Everyone isn’t an artist

There is a lovely quote attributed to Pablo Picasso along the lines that, “ “All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” In Quest Theatre’s production of For Art’s Sake, the lovely children’s play that played last weekend at Y-Stage in Calgary, the playwright and authors draw attention a couple of times to another Picasso soundbyte on art: that the great master spend most of his adult life trying to paint (think?) like a child. The message of the play, delivered repeatedly by one of the characters and proudly parroted back at the actors at the end of the play by my own Flora? “Everyone is an artist.”

Except they’re not.

A caveat before I go any further: I enjoyed the play—the actors were terrific, the setting and its use of multi-media inspired, and the little people loved it. I love Quest Theatre. I support Y-Stage unreservedly and will be back for their offering next month (here’s a link to details about the show at FamilyFunCalgary).

But I disagree with its fundamental tenant. Everyone is not an artist… and I’m not sure why these days, artists are so darn determined to convince the rest of us that a) they’re not that special and b) if only we opened our minds / cleaned our chakras / freed our inner elves, we could do what they do.

I am a writer. I don’t think everyone is a writer. Nor that everyone should exert themselves to be a writer, to express themselves, fulfill themselves—earn a livelihood for themselves—in this particular way. If everyone is an artist, is everyone an engineer? A plumber? A mathematician?

My artist child is shining under the influence of the play. She’s an artist. And she loves the message that everyone is an artist. It’s reassuring to her fledgling confidence.

Her older brother? He laughed in all the funny spots. Clearly enjoyed himself. As we leave the theatre, however, he’s unforgiving. “It was kind of crappy,” he says. “Art this art that. I don’t like art. I don’t like drawing or painting very much. Or even looking at pictures. That’s just not my thing.”

He’s not an artist. Nor a thwarted artist—not an artist denied. Surrounded by paints, crayons, markers, pencils, chalks, in a house in which walls were prepped for painting and drawing on, he abandoned all that as soon as he grew into consciousness of choice. That is not how he expresses himself, fulfills himself, processes information, relaxes.

But it is what his sister turns to do all that. She draws when she’s overflowing with happiness. And when she’s sad. When she’s at a loss. It’s what she does when she listens to books on tape. Her handwriting practice sheets are works of art—an interplay of colour, patterns, creation. Will this love stay her lifelong passion, lead her to her livelihood, or remain a steadfast companion/form of release and expression throughout her life?

Maybe. And will she try to convince her brother that he’s an artist too? That everyone is an artist?

Frankly, I hope not. It’s a gift, a talent, a passion that not everyone shares or aspires to. And claiming that they do denigrates its meaning. Its value.

Everyone’s not an artist.

What do you think?

Being Ender Redux

I originally wrote this essay in November 2011, for the 2011 Family Christmas Book. But given Ender’s performances over the last few days, it seems appropriate to revisit it today.

Meet Ender. Little brother of Flora and Cinder. Son of Jane and Sean. Big brother of Maggie. Charmer of the entire world. Proof that gorgeous, grinning children never get disciplined, even when they’re doing things that make you want to sell them to the gypsies. Or, in the modern parlance, to put them up on Kijiji. “Free, to a good home: a two-year-old with attitude…”

Actually, Ender doesn’t have attitude―at least not in the way most people define it when they use it with reference to a child. Really, what passes for a cranky Ender or a distraught Ender is still an incredibly happy, easy Ender. It’s quite amazing. We sometimes engage in the the not-very-productive nurture versus nature debate. Is Ender the way he is because, well, that’s just the way he is? Or is he the way he is because he’s the third child, the one who has had to accommodate to everyone else’s set patterns and quirks, the one who got the already trained, relaxed parents?

We’ll never know. We just have to enjoy him. Adore him. And make more of an effort to document him, so he doesn’t totally resent us when he grows up and asks for where all the Ender stories are.

So, some Ender stories from 2011, as remembered by Cinder and Flora and his parents.

The most disgusting thing Ender has done to date: sucked on the toilet brush. And not on the end you hold. Think of that next time you kiss him.

The most embarrassing thing Ender has ever said: Rock, rock, rock, rock, rock! Rock! At the top of his lungs in the Glenbow Museum. Except it didn’t sound like rock. The r sounded like an f and the o like the short u. Yeah.

Look what I taught the baby to do, Mom,” Part I: Ender, running down the hall naked after Maggie, swinging a hot pink Lego foam sword, yelling, “Die, puppy, die!”

Look what I taught the baby to do, Mom,” Part II: R: “Ender, show Mommy the moon. The moon, Ender. Remember?” (Yes, the next frame is Ender taking off his diaper.)

The most adorable thing Ender does after pummelling Flora in the head with something hard: “Awie, Flora? Awie, Flora? En-duh kiss.”

The most adorable thing Ender does for no reason at all: Go up and down the stairs, singing, “En-duh-en-en-en-duh. En-en-en-duh. En-duh!”

How to get Ender to eat pretty much anything: Indicate that you would like to eat it.

How to get Ender to play with this trains, cars, or pretty much anything else: Decide you need to put them away.

The price of getting supper on the table with an Ender underfoot if Flora and Cinder are away: A flooded kitchen. He loves to play in the sink.

The price of washing the kitchen floor with an Ender helping: A flooded kitchen.

The price of five minutes of peace on the telephone: A flooded kitchen.

The thing I never thought I’d say before Ender: “For God’s sake, stop biting the dog!”

The day Ender discovered dinosaurs: November 23, 2011.

Most memorable quote Ender elicited from Cinder: “Mom, are you putting that pink diaper on him again? He’s a baby―he’s not colour-blind or stupid!”

Most memorable quote Ender elicited from Flora: “Now’s my chance to turn Ender into my slave!”

Ender’s word for penguins: “Fish birdies!”

Ender’s word for turtles: “Rock puppies!”

Flora’s favourite thing to do with Ender: Colour his face with Sharpies.

Flora’s least favourite thing to do with Ender: Change his diaper.

Best conversation Ender caused between his parents: S: “Hurry! I need to pee and the baby is grabbing the camera, the box of nails and my beer!” J: “Where are you?” S: “In the bathroom! Hurry!” J: “Your camera, box of nails, and beer are in the bathroom?” S: “Now is not the time to discuss the inappropriateness of me putting all these things in the bathroom sink. Just save my beer… and the camera. He can have the box of nails.”

Most frequent Facebook comment Ender has elicited from his mother: “Sunrises are over-rated.”

Best Greek myth analogy: From August 16, 2011: “Today, Flora is Hermes, messenger of the gods. Cinder is Hades. And we are all agreed Ender is Chaos personified.”

But the bestest Chaos personified you could ever ask for.

Before Ender

… or what the psychic said

The cards were laid out on the picnic table, and the psychic was looking at them pensively. “Interesting,” she said. “Well, I’d say you’re definitely going to have another child. A boy—but not at all like Cinder. Very artistic, very creative—I see him as an artist, a musician? And I see him as… well, this is an intrusive question, but did you lose a baby? Because I see him as someone who’s tried to be born to you before and it didn’t happen, and he’s trying again.”

Well. You know me. Smart-ass cynic, and psychic predications and tarot cards are a fun amusement, and nothing more. But I was a little shaken. It was the summer of 2008, and Janine Morigeau, neighbour, friend and Tarot card reader extraordinaire, was giving us short readings in the sunshine of the Common. I asked the question that had been pressing on me for some time, “Would Sean and I have more children?”

I’ve always wanted more—he not so much—but after our experience with the pregnancy that gave us Flora, we were loath to do it again. And ever since we lost our little baby that would have been born sometime in July 2004, we’ve intermittently talked about adoption. In the months immediately following the miscarriage, I was so shaken and broken and empty, I didn’t think I could face the risk of that again. And when Flora started to grow in me, the first months of the pregnancy were marred by an overwhelming fear that I would lose her… to be replaced, in the second half by the scary—fortunately, as it turned out, utterly erroneous—results of the ultrasound that I would lose her after she was born.

Throughout 2008, we talked and pondered and weighed. By the time Janine read my cards that summer, we had made a decision: no pregnancy, but more babies. Adoption. And for various reasons, we made the decision to adopt from “the system”—i.e., Alberta Children’s Services. We filled out the paperwork (there was a lot of it), took the pre-screening tests, and, in October and November 2008, took the intensive Adoptive Parents Preparation Course.

The first parts of the course had us—well, me anyway, I think Sean was more cautious from the start—fantasizing about our new, bigger family. We wouldn’t adopt just one child, but two. Why not? We had so much to give: so much love, a wonderful family-and-friends support system, a lifestyle absolutely suited to help children “with issues” thrive.

