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....)

The Sens Army

Last Monday night (May 28), the Sens and Ducks began the final round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs and the city swung into full Sens Army mode. I picked up red "I believe" shirts for Tracey and me as well as a package of temporary tattoos for the boys. We scrambled to meet up after work with the Morley crowd, divvying up the BBQ shopping. While the moms were on a potato salad run, Jeremy suited up the kids, loaded them into the lil' red wagon and pulled them up to Baseline to watch the car rally en route to Scotiabank Place, where the game was being broadcast free to fans.

The parade of Sens-decorated cars had mostly passed by the time Trace & I caught up with the group, but we had a blast watching the kids try to elicit car honking from the evening traffic by jumping up and down on the roadside in their jerseys and tattoos, waving red pom-poms and screaming for the Sens. They were definitely an adorable sight, and most people leaned on their horns and waved as they passed. Sens-sleepers wearing Anabel joined in, too, oblivious to the significance of the night or even to the out-of-the-ordinary behaviour of her family.

Returning to the Morley, we quickly pulled together a yummy BBQ and cleared the table in time to take our seats in front of the large projection screen tv before the puck drop. At this point the boys, who had been talking all day about this event, plunked themselves down with Paul's vintage Star Wars toys and played Bad Guys for the duration--the game carrying on as large as life just over their small heads. Not to worry. They'd done their part to create good Sens Army juju. Watching the game itself can come later.

P.S. Same story for last night's first home game in the series. Whole day is built around getting to the tv in time to shout Game On! But precisely 40 seconds into the first period, Carter turned to Sam to ask "wanna play in my room?" and got an enthusiastic "yup!" in response. Off they went, leaving their moms on the edges of their seats (Jeremy had an arena seat!). In a few years, I'm sure we'll tease them about how they once chose to play "jump off the chair" in Carter's room instead of watching a wild, cup-contending Sens win on home ice.

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.