Bus Kid

The summer re-cap is to follow, but — for now — here's a picture worth a thousand words. It's also been 1,825 days coming. Sam's been a "drop-off" kid at CHCCC/CHPS since September 2006. Today, he became a "bus kid." He climbed aboard at 8:44 this morning, and I'll meet him back there at 3:35 this afternoon. That's the new world order every day but Wednesday, which will be (at his request) his day to connect with child care friends.

We've all been looking forward to this day for years ("When can I be a bus kid?" was a common refrain when he was wiped out by the 9 hour+ days at school). Still, change is hard. When he woke up this morning, Sam placed a hand on his chest and said, "I feel a little uncomfortable here" — nervous about riding the bus and finding the right one after school. But it'll be old hat for him by this time next week. I know the extra time at home will be good for him—especially in the dead of winter, when coming home from school in the dark feels so wrong. It's a bit of a leap for us, this work-from-home plan of mine, but I've got a really good feeling about it.

First day of grade 3. First day of my new working life. Happy, happy day.

Clear and Present Mommy

After holing up for nearly three hours in the Child Care director's office on Friday afternoon to discuss the ins and outs of saving Sam's school from the spectre of closing, I claimed my weary son and got him packed and fed and ready for an overnight at Carter's. Since the office door has a large window in it, Sam had been aware of my presence at the centre: he and the other kids are used to seeing me in the halls a lot more lately, since the "accommodation review" has ramped up and certain alarming writing has been on the wall, so to speak. He's aware of it, and he's more than a little tired of it.

As chair of the Carleton Heights School Council and a member-at-large on the Board or Directors of the Child Care Centre, I'm chin deep in this process and it's taking over more and more of my time, my brain space. When I kissed Sam good bye and wished him a fun sleepover, he responded "And have a good time ... uh, working on the computer!" Yeaaahhh. Between the school issues, my job, Garnish projects, this blog, my upcoming presentatations at Ottawa U, and keeping in touch with friends (sort of), I sit here a lot. A LOT. So I resolved right there to carve out a chunk of time for giving Sam my undivided attention this weekend.

We spent it at the Museum of Nature with Tracey & Anabel and Debbie & Michael. It was a beautiful, warm Crustaceous morning (a direct quote from the short film called "What happened to the dinosaurs?" — a warm Crustaceous morning... in case any of you kids out there think this sort of extinction-level event can happen on just any sunny morning). I had to be pulled out of a two-hour morning meeting with the neighbours (to prep for a big meeting tomorrow night), but I was glad for the call to my cell. "Sorry, ladies, but I made a promise to my son." We zipped to the downtown with the moon roof open and the radio on and met up with the others in the gift shop.

We spent about an hour and a half touring three levels of the museum—taking in most of the dinosaur and mammal exhibits and hanging out in some of the kid zones, where they create climb-friendly installations, craft spaces, costumes and puppets. And I stayed right there with him. Not just physically there, murmuring "really?" and "mmmhmmm" in response to his endless monologues while keeping my own train of thought on track. Nope. I parked my own thoughts in the train yard and cleared my mind of anything but the museum moment unfolding right then and there.

And it was really, really nice.

And THEN ...

When Sam gets on a roll with an inventive story, it can go for hours. He strings the wild-and-crazy elements together with a not-so-inventive but delightfully emphatic "and THEN..." before taking a big breath and carrying on. Sometimes, he follows me around the house as I clean it, filling me in on the latest chapter of his fictional life. As long as I keep the questions coming or murmer the occasional "really?" or "fascinating!", he's assured of my attention (which barely qualifies as "divided," given that table polishing doesn't require much thought) and the story flows. This is how I know so much about his adventures on Tarzkon, his home planet, and how it is he came to earth to pretend to be our son. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

Thing is, I haven't posted for 10 weeks. I'd need a huge "and THEN" post to catch up. Sam started senior kindergarden; and then we went on a week's holiday in Nova Scotia, where he was a ring bearer in Jacquie & Brent's wedding; and then we went to Innisfil for Thanksgiving; and then he was the Hulk for Halloween; and then Grandma & Grandpa Arnold came for a visit in their motor home; and then Sam and Jeremy went out to BC to visit Grandma & Grandpa Ashe; and then we celebrated Daddy's birthday. And those are just the headlines.

In the background of all of this, Mommy's been working on her side projects—Garnish and School Council—in the wee hours of the morning and, more often than not, falling asleep before coming to the computer at night. Hence, no storytelling. In fact, I've even fallen out of the habit of making a mental note when something is said or done that should be recorded in this blog. While visiting Spencer Robert Webb (!) for the first time this weekend, however, Angelika roundly (but lovingly) chastized me for my long hiatus from the role of "Samstorian."

And looking at the enormous gap between baby Webb and big boy Arnold had me thinking, again, about the speed at which our children transform in front of our very eyes. The old saying "The years tell much of what the days never know" came to mind. I think the days do know, but in such small ways that you have to be watching for it—you have to be tuned in to the little leaps of maturity and appreciate them as they happen. And, to remember them for any amount of time, you have to write them down.

I promised Angelika not to let the weekend pass without logging a post. It's 5:30 a.m. on Monday. My post is about not posting. But that counts :) There's much more "and THEN" to come.

Straight to Bed, Young Man

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

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

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

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

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

And then he fell asleep in 90 seconds.

Record-breaker

So it seems I may have offended the Winter Warlock a few posts ago by complaining about the copious shovelling in Jeremy's absence. Yesterday, he sent snowdrifts clearly designed to eat up my young son and his trusty pet. We got somewhere between 31 and 37 cms, depending on the news source. Either way, it's record-breaking and darn near back-breaking. I dug out four times during the storm, trying to stay ahead of the accumulation, but it doesn't matter: the plows haven't shown in Courtland Park yet and it's well past noon on a Monday. We're snowed in. Again!