And then we got to the final day, a session focused entirely on FASD. Now, even going into the process, we were not nearly selfless enough to plan for an FASD child. We knew that even a very young child from the System would come with issues, with trauma, and would require extra love, work and effort… but we did not think we were equipped to deal with an FASD child. The seminar on FASD cemented that. To their credit, the Alberta Children’s Services people did not try to soft pedal the issue. “Strategies, Not Solutions” was the title and theme of the presentation. They discussed environments and structures that help FASD children and their families cope… but that was the language. “Cope.” “Manage.” “Support.” It was god-awful.

And then there was the statistic. 30 per cent of the children in the system are already diagnosed with FASD. 90 per cent come from homes in which maternal drinking is/was a factor. I couldn’t get passed those numbers. We wanted a young child—preferably a baby. But where FASD is involved, early intervention just doesn’t mean what you’d think it ought to mean.

I was shattered. It was funny, because entering the process, I was much more enthused about adoption than Sean—he had his two perfect babies and all was fine with his reproductive world. At the end of the seminars, he was more comfortable than I. We would be excellent adoptive parents, so good for one of these troubled children. He saw the FASD risk—but it didn’t paralyze him as it did me. It paralyzed me completely. The couple who led the seminar had three biological children and one adopted FASD daughter, the youngest child. They were in their 60s now, and she an adult—and they were still actively parenting her. And when they died, her siblings would have to parent her.

I couldn’t do that, and I couldn’t bequeath that to Cinder and Flora.

A part of me still regrets this decision: wishes I could have been more selfless, more giving. But, but. So it was, the decision was made.

But I very, very badly still wanted more children, and Sean very, very badly loved me and wanted to make me happy even if the idea of me pregnant again terrified him, and by January 2009, a little Ender was growing. Best as we can tell, he got made in beautiful Mazatlan, which would account for his sunny disposition.

The pregnancy was awful. I spent the first two months of it flat on my back or crawling on all fours as my ligaments loosened and my joints left their proper spots, and the last two months, between the slipped SI joints, dislocated pelvis, and pinched sciatic nerve—that left most of my right leg with no feeling in it—barely able to walk. The last five weeks of it, sleepless, exhausted, in prodromal labour. And in one incredible, amazing moment, it was all over, all forgotten, none of it mattered, and I’d do it again, again, again, if the end result was anything like this: my beautiful, beautiful, perfect Ender, my third most miraculous of miracles.

This is the story of his first year. This post was originally written as the introduction to The Story of E, our 2010 Family Christmas Book. To read about how Ender joined us, go to The Last Three Minutes.

Being Ender

This is an essay written specifically for the 2011 Family Christmas Book: As I’m putting 2011 to bed and doing a late-night proof of the book―a sloppy light night proof, as I know you’re mostly looking at the pictures―I’m struck by how Ender-light the text of the book is. And slightly shocked, because the days and the hours are extremely Ender-heavy. Ender and Ender’s life stage dominates everything right now: how little I work, how early I go to bed, how early I rise. How diligent Cinder (also known as Austen) has to be about hiding his Lego projects―how on top of putting away her markers and paints Flora needs to be if she doesn’t want to find them in the fish tank, the garbage or the toilet. Ender’s absence from most of the text of 2011, however, reflects the reality of what I’ve been writing in 2011: not an awful lot for love and pleasure. Most of the stories about Cinder and Flora come from the need to document their homeschooling; if it weren’t for the progress reports, learning plans and other tidbits for the portfolio, there wouldn’t be nearly as much Cinder and Flora content either.

 But before we end 2011, we need to give Mr. E his own story. We can’t have the third child feeling any more neglected than he is bound to feel…

Meet Ender. Little brother of Flora and Cinder. Son of Jane and Sean. Big brother of Maggie. Charmer of the entire world. Proof that gorgeous, grinning children never get disciplined, even when they’re doing things that make you want to sell them to the gypsies. Or, in the modern parlance, to put them up on Kijiji. “Free, to a good home: a two-year-old with attitude…”

Actually, Ender doesn’t have attitude―at least not in the way most people define it when they use it with reference to a child. Really, what passes for a cranky Ender or a distraught Ender is still an incredibly happy, easy Ender. It’s quite amazing. We sometimes engage in the the not-very-productive nurture versus nature debate. Is Ender the way he is because, well, that’s just the way he is? Or is he the way he is because he’s the third child, the one who has had to accommodate to everyone else’s set patterns and quirks, the one who got the already trained, relaxed parents?

We’ll never know. We just have to enjoy him. Adore him. And make more of an effort to document him, so he doesn’t totally resent us when he grows up and asks for where all the Ender stories are.

So, some Ender stories from 2011, as remembered by Cinder and Flora and his parents.

The most disgusting thing Ender has done to date: sucked on the toilet brush. And not on the end you hold. Think of that next time you kiss him.

The most embarrassing thing Ender has ever said: Rock, rock, rock, rock, rock! Rock! At the top of his lungs in the Glenbow Museum. Except it didn’t sound like rock. The r sounded like an f and the o like the short u. Yeah.

Look what I taught the baby to do, Mom,” Part I: Ender, running down the hall naked after Maggie, swinging a hot pink Lego foam sword, yelling, “Die, puppy, die!”

Look what I taught the baby to do, Mom,” Part II: R: “Ender, show Mommy the moon. The moon, Ender. Remember?” (Yes, the next frame is Ender taking off his diaper.)

The most adorable thing Ender does after pummelling Flora in the head with something hard: “Awie, Flora? Awie, Flora? En-duh kiss.”

The most adorable thing Ender does for no reason at all: Go up and down the stairs, singing, “En-duh-en-en-en-duh. En-en-en-duh. En-duh!”

How to get Ender to eat pretty much anything: Indicate that you would like to eat it.

How to get Ender to play with this trains, cars, or pretty much anything else: Decide you need to put them away.

The price of getting supper on the table with an Ender underfoot if Flora and Cinder are away: A flooded kitchen. He loves to play in the sink.

The price of washing the kitchen floor with an Ender helping: A flooded kitchen.

The price of five minutes of peace on the telephone: A flooded kitchen.

The thing I never thought I’d say before Ender: “For God’s sake, stop biting the dog!”

The day Ender discovered dinosaurs: November 23, 2011.

Most memorable quote Ender elicited from Cinder: “Mom, are you putting that pink diaper on him again? He’s a baby―he’s not colour-blind or stupid!”

Most memorable quote Ender elicited from Flora: “Now’s my chance to turn Ender into my slave!”

Ender’s word for penguins: “Fish birdies!”

Ender’s word for turtles: “Rock puppies!”

Flora’s favourite thing to do with Ender: Colour his face with Sharpies.

Flora’s least favourite thing to do with Ender: Change his diaper.

Best conversation Ender caused between his parents: S: “Hurry! I need to pee and the baby is grabbing the camera, the box of nails and my beer!” J: “Where are you?” S: “In the bathroom! Hurry!” J: “Your camera, box of nails, and beer are in the bathroom?” S: “Now is not the time to discuss the inappropriateness of me putting all these things in the bathroom sink. Just save my beer… and the camera. He can have the box of nails.”

Most frequent Facebook comment Ender has elicited from his mother: “Sunrises are over-rated.”

Best Greek myth analogy: From August 16: “Today, Flora is Hermes, messenger of the gods. Cinder is Hades. And we are all agreed Ender is Chaos personified.”

But the bestest Chaos personified you could ever ask for.

Art of War: The Lego Contest

Cinder entered his first Lego contest on November 5, 2011. He’s psyched up for two more, on November 26 and December 3. Here’s the story of his first one. Cinder? Who the hell is Cinder? Ah, yes. Cinder is Austen. A temporary name change. He’s looking over my shoulder. “Did you change it to Cinder?” Indeed, darling, I did.

 I’ve raised Lego contests as a possibility with the Lego dude for a couple of years, but he’s been uninterested. This year, while Flora has her music class, he hangs with me in the anteroom―with all the other big brothers (and one little brother) dragged to the class. The boys have been bringing Lego creations, and talking and building together. For those of you who’ve known Cinder for a while, you will extra-appreciate how thrilled I was that he was participating in their play―he relentlessly ignored them all of last year. Anyway, the other boys told him about Lego contests and he got pretty fired up to go to one.

