Conflicted Feelings...

Life with kids is so bittersweet.  There is something both reassuring and stifling about the daily grind.  Each day of the week is like a regimented sequence of events that is totally predictable yet never quite the same.  I find the end of every work day in a giant rush to get home in enough time to get Kid A to (insert activity of the day) and Kid B fed and bathed so that you can pick up Kid A in time so you can get back in time to get Kid B to bed so you can do Kid A’s reading homework and still get Kid A to bed on time so you in turn can get Parent A and B fed and Parent B an hour to do marking and Parent A an hour to finish charting and rant on her blog so that Parent A and B can get to bed so that, 7 hours later Parent B can wake up and get Kid B to day care and still get himself to work while Parent A can wake up to get Kid B’s lunch prepared in time to get Kid B on the bus so Parent A can get to work on time.

PHEW.

So you can imagine the delight we feel when Grandparents willingly (and GLADLY) ask to take BOTH Kids A AND B for a 2-night sleepover to their place.

You would THINK that there could be NOTHING more BLISSFUL for Parent A and Parent B.

And there ALMOST isn’t…

EXCEPT for 2 things: Guilt and…some other feeling I can’t quite pinpoint.

Don’t ask me why…I know that I’m a good mom and I KNOW that I deserve a nice break.  I could even add on top of that the added bonus of how “the most important thing you can do for your kids is to love their daddy” and there’s nothing like a kid free weekend to reconnect you to your spouse.

I know all that.  But I feel the guilt anyways. 

And I worry.

I worry that they will misbehave.  I worry that they will exhaust my mother.   I worry that they will get into a car accident and die on the way down.  I worry that they will stress my father out.  I worry that Mia will fall out of bed. I worry that they will get sick.  I worry that they won’t sleep.  I just worry, even though I know they are in the hands of someone who loves them JUST as much as I do.  I worry because they are not in MY hands.

And then there’s that other feeling - - the one I can’t quite pinpoint.  It’s an incompleteness and a longing and a loving.  I want to be part of the fun that my kids are having with my parents.  Having a lovely relaxed dinner out is so enjoyable, but I want to come home and kiss them goodnight and watch them while they sleep for a bit afterwards.   I LOVE sleeping in on Sunday morning (like the rest of the world) but I miss, for just a fleeting second, getting to be a part of Mia’s wake up routine when she comes RUNNING into our room, dolling out hugs and kisses as she realizes another day is HERE and she gets to be a part of it!

But by the end of the weekend, the relaxation of life without kids has settled in…and as the exhausted calls from Grandma come in asking when and where we will meet to do handover I feel the guilt and the “other feeling” dissipate…I’m excited to see them but I’m already mourning the return of the slow march of daily routine…

This past weekend my kids spent an amazing weekend with their Grandma Lynda; Rob and I spent a relaxing weekend skiing, eating and sleeping.    It was the usual mix of excitement, sadness and relief when I got to pick them up again.

They had been well behaved.  No one had fallen out of bed.  My mom still loved them.  My dad was already asking when they could come back.  No one died on the way there or back.  And they were healthy, happy, full of stories, and excited to see me.

When we got home we emptied the car and they rushed around showing me all the things they had made, done and brought home from Grandma’s house.  Could I please PLEASE read to them the HILARIOUS new book Grandma had given them?

I had an hour to get them unpacked and dinner ready so we could do bath and get to bed on time, but I embraced my relaxed state - - for 15 minutes I was just going to lie with them, read a book and enjoy just BEING with my kids.

As we read and laughed together about Mr. Muddle and his crazy ways, I rubbed their backs and played with their hair and smiled; warm, safe and together again, life had never seemed simpler.  It was in the midst of these blissful thoughts that sweet little Mia looked up at me and, smiling lovingly, said with innocent precision,

“Mommy…You know what?”

“What…?” I answered dreamily,

“You’re rubbing my BUTT CRACK.”

And just like that, life was back to normal again.

Lessons from the Second

"Hello, World.  I'm here to teach you some lessons...MWAHAHAHAH..."

I think it’s important to have two children.

I’m not judging:  I come from a family of 5 children and am myself an only child. OK – right.  That doesn’t totally make sense: it’s complicated.

I think as a parent, though, it’s good to have a second child if only for the simple humbling ability to knock down any notion you might have about babies, toddlers and children.  “You MAY have done this already,” the second one smirks to you as it enters the world,  “but I’m here to prove to you that everything you learned the first time around is irrelevant.  It’s back to square one : YOU.  KNOW.  NOTHING.”

