Absence makes the heart grow fonder...

As a parent, whenever I go away for a night or two, be it for business or pleasure I am met with an insurmountable amount of guilt.  I imagine my bereft household grinding to a halt of inactivity and mourning in my absence and I appease my guilt by cooking meals in advance, scheduling play dates and activities and calling and texting regularly during my time away.  The last time I went away (for a whopping 48 hours) I baked a 2 layer banana cake and stuffed it with hidden popsicle sticks with cute messages like “Mommy loves you!” and “Hugs and kisses from me! xoxo” on them.

The kids LOVED the cake but lets be honest - -my absence did not rock their world.  The managed JUST FINE without me, with or without my secret cake messages.

I have been coming to accept the fact that they are growing up and becoming more independent and practical beings.  They have such full and complete lives that my absence for 48 hours, although perhaps a good bargaining tool at bedtime, doesn’t DEVASTATE them as it used to.  I’ve consoled myself with the rationale that it’s not a reflection of our relationship as much as a simple fact that they are maturing and getting to be more self sufficient.

Or so I told myself.

Last Monday, however, The Worst Thing To Ever Happen To Mia occurred without much forewarning OR a homemade double decker banana cake with hidden popsicle sticks with messages of love on them.

Jack Jack went to Mexico.

For a whole week.

I suppose we could have prepared her better for it.  Assuming she would treat it as she often treats my absences I didn’t so much as mention it to her until the day of. They left on Monday afternoon and somehow still managed to fit in a playdate on the morning of.

By Tuesday, however, Mia’s spidey senses knew something was up.  After asking me about 3 different times at breakfast who she was going to hang out with that day it still hadn’t registered that Jack was NOT on the list of options.  So she met Candice at the door in a desperate attempt,

“Hi, Candice.” She said getting right to the point, “Today is TUESDAY.  Are we or are we not going to the gym at the Y today with Jack Jack?”

Shot down for the 4^th time that day.

Wednesday and Thursday mornings didn’t go any easier.  Each time the feigned ignorance, sometimes she cried.  ALWAYS she pouted.  By Friday she was desperate.

“Mommy.” She said to me, taking a different approach as she was eating her yoghurt, “Jack is coming home from Mexico TOMORROW, I think, so we are going to have a playdate.”

“Oh,” I replied honestly, not realizing I was being tested, “I thought he wasn’t home until Monday…”

“Well…CANDICE says he’s not home until Monday but I SAY he’s home tomorrow.”

I explained to her that if Candice and I BOTH thought he wasn’t home till Monday we were probably right.

She was exasperated and took it out on her toast as she flung it down on her plate in a giant huff of rage,

“I have been ASKING for a PLAYDATE with Jack Jack all WEEK!”

After a quick lesson on appropriate breakfast table manners, I took a different approach.

“Mia,” I said, “Why don’t we get Toby’s globe out and I will show you where Mexico is.”

This perked her up.

We got the globe out.  I showed her how close together Toronto and Collingwood seem to be on the globe yet how FAR apart they really are (that REALLY long car ride where you can watch SIX episodes of Sid the Science Kid and STILL not be there quite yet!) and THEN I pointed all the way down to Mexico and explained that it would take over THREE DAYS to drive there.  (Which is an inconceivable number of episodes of Sid the Science Kid…)

Mia’s jaw hit the ground.

Why on EARTH would Jack Jack have DRIVEN that far away!?!?!

I explained that he had actually taken an airplane but that I was just trying to demonstrate to her how FAR AWAY it is and that we can’t just go join him for a play date.

NOT SO FAST, Wisecrack.

 Why, then, if Jack Jack had flown there, couldn’t WE just go fly there and join them?

A tempting idea, granted, I reminded her of our recent family trip to Florida but promised that maybe one day we could take a trip with Jack Jack’s family and go somewhere all together.

That seemed to satisfy both of us and we put the globe away and finished our toast in near silence, until off in the distance Mia spotted a little boy riding a bike.

“Hmm….” She mused, “Who do you think that boy is down there, Mommy?”

I told her I didn’t know.

“Well…” she said knowingly, “That bike SURE does look like Jack Jack’s bike!”

Now it was my turn to throw my toast down.

“MIA!” I said, “That is NOT Jack Jack – he is in MEXICO that is just SOME other boy riding an orange bike on the trails.”

Mia was not so sure.  I suppose we just agreed to disagree as she got down from the breakfast table, thoroughly disgusted and muttering under her breath, “Well it looks a lot like Jack Jack’s bike to ME!”

Thankfully we managed to keep the princess occupied for the rest of the day on Friday. The nice weather helped.  In fact, I had all but forgotten about Jack Jack and his traumatic disappearance until Sunday morning.   We were having a lazy day; Rob and Toby were watching the soccer, I was reading the paper online and Mia was bustling around collecting things and being her usual busy body self.  We weren’t paying much attention to her at all until she arrived in the basement and parked herself in front of the TV with her hands on her hips and made an announcement.