I was both pleased and a little worried―he hasn’t been in a lot of competitive situations (bar those he and Flora create to torment each other) and when he has, he hasn’t really handled them super-well. And he gets anxious. And… well, this Lego contest thing had the potential to be a really fun cool thing―or a really traumatizing thing.

Apparently Cinder thought this too. He asked me to sign him up for the contest―and then went and whipped up a little space ship robot thingie in about 10 minutes. “This is what I’m going to enter,” he told me. “You’ve got weeks before the contest,” I said. “Don’t you want to build something bigger and more complicated?”

The answer? “No. This is my first contest, and I’m probably not going to win―I just need to see what it’s like, and I don’t want to enter it with something that I think is really great, because then I would be disappointed if I lost.”

Interesting. “So you’re… what? Testing the waters, huh?”

Yeah.”

Day of the contest came during my crazy-busy no-brain-cells0for-anything-not-related-to-Top 10 Deals-time. At 12:30 p.m.―the contest starts at 1 p.m.―we were sitting on a rock on the hill outside SHC reading a book. Cinder asked me what our plans for the day were and I answered with, “Not much. I’ve got some work to do this afternoon when Daddy finishes his, but other than that…” “But isn’t today the 5th?” “The 5th what?” “The fifth day of November! My Lego contest! What time is it?”

Miraculously, we managed to get all three kids and the Lego ship and snacks into the car in 7 minutes, and get down to Village Square in 13. And there I had a Halloween miracle. And you won’t appreciate it if you don’t know Cinder or if you’ve just met him in the past few months or year. But if you’ve ever met us at the Science Centre when he was five, and would retreat to Flora’s stroller and pull a blanket over his head to ensure he didn’t have to interact with any of you ― well, read on.

Carrying his ship thingie in a bin, he outpaced me to the library, following a bunch of strangers (also carrying Lego) to the sign in table. He checked himself in. He told the total stranger librarian his name and age. He followed her instructions and set up his thing at the 8/9 year old table without a backward glance for me. Then he checked in to see where we were―requested that we stay within eyeshot, and turned his attention back to his ship. A bunch of pieces fell off during transport―I swear I felt myself preparing for a meltdown―nothing. He reassembled it. Checked out the other pieces. I got distracted by the Ender for a

bit and when I next peeked over, there was a Cinder, with a bunch of kids he had never met before, participating in Lego conversation.

The judges came around. They asked each child to tell them about their creation. Again, not sure how this was going to go… and it went fine. He was excited and animated. He made eye contact. He was not just coherent, but articulate. And he was patient and polite when the other children at his table had the spotlight.

Then came the long wait during which the judges went away to tally the result. He started getting bored towards the end of it, but he was waiting. I even suggested we could leave early (I was really worried about the not winning reaction). “No, I need to see what wins,” he told me. “I think that dinorobot there is probably the best one.”

And he did, It was a long 45 minutes and he got restive―as did all the boys―leading us all to agree that next time, we were going to bail right after the talk with the judges and come back half an hour later for the announcement of results (there was going to be a next time, he had no doubts about that). He paid attention and applauded during the handing out of the prizes.

He didn’t win―and he was fine. He was silent on the way to the car and in the car―but not petulant or angry, just processing. And as soon as we got home, he started building a project for the next Lego contest.

It’s a pretty awesome dragon. “I’ll be disappointed if this one doesn’t win,” he told me a few days later when he was yet again tweaking it. “But I think it’s got a pretty good chance.”

It’s pretty cool, and you worked very had on it,” I said… wondering if I should add, it still might not win? Was I focusing too much on the negative because I still had in my mind’s eye the 4 y o who would get thrown off kilter by the smallest thing?

Mmmm,” he said. “I don’t know if that matters. But it’s got a good chance at winning. It’s not a war toy.”

What?” I asked.

Oh, didn’t you notice?” he said. “None of the planes, ships, guns, towers and stuff won. All the prizes went to houses, animals and things like that. And when I was talking with the guy at my table who won―you know, the guy with the Lego base, with all the little guys in it? He told me he had built a ship a lot like mine for a Lego contest before, but he noticed that the ships never seem to win.”

So I leave him to his building and tweaking, and retreat feeling a little… I don’t know. Amazed, I guess. On about a hundred levels. Amazed that this kid who until a year or two ago growled at strangers sailed through this experience in such a positive way―and with a self-designed coping strategy. Not one I would have come up with―but one that clearly worked for him. Amazed that he got out of his reconnaissance experience way more than I did. I, honestly, did not notice that no war toys won. And amazed that he was approaching the next contest with, well, both excitement and detachment: wanting to participate without having his whole being wrapped up in getting the certificate that said he won.

Frankly, he was handling the whole situation better than his mother!

Cinder and Flora Become Hellenic Pagans

It started in the Spring of 2011, and is still here. Ancient Greece. Now Ancient Rome. Cinder and Flora getting as thorough a grounding in Greek mythology and the foundation of Western civilization as the average first-year university Classics student. Here’s how it happened. Read the boring paragraph, please. You need it as a straw man to enjoy the rest of the piece.

D’Aulaires Greek Myths Study Guide (grade 3-6)

This program explores this classic of Greek mythology following the same in-depth approach used in other Memoria Press guides. Designed to be used for one year (although you may choose to go faster by combining days), each of the 30 lessons is broken down into five days. Students read the selected pages from D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths on the first day. On the second day, students familiarize themselves with the “Facts to Know”―key people, places, and objects. The goal is for students to memorize these items and retain them through the end of the year, although there is no final test in this program. The third section holds vocabulary words for students to discuss and define with their teacher and may also be used as spelling words. The fourth day holds comprehensive questions, written to capture the essence of the characters and the main idea of each story, which encourages students to think about the reading and provide meaningful answers. The final section uses the fantastic illustrations found in D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths as a springboard for further discussion questions. Review lessons appear after every fifth lesson; all vocabulary and facts from the preceding lessons are tested and recurring activities encourage children to draw a picture of their favourite god or story and work on a list of things from today which borrow the names or symbols of Greek gods and goddesses. A pronunciation guide in the back breaks down al the tricky Greek names for smoother reading. The teacher’s guide is identical to the student book except the answers are filled in.”

The above summary/review―titillating, was it? Enjoy reading it? Or did you stifle a yawn or two?―comes from the Rainbow Resource Center’s Homeschool Catalogue, and you can buy the D’Aulaires book, student and teacher guide for $40.50.

D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths is a beautiful book. I have it on our bookshelf, in fact―a gift from my good friend Lisa, who passed it on to us after her kids were done grooving with the Greeks and mine were in full Greco mode. I was thrilled: we had just maxed the number of renewals on our library copy. Flora loved sitting down with the book and looking at the pictures, and we spent many evenings with it as our bedtime reading… or morning reading… or mid-day reading.

But we never did get the study guide. Because Cinder and Flora never studied Greek mythology―and I never taught it.

This is what we did instead.

It all started in the Texas Panhandle. That’s where Hank the Cowdog hails from. Hank the Cowdog is a wonderful series of books by John Ericsson about―who else―Hank the cowdog, his sidekick Drover, his enemy Pete the barn cat and an assortment of very fallible human characters. There are 50-plus books in the Hank series, and while extremely amusing and well-written, they do tend to be just a bit… repetitive. Formulaic. After months and months of reading and listening to Hank (the author’s produced a series of audio books as well, which accompanied us on every car ride and serenaded us pretty much anytime we were in the kitchen), I was very actively looking for another obsession with which to replace Hank. Harry Potter did it for a while―we read the first four books and watched (most of) the first four movies, but he didn’t have the repeatability of Hank: the kids didn’t want to read him again and again. Once―twice for book one―was enough. (They are pretty thick books for a six year old to listen to!)

Enter Percy Jackson. He was mentioned by another homeschooling family when we were swapping favourite book stories. I filed the name away to look into―and a few days later, Cinder and his friend K watched Percy Jackson and the Lightening Thief on Netflix.

Usually, I’d have us read the book before watching the movie―but here, the Fates intervened. There’s nothing wrong with The Lightening Thief as a movie―it’s a perfectly good kids’ movie. “That guy playing Percy Jackson, he’s the best actor I’ve ever seen,” said a star-struck Flora. “Luke is an awesome villain!” said Cinder. But if we had come to the movie after the books, it would have sucked. As it was, the kids enjoyed it, and were eager to

read the Percy Jackson books.