Say, perhaps, you so happen to luck out and give birth to a live prodigy of a newborn who does such unfathomable things as sleep through the night or “does nothing but smile or sleep”.   Perhaps they take so easily to the breast you never got to experience nipple blisters or the sudden need to send your husband out at 1am to purchase Jack Newman’s $50 magic Nipple ointment.

Yes, APPARENTLY, there are babies such as those.

And I’m not saying those babies don’t or shouldn’t exist.  NO…I’m sure one day the world will balance out and these kids will fill the roles of high school drug addicts and help boost teenage pregnancy rates.

What I’m talking about is the affect these kids have on the PARENTS.  It is SO IMPORTANT for these parents to know there is NOTHING they could have done differently to prevent this perfect insanity of an idyllic infant.  It’s NOT their perfect swaddling technique OR their ability to magically capture “the window” each and every FREAKING night.  And most importantly, it has NOTHING to do with their calm and demure demeanor.

If you, yourself gave birth to the Dahli Lama of children would you not exude a strikingly calmer demeanour than your good friend who gave birth to a screaming insomniac?

Wow.  I have WAY lost my point.

And now I’m back to it.

The second child is good for lots of reasons, but mostly to contrast the first and give daily humbling reminders to the parents of their absolute LOSS over the nature vs. nurture debate.

I get examples of this daily.  Some days I feel like I live with a Greek Torturer whose sole purpose is to beat out of me any sniff if parenting victory I have experienced with my firstborn.    This week my lesson was entitled   “A Lesson in Reading for the Imperfecionist”

Toby is a perfectionist.  It is a lovely, endearing quality in a child until it results in temper tantrums of frustration at the failure to complete the most basic and mundane of tasks based only on a perceived potential for failure.  Despite being ahead of the books developmentally (as ALL first-borns miraculously are) Toby was the VERY LAST kid in the WORLD to be potty trained and it was all because he REFUSED to even ATTEMPT the daunting task until he knew 100% that he was ready.

I was THAT mom whose friends used to comfort with saying such as, “He won’t still be in diapers when he’s in University!”  Well..DUH…but I WAS a little worried that the Mickey Mouse pull-ups might cause him some grief on the first day of grade 1.

One day, when the timing was impeccably right, when the moon was full and the last leaf had fallen from the willow tree, and his cars were aligned just so in his bedroom floor and his bed was made horizontally and we were having fajitas for dinner…Toby decided he was ready to sit on the potty.

Lo and behold, he peed.

And that was the end of it. 

We had all failed to mention to our little perfectionist that he had the OPTION of still wearing his Mickey Mouse pull-ups to bed at night.  He was dry from that day forward.  Night and day.

And then there was Mia.

Mia has had a dirty mind from birth. Whether it is asking Toby to “Shake his Peee-Nis” in the bath when she thought we weren’t listening, to asking him to spell the word “Pickle” (it starts with a PEE), she has always flourished in the center of bathroom humour.  So the day we off handedly mentioned that fact that she might one day want to pee in something other than her diaper, she RIPPED that thing off and RACED her naked way to the toilet, sat down for half a second, leapt back up and then proudly peed on the floor.

Her ego, surprisingly, remained unscathed.

“OH what the HELL” she said in 2 year old equivalent jargon, “Lets give this another go.”

Diaperless was the new black.

It was a bit of a longer, more painful process, but quite quickly, and still in the 2’s, Mia was potty trained during the day.

At night- that’s a different story.  Sometimes we forget to diaper her and she wakes up at 3am to complete chaotic wetness and comes into our room, not crying, but with her hands in the air with innocent wonder at the mass quantity of fluid that came from somewhere humorous that is in no way her fault or within her realm of something to care about.

If that had happened to Toby we would have found him naked and repenting at the end of the bed with a rosary in his hand.

I’m getting to my point - -really I am.

So Toby is reading.  He’s really quite a good reader.  It started slowly, because, as you guessed it, before Toby knew how to read he didn’t actually KNOW how to read, which is a GIANT OBSTACLE when you are an absolute perfectionist.   I remember Rob and I used to lie on our bed with him painfully escorting him through his own personal hell as he would sound out the words, “M-A-T   S-A-T”   

He would sit in resolute silence looking first at the word “M-A-T” as we egged him on to please PLEASE PLEASE, try at least to make the “Mmmmm” sound.

Eventually, very quietly and after much internal debate and deliberation, Toby would whisper, “Mmmm”

And then we’d move on to “Aaaah”

It only took three syllables to get that very first word out.  “M-A-T”.

After that, if ANY of us had ANY ounce of patience left, we would move on to “S-A-T” to complete the first sentence.

