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Friday September 4th, 2009 “I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.”
G.K. Chesterton
You’re not going to believe this, but I had an epiphany yesterday while I was on my hands and knees, dish-rag in hand, cleaning the floor underneath Fig’s high-chair after a dinner that included rice.
My first thought was along the lines of, “I feel like I’m cleaning up messes ALL DAY LONG…” and then I stopped myself. Right then and there, mid-wipe, I flashed back to the days when I was NOT cleaning up other people’s messes, I was living by myself in my little condo in the city. And I was alone. At that point in my life, I was thirty-seven, newly single and I wondered if I would ever find a partner with whom I would feel such a deep connection, that we would raise a family together.
I smiled. I even got a little choked-up, and I continued to clean up the rice.
Thursday September 3rd, 2009 “The waiting is the hardest part.”
Tom Petty
Pip has a subscription to ‘Chirp’ magazine from her Gramma J., and the latest issue has instructions for making ‘Grass-Heads.’ The moment she laid eyes on those heads, she knew that she wanted to make one. The craft list was quite extensive and we had to shop for googley eyes, panty-hose and grass-seed before we could begin. I took care of the googley eyes and Big Daddy-O bought the seed and the hose.
When my husband returned from his shopping adventure his first words to me were: “I hope knee-high stockings are okay.”
Pip and I sat down to make the wondrous grass-heads and I soon discovered that the only part of the craft that she was interested in was spreading the glue. (As it turned out, much of the head-construction was too difficult for her little hands to manage anyway.)
After stuffing cotton balls and grass-seed into the end of the knee-high stocking, I found myself questioning the reinforced toe. Would the grass seed be able to make it through? Of course, I thought, if grass sprouts up through concrete, surely it can handle a reinforced toe.
Pip glued the googley eyes on expertly, but got a bit carried away with the pipe-cleaner mouth. After cleaning a few sticky spills, we were ready for the last step: fill a cup with water and set our Grassman on top. He started to sink. His mouth fell off and his eyes were nearly submerged before I rescued him from a sloppy fate.
Chirp hadn’t warned us of the potential sinking hazard. The instructions clearly stated to fill the cup with water, but the photo in the Chirp magazine showed grass-heads happily bobbing above their cups. AHA!!! I quickly deduced that the knee-high stockings weren’t substantial enough after all! Not enough support to hold up the poor head!
Pip and I proceeded to empty the cup, then we stuffed a few of the unused knee-highs into the bottom of the cup so that Grassman would have something to rest his soggy head upon. We re-filled the glass with water and our little Grass Head was looking pretty good.
“When will his hair grow Mama?”
I referred to the Chirp Magazine. “In about a week.” Oh dear. I think Pip had expected it to take a few minutes.
I’ll keep you posted.
Grassman looks optimistic, doesn’t he?
Wednesday September 2nd, 2009 “The course of true love never did run smooth.”
William Shakespeare
This morning Pip said to her dad, “I love my sister so much. I just couldn’t wait for her to come out of my Mama’s belly,” and last night in the tub the girls smothered each other with hugs and kisses. That was just one day after Pip asked me if Fig could go and live on Saltspring Island, and two days after she yelled, “Mama, PUT HER DOWN, I want you all to myself!”
Pip has a pair of tap shoes that she likes to wear, and one afternoon I heard her run down the hall after her sister: tap, tap, tap, and then I heard a huge cry emerge from Fig.
“Pip, what happened?” I asked, as neutrally as possible.
“She did it to herself, Mama.”
“She did what to herself?” I asked.
“She just reached around and pinched herself on the back!” (Don’t you love it?)
A conversation about truth-telling ensued and Pip came clean about pinching her sister. She was congratulated for being honest, but she was issued a ‘time-out’ for inflicting bodily harm. Pip grudgingly went over to the time-out mat and sat down with a slight scowl.
Not five seconds had passed before Fig went over to the time-out mat and sat on it with her big sister. Pip started to giggle.
What a beautiful, complex, loving, unloving little relationship these two people are creating. I have siblings, but my sister is five years my junior and my brother is seven years younger. I was more like a third parent to my brother and sister than a rival. I’ve never really experienced the relationship dynamic that my daughters are developing, and I find it fascinating.