There are five of them, written by author Rick Riordan, whose first career was an an adult thriller writer, and who―like most great children’s writers seem to―invented Percy Jackson as a character about whom he spun bedtime stories for his sons. As The Lightening Thief opens, Percy is a 12 year old kid with ADHD and dyslexia―a really good kid who somehow or other keeps on getting into trouble in school after school. Weird things happen to him and around him, and not an awful lot in his life makes sense, until one day, his substitute teacher turns into a Fury and tries to kill him, his best friend turns into a satyr and tries to save him, his Latin teacher turns into a Centaur, a Minotaur appears out of nowhere and kidnaps his mother… and Percy finds out he’s the son of Poseidon.

And the adventures begin. Percy finds himself in a world where the Greek gods are real and still peopling the earth with godlings―or half-bloods or demigods in the Riordan vernacular. Percy finds a sanctuary of sorts at Camp Half-Blood―the place where demigods go for combat training―then a quest… and in the end, of course, saves the world, and Olympus. And, in the last book, when he’s 16, gets the girl.

Cinder and Flora were swept away by the story. We read the hefty Percy Jackson and the Lightening Thief in three nights, and then read it again while we waited for the library to deliver the second book in the series, Sea of Monsters. They couldn’t get enough of Sea of Monsters―I took out the audio book of it as well, and when I wasn’t reading it to them, they were listening to the audio book in the kitchen, in the car―not wanting to get out of the car because they wanted to keep on listening. Battle of the Labyrinth, The Titan’s Curse and finally, The Last Olympian followed. They fell in love with the heroes of the books―Percy, the son of Poseidon, Annabeth, the daughter of Athena, Niko, son of Hades. They met Zeus, Poseidon and Hades―the “Big Three”―as well as Hephasteus, Aphrodite, Hermes, Artemis, Hera and, of course, Dionysus―the god of wine who for his transgressions (he ticked off Zeus by going after the wrong nymph) was the cranky and totally inappropriate headmaster of Camp Half-blood. (“Maybe if you go on this quest, you’ll die and I’ll never have to deal with you again,” he tells Percy Jackson once.) They got to know all about the “real”

Perseus, Percy Jackson’s namesake, and Theseus, and Herakles, and Dadealus, and so many more.

When we’d go to the library for the new Percy book, we’d also come back with handfuls of other books on Greek myths. D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths was a quick first favourite, as was Atticus the Storytellers 100 Greek Myths. So was Michael Townsend’s amazing Greek myths of wonder and blunders : welcome to the wonderful world of Greek mythology, a pun-filled, blood-filled comic book introduction to the world of “Greek gods, dumb sheep and people who hated pants.” George O’Connor’s amazing graphic novel series retelling first the story of Zeus, then Athena―we’re still on hold for Hera!―offered different, modern reinterpretations of the myths. The kids learned about source material and the fluidity of oral tradition. We read Homer for Children, and they got to know the heroes of Troy and the Odyssey. Flora adored the story of Persephone, so I found her all the versions of the story, including one in which Demeter is an over-bearing mother who won’t let her daughter marry and move on with life! Cinder really liked Odysseus and the dangerous sea voyages: we watched Kirk Douglas’ Ulysseus, and talked about what happened to the Greek gods―and the world―when the power of Rome rose. We watched the History Channel/A&E documentary Clash of the Gods―and we watched a few episodes of Xena: Warrior Princess. I found them audio books of the various myths, including a BBC radio production of The Odyssey.

And we went back to the Percy Jackson books and read and re-read them, and re-listened to them.

Over… how long? Complete immersion lasted about two months―May and June of 2011 had them scorning anything and everything that didn’t have the taste of ancient Greece. It continued into the summer, capping with me organizing a Percy Jackson book club meeting, in which Cinder and Flora hosted a get-together for three other families also currently obsessed with Percy Jackson. They prepared a list of questions they wanted the kids to talk about (“If you were a demigod, who would you want your godly parent to be? What sort of weapon would you want? What monster would you most want to slay―and which one are you most afraid of?”). The kids all brought weapons to the meeting―and after the discussion, went out on our Common to sword fight. (“You know it’s a good book club if there’s a sword fight afterwards.”)

And then the obsession started to wane―just in time, because we were number 89 on the wait list at the library for Rick Riordan’s next book, Heroes of Olympus: The Lost Hero, and we had read pretty much every good book on Greek myths and Ancient Greece in the library by then―several times over. “I need something to get the Greek gods out of my mind,” Flora told me. But Percy Jackson set the bar high. For several weeks, everything I offered them was a dud. Chronicles of Narnia? Boring. Treasure Island? Nah. The Mysterious Benedict Society? All the other kids in our Percy Jackson book club had read it and loved? Boooooring. This really cool book about samurai? Warrior cats? Killer owls?

They were mythed-out… and it took me a while to figure out, also fictioned out. We went back to Horrible Science as bedtime reading. I got The Story of the World: History for the Classical Child out of the library as an audio book for in-car listening. Ancient Greece retreated into the background.

Until… last week, we finally got The Lost Hero. And devoured the 550 page book in about a week. The library doesn’t have a copy of the next one, Son of Neptune, in yet… but Costco did. We’re reading it now. We can’t stop. Something weird’s happening: Gaea’s waking up and preparing to make war on her Olympian children again. And her Olympian children are shifting between their Greek and Roman aspects. Zeus is Zeus one minute and then he’s Jupiter. Hera’s becoming Juno… and they’re not precisely the same in those two aspects. Because Greece and Rome, well, each as a culture valued and focused on different things…

By the most fortuitous of coincidences―or was it the Fates intervening again?―The Story of the World volume we just finished covers the rise and fall of Greece and Rome. I need to check in with the library to see what they have in stock―on DVD, I think―covering the transition period. And next time we’re at the grandparents’ house, I should pull out our photo albums from Italy―standing in front of the Coliseum.

So… have Cinder and Flora explored Greek myths in depth? Hell―sorry, Hades―yeah. But they didn’t read a myth a week. They didn’t memorize “Facts to Know” with the goal of demonstrating that memorization at a test. They didn’t review vocabulary words nor endure spelling tests of the Greek gods’ names. Comprehensive questions “written to capture the essence of the characters and the main idea of each story, which encourages students to think about the reading and provide meaningful answers”? Well―they talked at length about all the stories. They asked us questions, and of each other. We asked them. They offered interpretations and impressions to interested adults, and inflicted them on completely uninterested playmates. At one point Flora wanted to learn to speak Ancient Greek―so I got out a couple of books, and they looked at the Greek alphabet, and listened to the names of the letters―and memorized what Omega and Theta look like. Poseidon’s trident led to the triangle to geometry to Archimedes (“Hey, I know him―that’s from Mythbusters! The Archimedes’ Death Ray? Remember?”) to the Greek roots of English mathematical, and other, words. There was a brief segue into the planets even before Riordan started phasing the Greek gods into their Roman aspects (“I know why Pluto’s named Pluto! Because it’s dark and rocky and barren and kind of depressing, just like Hades!”).

Could I have asked for a more thorough exploration of Greek myths, as a teacher or as a learning facilitator? No way. Could I have designed this program? Nope, no way again. I’m willing to bet cold hard cash that if we had come to the Greek myths through the D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths study guide, brought to the children by me because I thought we should study Greek myths now, our experience would have been, well, vastly different. They probably would have enjoyed the stories: it’s hard not to. But would we have managed to work our way through the entire 30-week study guide before they thought the project mostly drudgery? Would they have been inspired to delve as deeply into them as they did because they loved the Percy Jackson books and wanted to experience them as fully as possible?

Maybe. The Greek myths are powerful; they resonate. But having watched Cinder and Flora immerse themselves fully in the world of the Greeks―and now discover Ancient Roman with the same joy―I’m again ridiculously grateful that we’re able to let them do this. Take six months to read and re-read Percy Jackson. Take three years to obsess about dinosaurs. Play with baking soda and vinegar every day for 40 weeks, and then spend three weeks obsessing about nothing but the periodic table. Take a break from everything that looks like “work” because there’s important internal digestion happening and just colour and listen to books on tape and play video games for a while.

Gotta go. Cinder just came downstairs holding Son of Neptune. Percy, Frank and Hazel are on this quest to Alaska, because the giant Alcyoneus has imprisoned Thanatos, the god of death… Read the book. Come to our book club meeting. There’ll be a sword fight after.