Those two words took EONS to perfect and there was no moving forward until he had it just right.  (The intrigue as to what would happen to MAT after he had successfully SAT was KILLING me!!!)

“We’re screwed,” I said to Rob one night after we sat down to reward ourselves with a glass of victory wine (a thank GOD Mat actually SAT tonight victory…) “How is he EVER going to learn to read with THAT attitude?”

I’m pleased to say that Toby eventually overcame his perfectionistic hurdle with reading and suddenly ‘got it’, propelling himself into the realms of Level 18 reading and admiration from his new Grade 1 teacher.  The hard work had paid off.  OUR hard work.  And our INGENIOUS son (said the parents of the first born.)

And so the other day, as Toby was proudly reading out loud to us from his Level 18 reader, Mia happened to pick up the Level one “Matt Sat” book and confidently announced that SHE was ALSO going to read to us.

She opened the first page without hesitation.

I helped her read the first letter “M” as in “Mia” and “A” as in “Alyssa” and T” as in “Toby”

What did that make?

She thought about this.

“M-I-A”

She replied.

Fair enough – up until now that was the ONLY word she even knew EXISTED in written form.

I corrected her and taught her the word  “M-A-T”, marveling at the lack of screaming and refusal.

“Oh, RIGHT.” She said,”M-A-T”

And then she read the entire book.

“M-A-T is S-ITTING on the G-Round”

(Actually the words said, as you probably are well aware of by now, “Mat Sat”)

On the next page we meet, Sam.

Or, as Mia interpreted the words,

“M-A-T is sitting on the ground and it’s very sunny and his friend is there too.”

A brief reprieve as I taught her the “S’ sound and helped her put together the word “S-A-M”

Page 3:

“S-A-M was also sitting with his friend M-A-T and they had a picnic and the sun was out and…”

Then we turned the page

“Then one day M-A-T JUMPED on S-A-M and they had a fight but they were smiling and they decided to have a tickle fight”

(Actual words on the page: SAM SAT ON MAT)

And so the book went on.  It was the quickest, most enjoyable read we have ever experience in the Mat and Sam series.

“Well…there you have it…” I said to Rob as he looked back at me with a stunned expression.

“We’re screwed,” he whispered as our confident new reader hopped down off the couch. “How is she EVER going to learn to read with THAT attitude?”

They may look the same BUT....

Afterlife Options

I am not sure if this post will come across as funny, interesting or even disturbing.  I am writing it for posterity and because I myself found it an “on the spot challenge” and something I want Toby to to be able to read some day.

It will come as no surprise that, as a palliative care doctor, I have an unusual interest in death and dying.  It is not a topic that we shy away from discussing at our home.  Toby’s first experience with the topic occurred at age 3 when Jack Layton’s funeral was broadcast.  It was such a perfect example of the dichotomy of emotions that funerals hold, mourning and celebration, sadness and joy, that I allowed him to watch it with me.

Before your judgment passes over let me say this - I recognize that a political funeral would go over the heads of (and possibly even be inappropriate for) MOST 3 year olds, but Toby has always been an old soul.  He watched with rapt attention and listened carefully as I explained to him how beautiful yet tragic things were.  I let him dance and clap along to “Rise Up” and explained to him why Jack was going in a box, how impressive it was to have the Canadian flag draped over it, and why his daughter and son, and wife walked behind it.  Toby was in awe.  He asked questions. 

Two months later, when his great grandfather died I was so thankful to have had this opportunity to introduce Toby to the concept of death and funerals.  It meant he wasn’t scared and was actually able to attend the funeral of a legendary family man; Grandpa Blonde, I’m sure, would have been glad to know that one of his great grandchildren had been there in attendance.

Last night, on our way home after skiing, we somehow happened again upon the topic of death and dying.  It started innocently with Toby mentioning his curiosity about the human body and how he wished he could see inside of one.  I took this opportunity to pique his interest in health care, the privilege of medical school and the concept of autopsies.  I can assure you – I made it all sound very normal.

“Interesting…” Toby said, “So basically you have a choice of being buried in a box, burned up or cut up by medical students.  Are those your ONLY choices when you die?”

I’m sure there's a culture that I have grossly overlooked that could have provided some idyllic choice; I vaguely remember Rob teaching me about a ceremonial riverside vigil at the river in Varanasi, India…but I wanted to keep things simple for Toby.  I DID briefly mention the idea of organ donation as another possibility.

Toby had another question,

“Before I decide which one I’d like, I need to clarify ONE thing." he said quite seriously, "Can you get into heaven with EACH of those 4 choices?”  

“Yes.”

