Geography Lessons

My sister Hilary lives in Calgary.  For those of you who have been anywhere in Canada this past month, not living under a rock, this little fact should resonate and immediately instill a feeling of cold sogginess.

It also just so happened that Hilary’s birthday landed on the  “uncertain” day of the flooding.  Where towns “around Calgary” were being evacuated and specifics had yet to be divulged.  Her little town of Okotoks, I am reluctant to admit, is “about 20 min from Calgary” in which direction I am unsure but close enough that for family she was in the “worry zone”.  If I have learned anything from this week it is that my Alberta geography knowledge is severely lacking.

It just so happens that we had reason to worry.   I learned this all via text messages which started with the inocuous “Happy Birthday’ and culminated in frequent updates on the flood and evacuation situation from her hospital.

My sister was one of the heroes.  As an OT at the local hospital, she diligently showed up to work (on her BIRTHDAY!!!) unknowingly committing herself to a 48 hour work day that climaxed in a code green evacuation from the roof and didn’t end until 1:30am a few days later after she had successfully managed to transfer each of the 120 patients into evacuation vehicles and off to safety.  Only then did she return home to check on her own house and husband, which were (thankfully) just fine.

During the course of these days of short-texted-updates, it suddenly became important to me to share this scenario with Toby, both to help drive home to him the reality of world events and to bring him closer to his Aunt Hilary.

Toby listened very attentively as I told him the story of the floods and of Aunt Hilary who was stuck at work, at a hospital, helping patients out (just like Mommy does) on her BIRTHDAY.

 We took a brief respite as I ran into the local strawberry farm to pick up a flight of strawberries for Rob to freeze that night.  We got side tracked by the delicious snap peas and asparagus.  Toby loved perusing the produce and we had an enjoyable stop over.  I had all but forgotten our previous discussion but Toby hadn’t.  I hadn’t even turned the car back on before he piped up,

“Ok, Mommy, tell me that story about Aunt Hilary again but start from the BEGINNING this time and go more SLOWLY.”

And so I started again.  I explained about rivers and floods and spring run off.  I talked about rain and precipitation and the prairies.  I was interrupted once to clarify the discrepancy from my first version of the story in which I said the waters came up “to about halfway up Mommy’s car” and the second version when I stated that the waters were so high people needed to be rescued by helicopter or boats from their roofs.  In hindsight I recognize the gravity in this error – there is a HUGE difference between “half way up a car’s” height and “to the roof of your house” height.  Toby was at full attention and there was NO putting anything past him.

It wasn’t until I moved on to politics, evacuation policies and job requirements that Toby revealed to me his level of understanding.

“OH, I get it, Mommy.  It’s kind of like in the three little pigs.  When the first guy had his straw house blown down he moved to his BROTHER’S house.  And then when THAT was blown down they both moved to the BRICK house.   That’s called an EV-A-CU-A-TION”

I guess he had gotten it.  Sort of.   And the question that came next was obvious- what would WE do if we ever got evacuated?

I reassured him that we would probably just go to Grandma Lynda’s house in Toronto if we were ever evacuated.

“Oh well that would be just FINE then,” he said with a shrug and a flick of his wrist, “Grandma has LOTS of toys.”

And just like that all of his worries about the scenario had ended.   How simple life can be for these little creatures.

At the end of the day Hilary is just fine; she is back home with her shrewd husband who chose to build on high ground.  Toby has attained a little knowledge about evacuations, geography and flood politics as well as a bit more context for his Aunt Hilary who, previous to this, had been known mainly for the awesomeness of her last few Christmas gifts.  And I humbly admit to having benefited as well – not only do I have a better sense of Alberta geography but also a newfound respect for my sister and her dedication to our mutual work in healthcare.

Well done, Hil.  I’m glad you’re safe.

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!!!

Saber-Toothed Tigers

Toby went to a birthday party today at the trampoline gym.  As such, the ride home was filled with a lively conversation about Saber Toothed Tigers.

Oh, sorry, was that a non-sequitor?  It didn’t make much sense to me either but it was entertaining nonetheless.