One thing seems to be pretty consistent though; love is met with love. Pip usually captains that ship, but when she showers her little sister with the good stuff, Fig literally glows. Her face changes.
We were sitting outside on the hammock together, Pip and I, and Fig was playing with the sprinkler a few metres away from us. She came running toward the hammock with her arms extended in anticipation of a hug, so I held my arms out to her saying, “Hug?”
“Sissy,” she said, and flew into the waiting arms of her sister.
Tuesday September 1st, 2009 “The finest thing in the world is knowing how to belong to oneself.”
Michel de Montaigne, Of Solitude
I heard about a hand-drumming workshop at Joe’s Garage last week. A fabulous Mexican drummer named Candido was in town with his band, and he was willing to share his skills with a few lucky local drummers. I went to the class at four o’clock and emerged, only an hour and a half later, feeling like a new person.
Candido was indeed a master drummer, but the rhythm he taught us was one that I already knew, so it wasn’t so much what I learned that made me feel rejuvenated, it was just being thrust into an unfamiliar situation with a brand new set of people, (many of whom were very talented,) and doing something that I love to do.
I love feeling like a mom, a wife, a sister, a daughter and a friend, but it’s good to be out in the world by myself sometimes. I haven’t been seeking out these types of opportunities for myself in the past couple of years, and I really appreciate it when they present themselves to me. It’s like the universe just taps me on the shoulder and says, “This would be really good for you to do.”
So I went back for the show that evening and took some photos for the band. My husband stayed at home with the girls and my brother and I went to see the band, “Matombe.” They were great. Their world-music vibe was soul-nourishing and Candido’s playing was inspiring.
 Karina, the gorgeous dancer in the band, was jaw-droppingly good. Her style is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed; a blend of African, Latin and ‘Karinian.’
It was a good day. I got to spend time with my daughters, my husband, my brother, some new friends,
and my Self.
Monday August 31st, 2009 “If you bungle raising your children, I don’t think whatever else you do well matters very much.”
Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis
When I lived with a family in India, the children and their parents were NEVER apart. One evening I asked my host, Patrick, if he and his wife ever let someone else take care of their children while they went out and had time to themselves. “Why would we want to be away from our kids?” he answered, “We love being around them. Why would we want to be somewhere they are not?”
My husband and I love being around our kids too, but we also cherish the times that we have alone together, and we’re fortunate to have family close by to take care of the girls when we need a break. However, Pip hasn’t been left alone with anyone other than family in her three years of life. We’ve enjoyed numerous classes and activities, but they’ve always involved a parent, (or Grandma in our case.)
With September just around the corner, I find myself faced with a dilemma:
Do I send Pip to pre-school even though she is saying that she doesn’t want to go, or do I wait a year? It is of no consequence to our family whether she attends or not; we simply heard of an exceptional programme and thought that the experience would be fantastic for her.
(Before going further, I should clarify that I realize this is a lovely problem to have. I’ve been very fortunate to have been able to stay at home with my girls, and even though I’ll be returning to work part-time, my mom is going to be able to care for Pip and Fig. We’re blessed, and we know it.)
Nevertheless, this will potentially be a huge transition for Pip, and it warrants some careful consideration. The pre-school Pip is currently enrolled at begins in two weeks. At this point, she says, “I just want to be with you, Mama,” whenever we talk about ‘school,’ so we haven’t been talking about it. When I ask her about other activities like taking tap-dance lessons or playing soccer, she says, “No thanks, Mama. I already know how to tap dance.”
So, I could simply respect Pip’s wishes and limit her activities to those that involve a parent. I’m sure she’d be happy with that situation, but on the other hand, she might absolutely adore pre-school once she tries it, and I don’t want her to miss out on a fabulous opportunity. I had originally thought we could treat pre-school the same way we treat new foods. Pip has to try it, but if she really doesn’t like it, she doesn’t have to go. Now I’m questioning that philosophy. My sister advised me against it, saying that if we leave an ‘out’ for Pip, she’ll take it. (Although, when Pip discovers that she likes a new type of food, she keeps eating it!)