Living In Small Spaces

Welcome to our house. Five people live, work and play here. Enough said. You want me to elaborate?That means that at its most tidy and minimalistic, there are five pairs of shoes—and this is Calgary, so let’s face it, probably 15, because there is no all-purpose pair of shoes for this whacky climate, and at least one set is guaranteed to be wet/muddy/slimy at least half of the time—five coats (or, really, 10-15, because everyone has a fleecy, a rain jacket, and at least one more warmer coat that one might put in the back wardrobe for the six weeks that it’s guaranteed not to snow, but really, why bother?), five hats (well—10, a sun hat each and a winter hat each), 5 pairs of rain pants or snow pants (or both simultaneously), and then there are the frackin’ mitts…

Pause. Rewind. All these things need to hang out somewhere near the front door, in an area in which one person can move about comfortably but two are a huge crowd and three start to step on each others toes, and four—well, can one of you please wait outside? I know it’s -30, but for God’s sake—ok, just step over there, wait in the laundry room. (The fifth, meanwhile, hangs out on the landing or stands on the stairs. Five people cannot stand in our entry way at the same time, even if one of them is not quite three feet tall.)

The entry way sets the tone for the rest of our house. We five live in 1000 square feet, plus 300 or so square feet of basement. The unlivable basement (it’s colder than Antarctica) is comprised of the miniscule entry way, laundry room, and a hard-to-navigate space that’s home to the freezer, pantry, gym equipment, film production equipment, and boxes and shelves of miscellaneous crap against which I wage an unending war.

After you navigate through our entry way, you’ve got to head up the stairs—try not to knock any of the coats and things off the hooks on the landing, ok?—to the main living floor. Designed by an architect who liked walls, corners and hallways, and thus turned what could have been 500 square feet of beautiful open space into two separate rooms—kitchen and living room—separated by a hallway and a furnace room (seriously). Another flight of stairs—stuck smack in the middle of it, of course—takes you up to the bedrooms, one large, two tiny, and a bathroom about the size of our entry way. And that is the rough lay-out of our house. It’s hot in the summer, leaking heat like mad in the winter, designed for people who neither cook nor entertain much (and don’t need to store more than one towel in the bathroom), and lived in by two work-at-home adults and three homeschooled children.

Yes, it’s a tight fit. We live here for the world outside: the big balcony that looks over a large Commonn area on which dozens of children play, from which we can see the expanse of McHugh’s Bluff and the towers of downtown Calgary. We can walk or bike to most of our work commitments and many of our homeschool adventures. We have excellent neighbours, and considering our stellar location, we don’t spend very much on our housing cost.

But yes, it’s a tight fit. Especially in the winter, when we have to mostly live inside and don’t walk or bike as much. That’s when I start browsing MLS listings looking for 4-bedroom, 2-bathroom—extra family room!—houses in the ‘burbs. That phases passes when I engage in the accompanying math, to be replaced by trips to the library for books on living in small spaces, organization, and decluttering. Then comes the purging: making our small space seem bigger by carting out bags upon bags upon boxes upon boxes of stuff out of our house.

It helps, briefly—and then another wave of stuff comes in—or comes tumbling off the newly purged shells.

And I sit in the middle of our living space, surrounded by stuff—which includes a pile of books from the library urging me to get rid of stuff—and ponder on how to achieve my peace with it. Because I am very aware, that even after a massive, ruthless purge, we have more stuff than any human beings need. And because of the world we live in, more stuff will come. If not today, then tomorrow. And some of it is neat, and lots of it we use, but pretty much all of it is unnecessary.

No pithy answers. It’s an ongoing project, a journey, a struggle.

The Great Scrabble Battle

I asked for it.

Cinder, you see, likes to win. Even when he’s playing a game for the first time―or against a clearly superior player. So as we were pulling out the Scrabble board, I very firmly and seriously told him―twice―that this was a game I was going to win. I was absolutely going to help him―I wasn’t going to be ruthless―but this was a game I was extremely good at, and he was just learning to read and spell. I was going to win, and he couldn’t be upset when I won.

Sean chimed in, “You can play Carcassone later and whoop Mom at that.”

Cinder shrugged. “I’ve watched Mom and Richard play lots. I know the strategy.”

And we played.

Cinder’s path to literacy has been slow. If forced to label him, I’d call him an emergent reader or a developing reader. (Labels suck.) He can work his way, when he pays attention, through phonetic three letter words and the handfuls of sight words he’s memorized (one of them is Cthulu). Four letter words, even perfectly phonetic ones, require a lot of concentration, some prodding. Over the last few months, we’ve been intermittently working on finding tools and strategies to help him. He’s come a long way, but it’s hard work for him―pieces are still missing―that “aha!” moment that came for Flora when she was four or five still hasn’t come for him. He plugs away at it… then takes a long break.

We’ve been on a long break most of the summer from the spelling program that gave him his last big leap forward and confidence boost―then slammed him into a wall he couldn’t get past. But after a summer of watching me, our neighbour Richard, and other Co-op firepitters play Scrabble on most fine Saturdays, he wanted to play the game.

He rattled off a dozen words he knew how to spell. “It’s a good start,” he said. I was very proud of him for wanting to play. So long as he was able to cope with losing.

We played. I played to open up the board―to create opportunities for building more words. I played long words, so there would be plenty of E’s and S’s and T’s and the like for him to use. He’d get stuck, and he’d ask me or Sean for help. A few times, we traded letters―he’d offer me an E for a U, a P for a G. It was a great game. He spelled Dog and If and Am and Bum. Also Hire and Fire, and, with help, Tear. And attempted to spell Dense―and came damn close. Figured out adding “s” “ed” or “er” to a word often got you more points than the original word was worth. Spelled Zoos with a triple letter word score for the Z. Quit―with help from me and a trade for a T―for a double word score. I accepted Ed was a word so that he could spell DOG somewhere in the vicinity of Yeti. Yeah, I gave him some slack―but he did great.

Flora kept score for us, writing down each score individually, so we didn’t have a final tally. He went out first, sticking me with -11 points. And we sat down to add up the numbers.

He did the math in his head and I checked it on paper. 276 for Cinder. “That’s a great score,” he announced. It was. In our Co-op games, we hardly ever break 300. We started adding up my score. Half-way through, I realized I was beaten. And not just by a little bit.

He beat me 276 to 171.

Now, yes, I helped him―and I wasn’t playing to score big. But how on earth, with all those three and two letter words, did he whoop me so badly? Well, before we even started, he studied the letter distribution chart on the board. He knew how many Os, Es, Ts, Hs etc. there were in play. He paid hyper-attention to the position of all the triple-letter, double-letter, double-word and triple-word scores. When he had gotten all the letters for Zoos, for example, he trolled the board carefully to see where he could stake out the position that would give him a triple hit for the Z. (He changed Nude to Nudes to make that play, getting points for that word as well.)

He was only mildly boastful, running up with the score sheet to his Dadda. “I might not beat you by quite so much next time,” he told me graciously afterwards. But he was very proud. And mentioned he was almost ready to start the “spelling programme that I hate” again. I nodded, didn’t push. Let him savour the victory.

He’s nine and a quarter―a third almost. My emergent reader. Who can look at a page in a book and tell you, with incredible accuracy, which letters and letter combinations occur on it with the most and the least frequency (also whether there are more curvy or “sticky” letters there. And who can whoop me at Scrabble with spelling mastery over a few dozen―a hundred if we stretch it―words, because he’s got the strategic aspect of the game down pat.

This is why I never worry that he will blossom into a competent reader, when he’s ready, in his own way. Why I don’t push. Why I don’t torment him with drills that, right now, won’t help and will only serve to discourage and frustrate. Why I can have the patience, and suffer from very little doubt, that his unique path to literacy will bear the required fruit, in time. Things like this Scrabble game―they happen all the time.

In Defence of Routines

I wrote this essay in response to a long and heated thread called “Discipline for Young Children” on one of the yahoo groups I belong to. I’m not as active a participant in those discussions as I was when Cinder and Flora were little―partly because I no longer have napping kids, partly because I’ve become much more reluctant to offer advice, even when nominally asked for (because I’ve learnt most people don’t want advice and solutions: they just want to whinge, and get unconditional support for their whinging… but that’s food for another post), but mostly because I work and write for money so much more now than I did in those first years… and I’m kind of written out at the end of the day. But every once in a while, against my better judgement, I just can’t resist…

…I would like to offer a defence of―or the case for―rhythms and routines in an unschooled life, with young children and older ones too. [Another poster] wrote in one of her earlier posts “Whenever someone reaches for some additional form of external or arbitrary ‘structure’ I wonder, usually in my head, what is making them feel insecure this week and why they feel that will solve the problem…”

And I would like to answer that with, yes, actually, it can.