“OK then here’s my choice, “ Toby announced stoically.  “I do NOT want to be burned.  I do NOT want to be chopped up. And I do NOT want my parts given away to other people.  Just put me in a box and bury me.”  He said matter-of-factly.

Perhaps my Jack Layton obsession had some detrimental effects after all; CLEARLY the opportunity for heroism and selflessness had been completely lost on him. 

I told him that I would respect his wishes but that I really hoped I wasn’t around to see that happen.

The conversation petered out as we moved on to more important things like what snack we were going to have before bed and what runs we had done at skiing that night.  It wasn’t until we were snug in bed that night, asking our bedtime questions, that it came up again, this time in more abstract terms.

“Mommy….” Toby said sleepily, “What happens if you don’t get into heaven because you’re a bad person?”

I know there are lots of ways to answer this question.  There’s the correct Catholic way, the redirecting question and the abstract-avoidance-answer.  I went with a combination of the above and told him that no one knows for SURE but that what I believe is that if there IS a Heaven and a God that he’s probably pretty forgiving and you probably have to be really REALLY bad not to get in.  Then I crossed my fingers and hoped that would be the end of it.

This didn’t seem to satisfy his existential thirst for information.

“OK so say you’re really REALLY bad then where do you go?”

Not a concept I wanted to explore with my 6 year old no matter how mature he is,

“Um…well…” I faltered…” I guess those people would go…maybe DOWN somewhere??”

 Clearly I had moved from the realms of honesty to the abstract evasion technique.

He thought for a second before hitting me with another doozy in quick succession,

“And what’s heaven LIKE, anyways?  Is it all full of BONES?”

Oh good gracious.  I suddenly longed to go back to the conversation from earlier about autopsies.  Now THAT was something I would be more comfortable expanding upon…I started to wonder if I could reintroduce the topic…but his earnesty and the mere fact that he thought it might be full of bones made me realize I had to give it a shot.

“Well, Toby…again, no one knows for sure…so I just like to think it’s all the best of everything…however you picture it.”

I told him my vision about meeting up with everyone you’ve ever loved.  Even old pets.  I told him that everyone there was always in the “green zone” (his classroom has emotion zones-  the green one being the happy place where you have energy and are “ready to work!”).  I told him that you always feel warm and loved.  As I talked I realized that I was imparting to him something I HAD thought a lot about and that the uncertainty I had about all things religious wasn’t necessarily important when it came to speculating on something we have no control over.

“So Toby…” I said after my unexpectedly long monologue of an answer, “What do you think of that?”

“Well,” my practical son said, “That’s very interesting mom but that’s not how I picture things.”

“Oh, I said,” amused.  “And how do YOU picture things?”

“Bones.”  He said very practically. “Lots of those people made up of bones…what do you call them?”

“Skeletons…?” I asked hesitantly

“Yes.  Skeletons.  Lots of skeletons wandering around and lots of bones all over the place.  And every one of the skeletons has a name tag with their first and last name on it so you can tell who everyone else is.”

“Oh.” I said, “Anything else?”

“Nope!” he said proudly, “That’s it!”

“Um…OK, then…” I said, at a loss for words.  I know that Toby is truthful and practical to his core, but I just had to ask.  "Do you find your version comforting, Toby?  Or....do you maybe find it a little creepy?"

He thought for a bit and then laughed, “I guess it’s kinda creepy!  But I think it’s the truth.” 

And so we left it at that, ending our evening of heavy life and death conversations with some laughter about the differences between our two visions.  I am quite confident that he is secure and unshaken in his beliefs; I just hope that I don’t have nightmares about them tonight …

Miss Mia Turns 4!!!

Little Miss Mia:  Today you turn 4.

You have made it abundantly clear to us that, in turning 4, you are NO LONGER a baby, a toddler OR a little girl.  This transition marks the start of you being a BIG girl.  When you are 4 you will ride in a booster seat (you have been at the 40lb mark for eons it seems and desperate for this car status of maturity).  You will no longer wear diapers to bed (we will see about THAT one!) and you will go to big kid school and ride the bus with Tob-a in the fall.

Well, my dear, I have news for you.  You have been a big “little” girl already for quite some time.  Your independent style and affirmative approach to life has long heralded this impending status of maturity.  You started dressing yourself before we had a chance to teach you, and you practice this independent skill regularly with your frequent costume changes throughout the day.  You tell US when it’s time for nap and you CERTAINLY never let something like a schedule come in the way of your eating.  And one day this spring, not 4 months after your cautious brother learned to ride a 2 wheeler without training wheels, you decided to pick the bike up and ride it down the road.  Just like that.