My gut says that it’s going to be tough for Pip. I’m trying not to relate this feeling to her in any way, but my instinct tells me that there are going to be tears.
I’ve been having some interesting discussions with other mothers on this topic and I think it’s hard for people to relate unless they have a child like Pip. All of Pip’s little girlfriends are definitely ready to dive into organized classes without their parents. They can’t wait to go to school and daycare and hockey practice; but not our little Pip.
Perhaps the very fact that Pip is reluctant to be on her own is reason enough to insist that she attend pre-school. It’s a very safe environment, the facilitator is lovely and the group of children is small. It couldn’t be a better situation for Pip to gradually get used to being on her own. But is it the right time? Will there ever be a right time? Will it only be harder for her if we wait longer?
I’m of two minds. On the one hand, I think of my own childhood, and I wasn’t involved in activities away from my mom until I was at least five years old. There’s no rush! Pip’s only three! There will be lots of time to create art and interact with other kids.
On the other hand, I think it would be really great for Pip’s confidence and self-esteem to know that she can handle being away from her parents in a new situation. I think she’ll find it really stimulating, and she’ll make some new friends. It’s an important step on her path toward independence, but IS THIS THE RIGHT TIME?
Wait, what am I saying? There is no ‘right’ time or ‘wrong’ time, is there? There are just choices that we make for our children and we hope that we’re making decisions in their best interest. So, is attending school this year in Pip’s best interest? It could be. DAMN. I should know the answer, shouldn’t I? I’m her mom. Then again, I’m not her. She’s not me. She is her own little person with her own set of emotions and desires. How can I possibly know if she’s ready for pre-school? It could go either way.
To be honest, Fig seems more ‘ready’ than Pip. Fig is quick to connect with strangers, quick to join activities and happy to try new things. I have a feeling we’ll all go to pre-school together on the first day, and Fig will run off and play with the other kids while Pip clings to my leg crying, “Don’t leave me, Mama!”
Some of you know my daughter and most of you don’t, but I’m sure you all have an opinion and I’d love to hear them! I know that in the end, my husband and I will make a decision and we’ll just have to trust our instincts. In the meantime, however, I think it would help to get some objective advice. Even writing this post to you has helped to clarify the issue. (It’s clear that I’m indecisive!!!)
Friday August 28th, 2009 “The best way to destroy an enemy is to make him a friend.”
Abraham Lincoln
On this, the eve of Valentine’s Day, I thought it would be appropriate to share a little love story. We typically shower those close to us with kindness and affection, but how often do we ‘choose love’ when it comes to dealing with difficult strangers? My three-year old daughter taught me a lesson I shall not soon forget.
There was a bully at the playground, and none of the surrounding adults seemed to be responsible for him. I couldn’t for the life of me determine who he was attached to! He looked to be about six or seven years old, and he had appointed himself ‘King of the Slide.’ He was preventing other kids from using the slide by sitting at the top of it and facing backwards toward the ladder.
“YOU CAN’T COME UP HERE UNLESS YOU HAVE A RED CAR!!!” he shouted down to one little girl, while waving his toy car in the air. When the little girl tried to climb the rungs of the ladder, the boy kicked his feet as though he would step on her fingers. The girl backed down and ran away to her father, who decided not to intervene. A few minutes later, another child tried to climb the ladder and use the slide, but he was met with the same treatment.
I was pushing my two daughters on the swings nearby, watching to see if any parents were going to step in, and when nobody did, I spoke up. (It’s the teacher in me.) “Excuse me,” I said to the little boy, “you need to share this slide with the other kids. Everyone is allowed to use the slide.”
“NO THEY’RE NOT!!!” the boy shouted down at me.
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that reaction. I was taken aback, but after fifteen years of teaching, I had encountered disrespectful youth. I continued, “This playground belongs to everyone, so please go down the slide and let other kids enjoy it, too.” Luckily, the boy found something intriguing about the climbing-web so he slid down and ran across the playground.
