Category: Kids
Monday, Apr 30, 2012 | Death, Kids, Music, Soccer |
my kids
Usually on Monday mornings, I post my “week in suppers.” Today, I’m going to change the routine to honour where I’m at. Which is not to say I’m cooking no suppers. Suppers have been and will be cooked. But this has been an emotion-filled weekend. I’m not even sure where to place myself in the midst of the emotions and events. Am I observer? Participant? Witness? Conspirator?
On Saturday, parenting alone, I enjoyed the company of six children for part of the morning. I have difficulty describing how happy it makes me to be with my kids and their friends. To be part of their conversations. To listen to them relating. To laugh. To consult. To make plans together. And to allow myself to be swept along by their energy.
One of my closest friends lost her father on Saturday. He’s been our neighbour for the past few years, too. Thinking about him as I drove across town to pick up my soccer girl, I thought about how life sweeps us along, and how we are both at the mercy of a greater current, and yet blessed to be a part of it. I sat in the parking lot and wrote the poem I posted here on Saturday (typed into my BlackBerry; first BB poem of my life, I must admit). Then I picked up my soccer girl, and watched her transform into piano girl — and win a prize at a piano competition.
Piano and competition are two words that fit together rather uncomfortably. I considered my emotions as we listened to the competitors playing their songs, and I found myself disliking my instinct to contrast and compare rather than simply appreciate and celebrate. Nevertheless, to see my daughter rise to the occasion and play her song with imagination and flair, and then to see her rewarded with a ribbon … it was such a joy. I kind of wonder at myself for taking so much pleasure from the achievement. Why should my pride be any greater for her winning than for her purely being willing to try, practicing, working hard, and performing her heart out? You know?
We stopped at home to get changed before going to Grandma’s (where the other children already were). My friend called just then with the news of her dad’s passing. “His spirit has left his body.”
When I think about her dad, I remember a man who lived with an almost casual generosity. It was so much a part of his being. There was nothing forced about it, not like he had to remind himself that others needed caring for. Simply: he wanted to help, to be of help, and he did, and he was.
I almost want to stop this post right here, but there’s more. It was such a weekend. A big birthday party had been planned for Saturday night, and I was hosting it here at our house (hence the children off to Grandma’s). With my friend Zoe in charge of vision and decorating, we transformed our house into a … hm, how to describe it? Indian colours and food and music and bindis and a mehndi artist and hanging silks and mango lassies and women. It was a party of many layers. I’ve never cried at a party before — good crying. I’ve never om-ed at a party before. I’ve never limboed under a platter of Indian funnel cakes, either. It was a beautiful night in honour of a beautiful friend.
By morning, the house was spotless (true story). I picked up my soccer girl and drove her to another game, and watched her play a position she never played even once last year: forward. I watched her make passes and chances and exciting runs and assist on a beautiful goal. And then I watched her play the second half in her usual position in net. She played the whole game with intensity, and such happiness. Pride doesn’t cover my emotions.
When I brought all the kids home, we snuggled in our rearranged living-room (there are a lot of pillows on the floor right now). They watched a movie, I napped, they were all around me. And then Kevin arrived home from Ottawa, putting us all back together again.
So, you see, I spent a lot of the weekend on the sidelines, just watching and taking it all in, doing what needed doing, being of use, being present.
I have this feeling that life is filling me up. I might be here for awhile. When I’m full, it will be time to share and process and, maybe, who knows, to write another book.
Tuesday, Apr 10, 2012 | Kids, School, Sick, Work |
the face of an Easter egg hunter, worried she’s missing something that somebody else might have found first
This week is ever so slightly refusing to start afresh.
I find long weekends disruptive, being the one at home handling the children (or even sharing the handling). It’s out of my routine. And I’m a routine-centred person. Yesterday the kids were home; Kevin was not. But work went on. At least, I attempted to work. I sent emails. I did an interview. I was absolutely buried in mountains of laundry. I baked bread. I let the kids run wild. I let them play wii for way too long. There were playdates. I was just scarcely paying enough attention. Everything turned out fine.
But, oh, I was so looking forward to today.
And then, just as the kids were putting on coats and boots and packing school bags this morning, literally minutes before my week was due to begin afresh, the child pictured above announced that she couldn’t go. Her tummy hurt. An ache? Nausea? Pain? What exactly? Was it truly school-missing-worthy? She insisted. Finally, I accepted. After all, I didn’t want to send a sick child to school. So here she is at home, with me, in my office right now, wandering the small space, alternately curling in the chair, making the stool squeak as she tries to twirl it, and asking whether she might, just maybe, watch a movie??
