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

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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.”

Generational Traditions

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I’ve mentioned to you before about the many childhood weekends I would spend at my Grandparents house, eating meals around the Formica table and playing cards until all hours of the night with my beloved Grandma.  Almost every story about them revolve around some sort of mischief my grandmother and I would get into that would culminate in one of us me rolling around on their ugly brown rugs, laughing so hard we could barely breathe.

My grandfather’s role in these weekends was that of best supporting actor.  He forever played the straight man for my grandmother’s various antics and served as the voice of reason for our late night endeavours - with the exception of the KFC surprise night, of course.

There was another side to my strict and practical grandfather, though, that came out each night at bedtime.  Perhaps in an effort to quell the stimulating effects my grandmother had had on me all day, or maybe just to show me affection in his own unique way, my grandpa would tuck me into the blue bed a the end of the hallway and then sit down and play the organ for me until I fell asleep.

I can remember clearly the thin, peely, blue duvet cover and the tiny crack of light that would stream through the bedroom door; I always insisted he leave it open a crack so I could be sure to hear him play.

I have no idea how long he would play for, but I remember the calmness and sweetness of those moments, lying perfectly still, trying desperately to stay awake so I could hear his organ playing until the very end…

I am happy to report that the grand piano that I bought on kijiji has made its way safely to our new house and has now since been exposed to the more sophisticated works of Beethoven and Chopin (in addition to the occasional round of Old MacDonald Had a Farm, of course - -a classic is a classic…)

Seeing as it is in the very front open room of our house, its majestic sound echoes through every crevice and room of our house when it is played.  I don’t think I’ve ever played something with such a gorgeous sound, but having young kids around means limiting my playing time to be that of awake time…when the kids are both preoccupied and not in need of my attention…which doesn’t amount to much! I often play for them on weekend mornings while sipping my coffee, or after dinner when we feel like dancing to some music.  Tonight, I tried a new technique

As I was putting Mia down for bed I asked her if she’d like me to play her a song while she went to sleep.  She thought that sounded like an EXCELLENT idea, but knowing Mia it was probably just a calculated scheme to get to stay awake later…Toby thought it was a good idea, too and even suggested I start with Chopin’s Raindrops Prelude because it was raining out.

I sat down and played Chopin’s Raindrops prelude to the quiet darkness of a house post bedtime with the soft sounds of the rain in the background.   I finished the piece with a pause before I heard in the background the sounds of Toby holding his breath from the top of the stairs.

“Mommy…” he whispered cautiously, “Could you please play me something else?”

I was so touched by his enthusiasm that I neglected to reprimand him for being out of bed.

“Sure, honey” I responded, “What else do you want to hear?”

“Ooh…BEETHOVEN.” He said, “One of the ones that go LOUD and then SOFT.  And THEN I want to hear the Moonlight sonata.  Cause it’s night time and the MOON is out…”

It was JUST what I was in the mood to play.

As I was about to sit down and play my son’s sweet requests he whispered one last thing to me,

“Mommy…” he said (still at the top of the stairs…he is a master bargainer, this one…)

“Yes, Toby” I said from the piano bench

“…. I just wish you could play for me all night long.” He said in the most earnest and genuine way possible.  “I just love listening…”

As I sat down to play my son some Beethoven to fall asleep to, I was overcome with happiness and contentment at the ingenious the circle of life.

For the first time in a long time I thought of my grandfather.  I have such fond memories of his organ playing, but was suddenly hit with a new appreciation for it, seeing it now from the other side.  I don’t know if he knows how much I enjoyed it, but I sincerely hope I thanked him enough for all the hours he spent playing for me, and I hope I did so with the same unadulterated excitement that Toby now has for mine.  I’m so thankful for the good, simple things in life that can be passed down from generation to generation…

Kijiji and Me

I have made many amazing discoveries on Kijiji.  I have bought everything from a snow blower, to used kids toys, to tickets to TFC games on the site.  Even Zack (our dog) came from kijiji.  My kijiji obsession has saved me countless dollars, fostered a plethora of unlikely friendships and taken me on some interesting road trips across Southern Ontario. 

It always starts with a casual thought; “Hmmm…wouldn’t Rob love it if I surprised him with a snow blower for Christmas” or “Mia’s getting to the age where she might like a real doll house."  Even “I think our family might be ready to get a dog…’”

The passing thoughts are then followed by a bedtime “quick look” on my iPad followed by a harmless response to one or two adds.  

And then I’m on a mission.