This morning, I considered tackling the back deck to give us easier access to the freezer and to provide a secondary escape route in an emergency. This is the scene that greeted me when I flung open the garage door: 4 feet of snow and no where to put it! So I closed the door, grabbed some additional supplies from the freezer and figured that--if worse came to worst--Sam and I could easily flee the house by simply walking out his half story window and directly into the hedgerows. It's that snowy. I'm reminded of a long-ago winter in the Red River valley when a drift swallowed our Volkswagon whole.

Sam was joyful and triumphant at the sight of the street this morning. He did a little "no plow" dance on the couch to jinx my hopes of taking him to school and then attending our office Christmas party at the Heart & Crown today. He back-peddled a little when I countered with my "pro plow" dance, explaining that he just didn't want to see me out there digging the end of the driveway out since it's been "too bad for you," as he puts it. Very sweet, but he immediately followed up with a request that I crawl into his dining room table tent fort and play Tic-tac-toe with him. We did that, as well as some pages in his Ready to Read activity book. He's watching movies now and eating his lunch straight out of his optimistically packed lunchkit. I'm wondering what we'll do for the rest of the day on this, our third day home alone together. The snow's too deep to walk in and we've been through all the usual games, activities, crafts, puzzles, movies, baking and more. It's been fun, but I'm worn out!

I don't know how home-schoolers do it.

Baby, Please Come Home...

Okay, so far my three work-week stint as a single parent has included a late diagnosis of Sam's 2nd ever asthma attack, a 4-hour vigil beside "the bucket" while he vomited uncontrollably, and more freakin' snow shovelling than I care to do in three winters. In addition, I've made just one meal that comes close to resembling a proper dinner, the laundry is piling up, the garbage & recycling didn't go out this week, the dog hasn't seen the end of the driveway nevermind been walked (mind you, the dog isn't complaining - see "snow" above). I'm surprised I haven't been fired, I'm nervous that I haven't done my Christmas shopping or cards, I'm flabbergasted that we're running low on groceries (see "proper dinner" above), I'm waiting for the odd-shaped yellow light illuminated on the Jetta's dashboard to start blinking red, and I have a vague sense that cheques may be bouncing. In short, I'm not exactly holding down the fort. The fort is in serious shambles.

And yet, Sam is (when not wheezing and vomiting) the happiest of little boys. When he was feeling his ol' self this afternoon, he asked if I wanted to take a break from my work to come dance to the music that his new race car plays. We rocked it out in the family room. That part, I'm doing right. And that's all that really matters. So Fort Hudson is snowed under and filling with refuse. We're dancing, we're singling carols, we're reading Captain Jack Sparrow stories. The rest of it can slide a bit till Daddy is back.

Well, maybe not the shovelling...

Off-Duty Prof Has Playoff Laugh

Another term end is upon us and the dining room table is once again groaning under the weight of essays, seminar write-ups and final exams. Or that might be me groaning. I like reading students’ work: I’m just not fond of grading it. What makes the already onerous task a little tougher is Sam’s puckish presence. I have quite a few photos of babe insinuating himself into my workspace—evidence of the dual pull of the working mom. In one, he is just 2 weeks old and resting comfortably on a stack of examination booklets; in another, he’s perched on my chair, the nub of a red pen pressed thoughtfully to his pursed lips in impish imitation of his professor-mommy. In this one, he’s making an over-the-top bid for my lap, having been repelled on all other fronts.

Yes, Sam has long won the battle. And this year he’s also finally won the war. I’m hanging up my cap & gown after 15 years of teaching literature courses. It’s just too hard to carve the time out of my precious few home hours. And, seriously, who can ponder the relative complexities of Atwood’s and Roy’s investigations of the adolescent journey to self-knowledge while sitting within earshot of Bob Cole and Harry Neil calling a playoff game? High time to indulge in some other April traditions.

Sam was delighted to find “the whole family!” (Huddie included), perched on the couch for the hockey game last night. While Mommy & Daddy watched (thankful for the pause button), Sam was half tuned in to both the world of N.H.L and the world of S.A.M. Though he happily dashed upstairs to ring a celebratory doorbell when it was called for, he was more intrigued in his own play than in that of the Senators. Using his coloured magnets and an invisible set of "contructions" (instructions), he built a jewel, a computer, a spaceship, the dwarf planet, an ant head, and a ‘long string of power.’ Spotting my light dumbbells near the tv, he decided to break for some pumping—pausing between sets to check out how strong his elbows were getting (missing the point of the bicep flex). We had to stifle laughter when, seated cross-legged on the floor, he raised the weights recklessly to shoulder level to emphasize a point and tipped right over backwards. He then combined the weights and magnets into a private game that featured the high-pitched warning: “The blender machine is dang-er-rous; it’s chopping you… CHOP-PING YOU … arghguhg.” Suddenly, Sam’s another Hudson and crawling all over us for ear scratches. Then, once Daddy showed him how to hide his arm in his shirt to fool people into thinking he was a one-armed bandit, he ‘fooled’ us 5 times in a row, howling with laughter at each squeeze of his empty sleeve in mock horror.

Somewhere in there, Heatley, Vermette and Kelly scored, Emery recorded a shut out, and the Sens capped a first round victory over the Piss-burgh Penguins (Sam’s pronunciation).

I expect I’ll be a little wistful at the loss of lectern come fall, but for now it’s just too much fun to throw over those professorial duties and watch Sam (and the Sens) play.