Pip jumped off the swing and started to play on the slide with another girl. In a few minutes, the boy was shouting and racing back to the slide. Pip was halfway up the ladder when she saw him coming. I saw her hesitate, as though she was considering a retreat, but she thought better of it and continued her ascent. The boy was hot on her heels. I was still pushing Fig on the swing, but I was ready to support Pip if she needed me. That’s when I heard my girl shout down at the boy, “My name is Pip, what’s your name?”
The boy stopped mid-rung and looked up at Pip quizzically, “Evan,” he said softly.
“Hi Evan, I’m three,” said Pip as she slid down the slide.
“I’m five,” said Evan politely.
Then Pip said, “Bye Evan,” and ran toward me for a hug.
I was flabbergasted. Pip is not typically an, “Allow me to introduce myself,” kind of girl. She prefers others to make the first move. I suppose Evan had made the first move. He introduced himself by the way he treated the other kids, and my smart little girl completely disarmed him by treating him with civility. She didn’t make an enemy; she made a friend.
I was so proud of Pip, I could barely speak! But I did. I told her casually that it was very nice of her to introduce herself to Evan.
“Thanks, Mama,” she said.
Thank YOU Pip, for reminding me to choose love.
Thursday August 27th, 2009 “It doesn’t make much difference how the paint is put on as long as something has been said. Technique is just a means of arriving at a statement.”
Jackson Pollock
How long has it been since you painted a picture? I’m always facilitating artistic activities for Pip, and often we create things together, but it has been awhile since I felt compelled to paint MY VERY OWN PICTURE! Pip inspired me. She introduced me to a cool technique and I had to try it out.
Our medium was tempura paint on heavy, watercolour paper. Pip loves gooping the paint on paper in thick, creamy dollops, then adding several colours to the mix.
The way she loads her brush is impressive; check out these colours:
I try to stay completely out of Pip’s creative process, only offering suggestions when it comes to cleaning and caring for the brushes. I often ask questions along the way, but I never ask what she’s painting. She doesn’t have to paint a what.
After Pip had been painting for awhile, she said, “Mama, I’d like to use a tampon to paint with.”
“A what???” I asked, silently questioning my decision to use correct terminology when Pip discovered my stash of feminine products.
“You know, a tampon, like we did before.”
Thankfully, I remembered that we had used Q-tips to paint with last week. “Oh, you mean Q-tips, honey. I’ll get some.” I could understand how she confused the two bathroom staples. (Thankfully I’ve never made the same mistake.)
Pip proceeded to swirl the Q-tips over her painting with furious intensity. Her arm moved quickly and expertly, like she’d been using the technique for years. It was awesome! A vision of Ed Harris playing Jackson Pollock flashed through my mind.
“I’m finished, Mama. Want to play a game?” Kids switch gears soooooooo quickly.
“Whoa there Pipster. Slow down a minute so that we can take this in….you’ve created a masterpiece! Your painting is absolutely stunning! You were so creative to use the Q-tip to swirl the paint around, and it looked like so much fun!”
I’d been occupied taking photos up until this point, but I realized that I wanted to try the Q-tip technique. “I’m going to paint a picture now Pip.”
“Okay. Can I help you Mama?”
“I’d like to make a painting of my very own, Pip, but you can paint another picture.”
And so we created; side by side. Pip couldn’t resist donating a few globs of blue to my painting:
and I added some purple to hers:
I must reluctantly admit that when Pip told me her second painting was done I asked her if she was going to add more swirls. (Shame on me.) Her response was perfect: “That isn’t what’s in my mind, Mama.”
Needless to say, my experience with paint was incredibly satisfying. I’ll do it again. Soon.
If you haven’t sat down in front of a glorious array of paints in awhile, you’re missing out. Let me offer you this challenge: load a brush. It’s good for the soul.
Wednesday August 26th, 2009 “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You, too? Thought I was the only one.”
C.S. Lewis
We had a house-guest recently; my husband’s good friend Steve, who was also the best man at our wedding. Steve isn’t a father, (yet,) but he has a lovely manner with our kids and has earned the honorary title, ‘Uncle Steve.’