One of the things we love most about you is your “yes please” approach to life.   I could suggest to you the most mundane of outings and your answer is always an eager affirmative.  You love life, living and just DOING.

And you ALSO love sweets.

Oh, the sweets…. I have NEVER in my LIFE met someone with a sweet tooth like yours.  I blame it on the 2 years of soy formula you were on (it’s slightly sweeter than regular milk) which very clearly honed your palate to the one-dimensional addiction of ANYTHING WITH SUGAR.  You even ate MARZIPAN the other day. WHO eats MARZIPAN?   Of COURSE you do – it’s got some sugar in it!

You do have a pretty sweet life, too, I have to admit.  You are the youngest and the bravest and are doted on by Mom and Dad AND Tob-a.    This past summer your number one girl Candice came into your life; she’s your very own Mary Poppins and the adventures and crafting you two get up to each and every day are astounding. 

This year also marks the year we moved onto Kayla crescent.  It’s a move that made life easier for us in many practical ways, but in your little world it means one very special thing: you now live 4 doors down from your BFF, future husband and true love Jack-Jack.  And NOTHING is sweeter than first true love. 

It seems silly; you’re both only 3 years old, but I don’t doubt you for a second when you tell me with your earnest enthusiasm that you love Jack-Jack with all of your heart.  I know you do.  Alex and I (who, by the way, would be QUITE willing to become in-laws, FYI) had to throw an emergency play date together one evening this Christmas holidays.  Amongst all the travel, family time and festivities it seems we neglected to schedule any time for the two of you and one day after an atrocious 7 days had elapsed without seeing each other you and Jack simultaneously and independently put your feet down and demanded of your respective mothers a play date.

I could go on forever, Mia, about your quirky nature, your eternal optimism and your zest for just about everything.  In many ways I would like to freeze you just the way you are right now, but I’m too excited to see how you are going to turn out and what this “big girl Mia” is going to be like.

But just for the record, kiddo, no matter how old or big you get…you will ALWAYS be my baby
 girl.

The Next Fred Astaire

Toby is a bit of a man’s man. Or, perhaps I should say, a LOT of a man’s man.   He single handedly put to rest for me the whole nurture vs nature debate by demonstrating, from the innocent age of 4 months old an ingrained and intense interest in balls, cars and all things sports.  To this day, my son has a stereotypically keen interest in anything and everything to do with sports, speed and competition.

And he likes his girls. 

In fact, he LOVES his girls. 

It was actually this love of girls that set us watching “So You Think You Can Dance” in the first place.  The first season we watched, Toby was only about 3 years old and he would ask me to fast forward through all the male dancer's routine; “I like to watch the girls dancing better, “ he would say, “They are much prettier.”  But he also loved to watch the tap dancing.

TAP DANCING!??!

Ever since we started watching the show at the age of 3 he has had an affinity for tap.  Family Wedding?  Tap Dancing.  After dinner dance parties at the Henry household?  Tap Dancing.  Catchy commercial jingles while watching TV?  Toby is up and on the floor, doing his best Ginger Davis impression.

I have NO IDEA where he gets it from.  I just kept waiting for this phase to pass while Toby continued to hone his moves and convince me that he’s the next Fred Astaire.

But this Christmas it came to a head.  As we sat down to put all of his hockey games, hockey practices and ski lessons on the calendar he asked with earnest enthusiasm WHEN we were going to enroll him in TAP dancing!?!?!

He’s a busy guy, so scheduling ONE MORE THING into his life wasn’t going to be easy, but he’s consistent and determined so I figured I had to at least give his budding enthusiasm a chance.  I called around and found all of ONE dance academy in Collingwood that has Tap dance lessons for 7 year olds.

I sent a tentative email.

Would they, this late in the year, accept a little boy who was keen?  Could he just come and observe the first class without committing?

Yes, they replied, they would be HAPPY to have a boy in the class.  He could definitely come to the first class but would definitely have to participate.  Did he have his own tap shoes?

It was the last line that made me realize how novice we are to this – of COURSE he doesn’t have his own TAP shoes!  We were allowed to come “try it out” anyways…

And so we set off this past Thursday night, for Toby’s first dance lesson.   Tap-shoe-less, of course.

You know those moments you get when all of a sudden you realize with CLAIRVOYANT maternal knowledge that you have just embarked on a GIANT parenting FAIL???

Yup.  One of those.