Here’s what I learned about Saber toothed tigers from 5 year old Toby

-Saber toothed tigers are good. They are called saber toothed tigers because they SAVE people by rescuing them if they need help.  SAVER-toothed was repeated over and over again to me until I got it.

-They are very fast.  Like, faster than Cheetahs.  They accomplish this by running and then doing a somersault over the backs of the cheetahs and landing in front of them.

-They eat bears, lions and tigers and anything covered in fur.  And grass, too.

-They live in the forest near caves so they can be near the bears that they eat.

-They are made of steel.

=They are not orange in colour, more like a very deep red.

-They have  long pointy teeth that are sharper than vampire teeth

-If there was ever to be a fight between a Saber toothed tiger and Captain Underpants guess who would win?  The saber toothed tiger.

-They have sharp claws and when they try to catch someone they only have to swing one claw of one hand without even moving their arm and that person would be knocked to the ground.

-NO one could ever hurt a saber toothed tiger because they are so fast they would just jump out of the way if someone came at them with an axe or something.

After this informative introduction to the Saber toothed tiger, Toby reached into his loot bag and picked out a mask that was obviously a hippopotamus face.  Toby put the mask on, roared at me and then announced that he was a Saber Toothed tiger and would I like him to be my pet?

I declined the kind offer graciously on the basis of safety concerns.

“Mommy!” I was immediately reprimanded, “Don’t SAY THAT!!!!

I have rehearsed several potential arguments in my head that having kids might force me to have: why smoking is bad, why a curfew is important, why you can’t get you’re ears pierced before you are 10. But I never thought much about having to defend my choice NOT to want a saber-toothed tiger as a pet.  So I had to do my best with little to no preparation on this one…

“Toby, you’ve just spent the last 20 minutes explaining to me how TERRIFYING and SCARY Saber toothed tigers are.  It’s not that I don’t LIKE them I just think they sound kind of dangerous.”

I was reminded of the fact that they are called SAVER-toothed tigers for a reason because they would SAVE me and that they also don’t eat hair so when they were saving me they would use their nostrils and NOT their large pointy teeth so I would be OK.

I reluctantly agreed and Toby went to put his mask back on

Just when we thought all was right in the world the elastic band on the mask broke and we arrived home, broken mask in hand, wailing in grief at the loss of the dollar store-hippopotamus -that-is-actually-a-saber-toothed-tiger-mask.

Phew.  Birthday parties ARE exhausting.

My Mother's Day Fantasy

Aha!  Finally the day comes I’ve been waiting for all year…Mother’s day; a day that is dedicated to THANKING me for the tireless and sometimes thankless work of being a mom.  Today my friend asked me what my plans were for the day and I allowed myself a few minutes of unbridled, uncensored mind candy of what my obscenely lavish mothers day wishes would be…. Here are a few excerpts from my fantasy…

(I recognize they are LAVISH and EXCESSIVE and unlikely EVER to come true…but please, humour me…)

1.  A Guilt Free Day

For one day, JUST ONE DAY. I would like to choose a daytime activity that takes place between the hours of 9am and 12am and do it GUILT FREE.  (Just writing that makes me cringe).  For just ONE DAY I would like to do something that doesn’t’ immediately make me think I’m going to piss my husband off, garner criticism from my mother, or turn my children into disadvantaged hellions.  Just one day.  All day.  No matter what I choose to do.

Cause here’s what I’d choose to do…

2.  Sleep

I can’t REALLY imagine what it would be like to just sleep until I woke up on my own.  I wonder- how late would that be?  Would I MAYBE sleep all day?  Could I POSSIBLY make it till 9am without the influx of noise, guilt or routine interrupting me?  Doubtful.  But yet…an interesting thing to try.

3.  A Quiet Breakfast

I’d like to eat breakfast without having a child on my lap or without having to get up 5 times to get someone more cereal, a glass of juice, a cloth to clean up a spill or wipe a poopy bum.  (Toby ALWAYS manages to have his morning poo right as I’m about to take my first bite of  breakfast…)  And hey, while I’m asking for it, how about a breakfast in which no one cries over the colour of their cereal bowl or deems life completely unreasonable and unfair because their brother got the placemat with the frogs on it and you got stuck with the placemat with the rabbits on it.