These missions USUALLY culminate in one pivotal moment when I’m hooked and declare THIS VERY __________ (insert current kijiji item of obsession) as the VERY BEST one in ALL of Ontario.  And I then need to buy it INSTANTANEOUSLY before ANYONE ELSE discovers it.  My causal search then takes a nose-dive into frantic.  The very last step in my lunacy culminates in a very responsible text to my husband “I’m going to be late tonight.  If I don’t come home give this address to the police.  I’m off to buy a ______!!! (Fill in the blank)

At first Rob wasn’t all too thrilled about my texts.  The first time, just as I was about to ring the doorbell to see the set of kids’ skis I so desperately wanted, he called me and demanded to know where on earth I was and what the hell I was doing. I reassured him that I was in a suburb in the middle of Horseshoe Valley with very poor cell phone service but I would call him as soon as I had my hands on the most PERFECT pair of used skis for Toby.

He has since gotten used to my spontaneously creepy warning texts and has chalked it up to one of the many thrills of being married to me.

I think.

I have also met some very kind people on my kijiji quests.  Buying Rob a snow blower for Christmas one year when I was 8 and a half months pregnant was particularly memorable and stands out in my memory as one of my greatest purchases, one of my MOST poorly thought out plans and one of my greatest feats of pregnancy.  (Which says a lot when the grand finale of the whole thing is to expel an 8-pound child out of…) 

I digress.

  The 80-year-old man who sold me his snowblower took one look at my belly and then very kindly offered to call his daughter over to help us move it into my car.  I don’t know how I had THOUGHT I was going to hoist the 500-pound machine into the back of my Rav 4.  All I knew was that I had to get it home by 5pm so that I could hide it before Rob got home.

The man’s daughter had a broken leg but she pulled her weight better than the old man and my bulging belly.  Between the three of us invalids, we managed to get it in the car and he even gave me some blood stained blankets he had lying around in his garage so that it didn’t scrape up the back seat of my car on the way home.

I didn’t ask.

This week I went on one of my favourite kijiji missions ever: I bought our family a lovely baby grand piano.

I have been looking around for a while and had my eye on this one in Barrie for quite some time.  As all things go with kijiji and me there came a day (which happened to be this Monday afternoon) when it suddenly clicked and I could wait no more.  I called the owner and arranged a STAT visit.  I phoned a moving company who promised to deliver it the very next day (assuming I bought it) and I left work early to head out on the road to check out my latest discovery and seal the deal.

I took one step into the man’s house and knew instantly that this was the piano for us.  It was gorgeous.  The man was a violinist.  I bonded with him for the first 15 minutes as we talked about music and sound and pianos and acoustics.  I felt the need to prove to him that I was worthy of his beautiful and beloved piano and we shared countless stories of our mutual love of music and piano and he admired my ability to play the French horn and I marveled at his ability to play the violin.

He made a big show of opening up this beautiful piano.  He raised the huge black mahogany lid and lit the candle-like light that stood on top of it.  He pushed the pristinely polished black leather bench forward and then ushered to me with a graceful hand motion.

“It’s yours.  Play.”

After all that build up, I put my bag down, rolled me sleeves up, sat down and positioned myself on the bench.

I had forgotten to bring my music.

He looked at me expectantly.

Being a mom of young children, there is only one song I know by heart.

I put my head down, lowered my hands onto the beautiful keys and began to play.  And soon the beautiful baby grand piano filled his house with the sweet sounds of….

Old MacDonald Had a Farm.

I played it first at Middle C.

Then I played it up a few octaves to try out the high notes.

Then I played it down a few octaves to try out the low notes.

I am QUITE sure that the man, at this point, thought I was a complete LUNATIC, trying out the various cadences of Old MacDonald on his big fancy grand piano.

If I had anyone I knew well with me I could have made a joke of it,

“And now the SCARY VERSION” I could have said before playing it on the low notes.

“And now the FAIRY VERSION!!” before playing it on the high notes.

But I couldn’t.  This man was far too sophisticated for that kind of joking.  And I was about to make far too large of a purchase to do so without testing out each and every key, even if it meant having to play Old MacDonald 6 times in 6 different octaves in order to make sure I hit every note on the piano at least once.

My testing complete, I was happy to say that each and every key on that lovely grand piano worked quite nicely and can adequately carry the tune of Old MacDonald Had a Farm.

My children will be pleased.

As for the lovely owner of the piano, I'm not so sure... he accepted my cheque with tears in his eyes.

He’s a kijiji novice, apparently.

I promised to send him a picture of his piano once we had it in our house.  He nodded silently, still probably wishing the last few notes he had heard out of his baby hand't been "e-i-e-i-o".

Perhaps if I had been a wee bit more prepared and actually taken some music with me I could have avoided the embarrassment of my Old MacDonald playing.  But that’s part of the excitement of my kijiji buying.  You just never know where or to whom it’s going to take you next.  I’m already looking forward to my next adventure…