow channeling the breakdancing and robotic stylings of their mothers' youth. Hilarious. 22-month old Anabel's ruby red slippers and helium balloon tied to the wrist gave her wings to run the length of the hall and back until midnight. I zoomed in too far for this "between dances" close-up, but I had to include it—for Sam's arm slung over Carter's chair, for Carter's loosened tie...

Of course, I can't blog about Jacquie's wedding on the date of her 1st anniversary without including a shot of the ceremony. My camera caught much first-pew and wedding party action and bald spots, but it also records the last moment's of Jake's (Babe's!) single life. We're so happy to have been part of this special occasion. Thank you, Jacq, for including Sam: it really meant the world to him.

General Knowledge

I have no idea how I got to be the mother of a six-year-old boy living in Nepean without knowing that there was a ginormous outdoor pool nestled away just 0.5 kilometres off the beaten track that is Meadowlands drive. It was only when a daytrip to General Burns Park & Pool came up on the summer field trip schedule at Carleton Heights for the third summer in a row did I ask any questions. So what kind of "pool" are we talking about? A wading pool? "Oh, no—it's huge" says Amanda. "They have three diving boards."

Seriously?

That day, Sam (and everyone in the JK-SK group except Carter—props to Carts!) failed the swim test that would allow them access to the diving boards. Sam was despondant later, explaining that he only paused "druring" his test because people were calling him in another direction and he got confused. Though he had a splashy fun time, the call of the elusive diving board (so close and yet so far!) prompted me to pile the boys in the car two days later and head out to this so-called "huge pool."

It was, in a word, huge. Maximum number of bathers? 394. That's almost four hundred. This ain't no wading pool (oh, but they have a wading pool, too, for infants and toddlers, separately fenced and with a Little Tykes slide set up in the middle of it). I understand why Sam might not have mentioned this pool as a four year old, given his take on scary bodies of water you can see 10 feet down into. But after spending the week in the pool during our Key West visit, he was a transformed boy at 5 when it came to swimming. I can only surmise that he didn't ask if we could go to General Burns because it didn't occur to him that mere families could show up at pools that seemed to be populated entirely by field trip kids. Like it was in another dimension that moms couldn't access.

Well, now we know. We spent 2 hours in the water together—quite a feat for this mom, but the rules demanded it ... swimmers under the age of 8 must stay within arm's reach of a grown-up regardless of swimming ability. The boys didn't seem to mind the supervision at all (see: huge pool) and they spent more than half the time lining up for their turn on the diving boards anyways. I treaded water alongside the ladder to cheer them on and to keep an eye on the shenanigans of the bigger kids. Me and 10 lifeguards.

I was proud of the two of them for their confidence in the company of kids twice their age. Sam was shorter by at least a foot than the average diving board user, but he marched up there with the rest of them and did his cute little 180 degree turns while they did spectacular backflips and sommersaults, egging each other on to ever crazier feats. Brave Carter took his first three jumps off the X-metre board (I don't know from measurements. It was high. See top photo.), but he was drawn to the hijinx of the older boys and came back to join Sam in his line. I should have seen the spectacular bellyflop coming. I'm not sure if he was planning to flip and pulled out, or what, but he did the swan dive opening without the swan dive finish. We took a little breather after that. So he could breathe.

It was a record-breaking hot and humid day, so Red Chest didn't want to sit out for long. After another 20-minute round, though, we packed it in and headed for Baskin Robbins. A waffle cone to cap the first of what are sure to become many, many trips to General Burns pool. Here's a portrait of the cousins from Trip One.

Pirate's Life

If not for an Interaction article submission in response to a “fads & fashions” call last winter, I might never have heard tell of an annual summer event held in Alexandria Bay, New York that was seemingly tailor-made for our swashbuckling six year olds. "Bill Johnston’s Pirate Days" is a 10-day festival of all things arrghh! Sam and Carter spent Saturday in their glory, helping the town commemmorate the exploits of a famous renegade who sunkthe British steamer, Sir Robert Peel, hid among the 1000 Islands, and was hunted by U.S. and Canadian authorities.