4.  Two minutes of Private Urination

I’d like to pee in private.  Demanding, aren’t I?

5.   A  Shower in Solitude

A leisurely shower, perhaps with the luxurious time frame that could allow me to shampoo AND cream rinse my hair and…wait for it…shave. All at the same time.  Of course this would be GUILT FREE (see ludicrous request #1) and without having to carry on a conversation with EITHER kid OR husband at the same time.  I MIGHT have to accommodate this request immediately after #4 to maximize my chances of it happening…

6. A Chance to Read the Newspaper

I know I’ve been living under the proverbial “parental rock” for the past 5 years so I’m not sure that this is still an up to date request.  Do people still read the newspaper or is it all on line?  Cause I’d like to sit with a cup of coffee (or 2) and peruse the paper cover to cover, not just skimming it for the task of acquiring the-basics-needed-to-still-understand-what’s –going-on-in-the-world but to actually read an article just because I can and potentially MIGHT find it interesting.  And I’d like to have dark black smudgy fingers at the end of it just to PROVE it.

7.  A Change in Radio Stations

How about a change from Raffi and Serious Satellite Kids channel “the Animal Farm”.  Instead of listening to a pretend Llama share his woes about his neck and his fears about being touched how about the CBC.  Jian Gomeshi and Q would be just perfect…

8.  A Snack that I don’t have to share.  Like maybe a CHOCOLATE bar or a tall glass of JUICE or a handful of chips that I can grab whenever I please without having to endure simultaneous whining that I am not sharing it with THEM. 

9.  A bitchfest with the girls

Cause you know, there ain’t NOTHING more refreshing than a girls’ night bitchfest.

10.  Bedtime Exemption

Can you even IMAGINE the luxury of just SITTING there while someone else puts BOTH of your kids down?  Not because I had to work late and not because I’d done it on my own 4 times the week before.  But just cause.

Sigh.  As I look back on this list I realize that these requests are COMPLETELY unrealistic. Well, most of them at least.  Maybe the fact that the world grants you a day named after you make one feel the need to think up the most lavishly ridiculous things.  Perhaps if I was single and without kids and it happened to be “Single Lady’s Day” I’d envision equally unreachable things like hiring a private jet to go to France and drinking Dom Perignon for breakfast at the top of the Empire State building.

But just PICTURING that scenario it kind of makes me feel a little lost.  Cause really, how great can those things be if you don’t have a house full of loud, imposing rugrats to come home to? 

I guess that’s why we’re mothers.  And I guess that’s why the world names a day after us and doesn’t WORRY that there will be handful of abandoned children and angry dads around as we ludicrously lavish in the confines of our bathrooms in guilt-free-bliss for 24 hours.

And I guess that’s why this year, like every year, I can’t actually think of anything better than waking up to a chaotic, messy and loud attempt at breakfast in bed, complete with home made cards that I have been shown 5 times already (out of sheer excitement) and wet dirty faced kisses and smiles that accompany me all the way from bed, to the bathroom, to the shower and back. 

Being a mom means sacrificing a few basic human rights. But It also means being loved like you never knew possible.  I guess in that way every day is Mother’s day…

The Boy on the Bus

Kindergarten is a bit of a black box for parents – the child goes in, the child comes out and you have NO idea what happens in the 7 hours in-between.  You search desperately for clues, “You didn’t eat your apple – were you busy talking to your friends at lunch today?” or they bring home obscure art work with only one repetitively familiar phrase on all of them – TOBY – “What’s this a picture of Toby, is this something you’re learning about this week?”  The more you ask, the curter the answer and the more deadpan the stare.

I have learned, over the course of this year, the difficult task of patience.  I wait for the mood to hit and casually lure details out of him when the picking is ripe.

The other day I managed to hit a JACKPOT with the bus.

The hour long bus ride that we so cruelly subject him to on Monday, Wednesdays and Thursdays is even MORE enigmatic than the mundane routine of kindergarten in which they do “nothing” every day.  (Or so it seems…)

Here’s what I know about the bus:

-       It’s yellow

-       He sits by himself

-       It is a medium, sometimes long ride

-       He hates it

The guilt I have suffered over this bus ride could move mountains.