The stuff that you have a predictable routine/rhythm for―so long as it works for you in a positive way―is stuff you don’t have to expand energy thinking about and reacting to. (I’m reminded of The Big Bang Theory episode in which Sheldon uses gaming dice to make all non-essential decisions to leave his precious brain cells free to do the important work of “the mind.”)

My partner and I are both self-employed, random-deadline driven people engaged in creative, chaotic work. That injects a great deal of surprise, unpredictability and “must make this decision Now!” and “must upset any and all plans made to date and respond to this Crisis Now!” into our professional―and because we are self-employed and work from home and see our lives as intertwined etc.―personal lives.

The counterbalance or anchor if you prefer that word to that chaos is predictability and simplicity wherever it makes sense. And we didn’t arrive at that conclusion/practice overnight: it slowly evolved as we kept on adding children and responsibilities to the chaos.

So we have a morning routine, for example, that I stick to even when there’s a deadline fire burning under me and what I want to do the second I wake up is start pounding away at the keyboard. It’s a routine that honours the fact that 3/5 of the members of this family suck at mornings, and 2/5 are ridiculous early birds, and it includes things like me sitting on the couch with a book ignoring the kids while I drink my first―and hopefully second―cup of coffee and my eldest not speaking or looking at anyone for 45 minutes or so after he wakes up and playing his X-box or just lying on the couch with a blanket over his head. (A routine, see, doesn’t have to be about “doing” stuff. It can also be about safeguarding time to just “be.”) It also includes things like getting dressed, brushing hair, recorder practice, tossing a load of laundry in, making the big bed, and culminates with a morning walk with the dog. But its most important thing is―the time for three of us to just wake up and hang for a bit. (Two of us starting playing and doing stuff as soon as they wake up. The bums.)

This is what we do 9 out of 10 mornings. And it’s not something that anyone complains about as rigid, boring, limiting―it’s a guarded part of our day that, on that 1 out of 10 mornings where we have to miss it―where we have to get into the car first thing in the morning for example―makes us appreciate it all the more on the morrow when we return to it.

There are other anchors like that throughout the day and the week―I’m pretty protective of the last part of our evenings and bedtime, for example, so even though there’s no magic time by which everyone’s in bed or sleep, there sure is a rhythm to the last part of each evening. I have a built-in 3 p.m. tea break for me―that’s the magic time when I run out of steam and get cranky, so I plan for it: tea for me, snack for the kids, something to do (if just flopping on the couch to watch a DVD) so that I don’t become Evil Exhausted Mom (it took me six years to realize I consistently lost it at 3 p.m. Super-observant, I am.) We go swimming each Monday and Thursday―unless something else comes up, but that’s the “default” setting on each week, just as our girl’s music class mid-week is. But there was a time―when my eldest was four to six in particular―when the routines had to be perfectly predictable and inviolate, because that was what he needed at that time.

This last year, I’ve outsourced dinner to routines, a la Taco Tuesday, Slow Cooker Wednesday, Pizza Friday. (Also “What the Fuck’s for Dinner Thursday,” the day that reminds me to stick to the boring predictability of the rest of the week.) This is not my default setting: my default setting is―I’m getting hungry, what should we make for dinner, oh no, the fridge is empty, let’s go out―but this Taco Tuesday setting, although it makes me sound like the most boring person in the world, is better. It means we eat even when I’m on deadline, when my default setting is to not eat at all until the project is done―oh, crap, you mean you kids need to eat?

There are personalities, families, life cycles and individuals who don’t need any of this and don’t thrive on it. For sure. But there are very unschooled families who do. And hyper-organized people who need strict routines to have something to deviate from. And hyper-unorganized people who need some kind of even aspirational guideline to be fly-by-the-seat of-their-pants with.

I’m not sure which one I am, or my family is: we’re five individuals with very different personalities. But I do know that routines/rhythms/anchors―whatever you want to call them if the word schedule gives you the willies―make our family life more peaceful, our work life possible. Most of our days have plenty of spontaneity, go with the flow, live in the moment kinda stuff―too much, I would argue, on the days when work throws me a really unexpected curveball.

Does Slow Cooker Wednesday and 3 p.m. tea mean the baby getting sick, the washing machine flooding the basement, the 9 y o breaking an arm doesn’t throw us into chaos? Of course it doesn’t. But Slow Cooker Wednesday does mean we eat a good supper on Wednesday even if we spent most of the day at the ER (unless of course the broken arm happened before the chicken went into the slow cooker) or mopping up the basement and calling plumbers (see previous caveat).

Making my and my eldest’s morning incapacitation part of our morning routine respects our biological clocks and sets the stage for a good day―and it keeps me from unproductive feelings of guilt over being unproductive in the mornings. And that 3 p.m. tea break I give myself? I don’t like being Evil Exhausted Mommy. And it takes such a small act and such a small amount of planning to keep that from happening.

End of pro-routine pontification.

A Love Letter to the Golden Heart

A dragonfly, broken wings, it’s dying―surely, there’s something she can do to save it. A soft bed in a safe place. Protection. But no―death comes, tears come, tenderness overflowing, and my little daughter’s life is broken, ruined, the worst day ever, nothing’s ever right… until this thought comes―Can I put it in my museum?

Rebound. Recover. But every time she looks at that dragonfly, she remembers―the attempt to save, the death, the tragedy.

She remembers everything she’s ever felt, my Golden Heart, she remembers why, and she will tell you about it, in detail. Words and stories flow from her; when she is silent, they flow too―onto paper, in colours, bold strokes, small dots.

She is my lesson, my meditation, my wonder. I don’t remember as well as she does, but I do remember this: the first time I held her in my arms and looked at those eyes, so blue, so blue―still so blue―and that tuft of red hair, but I didn’t see them, I saw Daughter, My Daughter, girl child, future mother, the future… I saw… what? Something so big and so frightening and so wonderful I still can’t articulate it: her connection to me and to all her future daughters and daughters’ daughters and my connection to my mother and her mother and all the mothers before… a feeling so big and overwhelming, love is an inadequate word. Love is just the beginning.

I love my little daughter, and she loves. She loves―well, people, of course, her family, her friends―but she loves the world in a way so intense and deep, it frightens me who loves her and who wants to protect her, shelter her, keep her safe, because I see how exposed, how vulnerable she is. She gives her heart, on her outstretched hands. She will love you as she loves the dragonfly, the leaves on the tree―does it hurt them when they fall? No? Are you sure?―the grass beneath her feet, the dandelions that she gathers into bouquets every spring.

It’s dangerous to love like that, and it terrifies me. It is is easy to hurt this precious child, to betray her. Even those of us who love her madly: perhaps especially those of us who love her madly. And those who do not really care? It terrifies me. As I hold her and listen to her speak of her heart, her loves, her feelings, I want to equip her for the scary future… but yet, every attempt to do so is a destruction of something about her that is the best thing about her, the most critical, defining feature of her.

So I hold her and I listen and I stroke her hair.

My Golden Heart, I call her, and I tell her what an amazing gift it is to feel as fully as she does. And how difficult it is to reign those feelings in, to hold them in abeyance, to reflect on them―but how necessary, at least sometimes. Does she hear? Understand? Does it help? I don’t know. The tears fall, and I hold her close, and I will myself to be patient, because my natural inclination is to not honour this aspect of my daughter most precious, to make her repress, behave, smile, bury that pain…

As she gets older, she does. I see it―and the price it terrible. It is, for her, not self-control, but denial of herself. Is there a middle way, another way? We will struggle with this, she and I forever, perhaps all of her and my life. I don’t have the answer, I don’t see a path.

So I hold her. I am her mother and I am her ally. There are plenty of enemies out there who will make her repress, bury and hide.

I will not be one of them.

A moment of pure joy, pure excitement: she feels these as fully, as dramatically as the pain and the tears. And spreads it. I feel it, the world feels it―she infects us with her love. She flies, leaps, exults. And we run with her, carried by her joy and love.

My Golden Heart, a gift to the world. I kiss the tip of her nose, her fingertips. She flies away. I watch her, with adulation, with concern, with fear. She is my lesson: will she teach me trust?

A Love Letter To The 9-year-old

Yesterday, I accidentally slipped my feet into my 9-year-old son’s shoes. And they fit well enough that I took a few steps in them before realizing my mistake. This first-born baby of mine, seven pounds eleven ounces nine years ago―the size of a grain of rice ten years ago, just part of cosmic dust before then―is now so long, so tall, so strong. Stronger than me. No longer in a sling, no longer kept safe and satisfied only in my arms―the journey has been gradual, but this year, this day, this moment, it strikes me, smacks me in the face.