The first order of business was pirate boat building and some scouting of the local terrain around Scenic Park. The view is spectacular, overlooking Heart Island (with its famous Boldt Castle) and a thousand other island besides, and the town itself is carved out of the rock, which crops up along roads and sidewalks and just begs for clamouring.

We got a peak at the little riverside town while parading along behind Bill himself, as he lead the charge through the village to “gather pirates” for his later invasion. The boys looked great in their homemade get-ups of cut-off jeans, a couple of Jeremy’s hacked up business shirts, pirate head gear and a practised swagger.

After terrorizing the town, we headed to Capt’s Landing—a floating restaurant around the bay from the marina—for a hearty meal and the most entertaining view the kids have ever enjoyed. Even the flotsam and jetsam (mostly flotsam) was captivating to them. And needing to get your “sea legs” just to make your way safely to “the head” was an experience in itself. “I’ve never been to the bathroom while the room was moving,” Sam shouted from the Men’s room.

Back on terra firma, we found some beach-side shade and let the boys strip down to their cut-offs and play a while in the water. They threw a happy wave at the pirate ship as it sailed by—and then high-tailed it out of the water at the first canon shot! The roar and smoke of the ensuing battle between the pirates, the steamer and the shoreline defenders, filled the air for about half an hour. Then the mayor was captured and made to walk the plank, at which point he surrendered the key to the village to the invading mauradeers. Moored alongside Scenic View Park, the pirates share the booty with the villagers (us) by flinging strings of beads into the crowd. Everyone’s a pirate!

A really hot and thirsty pirate! We headed back into town for some ice cream and a look-see at all the decorations and wares the local merchants have on display for this, their biggest event of the year. It’s crazy how happy a pair of boys can be to pick out a $3 pirate set complete with sorta-operational compass, a kinda-works spy glass and a(nother) plastic sword. Who doesn’t love a town that had streetside kiosks featuring all things skull-and-crossbone?

The two “ching-changed” in swordfight back to the car and kept up the imaginary adventure all the way home—including the hour-long stop at the 1000 Islands Skydeck, which was actually the world’s biggest crow’s nest, and whose playground featured pirate ship monkey bars and pirate ship spinny structures (at least to their minds). In fact, as we pulled in the driveway 10 hours after getting this trip underway, Sam turned to Carter and asked “So, what do you want to play? Pirates?”

The Water Park

During Sam's toddlerhood in Sandy Hill, we spent many long summer afternoons in our two neighbourhood water parks—the splash pad at Chapel Street Park and the wading pool at Strathcona Park—later moving to Owl Park (or Pirate Park, as he called it) when we became suburbanites, or nearly so. So much a part of his city-kid summer were those parks, that when Grandpa pulled out the sprinkler at Laddie Lane, two-year old Sam called out excitedly to Carter, "Wookit! A water feature!" As hectic as it could sometimes be chasing after mischevious boys, I loved our time there: our little camp in the shade, complete with picnic blanket, snacks and drinks, towels, pull-ups, sunscreen, wet wipes, dry clothes ... the list goes on—honestly, I don't know how I fit it all (plus the boys!) in the wagon.

In the last year or two, we've managed just a handful of picnics at Brewer Park, where the two-level water pads complete with a high-powered canon is only part of the attraction—Sam spends as much time on the play structures as he does enjoying the water. Maybe the fact that he's in swimming lessons now and so heading to a real pool once a week is part of the reason we've not been out to the wading pools. But I think it's really just a vague sense that he might better enjoy something else. Now that Anabel is two, however, and we're looking for activities all the kids can partake in, we've renewed our interest in visiting some of Ottawa's 56 outdoor pools this summer.

When Jacquie was in town, we spent a fun afternoon and pizza picnic at Pebble Park, the kids moving back and forth between the large wading pool and the play structure. And yesterday, we logged three blast-from-the-past hours at Strathcona Park, enjoying some play time in the shallow splash pool. In this shot, Anabel and Sam are playing catch while Carter swings in the background. The kids "dove" for rings, sailed Titanic excursions, and repeatedly climbed in an out of the pool with a beach ball (chances are you can line each activity up with the right child). We took a break to feed the ducks on the river, but otherwise the kids paused their pool play only to reapply sunscreen or slurp another juice. It was like old times.