It was clear from the first day of Uncle Steve’s visit that he had a fan in Pip. She watched his every move as though he was a Hollywood celebrity, and whenever he spoke to her, a smile lit up her face. They played ‘I Spy’ together in the backyard, they had pony races in her bedroom, and together they piloted an imaginary aircraft on the beach.
We were all sitting outside together one evening after dinner when we heard a little ‘toot’ escape from Pip. I was going to ignore it, but Big Daddy-O smiled and said, “Pip, was that a toot?”
I looked at Pip and thought she was feeling embarrassed about having her flatulence highlighted in front of Steve, but without skipping a beat she said,
“It was Uncle Steve.”
Tuesday August 25th, 2009 “Profanity is the common crutch of the conversational cripple.”
David Kueck
As my little family arrived at our favourite river-swimming hole, we were greeted with the sound of boisterous male voices having a conversation that was punctuated with profanity. They were across the river from us, but their voices carried as though they were sitting a meter away. I first assumed that they were partying teenagers, oblivious to anyone’s existence but their own. I considered yelling a friendly, “Hey guys, we’ve got kids here, could you please watch your language?” (It’s the teacher in me.)
Then I studied the figures more closely. They were middle-aged men, and the most vocal of the lot was carrying a young child in his arms. In the time it took me to count three young kids, an equal number of ‘f-bombs’ were dropped.
I felt more sad than aggravated. I decided not to yell across the water. These were my peers. They obviously weren’t concerned about their own kids being exposed to such foul language, so why would they consider the impressionable young minds of my children?
Thankfully, my daughters weren’t paying attention to the men across the river; they were more interested in wading into the water, spotting colourful rocks and visiting a little dog named Roxy. We swam, played, and splashed, but the background sound of profanity was inescapable. We didn’t linger.
Upon reflection, I find myself wondering why I didn’t speak up. If I was respectful about my request to the men, perhaps they would’ve been equally respectful toward me and apologized. Alternately, they might have hurled a few derogatory comments in my direction. I could’ve handled that. I suppose I feared the possible confrontation.
What would you have done?
Monday August 24th, 2009 “Too many people grow up. That’s the real trouble with the world, too many people grow up.”
Walt Disney
Fig is making big, bold, beautiful steps toward independence. She’s walking, talking, napping without nursing, and the other day we took our first ‘baby-carrier-less’ hike. It’s true. No stroller, no baby-backpack, no sling of any kind, just our high hopes, our crossed fingers and our thirty-pound toddler. (Along with Pip and our trusty hound, of course!)
It wasn’t a long hike, (local readers will know the Nymph Falls trail,) but it was long enough that we wouldn’t want to carry Fig the entire way; she was going to have to walk. And walk she did. She looked so grown-up trudging along, admiring moss and picking up interesting sticks. I found it hard to believe that the seemingly seasoned little hiker I was looking at was the same person who took her very first step less than two months ago.
At one point, where the trail borders the river, it was too dangerous for Fig to walk on her own so we tried to hold her hand. Not a chance. She had no interest whatsoever in accepting our hand-holding support. After four or five attempts at taking her hand, we had no choice but to pick her up and carry her. Fig was infuriated. She looked at me with eyes that said, “How dare you pick me up when I’m a perfectly competent walker?”
I could understand her frustration. It must be confusing to be congratulated for walking-solo one minute, and reigned-in the next. We took the time to explain to Fig exactly why we had to pick her up, (because we’ve deduced that she understands pretty much everything we say now), but she fussed and fidgeted in her daddy’s arms until it we reached the falls.
Once we set Fig down on the rock and she could see the powerful water rushing around us on all sides, she was happy to be kept safe in our arms. I took a few steps away from my little family to take some photos. I looked through the viewfinder and remembered the first time we’d brought Fig to this exact spot. She’d been less than two weeks old, and she’d slept through the entire hike on her daddy’s chest as he carried her in the Baby Bjorn. Time doesn’t fly, it bolts like lightning.
I took the photo of my two daughters, my husband and my dog and thought, “There is no baby in this picture.”
It’s official. My baby isn’t a baby anymore. (But she’ll always be my baby.)
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