Needles

So the day after I post The Black Squiggle, a story that ties Sam tightly to me through shared delusions of terror, he strides into the house and proves he's no son of mine. "Look at this!" he happily mumbles, pointing at his face where a twisted smile is playing over his puffed-up top lip. I've been home with a nasty cold, so I spent a dazed moment or two thinking that maybe Sam was showing off the damaging results of his first school-yard brawl ("but you should see the other guy..").

Then I remembered that he's just back from the dentist. We'd called Dr. Archibald after his accident at swimming lessons last week—he'd smashed his mouth on the tiled edge of the pool during a game and spit out (to his horror) a wedge from the back of his brand new front tooth. "You needed to have it repaired, eh?" I asked, aiming for nonchalance. But my knees went a little weak when I followed up with, "Did you get a freezing needle?" Even as I write that, I feel faint.

My mother can attest to the teams—literally, teams—of medical and dental professionals who have had to hold me down when someone so much as cast a suspicious glance towards a syringe. And my little boy just had one poked right into the front of his face. "Ya," he answered breezily, distracted by the satisfying image of his distorted lip in the mirror. "But she put some cream on it first, so it was no big deal." Sure, that numbing cream is very nice, but to this day I have to close my eyes before the needle looms into view or there's a good chance I'll punch someone. How can my child fail to grasp the horror of that cold metallic instrument stabbing its way through his gums? I mean, seriously, Sam goes zero-to-hysteria in five seconds flat at the sight of a pinprick's worth of his own blood. So where does he get the dentist needle bravado?

Must be an Ashe thing.

Sam-a-bel

Just a few days after Sam and I returned from Nova Scotia, Tracey, Carter and Anabel took their (longer) turn, enjoying 10 awesome days out there. With our staggered vacation schedule, the kids spent just 3 days in 21 together. We've come nowhere near that kind of separation since their births. Now Sam’s such an in-the-moment child that he made it most of the way through the full week in child care before saying anything about it. Then, two days before their return, he mentioned that he really wanted to show Carter and Anabel his alien craft, pausing just a second before adding “I miss my cousins.”

What struck me as especially sweet was that Sam factored Anabel in as an equal. Just like that, it seems, she’s stepped over a nearly imperceptible line. No longer an add-on baby cousin whose more an extension of Tracey than a real playmate, she’s become someone Sam can converse with about little three-eyed aliens named Ripper who are floating in a specimen jar filled with green water on the kitchen windowsill.

Of course, it’s been happening by degrees. As soon as she was barely capable of speech and stair climbing, Anabel was making her cheery way up to the boys’ rooms in the wake of their thundering excitement calling, “Don’t worry boys! I’m coming!” Back then, they barely registered her arrival, and any attention paid came in the form of steering her away from their pirate forts and towards something she might be happy taking downstairs with her. Alone. “ANA-BEL, NO!” we’d sometimes hear, just prior to a door being slammed and a rejected little girl bursting into tears. It’s tough being the baby sister, especially when it’s two against one.

But in the last couple of months, Anabel has become more sure on her feet and more articulate: she’s playing ball and hide-and-seek, and she can follow the pirate plot enough to act out some of Sam’s favourite books. “Let’s go to Sleepy Island!” is a common refrain right now as she angles in on the sailing adventure. It helps that she and Sam have had several solo playdates while Carter is out with his dad. The two of them get along like a house on fire, Anabel thrilled with Sam’s undivided attention and enthusiastic willingness to keep the game fun for her. So smitten with him is she that she’s been known to say that “Sammy is my best friend ebber-ebber-ebber!” We dubbed the happy pair "Sam-a-bel" on Sunday.

Add in summer playstructures and splash pads, where Anabel is just about as comfortable as the boys are, and the age gap between them is becoming less noticeable as the season wears on. These days, it's not so much "the boys and Anabel" as it is "the kids." At this pace, she'll be calling the shots next summer and Sam'n'Carter won't mind at all. Though there is some talk of a "No girls allowed" sign on the treehouse.

Hmmm. We'll see about that.