I couldn't help pseudo-spying on some of the moms who were following close on the heels of their little ones—making sure they didn't run along the pool side, that they shared their toys nicely, that they kept their sunhats on, that they were happy. I looked at their packed strollers, their little camps in the shade, and I appreciated their efforts in a way I don't remember appreciating my own. It's wonderful to be out in the park with your toddlers, of course, but it's also an exhausting undertaking—the packing, the vigilance, the lessons, the care. Looking around the pool, you can see that it's all about the kids. Every ounce of effort is about making the day a good day for them.

Sitting in the shade for a few minutes on my own, I felt the difference between this visit and our last. Sam now moves independently between the "ruins," the swings and the pool, capable of park play without a hovering mother heading off any number of potential catastrophes. Oh, he still includes me, taking me on pretend sea voyages or asking me to watch how far he can throw bread crumbs into the river. He trusts that I'm still fully available to him, still interested in his every move. But he no longer needs me to stick close by as he ventures nervously through the water. And he doesn't need help doing up his sandals, getting the straw into his juice box, etc.etc. I'm a want, but not a need.

As I watch Tracey trail along behind Anabel (making sure she doesn't slip, that she's sharing pool toys, that she keeps her sunhat on...) I realize I'm okay with leaving the "arm's reach" stage behind. I take the phrase from the wading pool rules: parents of non-swimmers and young children must stay within arm's reach. Me, I can sit up the hill a ways, enjoying the antics from a slight remove. It's nice, this relaxing of effort. Still, it's telling that this is my favourite photo of the day. The boys are sipping juice on the picnic blanket, waiting for the attendants to re-open the pool following a chlorine treatment. True, their focus may be elsewhere, but they're still very much a part of our little family camp in the shade. In so many ways they don't yet understand, they couldn't do this without us. We're still making great days for our kids. It's what moms do.

Grad Party

Sam had his first graduation party last night (and I say “first” because, if he’s anything like his mother, there may be a six more graduations in his future). Only 3 of his 16 fellow students were able to make it, but they—together with Carter & Anabel and Lucas & Yasmeen—made up in energy what we lacked in numbers. The kids thundered up and down the stairs, drawn equally (but undecidedly) between the pirate gear and costume trunk in Sam’s room and the couch fort and Hot Wheels sets in the play room. Then it seemed as though the running and shrieking (and Sam did most of the shrieking) was the game itself.

Why weren’t we outside for the SK Graduation BBQ? Well, because it poured on us. Again (just for the duration of the party, actually. It was sunny at arrival and departure). Here’s a shot of Daddy at the grill—he’s pulled it up against the house in an effort to stay dry beneath the eaves. We’d tried to postpone the whole event, but people who hadn’t received the message pulled into the driveway shortly after we arrived home from work, so we made a few calls and scurried about getting hot dogs on the BBQ, thawing out the giant cake, and setting up for our on again-off again celebration.

Last week, I was feeling a little melancholy about Sam’s move to the primary program. That may be in part because he completed kindergarten on the day that both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, I’m certain: my son graduates into grade school just as the biggest pop icons of my youth pass away. He seemed to be growing up too fast, changing in leaps and bounds before our eyes. But last night I was reminded again of just how young 6 is. Masked and caped and weilding foam swords, these squealing kids played tag, got icing on their noses, cried about having to leave, and hugged each other into a big heap on the front porch.

It was two hours of mayhem and Sam had a hoot. He’s been asking to host a class party for over a year now, and it was nice to fulfil a promise to him—however small the group. He certainly gets a kick out of entertaining people at his house. So I imagine it won’t be long before he comes up with another reason to gather his friends for some food and fun (he might get that from his mother, too, along with this notion that goofing for the camera with your friends is about as much fun as anyone can have at a party). Maybe next time, he'll get to show them his back yard.

Congratulations, kindergarten graduate. We love you.