The Collingwood Dance Academy was no joke.  Most of the kids were in matching uniforms with tights, dance shorts, leotards and, of course, tap shoes.   And by “kids” I mean girls.  (Two of whom were in Toby’s class at school.) Toby stood out like a sore thumb in his running shoes, track pants and hockey shirt.  He was pale as a ghost and griped my hand as I left him to the mercy of his new tap dance teacher.  I wasn’t allowed to watch the class but I certainly had no intention of leaving the studio. 

What on EARTH had I just subjected him to…?

The hour-long class seemed to take forever as I sat there patiently waiting. Every now and then the director of the academy would come over and offer me some reassuring thoughts about how great it would be for them to finally have a boy in their academy.  They had even picked out a uniform for him that they were all set to order once I gave them the go ahead.

I smiled back at her, disguising my inside knowledge that Toby would NEVER go for this kind of gig; he was a boys boy through and though.  It was one thing to “tap” away in front of your parents but surely doing it in front of a group of matching-leotarded-girls was not going to be his thing.  I only hoped I hadn’t traumatized his ego for life…But I wanted to be kind about it - - she didn’t know Toby.  I would let her down easily.  I decided I would quietly escort Toby out of the studio and send her an email later telling her what he thought of the class.

And then the class ended.

Toby was the first one out, bounding with new found grace and enthusiasm, the leader of his new group of tap dancing peers,

“MOMMY I LOVED IT!” he said to me loudly, RIGHT In front of the director, “Can we come back NEXT week?”

 

I quickly shushed him so we could talk about this together in the private luxury of our frigid car but not before his teacher had a chance to point out to me that she LOVED having a boy in her class and that Toby was really quite remarkably coordinated and was SURE to make a fantastic tap dancer.

“OK…” I said once we’d gotten into the car, “What did you REALLY think?”

“It was awesome.” He said very seriously,  “I’m a VERY good tap dancer” he added with sincerity.  (His choice in activities may be varied but his sense of self-assurance is a constant…)

I told him I was proud of him but reminded him of the seriousness of this commitment.  IF he ACTUALLY wanted to continue on with tap dance he would have to wear the uniform they gave him, attend classes regularly (and not drop out if he got bored of it after a few weeks) and participate in the end of year dance show.

“Of course, “ he said with the maturity of…(a male tap dancer??)…“But I will continue under ONE condition”

(Why did I suddenly feel like a Dance Agent??)

“Ok” I braced myself, “What is it?”

“I will NOT wear tights.”

Condition met.

And there we have it.  My Toby – the manliest of all boys-boys is officially enrolled in Tap Dance.

Don’t you worry….there WILL be a video to follow….just as soon as I buy him some tap shoes…

Toby on Week #2 of Tap Dance - starting to look the part a bit more...

The 'S' Word

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When you are a younger sibling it sometimes takes WORK to get yourself noticed.  ESPECIALLY if your older sibling is the ever popular and loud-mouthed Toby. In this circumstance, if you want to get yourself heard, you sometimes have to think outside the box.

Mia has always excelled in this area but I think her newest technique  is by far her most ingenious.

It all came about after we moved to town and Toby started inviting friends over to play.  These weren’t family friends, these were now TOBY’s friends, and Mia often got left out of the fun.  That is, until she took this situation into her own hands.  Be it one friend or a whole group of friends, Mia’s approach is consistent; just when everyone is about to get involved in a game that centers around Toby, Mia gathers everyone around her by simply stating, “Hey guys…I’m going to say the ‘S’ word.”

NOTHING gets a group of 4 to 6 year olds’ attention like a good counterfeit act of swearing.

Occasionally someone will break off from the group and come racing over to get me, breathlessly exclaiming with a look of horror in their eyes, “MIA IS ABOUT TO SAY THE ‘S’ WORD!!!”

Sometimes she threatens repeatedly until she is sure that she is the queen bee and has everyone’s attention.

And sometimes she says it.

The actual SAYING of the S word quickly dissipates the crowd and many if not ALL of the children usually then run over to me with horrified-tattle telling-glee to inform me that MIA. SAID. THE ‘S’ WORD.

It’s hard to know HOW to react to this scenario.  Especially because I have no idea what said ‘S’ word actually IS.  None of the well-behaved children we hang out with have the guts to actually REPEAT it to me.  And Toby CERTAINLY wouldn’t tarnish his golden halo with the likes of Mia’s shenanigans.

“She can’t REALLY know the word SHIT already, can she?” Rob asked me one night when we were going to sleep

I didn’t think so but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been duped by my angelic daughter.  Perhaps it was something inane like “shut up” or “shoot”.   I wasn’t sure how I was going to find out without mistakenly encouraging her behaviour.  

And then last weekend, quite unexpectedly,  I figured it out.