Dressed in a summery dress with princess shoes, a necklace and a fully packed knapsack on her back, Mia smiled from underneath the huge sombrero she had managed to dig up out of the costume box and announced, “Goodbye!  I'm going to Mexico!”

I know I am in the minority of people who think this but I’ll say it anyways…THANK GOD ITS MONDAY.

Mia, sporting an authentic sombrero, about the hit the road for Mexico

Those Eyes

 My parents were up for a visit to commemorate the surplus of Pisces in our immediate family.  After a lovely weekend of celebrations we were met with the unfortunate reality of Monday morning and all that ensues.  Getting both kids to their respective schools as well as both parents to work on time is a daunting task at the best of times; when you throw two grandparents into the mix it ads an added layer of helpfulness AND chaos.

Today’s craziness had the surprise component of my father's early wake up.  So amidst the lunch making, backpack-packing, last minute book reading, teeth brushing, breakfast eating, and snow pant adorning, we had to take turns running upstairs to reassure my dad of where he was, what he was doing and where we all were. 

The system, though somewhat inefficient, was working.  We were making progress.

At one point I had run upstairs to get a hairbrush (yes, the infamous hair brush) when I saw my dad sitting on his bed with his top half dressed, and his bottom half 90% done with the exception of his pants that were pulled up just above his knees.

He was sitting there very still, cane in hand, staring at the wall.

“Dad?”  I asked cautiously,  “what are you doing…??”

“Oh, Lyssie GOOD.” He said with a sigh of relief, “Come help me.  I can’t remember how to put my pants on.”

He looked up at me with a mix of helplessness and relief in his eyes.

Oh, those eyes…that once read Ulysses and The Great Code and everything every written by Plato.   That have seen the inside of all of the great art galleries, museums and churches throughout Europe.

That ravenously soaked up every lecture given by Northrop Frye at the University of Toronto and experienced life in the halls and dormitories of Cambridge University.

Those eyes, that once chased pucks and players on the frozen outdoor rinks of Cortina, Italy, and later meticulously scrutinized novice hockey players (Gretzky included) from across Ontario.   

Those eyes now begged me to help him.   

“Sure, Dad” I said as I scooped my arm under his shoulder, “Let me hoist you up and it’ll make things easier.”

We got him up and I pulled his pants on for him, buttoning them up quickly before he landed back on the bed.

“There you go – easy!  You’re all dressed.”

“So I am!” he said joyfully.

And with a quick kiss on the cheek and a reminder that his beloved wife was downstairs, it was back to the rush for me.  Pushing away the sadness of this moment, I was left with one single thought of comfort: for today, at least, those eyes still know who I am.

And Now you are 7

Your dramatic Tap Dancing pose...

And now you are 7

You’ve waiting a long time, 7 years precisely, to be the age that is your favourite number. And finally the long wait is here.  No doubt you will bound out of bed at 7:00 to announce to us and the world that NOW you are SEVEN.

OR perhaps you won’t. Because, lets face it kid, you’re not exactly a morning person. Most mornings you roll out of bed around 7:30 all scraggly haired and dopey eyed, refusing to even DISCUSS breakfast options until you’ve had at least a few moments of silent sitting, taking the day in until you are ready to join in and be a part of it.

This has always been your approach to life, Toby. You observe first, and act later.  I have to say, the world would be a better place if more people (myself included) adopted this philosophy…

The one exception to your wake up ritual is on Mondays and Wednesdays when your little sister has to go to daycare and is rushed out of the house by 7:15.  You usually make a very VERY groggy appearance, sometimes with your pants or shirt on backwards or inside out.  But you make the effort to be there if only for that split second before she goes out the door, so you can send her off on her day with a morning hug.  You understand the full importance of your morning hug; on mornings when you don’t make it down in time, I am faced with a groggy, dopey eyed, scraggly haired and often CRYING Toby.

Yes, that’s right, you cry.  I hear your rushing down the stairs frantically and then quite literally see your heart breaking when you realize she has already been whisked off before you got to give her a goodbye hug.   The love you have for your little sister, and she for you, is another thing you’ve taught me.  I thought only a parent’s love ran that deep; yours and Mia’s is a pretty close second.

By the time we get to the car ride to school you are your usual chatty self, managing to fill the entire 6-minute drive (YOU timed it) with a vast array of conversation topics. 

My absolute favourite came about last week.   I had been awarded all of 10 seconds of silence when you suddenly heaved a great, dramatic SIGH from the back seat and announced to me that you were “The happiest you have ever been in your entire life.”

You might not understand this until you have kids of your own, Toby, but there is absolutely NOTHING better to hear as a parent.  The suddenness and earnestness of your statement choked me up and it took me a second to regain my composure in order to ask you more details about this sudden burst of euphoria.

“OH, I don’t know,” you said casually, “Maybe I’m just excited for my birthday….”

Maybe you were. But maybe also it’s also because you DO have a pretty sweet life right now.