Silly Fun

We kicked off the second half of the boys’ summer vacation by taking advantage of some of the free clowning around going on in Ottawa this August long weekend. On Sunday, Gatineau hosted the Red Bull Flugtag competition, billed this way: “32 wild and wacky teams from across the country will be strapping themselves to their totally outrageous flying machines and launching them off a 30-foot ramp into the wild blue yonder, and ultimately, straight into the Ottawa River.” Now that’s entertainment!

We figured there’d be a sizeable crowd, so we crossed the bridge a few hours before show time. Jeremy used beach towels to stake out a section of lawn next to the judging platform, while Trace and I took the kids to the nearby Children’s Museum to play for a few hours. The event kicked off with four skydivers spilling out of a Cessna overhead and then twirling through the air to land one right after the other on the launch platform—a few of them zipped low over the riverside crowds. Carter’s already asked where we can go to see that again (a tough question!).

We endured the hot summer sun for two hours, watching teams put on short comedy skits and then fling themselves off the end of the two-story high platform in a bid to fly. Sam had his money on anything shaped like a bird or a plane, but most of those machines flipped over and fell straight into the river. We did catch the winning team— Surf and the City—whose fashionistas used a cardboard taxicab to launch a pink handglider-type contraption 82 feet. The whole thing was hilarious! When I tucked Sam in that night, he enthused, “I loved the flugtag: if I didn’t get the chance to go, I would have cried my whole house down!” High praise…

The next day we headed downtown again, this time to the Sparks Street Busker Festival. We spent a couple of hours in the Kid Zone, alternating our attention between a pair of street performers and the large slide ride set up in the shadow of the Parliament buildings. Skateboard tricks, firey batons, sword swallowing, cotton candy and a slide ride? What’s not to love here? We spotted Nick & Debbie on the street and so added Michael to our little party: it was cute to see the three boys cross-legged in the front row chatting about the performers. “He didn’t actually swallow the sword … He just stuck it in and pulled it back out.”

I read later that 50,000 people flocked to the Flugtag and 250,000 people took in the 4-day Busker Festival, but somehow I still felt a little best-parent-in-the-world satisfied when we called it a day on the holiday Monday afternoon and tumbled the happy and tired group back into the car to head home. Sure, we made the same plans as hundreds of other families, but it still feels good to design a whole weekend around making the kids laugh.

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" ...

Email Memorybank - Sam at 16 months

Cleaning out the 1448 messages in my Yahoo Sent Mail recently, I came across a bunch of notes I wrote to an out-of-town friend during Sam's baby- and toddlerhood. It was a lot of fun reading through them, and I quickly realized that the stories need to be transferred to I Have a Word for You. So I'll do that over the next few weeks. Here's an excerpt from a Summer of 2004 letter.

Sam's been tons of fun and is transforming before our very eyes—the language leaps and bounds being the most obvious brain-boggler. He's still relying on a whole lot of babble to make convo (with the most unfortunate phrase coming out as "my bitch, BITCH!"... can't figure out for the life of us what he's trying to say) and sometimes he just walks around saying "judge, judge, judge"... But he can ask for "apple juice" and "COOKIES!" (by which he means all food. Potatoes are cookies) and tell me when he has "poopy bum" or wants to "go outside" or have "more books" (that one sounds like 'MO boot'). It's really quite amazing to be talking to our boy. And with that, it seems, comes a whole new level of imaginative play. For part of the day, he turns every object in the house from hairbrushes to spatulas into "carrrrs" and "trutches", and then suddenly all his stuffed animals are "shhhh! BAY-beeeess" and he's kissing them and tucking them into makeshift beds. It's a nice mix. Playgroup helps with that, I'm sure, since—at this age at least—all of the toy stations hold a certain appeal. I've been force-fed many plates of plastic food this summer.

So the days have been pretty much what I expected. A nice routine divided between the groups, the parks and errands. Weekends divide between special outings with Daddy, or just lazing about :) The pools were a bust—he's TOTALLY freaked out by the water. And, really, it was a victory getting him back in the bath after the Hand, Foot and Mouth troubles and then a bathroom ceiling collapse and repair that left a horrifying gaping hole over the tub that I kept trying to tape receiving blankets over. Plenty of sponge baths in the bedroom for a while there. Enjoyed several weekend trips to the cottages, which is always lots of fun. Shame it's for sale: Mom and Dad are prepping for a BC retirement in 18 months.