Hockey Day in Canada

Sam is a five-year-old boy living in the capital city of Hockey Nation—it's high time he strapped on the blades. Actually, it's been high time for about a year, but he tends to edge slowly towards such athletic endeavors, trying the idea rather than the equipment on for size. Then came Hockey Day in Canada, and Jeremy decided to get himself suited up for a return to the sport. Sam went along on the shopping trip, agreeing to a new helmet since he was thinking maybe he'd consider walking on the outdoor ice rink in his boots. Something magical happened at Play it Again Sports, however, and he came home with the helmet and elbow pads and shin pads and a new pair of cool hockey skates. And a big smile.

On a gorgeously sunny afternoon, Sam laced up his first pair of skates for the first time and crawled to his feet at the edge of a snow-dusted rink in McGregor Easson park. Carter, who's been taking lessons this season, confidently made his way across the ice, step-gliding its length and tossing back pointers. Sam was initially reluctant to field too many instructions from his cousin and his parents, pleading in his characteristic way "Can I do the lesson later? I just want to skate!" But he was far less frustrated than I expected him to be, picking himself up from falls, never complaining that it was too difficult simply to keep his balance nevermind put one foot in front of the other. I knew he had an Alfredson-inspired vision of himself making effortless loops of the rink, but he didn't seem to be disappointed by these baby step towards the NHL.

On the contrary, Sam was happy to hold on tight to Daddy as he gradually got a feel for the ice and a sense of how to move on it. Then he watched from a sideline snowbank while Jeremy "put on a hockey show," as Sam put it, marvelling at his fancy footwork, backwards skating and quick stops. That's when Trace and Anabel and I made our way back to the house. The boys spent another hour on the rink together, like good Canadians.

Check out the video!

KW - Chapter 2: Mesmerized

If the number one Key West surprise was the boggling amount of time Sam spent in the pool (see Chapter 1), then the number two surprise was the way he enjoyed a single hour touring the Key West Butterfly & Nature Conservatory on Duval Street. I'd been anxious to go ever since hearing about Jacquie & Brent's tour while they were down visiting, but I wasn't sure how my nearly 5-year-old boy would respond to the suggestion that we stop and smell the flowers. And watch butterflies do the same. It's not that Sam has any sort of hyperactivity disorder: he can be perfectly calm when it's called for. And it's not that I worried he'd have uncontrollable little boy urges to stomp on the poor unfortunate winged insects who'd chosen to land on the cobblestone path in front of him. No, I simply imagined that he'd have no patience for the serenity, no interest in the little miracles — and so I would be managing a child rather than communing with nature.

What I didn't expect at all was that Sam would be awe-struck from the moment we stepped into the greenhouse. Hundreds of butterflies were fluttering among the most beautiful garden walk you can imagine—winding among exotic flowering plants and trees, over a stream and through gazebos. A small butterfly lit on the flowers directly in front of Sam and we crept close to watch it open and close its beautiful wings in the sunshine. Up ahead on the pathway, Grandma and Grandpa motioned for us to come peak into a yellow finch's nest. "Let's go see, Sam" I suggested. Without breaking his butterfly gaze, he answered slowly and quietly, "I'm just going to stay here for a minute." He was mezmerized.

Together, we wound through the conservatory pathway and back twice, watching countless butterflies in flight, at rest, muching on fruit, pollinating flowers — even hatching out of their cocoons (well, we missed the actual breakthrough, but the newborns were still dewy and tentative). The highlight of the visit happened when a Blue Morpho jumped on to my wrist and then agreed to crawl onto Sam's arm, where it hitched a ride for a few minutes. He grinned in happy amazement the whole time. That species (shimmering blue while in flight, but the plain brown of tree bark when its wings are closed) is the featured butterfly of the conservatory, and the staff told Sam it was a sign of good luck that it chose to ride on his arm.

In the gift shop, Sam helped Grandma and Grandpa choose a piece of butterfly art for their birthdays. And we picked up a little postcard of a Blue Morpho. We'll hang it in the bathroom next to the little glass jar of seashells we collected from Madeira Beach in 2006. A little Florida corner to remind us of peaceful holiday moments, of quiet walks together, of amazing sights on distant shores.