At the beginning of the year I had meetings with the teachers, BEGGING them to ensure that they sat someone beside him.  I would spend hours at night coaching him on how to make friends on the bus, how to ask someone to sit beside him, what to say to make friends and games he could play by himself to pass the time.  Despite it all, Toby hates the bus. 

So imagine my surprise last week when he raced in the door from his ride home and announced that he had to make a card for his friend “Josh” from the bus. 

I raced downstairs behind him, hot on his heels, my casual attempt at garnering information flying out the window.

I asked excitedly who Josh was.

“Just some boy on the bus.”  Toby replied casually as he got his markers and paper out.

“Is he in kindergarten?”

“Nope”

“How old is he?”

“I don’ know…maybe 7 or 8?” 

(FYI that means NOTHING. Toby once took a liking to my mom’s friend Vivien and later confessed that he thought she was probably 4 or 5 years old. He is RUBBISH at age prediction…)

“Does he sit with you on the bus?”  I asked with baited breath.

“Oh, no.  He sits with the big kids.”

I was getting nowhere.

“But he told you it’s his birthday tomorrow?”

“Well…” Toby replied, already focusing on his artwork, “I just heard him telling someone that it’s his birthday either THIS Wednesday or NEXT Wednesday I’m not really sure.  So I’m making him a card.”

All of a sudden the animalistic parental protection alarms started sounding in my head.  An OLDER kid who doesn’t even seem to ACKNOWLEGE Toby who MAY or may not have a birthday tomorrow or the next week?  And Toby was diligently making him a card?  As thoughtful as it seemed I just knew that the error factor and potential for disappointment or even being made fun of was too high for my comfort zone.

I went upstairs to think it out and Toby arrived TWENTY MINUTES LATER with a birthday card that broke my heart.  Toby has only ever spent that long on a card for one of his beloved Grandmas’ and that was OK because I KNEW it would be well received with the appropriate laudations and lavish gratitude’s it was deserving of.  In Toby’s attempts to make this card special he had used ALL of his markers AND his scissors.  The results was a misshapen mangled, colour jumbled MESS of a piece of foolscap with the familiar phrase TOBY scrawled across it.

OH SHIT.

The next morning (Wednesday, either the day of Josh’s birthday or the week BEFORE this said Josh’s birthday) it was raining.  We ran into the logistical problem of how to pack this card appropriately.  I tried to pack it in to the main section of Toby’s backpack but Toby is a rule follower and apparently you are not allowed to open your backpack on the bus (I am now up to 5 things I know about the bus…) so he wanted to put it in the side pocket.  The problem was that it was RAINING and I cringed at the thought of what the rain would do to this already terrible piece of lovingly made artwork.  I was TEMPTED to put a note in his book for his kindergarten teachers explaining this conundrum but decided against it; this was one scenario Toby would have to figure out on his own.  (While I secretly hoped he wouldn’t be able to deliver his card to this older Josh fellow).

The next morning I rushed home from work eager to hear how the card exchange had gone.  Had he given Josh his card?

“Yes.” Toby said matter of factly, “But I was wrong.  It wasn’t Josh’s birthday today.  His birthday is next week.”

“OH, I replied” as best I could without bursting into tear for the little guy, “That’s too bad.  Did Josh like the card anyways?”

“I don’t know.” Toby said.  “But I gave it to him anyways.”

Even as I write this, the scenario breaks my heart.  I have no idea who this Josh guy is nor whether he was kind to Toby when he was presented with this heartfelt week-early birthday card.  I can only hope that he made Toby feel good about the efforts he put into it and that Toby isn’t forever scarred from the experience.  I suspect this is just the first of many experience Toby will have on the bus, at school, and in life where I am left out of the details and can only hope as a bystander that the world treats him fairly.

In the meantime, I am glad to hear that SOMEONE on the bus has a name.  And I take solace in the fact that one day Mia will also be on his bus and he will at least have a little sister to sit beside.  And I know EXACTLY how Mia will react to any unappreciative bus bullies: she’ll kick their ass.