Have had Carter 2ce a week for most of the summer. Some days are crazy fun, though they tend to run in opposite directions in the park, giggling with glee. However, Carter (God love him) is a real Bam-Bam and went through hair-pulling and biting stages that not only pained Sam physically but wounded him to the very core of his sensitive heart. He sometimes burst into tears when Carter made EYE contact, sensing mischevious intent! And when Sam decided to stand up to his bruiser of a cousin, it was in necessarily underhanded ways—the running knockdown from behind, the finger poke in the eye. There was much smash-and-grab and shriek-and-cry on our bad days, and we wondered if this is indeed what it means to love one another "like brothers!" On the good days, they're all smiles and kisses and sharing and fun. No matter what, Sam's face lights up every morning when he spies "Cargo" pulling up out front for drop-off, and he races to meet him in the hallway.

Trace and I usually meet Saturday mornings and grab a Second Cup to go, sitting between the boys in some sandhill or another while we catch up. Should be getting that call shortly. In the meantime, Sam's talking to his shadow (he calls himself "Mam"). I think he could use some human interaction ....

Same as it (N)ever Was

Sam and I started the day by reading, for the first time together, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel. I don't know how many times I read it in grade school: it was one of my all-time favourites. My Grade 3 report card says "Angela can write interesting stories independantly. Her pictures include much action and detail." I'm quite certain those are kudos for my innumerous Mike Mulligan prequels. Sam's Scholastic book order included a DVD of four animated shorts, one of which was a dramatic reading of Mike and Mary Anne's story. Watching them, I marvelled at how lucky Sam is to be growing up in this techo-advanced world. He'd laughed at us the other day—thinking we were pulling his leg—when he explained that there were no DVDs, VCRs, TiVo or pausing live TV when we were kids. The tagline of a (really) old Milk-Mate commercial, introducing the revolutionary concept of a liquid additive to make chocolate milk, comes to mind—a 5-year-old boy lets his toddler brother know that "things sure are better than when I was a little kid!"

Then, this afternoon, I peeled four fresh strawberry-flavoured Twizzlers from the sticky bunch as a treat for Sam and Carter. The smell of the candy brought back a strong sensory memory of being on summer road trips through the interior of British Columbia, and mom passing Twizzlers to the sisters in the back seat. I used to nibble away at mine like a hamster, making it last. Funny that Sam does the same thing now. Later, when I spotted the boys engaged in a fast-paced game of Trouble, I realized that some things are exactly the same for Sam as they were for me 35 years ago. Trouble, Perfection, Lite Bright, slinky and Playdo are all among Sam's toys as they were mine. I'd have been perfectly at home with his craft buckets, too, stocked as they are with Crayola crayons and markers, pipe cleaners, popsicle sticks, Laurentian pencil crayons, and Elmer's glue. I loved all that stuff.

Sam and I have watched many of my favourite Looney Toons, laughing together at the "hello, my baby!" frog who won't perform for anyone but the man who discovers him in the time capsule of an old cornerstone, at the crazy antics of Wile E. Coyote, who just can't outwit the Roadrunner or Sam the sheepdog. And Sam shares our love of The Princess Bride, the early Star Wars movies, Swiss Family Robinson, E.T. and other movies from our youth. There are plenty of everyday things in common, too. He wears Levi's jeans, Converse shirts and Scooby-doo undies (okay, I didn't have the undies, but I loved Scooby-doo). He breakfasts on Quaker oats, lunches on Schneider's deli meats, smiles over a mug of Carnation hot chocolate, and savours the occasional vanilla cream Girl Guide cookie. And I've heard him humming "You can't always get what you want..."