Go #7, Go!

You excel at SO many things; sports, reading, math and tap dancing just to name a few.  And then there are your random skills like your incredible ability to read sports stats in the newspaper and replicate sports stats “just for fun” (How weird is that??)  Or your keen interest in geography and your crazy knowledge of every country’s flag that is on your flag placement.  (Which is about 88…and, I dare say, a ludicrous number of flags to know by heart at your age!)

You have a great capacity to love.  You love Zack and are often the only one in the family to give him the attention he deserves each day.  You love your friends and care deeply and with great concern when they are away sick from school or get into trouble…and you love your family.  You say this each and every night when you wake up and insist on hugging us all before we part for the day.  You express this at dinner each night with your heart felt graces imploring the world to always keep us together.  And you say this at bedtime with your intimate chats and good night snuggles.

You may not love Arts and Crafts but you love Valentines day

How can you NOT be anything but completely happy when you exude so much love to the rest of the world?  I read something fitting for this the other day : “Happiness is like jam.  You can’t spread even a little without getting some on yourself”.

That quote is perfect for MORE than one reason.  But it’s your birthday so I won’t even MENTION your incredible ability to be the MESSIEST EATER I HAVE EVER MET.

You’re an old soul, Toby.  Your methodical and thoughtful approach to each day and each new situation has taught even your old mom a valuable new skill.  You know what’s important in life – morning hugs, friendship, kindness and meaningful conversations.  But most of all, you find meaning, joy and opportunities for growth in everything you do.  I have learned so much from you in our 7 years together; I’m a lucky mommy to have you as my boy.  I can’t wait to see where you are in 7 more…

Love and hugs today and always

XO  x99

(Guess who taught me THAT trick??)

Your birthday morning at breakfast...not so bleary eyed today! Amazing what presents and muffins can do...

The Ups and Downs of True Love

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There is no greater torture to my 4 year old than that of getting her hair brushed.  It’s an unfortunate thing because hair brushing is a necessary ritual and, although contemplated, we made an executive decision as parents to stick it through until she’s at least 6 before resorting to dreadlocks.

In our attempts to mitigate this painful and twice daily activity I have purchased dozens of different brushes as well as numerous “miracle-detangling sprays”.  There is only ONE brush that Miss Mia will allow me to use in her hair and even then it needs to be accompanied by the detangling spray from the GREEN bottle, applied immediately before and a few times during the torment session.


With such strict rules around the hair brushing, Mia has discovered the sneaky method of HIDING said brush so that I can’t find it.  ONE TIME I caved and gave up looking for it, sending her to daycare without her ritualized morning persecution.  ONE TIME.  For a while after that the brush was always “mysteriously” going missing.  I quickly learned my lesson and retaliated with a far inferior “back up brush”.  We don’t lose our brush nearly quite so often now.

Mia also doesn’t like to have anything put in her hair – that includes elastics, clips or hair bands.  She wears her hair movie style -- au natural with the part to the side and one long scraggly piece covering her one eye.  Despite even my mother’s best attempts, this is how the hair gets worn.  Period.


So you can just imagine my surprise this morning when I was awoken at precisely 7:00 am by an excited Mia staring eagerly into my right eye, clutching her brush and a birthday cupcake hair clip. 



“MOMMY! WAKE UP AND DO MY HAIR!!!”  She said in the most enthusiastic and loudest whisper she could muster.

It took me a second to orient myself to this ludicrously impossible scenario.

Without missing a beat, Mia reminded me of the context,

“It’s Jack Jack’s BIRTHDAY today!  I have to wear my special birthday cupcake clip!!!  We’re going to have LUNCH together!!!”

The Birthday Cupcake Hair Clip

As I brushed our her difficult hair she recounted to me the tale of her morning adventure thus far; as soon as her eyes had opened up she remembered that it was Jack Jack’s birthday so she got out of bed, changed her pajamas, took her pull up off all by herself and got her hair brush from the bathroom. Then she went to her playroom and looked around and found her birthday cupcake clip in the kitchen of her Barbie house.  Then she went back to her room to sit on her bed and wait for her clock to say “7” so she could come and wake me up.

“It was a very long time, Mommy…I was SO patient.”

“OH, yes? “ I asked curiously, “And how long DID you have to wait?”

(Mia has the patience of a nit.)

“Well…my clock said 6:04 when I got back to my room and I sat there and waited all the way until it said 7:00.”

HOLY SHIT.

My daughter, in excited anticipation of her best friend's birthday, sat on her bed, staring at her clock, cupcake clip and hair brush in hand for FIFTY SIX MINUTES.  ALL. BY. HERSELF.

The image of that scene made me want to laugh and cry and hug her all at the same time.

She may only be 4 years old, but she is clearly already experiencing the joy and torture that comes with your first true love.  And I have sneaky suspicion this is just the tip of the iceburg…

Mia and Jack Jack - going for a little skate together before his Birthday Lunch

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 …