KW - Chapter 1: Sam Swims

Sam didn't have to think long and hard about his favourite part of our week in Key West. Was it the Dolphin Research Centre? The Pirate Soul Museum? The Butterfly Conservatory? Was it spending seven whole days playing in the tiki hut and on the ocean waterfront of his grandparents' beautiful RV lot, the centre of their attention — and his mom at his beck & call, to boot? Well, ya, that was all wonderful of course. He wouldn't have missed any of it. But the trip highlights happened at the Bluewater pool. Sam became a swimmer in Key West.

The pool was our first (and last) holiday stop. On day one, Sam was his usual tentative self. No water baby, this one, he claimed the sweeping stairway into the shallow end as his private playground. He was wet, but he wasn't "in the pool."Cautiously, however, he began to test our assertions that the water wasn't over his head at the bottom stair. Just 3 feet deep along the shallow wall, he found he could easily walk about, at least one hand on the side. By the time we packed up, he was expanding his territory, pinning his mouth shut and wading in to nearly-nose deep. Pretty impressive, considering it used to take a full day on Laddie Lane before he'd think about leaving the stairs. We had to coax him out, promising there'd be a lots of time for swimming.

But I had no idea how much time we'd end up clocking at the pool. We went morning and afternoon for the rest of the week, spending 3-4 hours total there each day. And, at that, Sam was always disappointed when it was time to go. On Day two, we brought the pool noodle down and it became Sam's "boat," taking him around the shallow end for hours and finally (horsey style) around the full pool, with one hand on me (I was cast as Elizabeth Swann to his Will Turner for the duration. Believe me, it's more than a little weird to be called "Miss Swann" and to be the object of hours of dramatic infatuation when you're trying to surreptitiously teach your son to swim...). Sam's sustained effort was exhausting, and he fell asleep in my arms almost every afternoon as we lounged in the tiki hut, restoring his energy for a second swim.

On day five, Sam agreed to waterwings—an unthinkable prospect in the past, treated as though they were inflatable concrete slabs, sure to cause swift watery death. Within minutes, he was repeatedly racing the length of the pool thanks to his "muscles," cheering over and over "Canada wins!" He wasn't simply bobbing about: he was "swimming" like he'd been at it all this time. If I tried to offer a suggestion—cup your hands, kick your legs under the water—he'd shout back "I know!" as though he'd been in lessons and had heard it all before. It was a joy and a relief to watch. A joy because he never stopped smiling and laughing, and a relief because I thought he was going to have to be forced to learn to swim ... when he was 10.

By the end of the week, Grandma and Grandpa had Sam jumping in to them, sending huge waves over their heads and soaking his own as well (this, the boy who can hardly stand having his hair washed: oh the horrors of a trickle of water down the face, the terrors of water in the ears!). Grandma laughs that he'll likely end up as an Olympic swimmer now that he's conquered his fears. While he may not become an international champion, he's a champion to me. I'll not miss the look of abject terror, the fingers clawed into my shoulders as we move about the shallow end locked in an uncomfortable embrace. Unexpectedly, our Key West memories mark the divide between the boy who won't swim and the boy who won't get out of the pool.

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....

Heart on his Sleeve

Sam’s been marking the days off the calendar all month in a slow-as-molasses countdown to Valentine’s Day. It’s not about candy or the party in the JK room: he can’t wait to hand out tiny valentines to his friends at school. They’re Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle cards—little images of things like Michelangelo wielding a Samurai sword and saying “Let me get to the point: Happy Valentine’s Day!” Nice. Knife-point greetings. Sam loves them. There are 32 names on his school list, counting the junior child care crowd, so he’s been signing his S-A-M in batches over the last week, counting and recounting to make sure his friends are covered. “Everyone knows I’m handing out ninja turtle cards,” he confided, “Was that supposed to be a secret?”

Last night, I noticed that the teachers’ names are on the list, too. Eight of them, and we were out of ninjas. And, really, “Come out of your shell!” isn’t exactly an expression of childlike regard for a teacher. So we sat down after dinner last night and made up some good ol’fashioned homemade Valentines, with construction paper and crepe paper and glitter and googly eyes. Big smiley-happy hearts. Sam was keyed up with excitement as we walked down the hall this morning: “Ask them when we give the cards out!” he implored, apparently not wanting to appear too eager himself. And when he pulled out the bag of teacher cards at his cubicle, Katie gushed her appreciation for how beautiful they were and Sam nearly burst with pride: “I drew the smiles; I pasted the glitter hearts on…”. My last glimpse before leaving was to spy him shyly approaching a group of teachers, a handful of Valentines clutched tight to his side. Heart on his sleeve.

