Can I Help You Do That?

Sam had another first this week: he climbed into his car seat and buckled his own seat belt. He was pretty proud of his achievement, showing off the new big boy skill to me when he and Daddy returned from a grocery run. Today, however, he's not capable of repeating that independent feat. Today he's pretty sure he needs to be carried to the car, lifted into his seat, and buckled up. Today he's not "such a big boy"; he's "too little."

This is the way Sam's growing up has been going lately. When the mood strikes him, he suddenly can't fasten his shoes, put away his coat, pour his own milk, or tidy up his room. He's not being obstinate. He's just being little. And maybe a little bit tired. So I usually humour him rather than offer coaxing reminders that he was fully capable of dressing himself for school yesterday. He'll take his strides when he's ready. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

It's quite possible I also humour his backslides because, frankly, it's quicker. Undies-pants-shirt-sock-sock-jacket-shoe-shoe: let's hit the road. Standing patiently in the entranceway repeating "you've allllllmost got it!" while Sam fights a stubborn zipper is sometimes the longest 5 minutes of my life. Ditto allowing him to bring blue box items to the curb. One at a time. It's also cleaner to do things my way. The day Sam decided he was ready to move from spectator to baker's apprentice and insisted on measuring flour, breaking eggs, and taking the controls of the electric mixer was the day that Chocolate Fudge Cookie Bites ate my kitchen. Finally, "I can't do it Sam" is less likely to step around the corner as I dial open the garden hose for the very first watering of the season and ask "Can I help you do that?" - a common refrain when I'm taking care of chores. "Of course, yes--thanks for offering to help, bunny"... (and then, with my inside voice: "but watering is my favourite!").

Look at him, though: he's beautiful dousing the flower garden in his bare feet. I couldn't draw his attention towards the camera when I took the photo, so fixated was he on the new task at hand. He spent a few minutes experimenting with water pressure, adjusting the arc of the stream, moving slowly down the long border, all the while asking "is this right? am I doing a good job?" Ya, you're doing a great job, Sam.

And it's my job, I know, to support these forays into independence whenever I can. To let him to go to school with his shirt on backwards, to drop crunchy slivers of eggshell into the cookie batter, to drown a few square feet of sprouting ground cover. It takes up time. It makes a mess. It intrudes into small corners of my life I didn't expect my little boy to go. But for all the eye-rolling tiny frustrations of things like watching him brush his teeth for 5 minutes and miss every single tooth, these moments of progress really do make me happy when I slow down for a second look.

Towel Hug

Most nights, Sam’s bath time is my responsibility. These days there isn’t much to it unless, horrors, it’s hair wash day, but I like the routine of it all. Corralling a spirited (though never bucking) bronco away from his toys and into the bathroom stall. Striking the right balance between the gentle offers to help free him from the grip of a tight pullover and the show of respect for what this big boy can do all by himself. Then, advising that he test the temperature of the soapy water before plunging in. Finally, turning the face of my Dove soap container towards the corner wall because its icon of blueish water circling a drain looks to Sam like the baleful stare of an evil eye. The nights I forget that last step, Sam calls me back in reproach: shrunk tightly against the opposite corner of the tub with a deep frown – “You forgot that I don’t like the drain eye.”

But my favourite part is the end of the bath. Sam calls me back from some household chore or another with the never-changing announcement: “I’m ready to get out of the tuh-UB.” He then pops the plug himself (these days with his toes), my cue for a prompt return to lather and rinse him in the disappearing water. From what I can tell, Sam doesn’t use his bath time to bathe, per se. The tub is really just a wet change of scenery for his continuing game of good guys versus bad guys.

Once the tub has emptied, I gather Sam into a large towel and pull him onto my lap for “towel hug – the best hug of the day.” For a minute or two, he presses his small swaddled body against me and holds his soft damp cheek against mine – sometimes quietly, sometimes humming a satisfied “mmmmm,” and sometimes murmuring about how great our towel hug is. For these minutes, Sam is still the littlest of little boys, still my sweet-smelling warm baby who lies limp with fatigue in my arms as he always has. This ritual marks the end of every single Sam bath in my memory.

And then last week, Sam proclaimed that some of his bath nights wouldn’t be towel hug nights anymore. That some of them would end with him drying for his pj’s and cutting straight to milk & story time. I must have looked stricken, because he half-snatched back the declaration in appeasement, explaining “But not yet! Not this night. This night is a towel hug night.” I quickly composed myself and said it was always up to him which nights had towel hugs in them and which ones didn’t. Time to grant him his non-baby status.

So, it’s coming. Soon the treasured towel hug will be a fond memory. And soon after that, Sam’s bath time won’t include mommy at all. And so I took a picture. Sam’s smile is as winning as ever, but if you look closely you’ll see that mommy’s smile conveys the bittersweet knowledge that this is a limited edition moment. Perhaps 1043/1200. I’ve loved them all.

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.