Our dog Zack had done something typical that infuriated me (I think he’d eaten a loaf of bread off the counter) and I sent him outside while remarking loudly about how low his IQ was.

When I turned around Mia’s face what white as a ghost.  She looked like she was going to cry.

“Mia!”  I rushed over to her. “What’s wrong?!?!?”

“Mommy…” she said VERY seriously, “You just said…the S word…”

I wracked my brains…what on earth had I just said?

Bread – table- dog- STUPID – that was it!

I almost burst out laughing but managed to stop myself just in time.

“You’re right, Mia. I DID say the S word. “ Then, gulping back my pride and swallowing everything I’ve ever thought about Zack since the moment we got him I added, “Zack is not stupid.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

Mia kept staring at me.  I had very clearly tarnished my reputation with her; no longer was I her infallible perfect Mommy.  I had CLEARLY violated some immensely important code in her world. 

Eventually our day went on as usual but the incident was clearly not forgotten.  That night at dinner after we had said what we were thankful for and everyone had dug into their meals, Mia put her fork down, folded her hands and made an announcement.

“Mommy said the S word today.”

Toby dropped his fork and stared at me in disbelief.

Another reputation tarnished.

Rob raised one eyebrow and looked at me questioningly as I smiled back innocently with a forced attempt at telepathy. 

“Yes. I did. I am very sorry. I said the S word.”

“WHY!?!??!”

Toby was not going to get over this.

Mia, on the other hand, had picked up her fork and was smugly enjoying her dinner while I got the third degree.

“Well…Toby…I was mad at Zack and made a comment I shouldn’t have.”

Now Rob was even MORE intrigued.  I didn’t want to SAY the actual S word again for fear that my children would report me to CAS but I was trying hard to explain myself to Toby AND subtly let Rob know that it wasn’t REALLY the word we thought it was and that I HADN’T just made the greatest Mommy-mistake of all times…

Although I managed to make it through our family dinner that night, the incident has not been forgotten.  Every now in then when I least expect it Mia reminds me with a sinister tone to her voice of THAT TIME that I used THE S WORD.

 I have learned two things from this situation:

1. I will from now on only ever refer to Zack’s shenanigans as “Silly” or “Dumb”

2.  My Mia is a force to be reckoned with….we are screwed when she hits her teens…

Mia - victorious after scoring her SECOND dessert while we were out for dinner in PEI

True Confessions : I Kinda Just Slept with my Father

-->Well THAT got your attention, didn’t it??

Sometimes it feels like every time I see my dad I can detect a behavioural change that jumps out and reminds me that his disease is progressing; a taunting reminder that we are losing him, piece by slow piece, to the world of dementia.

We make note of these changes in a series of predictable well-rehearsed stages.  The first stage is humour: a text from my mom informing me that dad has suddenly decided that it’s OK to spit on the floor.  (Most recently accompanied by an EMOTICON - her latest and greatest tech discovery trick…) The phase quietly changes to sadness.  The laughter subsides as we each retreat into our own heads to process the implications of this newest mannerism.  And then there’s the guilt.  The guilt phase is fleeting and unpredictable and shows up in a myriad of facets; sometimes I feel guilty that I haven’t been AS patient as I know I can be.  Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m not around more to help my mom through these changes.  A lot of the time I feel guilty that I coped and received these changes with humour.

This weekend I was faced with perhaps one of the most poignant changes I have witnessed.  Guilt be damned- it’s IMPOSSIBLE NOT to see the humour in this situation.  So I decided to share it.

This weekend my mom took a 48 hr business trip to Vancouver.  She probably spent half of her time away travelling to and from her destination but welcomed the peace and quiet a work trip offered her; she did get ONE nice dinner out in the process.  I was happy to come down and help out with my dad for a few days and glad she had asked.

We had a low key evening together that consisted of countless retellings of the whereabouts of his “beloved wife” and an up-to-the minute countdown to her impending return home.  When I put Mia down in her bed I told her I would be sleeping down the hall in Grandma’s room and that she was welcome to come in and get me when she woke up.  Usually I sleep in the basement so this was a key piece of information for an anxious and early rising 3 year old.

Dad and I watched a dumb movie, ate pizza, and at 11:30 I told him it was time for bed.

“OK…” my anxious father said reluctantly, “Where am I sleeping?  Can I sleep with you?”

I assured my dad that he could NOT sleep with me.  That he had his OWN bed in his OWN room where he slept every night and would be just FINE.

“Of course.” 

It made logical sense to him for most of the walk upstairs.  By the time he reached his bedroom and the quiet darkness of nighttime he had changed his mind.  I barely had my pajamas on before I heard my mom’s door creak open and the thump of his cane as he hobbled down her hallway to her bed.

