The Backseat Popsicle Conversation

Toby and I had to take an impromptu trip to the local general store in Singhampton this afternoon. It’s a quick trip but I enjoy Toby’s company and it’s a good outing for him – IF he’s willing to go.  Despite the fact that he usually ENJOYS the quick trip into town, today it took some bribing; a popsicle bribe to be precise.   

After picking out a huge sugar-filled Life Saver popsicle for the arduous task of sitting in the backseat while I drove him 5 minutes down the road, he sat happily licking away in the backseat as we headed home.  After a few minutes of contented licking he suddenly piped up,

“Mommy…sometimes when you stand up you look tall.”

I asked him what (on earth!?!?) had possessed him to say that,

“Because!” he said a bit hurt, “You told me telling people they look OLD isn’t NICE!”

“OH.” I said and left it alone for a bit while Toby went happily back to consuming his popsicle.

Finally I just HAD to ask, “Toby, were you trying to tell me that I look OLD?” I said as neutrally as possible,

“No…” he said with a flick of his wrist, “I was just trying to tell you something nice that would make you happy!”

Ah…the power of popsicles.

I’m glad to know he is learning what NOT to say, but I guess I should give him a lesson on how to correctly compliment people as well….

The Great Mrs. Shields

“Do you want to know something, Mommy?”  Toby asked on our way to school today.

“What, Toby?”  I asked with an equal mixture of trepidation and curiosity.

Although the daily grind of getting Toby to school by 8:45 every morning has its difficulties, one of the perks of the job include the random array of conversations that we have had; everything from religion to saber toothed tigers to the intricacies of the St Mary’s kindergarten social scene.  I never know WHAT to expect when our morning drive starts out with such an open ended question but I am always keen to find out.

This morning’s sequeale caught me off guard.

“I know how old Mrs. Shields is.”  He said with great factual confidence and pride.

“Oh?” I answered, wondering what line of questioning his poor kindergarten teacher had endured yesterday

“Mrs. Shield is ONE HUNDRED years old.”

I rolled my eyes and then launched into a conversation I have had many times before (often stemming from his incessant asking of my mother’s age) about how it is not polite to ask people (especially ladies) how old they are.  I concluded the lecture with my own equally confident statement, “And just so you know, Mrs. Shields is NOT one hundred years old.”

“Oh YES she IS!” came a voice from the back seat.  “I KNOW it, Mommy. It’s the TRUTH.”

“Did ZACK tell you that? Toby?” 

There is only one other person on the planet whose word usurps the word of his beloved Mrs. Shields and that is his friend, Zack from SENIOR kindergarten.

Zack is from England. He flies an airplane to school every day and eats pop tarts for dinner every night.  He is the fastest runner in the class AND the best reader.  If Toby and Zack are still friends in grade 2 I suspect it will be Zack, not I, who will teach Toby the facts of life and I undoubtedly may never have grandchildren as the result of it.

The pause that ensued confirmed my suspicion but Toby wasn’t letting down.

“No…” he said hesitantly after a think, “I read it in a BOOK.  So it’s the TRUTH.”

I wasn’t sure where to go from here.  Should I reinforce my previous stance on the impoliteness of discussing women’s ages or work harder towards correcting what is OBVIOUSLY incorrect?

I decided on a combo approach and encouraged him NOT to mention this conversation to Mrs. Shields while subtly reiterating the fact that she probably WASN’T actually 100 years old.

The first part was quickly forgotten as he leaped to defend his position even further. 

Realizing that there was no way either one of us could reach consensus without actually seeing Mrs. Shields’ birth certificate, I told Toby that we would just have to agree to disagree.

“Well WHAT does THAT mean?!?!” an exasperated five year old sighed from behind me.

Determined to have SOMETHING good come of this conversation I explained to him that sometimes when you are disagreeing with someone you recognize that neither of you are going to agree and so you just reach a friendly agreement that you will have a different opinion on the matter.  (Phrased in much more kid-friendly jargon.)

Toby thought about this for a little while before heaving a sigh of resignation.

“Well OK that’s fine with me, mom.”

For a brief second in time I thought I had won.  Until I heard the end of his sentence…

“As long as you realize, though, that Mrs. Shields IS one HUNDRED years old.”