Funnily enough, I came across a beautiful heart in his backpack last night-plastered in stickers and lace. When I realized it said SAI across the top, I wondered for a moment if he’d taken home the wrong artwork and Sai’s mom was now unpacking a Valentine meant for me. But this was definitely Sam’s printing, the giveaway being that it actually said IAS (lefty), so I asked Sam about it. “Oh, we were making Valentine’s for our moms today, but I decided that I would give mine to Sai.” His teachers must not have noticed my little boy’s change of heart…

Jeremy and I gave Sam a Bee valentine this morning, in the spirit of those little Bee books he loved as a baby (thanks, Jillie), and he liked it so much, he decided to put it in his lunch-kit for viewing later in the day. Today, on this wonderful day of card-swapping, it would be just fine with Sam to get an XO greeting from Mom & Dad in front of all the other kids at the lunch table.

We love you, Sammy.

P.S. Got home from a family Lone Star dinner to beautiful flowers, a new novel and lovely cards—all covered in hearts—from my sweet, sweet boys :)

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

Bath-Crasher

Anabel is on the move these days, and she race-crawled her way into the washroom last night to catch Sam in the tub. She was up to her elbows in seconds, and Sam didn't seem to mind the cousin intrusion one bit.

Je t'aime beaucoup

Sam was reluctant to leave the “Pigeon Coop” and head for a new hotel on Day Two of the Road Trip. He’d unpacked his toys, learned the layout, enjoyed a late-night movie snuggled up with Daddy: he’d made a home of this “house that is not a house.” How could it get any better than a fleabag motel on the roadside of Farnham’s main strip? We, on the other hand, had high hopes for Hotel Ste.Anne in the old fort of Québec.

Vive la difference! Bumped up to a junior suite, it was even nicer than we expected. Mahogany furniture set off the double-stuffed and triple-fluffed cream comforters and pillows of the high beds. And I could happily have lived out my days in the washroom: modern fixtures, slate tiles, nice lighting. Ahhhh! We all threw ourselves on the bed, feigning a willingness to sleep through the Québec stop, so happy we were to find the room comfy and clean.

But it was 5:00 and time to check out the city. We did a little touring of the European-style streets, Sam mostly riding high on Daddy’s shoulders. The showers had caught up with us by now and sent us sporadically into a few shops or under awnings, but it was a lovely night still. We happened on a busker performance about to start and took a seat in the bleachers to watch some great juggling tricks: fire, knives, the whole nine yards. Sam was enthusiastic in his applause and prolonged “Woooooo-woo-hooooo!!” Especially so when his tall and strapping father was called up out of the crowd to brace the towering unicycle for the final act.

Starving, we threaded our way back to the Frontenac and tucked into La Crêperie for some Québecois delicacies of a different variety (having stuffed ourselves with poutine the night before). We sat on the enclosed patio, right up against one of the original walls of the fortress. Sam was nearly reverant as he pressed his hand against the stone: he and Jeremy had been talking about the chance to touch something a soldier may have touched hundreds of years ago. And Sam was even more fascinated with the folk singer who was entertaining diners with Francophone favourites on the acoustic guitar. At one point, he laid down his fork, closed his eyes and whispered earnestly, “I love this music.”

We were just finishing up our chocolate hazelnut dessert crepe when the darkened skies split open and dumped a pounding rain onto the city. The awnings shook from the force and rivers sluiced down the fortress walls in the few seconds it took to gather Sam and run into the restaurant. Somehow, the sun was still shining on the turret tops of the hotel—an oxymoronic sight given the ferocity of the downpour. Sam’s wide eyes kept searching ours for signs that everything would be okay. And it was, about 5 minutes later. A large rainbow hung over the St Lawrence as we sauntered, full-bellied and happily weary from the long day, back to those comfy beds.

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.

Bloom is on the Rose

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

Sweet Surprises

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

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

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

"WE MADE YOUR BED!"

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