Reiterating my previous statement was ineffective.  He looked at me dumbfounded, “WHAT??!?! But I ALWAYS sleep in here!” he stated indignantly.

I pointed out the obvious fact that it was usually when my MOTHER was ALSO sleeping there, not when his DAUGHTER was sleeping there.  (Note – my father does NOT always sleep in there.  He does have his own bedroom where he spends most of the night.  Although he is a bit of a night wanderer so I have no doubt he spends at least some of the time in there…)

Again – dumbfounded.

Couldn’t he just lie down with me for a LITTLE bit?  Maybe while I read my book?

I had a moment.

You know those moments, when you suddenly look around the room frantically asking someone –ANYONE- is this REALLY happening?  And what’s the right answer here?  Was I fighting him off because I selfishly didn’t want to share a double bed with him and his night wandering habits or was I legit in my feelings of serious creepiness at sharing a bed with my father?

I shrugged my shoulders and told him he could lie with me for a few minutes until he got sleepy.

PERFECT.  He said and LEAPED into bed.

Alright, fine, it was more like a hobble, but I swear I would have gotten the exact same response out of EITHER of my kids if THEY had scored the jackpot prize of getting to sleep with mom.

I lay down on my side of the bed and attempted to read my book.

My quiet reserved father was suddenly chatty.

“So…” he asked, “What are we doing tomorrow?”

I gave him a brief rundown of the plan.

“Ok!” he said brightly, “And where’s your mother?”

THAT question again?

“DAD.” I reprimanded, “IF you’re going to lie here you have to be quiet”

“OH, alright.” He said and was blissfully silent for all of 10 seconds when his feet suddenly got itchy and he decided to roll them both back and forth up and down the bed in alternating succession.

That’s when he got evicted.

Dad reluctantly hobbled down my mom’s hallway and off to his own bedroom.  And I rolled over in what turned out to be failed attempt #1 of sleep.

It was a long night.  Each eviction and subsequent sleep attempt was quickly succeeded by another innocent plea and bargaining attempt by my father.  He didn’t have very many arguments but reverted to the same two lame attempts at reasoning

1.  I ALWAYS sleep here.

2.  I’m lonely.

One of which was an outright lie, the other of which broke my heart.

It was an interesting exercise in morality; balancing your innate need for sleep, your own guilt and compassion, and this engrained disturbance by the whole situation.  I toyed with the idea of going to sleep in the basement or up in Toby’s room but had also promised Mia that I’d be in grandma’s bed when she woke up.

By 4 am I finally heard the sweet sounds of his cacophonous snoring and I knew I was safe to sleep.  I closed my eyes, settled my brain, and lay there.

 Silently. 

Wide awake. 

 As I puzzled over the fact that I was not immediately sleeping I realized that every muscle in my body was tense and my brain was on high alert.  I supposed this is what one would classify as a natural response to having a wandering octogenarian with dementia intent on sleep cohabitation in such close proximity.

I’ll tell you one thing: if I were a cave man I would have survived; I have a solid alert mode.

I supposed I did doze off eventually, after the repeated shots of middle-of-the-night-wake-up-adrenaline wore off.  I slept just long enough to make my daughter’s 7 am arrival one of pure agony.  I managed to stave her off with the ceremonious handing over of the ipad and rolled over for a few more minutes of sleep. 

Twenty minutes later I was again woken by a little voice,

“Lyssie?!?” said my father

Good god he was up again.  My fight or flight response was back in full swing.

“What are YOU doing here?” he asked with kindness and genuine excitement to see me.  Clearly our recurring conversations in the night had long been forgotten.  He was so happily surprised to see me that my sleep-deprived grogginess was overturned with a sense of adoration for my poor old dad.   

The sweetness of the moment was quickly tempered by the addition of his familiar clause,

“And WHERE’S my darling wife!?!?!”

Here we go again…sleep be damned, it was time to get up for the day.

Not all changes are good changes, but not everything is entirely bad.  In many ways watching my dad’s dementia progress is like the reverse of watching my kids grow up; the days and months march on, marked by mini losses of his abilities and contrasted starkly by my kids acquisition of new language and skills.  But just as time unveils for me the true characters and likeness of who my children are, so too does my dad’s sweetness emerge; a side that he never really let out before.  And we greet both milestones good and bad with the same familiar statement which highlights what it means for all of us:  How fast time goes.   How quickly they change.   How precious this time with them is.

“Enjoy every second” the old ladies at the grocery store say to me “It will be over before you know it.”