Um, no. No rewards offered for missing school. No incentives to repeat this act tomorrow. Is she sick? I’m not sure. If so, she’s not very sick. For which I am appreciative. Tomorrow is another day. I hope to heck we can start the week afresh then. Mama needs some alone-time.
more Easter egg hunters, concerned they might be missing out
(These photos crack me up. Instead of capturing delighted little faces, my camera seemed to have grabbed expressions of vague anxiety and concern: Someone else might be finding something that I want! There were comparisons of basket contents, and much discussion (okay, argument) over how many eggs everyone should be allowed to find. And, in CJ’s case, there was a sort of puzzlement, like: Is this egg all there is? Really? This is what I’ve been looking for?)
but he looks pretty cute here
Thursday, Mar 29, 2012 | Birthdays, Kids |
A cake.
A candle.
A happy birthday morning.
How does it feel to be four? (An impossible question that somehow begs to be asked.)
Wednesday, Mar 28, 2012 | Birthdays, Kids |
party supplies
Shopping for birthday supplies with my enormously chatty almost-four-year-old. He chose these candies and this candle. Last year he really didn’t want to turn three, and refused for several weeks to accept the change. This year he can’t wait for his birthday. “Is it this month?” he’s been asking … for months.
He makes us laugh. And it is so easy to make him laugh. “How old are you turning again?” I asked yesterday. “You’re going to be five, right?” “What?! No!” Big snorts of laughter. “Oh, I know — you’re turning back to two. Right?” More laughs. “What?! You can’t go backward, Mommy.” “Oh, that’s right. Hm, well, then, you must be turning four.”
“No!” Suddenly serious. “Do it silly again, Mommy.”
I’m glad he’s over his existential crisis of a year ago and happy to be growing up. But here’s the thing. I’m the one who’s experiencing pangs this time around the sun. My littlest is so tall and logical, so learning his letters, so able to dress himself, so trained overnight, so good at playing with his big brother and sisters, so big. And I’m thrilled, and it’s wonderful. And I love sleeping through the night and having this freedom during (part of) the day. But those baby years are exactly what everyone tells you — gone so fast. In a flash.
Could my years already be gone? Yes, by all available evidence they are, for real. But I haven’t quite accepted it yet.
Friday, Mar 23, 2012 | Kids, Parenting, Readings |
my boys
Yesterday the phone never stopped ringing, and it wasn’t telemarketers calling either; it was just one of those days. Today the phone hasn’t rung once and the house is quiet. Yesterday I was abuzz with energy and excitement. Today I feel the need for an afternoon caffeine boost. Thank you, cup of sugary tea.
Yesterday lots of pretty awesome things happened, but my favourite moment was sitting outside in the super-hot sunshine with my eldest, sharing a street dog. He topped his half with pickles, mustard, and ketchup. I topped mine with pickles, hot peppers, and ketchup. He was briefly out of school due to a crazy bug bite that clearly required attention. After the dr’s appointment, we went to the pharmacy together, and then I spotted the hot dog stand. He was hesitant and concerned about missing more school. He kept checking his watch. Finally he said, “Whatever you think, Mom.” And I thought, YES! More time with my boy! How often does this happen?
I’ve been doing about one reading/week since the book came out. Today I read and spoke to a grade ten class at a nearby high school. The students were great, and came up with lots of excellent questions, both about the sections I’d chosen to read (largely around the theme of activism and responding to human-made atrocities) and about the writing process. I was nervous, but need not have been. Hard to believe my eldest will be that tall, that thoughtful, that nearly-grown-up-looking in just five years.
Will he still say, “Whatever you think, Mom?”
:::
Interested in bringing The Juliet Stories to your book club? My publisher has provided a thoughtful “Reader Guide,” food for further thought. It can be accessed by visiting The Juliet Stories at House of Anansi, and then clicking on “Reader Guide.” (It’s a PDF file.)
Thursday, Mar 15, 2012 | Holidays, Kids, Parenting |
who pulled the hair of whom?
I spent the morning working on a poem. One poem. All morning. Here is what I said when Kevin popped in to bring me lunch (yes, he pops in and brings me lunch! and it’s hot! can you see why I love having him in charge of childcare/domesticity for the morning?) — I said, “Why are poems so hard to edit?” Editing a poem is not like editing a story. Every move must be tiny, every word added or taken away a potentially ruinous disturbance to the whole. And so I lifted words with tweezers and tried to humble my way into a few miniature solutions.
And then my children invaded the office. Kevin had gone to work. And someone had pulled someone’s hair (I was apparently to judge this problem and demand a sorry from the proper person; an impossible situation as you no doubt appreciate). My “solution” was to grab a few photos to capture the moment. This is not patented parenting advice by any means, but it passes the time. (Can you spot our resident ham?)
And in the end, weirdly, both kids said Sorry. I’m not sure why.
The holiday continues apace.
:::
And here is today’s post on The Afterword (my last; sigh): on the motherhood/perfection illusion.