Granted, it's unlikely he'll ever (be allowed to) play in the creek until the streetlights come on, see a drive-in movie, or take disco lessons (a-hem). But I bet I'll continue to be as surprised by the overlaps in our childhood experiences as I am by the ways his world has so widely diverged from mine. Time for bedtime milk (Neilson's), bubble bath (Johnson's), p.j.'s (Superman) and then one more reading of Mike Mulligan and his last adventure with his outmoded steam engine, Mary Anne. Electric- and deisel-powered shovels rendered her sadly obsolete. No mention in that book of solar power, hybrid technology, hydrogen fuel, or ethanol. I wonder if Sam's kids will read it, too.

Cannamore Amour

Every year since Sam and Carter could walk, Trace and I have taken them out to the apple orchard on a sunny Saturday in late September. In 2004, '05 and '06, we made the one hour trip to Balderson for some pick-your-own fun. There is an old caboose on the property, outfitted with tables and chairs and a fun little loft. The boys usually tore around in there for a while before we all climbed aboard the farmer's hay wagon for the three-minute rumble to the dwarf trees.

After filling up our bags and buying up some fresh cider and orchard honey, we loaded the bounty into the car and headed for the nearby cheese shop and chocolate factory for a few more traditional treats. We passed almost as much time watching the boys decide which shape they wanted their chocolate-on-a-stick to take as we did in the orchard itself. But we didn't mind. Those shops smelled wonderful and were brightly decorated for fall: it was almost like spending time at the home of Quintessential Grandma. In fact, in those early years, the boys took a seat right there on the floor to eat their chocolate.

Last year, there was a little glitch in the tradition: Balderson had a scant crop, so we arrived to signs indicating that we could buy apples from the shop and tour the orchard on the hay wagon, but we couldn't pick our own. It was somewhat disappointing, but still a really lovely day. This year, however, Balderson didn't get a saleable crop at all. Seems a number of neighbouring orchards suffered the same fate. The ones that did produce a good crop were overwhelmed by demand in early September and had run clean out of pick-your-own. Our tradition was about to take a twist.

After a quick survey of our choices, we settled on Cannamore Orchards about half an hour from here. It offered not only the necessary elements of this favourite tradition—the beautiful drive, the wagon ride, and the nice-smelling gift shop—but also a great play field with a 'climb aboard' train, and fish pond, some mazes, and a choice of picnic areas. We met up with Danielle, Tristan and Simon and Anne-Marie, Dave and Other Sam for lunch and some afternoon fun in the Indian Summer sun. We spent three hours there, and it was so pleasant we could easily have whiled away several more (the adults whiled; the kids whirled).

Trace and I missed the pleasures of pick-your-own, but the boys didn't seem to notice—it has been half their lives now since we got out there in the trees. Next year, we'll have to plan for early September orchard trips. To Balderson and to Cannamore. We want to support our (chronological) first choice when it's back in business, but we have a new (preferential) first choice we'll be frequenting, too. I wonder how long it'll be before the orchard charms are upstaged by requests to visit the terrifying Haunted House or go on the after-dark Spooky Wagon Ride with its flying monsters and body snatchers? For now, they're happy tearing around the grounds, sampling apple butter and pumpkin fudge, and playing at being "spooky guys" themselves....

Sam-san, "Crotty" Kid

Sam is now officially a force to be reckoned with, the newest “crotty" kid on the block. He signed up and suited up at the Bergeron Karate Centre last night, where Carter has been a member for a few months. Sam had to mull it over, weighing the pros and cons of involving himself in an activity that is simultaneously cool art, cool sport and cool self-defence. In the end, his worries crystallized thusly: “What if everyone else has an outfit, and I don’t?” I thought he might be concerned about performing for his sensei or not keeping up with the tip-earning progress of the Little Dragons group. On the contrary, he needed to know he’d fit in fashion-wise…

So there he is in his cool “gi,” looking the part. The class started while he was still trying to tie the thing up in 4 places, but he came scampering out of the change room to join the “courtesy, discipline, respect” bows-in-progress with an air of such entitlement and capability that I was teary with pride before he even introduced himself to the instructor. From the get-go, he was unusually (for him) engrossed in the training: he didn’t so much as glance at us for at least 20 minutes … and we were sitting 5 feet away. After that, he shot us only occasional looks of happy self-satisfaction, a smile that seemed to say: “I’m nailing the high block, hey?”