I conclude this post with an addendum:

I wrote this post with great hesitation as I worry that it maybe misconstrued in ANY way to imply that Mrs. Shields is anything but the wonderful, young, energetic kindergarten teacher that she is.  This time last year I worried incessantly about Toby’s transition to kindergarten and all of my fears were instantaneously relieved the moment I laid eyes on the great Mrs. Shields.  She not only captivated Toby’s heart and respect but reminded me of my own wonderful kindergarten teachers.  I couldn’t have asked for anyone better to transition my precious boy into his school years and will be forever grateful to her for being that reassuring link.  And just for the record; although she may convey hundreds of years worth of wisdom to her students, to me she has done nothing but remind me that we are never too young at heart to love and learn from these precious years.

We all thank you, Mrs. Shields, no matter how old you are, for a wonderful first year at St. Mary’s!

Father's Day Confessions

I was my mother’s kid.  Dad had agreed the way anyone would eventually agree when they found out their girlfriend was 6 months pregnant; it was a moot point.  I was inevitably coming and he agreed to deal with it.

My dad already HAD 4 children, the last 3 of which were also girls.  So me being the last one, ALSO a girl, and having the athletic talents of my mother (!) I was readily handed over to my mother.  I was her child.

A lot changed however, as I grew up.  I don’t know if it was gradual or if it was that sudden smack-you-in-the-face attack of love your offspring afflict you with the minute you meet them, but somewhere between my entry into the world and the age at which I can clearly remember complicated stuff like whether or not one of my parents likes me, I know my dad loved me.  In fact, he even TOLD me he loved me.

 ONCE. 

I remember that day clearly because it was the day I finally got kicked off the basketball team.

I say finally because I had just barely scraped through in grade’s 6-9.  Each year my abysmal basketball skills coupled with my neurotic performance anxiety meant that I came closer and closer to being cut.  And each summer, in preparation for the upcoming season, I would set out to practice on my own over and over again while dad watched in futile helplessness as he shook his head and cursed my mother for giving me her athletic skills.

And then finally in grade 10 I got cut.

I won’t say it came as a shock to anyone, but to the 15-year-old version of myself it was pure heartbreak.

My dad greeted me in the front hall that night when I came home, sobbing, and met me with open arms.  He told me he loved me because he didn’t know what else to say.  And because he didn’t know what else to do. And because he did.

My dad has grown in leaps and bounds since his lone confession of love to me in grade 10.  The birth of my children, combined with the softness of age, has loosened his sentimentality and flow of emotion.  This weekend when Toby gave him his Father’s day Card my dad read it out loud and marveled at the pictures.  I could tell when my dad picked the card up that he was determined to love it.

Toby’s artistic talent equally parallels my athletic talent.   To an outside observer, my dad’s father’s day card was a mishmash of pieces of paper with green highlighter and chicken scratch marks with the lone words HAPPY FATHERS DAY PAPA scattered across the pages.  Try to absolve my dad of any embarrassment as he opened it, I asked Toby to EXPLAIN to my dad what all of the “drawings” represented.

Toby stared at me blankly.

My dad stared at the card blankly.

Then, in a moment of pure grand-parental-genius, and doing something I haven’t seen him do in over a decade, my dad decided to improvise.

“I see what this means, it’s a poem” my dad said as he began to recite, in perfect iambic pentameter, an impromptu poem Toby’s father’s day card had inspired in him.

We sat there all too stunned to grab an iphone to record it, but the gist of my dad’s poem went something like this,

“My dearest darling Papa, I love you love you love you and so do I my darling Toby so too do I love you.”

That was the first random sketch.  The other ones received similar poetic prophecies of love.  Toby sat there with a huge grin on his face and listened attentively,

“Yes, Papa, that’s EXACTLY what I was trying to write.”

It wasn’t long before Mia handed him HER card (a similar array of mishmash –feathers, stickers and felt letters stuck to a piece of construction paper) and my dad belted out yet another poetic ode to his love of her.

Seeing my dad with my kids is seeing a tangible form of love.  He is content just to sit and watch them play, make a mess of themselves over dinner, or run around in circles.  Whatever activity they are engaged in – be it mischief or messiness, his happiest time is sitting there watching them.

I may have been my mother’s kid.  I may have grown of up deprived of nightly “I love you’s” and sappy father-daughter moments.  But I have always known the truth and watching it manifest now in the love between my kids and my dad is a gift I will always cherish.

Happy father’s day, dad…today and always. 

Typical bonding with the grandkids - mini cupcakes on paper plates and air hockey.  Small things that made everyone's day!!!