I love him. When he was that babe in arms and I looked at him and fell in love with him for the first time―and then every day, every hour, all over again―I didn’t think it was possible to love anything, any creature, any person this much. And then I loved him more and more every single day, and today, when I look at his tousled, tangled head, his lanky, long legs, the eyelashes that half-cover those sometimes mischievous, sometimes sad eyes, I fall in love all over again and again, and I can’t believe it is possible to love anything, any person this much. But now I know that tomorrow, and the day after and the year after, I will love him even more.

He isn’t bliss everyday. Being a nine year old boy in 2011’s North America isn’t easy. Sure, you can dismiss this as a First World Whine―hey, he isn’t toting guns in Sierra Leone, living in a shanty town in Rio de Janeiro, starving in East Africa. Over-privileged middle class white boy of over-educated parents, what are your woes? Lusting after an X-box game, having to eat roast asparagus for dinner again? Our world dismisses his … heck, call it was it is, existential angst. But it’s there, and it’s real.

My nine year old boy, my love, is searching for his purpose in life. A little child no longer, yet a long way from man, he is on a journey. He wants to be useful. He wants to work. To grow. To contribute. And it is so hard, in 2011. Were he growing up in any other historical era―1000 years ago, 500, even 50 years ago―this angst would not exist. He would help on the farm, in the fields. Chop wood. Practice hunting. Fighting.

Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t romanticize. We live longer, healthier, safer now than ever before in human history, for all our fears and complaints. But with this life comes the existential angst of our children. Especially such children as my son. See, he is the boy that you’d take on the hunt with you as soon as he could keep up with the men, because he’s got a strong arm and a good eye, and never gets tired. He’s the son who’d chop a cord of wood for you, then tame a colt or two, all before breakfast. He’d see the enemy coming before anyone else because he’d be up in the highest tree. You’d never lack for food―or protection―with him in your tribe.

What do you expect of this boy wonder in 2011? Well, you’d like him to sit quietly at a table and colour a pretty picture. Then cut up some cardboard and glue it, and maybe some dried up pasta too―look, we’ve got googly eyes, isn’t that cool?―to a piece of paper. Sit and listen to a story. Sit and read a book. Walk, don’t run. Write about this. Tell us about your feelings. Don’t be too noisy, don’t be too active, don’t be too disruptive.

But for goodness’ sake, don’t play too many video games, because that’s just not good for your brain. (Stop. I must digress. Video games invade my love letter, but ever wonder why today’s eight year old, nine year old, 12 year old boys love video games so much? Can you see it? Can you see the hunt, the fight, the chase? Those little buttons, those dudes on the screen―they’re speaking to their genes. They’re channeling the Caveman inside. Come full circle, video games back to love letter. I love my son. My son loves video games. I know why.)

My little love, growing so tall, so lanky, so strong. Searching. He wants to become a man, a useful, productive, important part of his tribe. What tribe? Where is it? When he was four, he decided he knew what he wanted to be when he grew up: the man who starts the fire at his community’s firepit. That’s who he’s going to be. But the path is long, and it’s tough, and not very obvious. So he’s struggling, searching, misstepping. And there I am, watching―he is my heart outside of me, exposed, and I want to protect him, help him, ease things for him, but there is so little I can do. So much of this he must struggle through alone, my love, and all I can do is be there―present, supportive, unconditional. There when he needs me, in the background when he thinks he doesn’t. Loving him, celebrating him, feeling blessed and grateful that he is my son… making sure he knows that I love him, celebrate him, and feel blessed and grateful that I am his mother.

It is another day, another night, and he is silent, falling asleep. He talked a lot today, about his game, the smell of rain, the trajectory of a roundhouse kick, the peskiness of little sisters. Then silent, perturbed. The eyes close, I see the brain, spirit, soul still working. Searching. What will he be? Fully himself, fully wonderful.

I write this to remind myself―to hold myself steady during the moments when he is not bliss. To remind myself of what matters and what doesn’t. To remind myself that the work we started, the bonds we weaved when he was a babe at breast, a toddler on hip, that work isn’t over. It continues, every day. Every choice, every word, said and unsaid, builds that bond and builds that relationship. Or harms it.

I don’t like to think of parenthood, motherhood as work. It’s not. It’s life, part of life, a definition of my life, as much a part of it as eating, sleeping, breathing. But the work metaphor creeps in, because in 2011 North America, everything that requires any effort at all is work. So―this love letter is my work. Put explicit into words, to exist outside of me as affirmation and expression and reminder. I love you, my beautiful son, unconditionally, perfectly, fully, in all your moods and moments. What will you be? What you are. Fully yourself, fully full of wonder. Cosmic dust transformed into a gift, to me, to the world.

Freedom: In Praise of the Big Bike

I wrote this short essay as a review/thank you note for Sean Carter, owner of Calgary’s BikeBike, an independent Calgary bike retailer, after I had been riding the Babboe Big for about two months. I can’t overstate the impact getting my massive three-wheeler has had on our family this summer. I gush, and I can’t gush too much. This bike changed my life. By summer’s end, I had busted its gear box twice―Sean’s replacing it again as I write―because the Dutch don’t design cargo bikes to climb Calgary hills. No matter―the point is, I was climbing hills. I was cycling. I was moving. Again. 

We walked into Bike Bike on Friday, April 9 to dream and possibly flip through catalogues and to ponder whether it was worth the risk to order the bike of my dreams unseen from a US or Dutch supplier. Instead, there they were―the Joe Bike cargo-style bike I thought I’d have to settle for, and the four-kid Dutch cruiser trike I was dreaming of. We left $2100 poorer, but ecstatic, and I “triked” home with 140 lbs of kids and dog in the bucket.

Two months of pretty much daily bike rides later―ok, we stayed in when we had that foot-high dump of snow in late April. Whenever we’re out on the paths, I feel like we should be commissioned salesmen for BikeBike or Babboe. The machine attracts an awful lot of attention, even at first glance―and more so when people realize just what it is that we’ve got in the bucket. (On our last day trip ― the toddler, the 6-year-old after she ran out of steam, the dog in her kennel, and the 6-year-old’s bike strapped to the front of the bucket. On another trip: four kids, aged 18 months to 9 years, plus the dog. Another time: three kids, two scooters, and a bike. After a dog-meets-boy-with-disastrous-results incident on Prince’s Island, toddler, dog in crate, and 9-year- old’s bike in bucket, and 9-year-old sitting on the bumper over the back wheel.) When I’m riding with just the toddler up front, it feels like I’ve got an empty bucket!

Now, this bike (trike) is perfect for us, and it remains the bike of my dreams. But it has its quirks. Kid yourself not, this thing is slow and it’s heavy. Going full out, I can just keep up with my eight year old if he’s taking it easy. Everyone passes me on the bike paths―cyclists, joggers… I did pass an octogenarian jogger the other day and the kids cheered, “Look, Mom, you’re getting faster, you passed that runner!” “Yeah!” said the eldest, turning around and biking back to me, and biking a circle around me. “You totally whooped that Granny’s butt!” As I stopped pedalling to expound that it was not a competition and we weren’t biking to whoop anyone’s butt, the Granny picked up speed and passed me and… but I digress.

So―it’s slow even when it’s fast. Extrapolate from this that it’s really hard work going up hill. But once you get going on flat or a slight incline, man, because it’s so heavy, it has a great deal of momentum (fortunately, also good brakes). Although it just has five gears, they’re sufficient for climbing most the of the hills I have to. We’re in Sunnyside, so we go up the Prince’s Island and the 10th Street ramps all the time. I haven’t attempted climbing all of McHugh’s Bluff yet,* but that’s our goal before the end of the summer. The little inclines on the Sunnyside pathway―beside the curling club, past the Community Garden, etc.―are all eminently doable. The North side of the 19th Street overpass is a bitch. It doesn’t look that steep… but it is. That’s the one where I start fantasizing about getting this bike electrified.

But then I straggle onto the top, catch my breath, cruise down, check on the Osprey nest, and move on to fantasizing about other things.

A super-positive surprise has been how manoeuvrable the beast is. On my first ride, from BikeBike on 17th Ave/15th Street SW to our home in Sunnyside, with all three kids and the dog in the bucket, I barely managed to avoid light posts and parking meters. Turns were hell―I was actually getting off the bike and “positioning” its rear to enable me to make turns. Things got a little easier when we got to the river pathway and I had a little more room to play with and less car-induced stress. By the end of that week, I was taking the corners on the 10th Street ramp with just the slightest touch of the brakes. Now, you’ll never turn this thing around on a dime, and there are turns and corners that, unless you approach them just right, will have you scraping the bushes or massacring lawns. But they’re few and far between―and almost any turn is easier to execute on the bike than walking the bike.