Our son was, in fact, almost unrecognizable. Where’s the boy who hangs back from the group and loses interest within minutes, finally wandering away to do something on his own? Sam-san is clearly here to learn. He wasn’t fazed in the least by being the only newbie. He half-fumbled his way through most of the stretch exercises and the motions of ready position (instead of quickly crossing his arms across his body before firing them out and down, he pounds his chest like a dominant ape - it’s pretty cute). He never lost confidence, even mouthing along while the boys around him counted off their sit-ups in Japanese. And his comfort level with the instructors was made obvious by the fact that when it was his turn to walk the circle in “Ninja, Ninja, Turtle” (the ancient Chinese equivalent of “Duck, Duck, Goose”) he turtled his sensei and raced him back to his seat.

At times, his supreme efforts to mimic the sensei made us giggle. When the boys were posed together in a faux photograph and asked to stay perfectly still for 10 seconds (an exercise in discipline) the group was a stony tableau, right up until the instructor slowly raised an imaginary camera to his face to take the picture. Kneeling in the disciplined front row, Sam mirrored his actions precisely, lifting his own camera to his face. You could see the cogs working: “Copy the tall one. Copy the tall one..”

The sharp learning curve aside, he’s already showing signs of sheer genius, of course. Just try to strike a super-slo-mo kitten blow to the side of his calf and watch the block, baby! (actually, the block is delivered in a relatively respectful and subdued manner; it’s the follow-up high five, powered by pride, that has the quality of agile attack). But who knows how far their initial interest will take Sam and Carter? For now, it’s a lot of fun to watch them jump into something so eagerly. And in such cute outfits.

It's All Greek to Sam

We live at the point of “high tide” for the annual Ottawa Greek Fest: if there are a row of cars parked out front on any given night, then it’s a full house up at the Hellenic Centre. The neighbourhood has been a crowded parking lot these last few days, and the whirling sounds of Greek festivities have been a Siren song through the open windows, inviting us to “live a day the Greek way.”

So we took the kids up there after dinner (have you seen the food tent line-ups?) and numbered ourselves among the 70,000 people who come out every year for the fun. With Trace and Anabel looking on, Sam and Carter and I joined the Greek folk dancing lesson. Easy-peasy: hold hands, head counter-clockwise and 1-2-3-left kick, right-kick, and again…1-2-3..” We’re dancing! The boys really wanted to join the large circle of grown-ups and big kids, but I knew that we’d end up in a pile on the ground when the music tempo picked up. So we spun around outside the official circle, Greek dancer wannabes tripping over each other and laughing to the beat of the music. Opa!

Then the organizers cleared the floor for the Cretan Association, who demostrated several national dances in colourful traditional dress that Carter roundly denounced as being “not real: that’s not how dancers dress.” Ain’t no MTV. After a minute or two of looking on, tho, he asked if he could run up and join them. When we explained that this part was a performance and not a lesson, he announced: “um, ya, I wanna go now.” “Me, too!” Sam piped up. Too loud for him suddenly. Just stand and watch? Bo-ring…

So we wound our way out of the crowd in time to meet up with Jeremy, Paul & Siobhan coming out of the food tents, trays laden down. We found seats near the blow-up bouncy castle jumper and 25 foot high slide ride and took turns lining up with the excited boys. Sam soothed his "younger" cousin's fears with the classic "I'll be right there with you, Carter." One trip and they were hooked. They repeatedly rope-climbed up the slide and came barrelling down the steep incline, shrieking. How marvellous of the Greeks to give us slide rides. Coins? Maps? Democracy? Shrug. The hypotenuse in slide form? Now that’s an impressive cultural achievement. Props to Pythagoras.

As the sun set, we all enjoyed some gargantuan baklava, let loose our grips on the blue Greek fest balloons, sending them soaring into the clouds, and then ambled home for bed with sleepy and satisfied kids. I think Plato had it wrong when he said that it is the good and beautiful things in life that are hard to attain; that was actually pretty easy. The trick now is getting Sam to go to sleep despite the tantalizing sounds of the not-so-distant festival drifting over the neighbourhood.