It’s also clearly a pathway / city bike. It likes its asphalt. It can do gravel and alleys, but it really doesn’t like ruts and big rocks and rough terrain. And the day we took it around Prince’s Island when the snow was still in full force… well, it wasn’t pretty. I kept on getting stuck in ruts and puddles, and while I made it around, it was with no desire to repeat the experience. If the geese decided to go after me, they would’a got me.

The bucket seats four kids, and has four adequate harnesses. I don’t use them with the older kids, but do restrain the toddler―who loves the bucket, and loves being able to decide whether he wants to sit facing me or facing forward. He’s been falling asleep on trips, and the bucket is not designed for that―we’ve been stopping and unbuckling him and lying him flat on the bottom so that he can have a good nap that doesn’t jostle his little head so much.

We’re thinking of modifyng an old car seat for him so that he has a comfier ride during naps.

To say that I love this bike is an understatement. I don’t want to bore you with my personal medical history, but I’ve had a rough two and a half years, and being able to be physically active again has meant the world to me; being able to get around the ’hood without having to rely on the car for even the shortest trip has been amazing. Being able to load up all the supplies necessary for a day’s adventures with three (or more when friends come along) kids (and a puppy) into a bike has been phenomenal: knowing that if I overtax the older two, they can hop into the bucket for a rest and I can haul them AND their bikes for a little bit―well, it’s made our Calgary-world bigger again.

Happy cycling! And thank you, BikeBike, for bringing this incredible machine into Calgary, and into our lives.

*I did climb McHugh’s Bluff―with only the toddler in the bucket―successfully. Once. The second time, I busted the Dutch gear shift again. Sean’s replaced it with something more solid… but the last time I had to tackle McHugh’s, I made the kids get out of the bucket and not just walk, but push.

The Return of the Princess Dress

You may recall Cinder’s Princess Dress–the fluffy, lacey, floor-length Disney princess gown Flora received for her first Christmas from her Nana, and which was immediately confiscated by Cinder as his party dress, which he wore to every major party event for the next two or so years. He stopped wearing it quite abruptly–I remember feeling sad at the rise of consciousness that accompanied that decision of his, his awareness that “boys did not wear dresses” and his acquiescence to that norm. But, by the time he outgrew the dress, Flora was ready for it… and how many little sisters get to wear their brother’s hand-me-down Princess dress? “What a lovely dress,” people would say, and she’s say, “Thank you, it was my brother’s,” and people would not be quite sure what to say next.

The dress got too tight for Flora a couple of years ago, and got retired to the back of the dress up pile. Smaller friends wiggled into it, puppy Anya wore it on special occasions… and today, proud Big Sister dressed little Ender in it.

Flora had a couple of friends over today and they dressed up in a variety of costumes, uncovering the Princess dress. This evening after bath, Ender dragged Flora over to the dress up rack. “Peese?” he said, pointing. “Peese?” “Mom!” Flora called. “Ender wants the Princess dress! Can I dress him in the Princess dress?”

She did–although first, she had to let him run around the house naked, clutching the dress to his chest and bellowing, “Wheeee!” Finally, she wrestled him into it. He immediately ran to show himself to Sean. “This!” he announced, turning around. “Oh my god,” said Sean. “It’s like a … ” “He looks just like me!” Flora said. Pause. A critical look at Ender. “Only much fatter.”

She took him downstairs to show Cinder. “Oh, he’s wearing my Princess dress!” Cinder said. He tousled his little brother’s hair. Ender tried to bite him. They wrestled for a bit. “Did people make fun of me for wearing the Princess dress?” Cinder asked me suddenly. I frowned in concentration. “Not really,” I said. “I remember once, N and F did…” “And?” prodded Cinder. I remember very clearly — Cinder, wearing a Princess dress and yellow rubber boots and a baseball cap, marching into the house, getting the biggest water gun he could find, and a few minutes later… shrieks. He chased the girls with the gun, first spraying them with water, then trying to pummel them with the gun. It’s a story with a tricky moral–no one on the Common ever made fun of his Princess dress again. But, um, that whole pummelling with the gun thing…

“And… you kinda… ” I searched for the right word. “Whooped them?” Flora suggested. “Hmmm,” I murmured.

Cinder hugged Ender. “So, if anyone makes fun of you for wearing a Princess dress, you go and whoop them,” he said. “And if they’re bigger then you, come get Bubba, and Bubba will whoop them for you.”

“Wheee!” Ender vocalized. Then bit Cinder in the arm pit. And got a bit of a whoop in return.

Blame It On The Pigs

We celebrated Ender’s arrival by coming down with H1N1 (we think). Do you remember that? The pandemic that wasn’t? Austen wasn’t quite himself by the time Dziadzia came to stay with him and Flora and Sean and I left for the hospital; by the time Sean went to see the children that night, they were both wheezing, coughing and sniffling. In the night, Austen struggled for breath in Babi’s arms. By the time Ender was ready to come home, both Austen and Flora were too sick to come home. They spent two days sick at Babi and Dziadzia’s—until they infected Babi and Dziadzia and made them too sick to take care of the kids. By then, Sean was was wheezing too, so we brought the kids home—under orders to frequently wash their hands and not breathe on Ender. (We somehow managed to infect Adam and Aga too.) (Babi & Dziadzia = the grandparents; parents of Jane. Now you know.)

It sounds awful: it was actually wonderful. They were wiped and tired. So for about two weeks, we all mostly sat in the big bed, watching movies, reading books, nursing Ender, and napping together. It was a wonderful bonding experience, and a nice, gentle introduction into being a family of five. Neighbours and friends brought us dinners—as did Babi when she recovered. I’ve always hated the rush of people wanting to come see the new baby, wanting to hold the new baby, and my dream post-partum month would see me in bed with the baby, skin-on-skin, sleeping and feeding, and not doing much more than that. And that’s what we got—we put the house under quarantine, declined visitors, and enjoyed a real babymoon. All thanks to the swine flu. Thanks, pigs!

Our Doberman Anya added some unexpected drama to those first weeks, by, for the first time in her 11 year life, running away. The front door was left open… and she—nose put out of joint by the new baby? Or for some other, secret dog reason—wandered outside, down the alley, and onto the hill. She meandered up and down. By the time we realized she was gone and scrambled forces to look for her—the entire family and half the co-op combed the hill and the neighbourhood shouting for Anya—some kind people had taken her home for the night. We got her back the next day, none the worse for her adventure—perhaps even slightly better off, for her rescuers had given her wet dog food and a rawhide chew bone.

Austen to Ender: “Are you ready for the morning nippling process? You should have seen the yummy breakfast mama had—the milk will be extra delicious!

Any Way They Have To Come…

This is the long version of Ender’s arrival, the last 12 or so hours, written for and published in  Birthing magazine.

As dawn breaks over Calgary’s first winter snowstorm in  October 2009, I’m 14 days post-estimated-due-date and on the parking lot usually known as Crowchild Trail, en route to the Rockyview Hospital for an induction.

“It’s a good thing you’re not really in labour,” Sean, my partner, says. “Or else we really would be having this baby in the van.”

Ha ha ha. I try not to get angry at my uterus, cervix, DNA code—whichever part of me it is that is not working the way I think it ought to. I try to be philosophical. They come as they must, and all that matters is that they come, healthy, safe. I almost believe it.

By 9 a.m., I’m in a snazzy butt-less hospital gown. I keep my Wicked Witch of the East socks on; they make me happy. The IV’s on—five weeks of prodromal labour and two cervical rimmings haven’t dilated the cervix enough to break my water, so the Oxytocin is flowing.

And nothing is happening. Nurse Kim, with whom I immediately fall in love, jacks up the dose every 30 minutes. By 11 a.m., there are contractions—sort of. I have a nap.

Noon comes. Then 1 p.m. … and exciting news: not quite 3 cm, but dilated enough for the doctor to break my water. Gush. Beautiful, clear liquid flows out of me and I relax, completely, and collapse on the bed. I had no idea how terrified I was I’d see meconium until that moment. It’s all good. Everything will be fine. The fetal monitor stops bugging me; I don’t feel the IV.

Nurse Kim turns down the flow on it a bit because, she says, it’s quite high, and now that my water’s broken, things could really pick up.

Except they don’t. The contractions just about disappear. We crank it up again. And again.

In the end, it’s Robin Williams who does it. In the hospital birthing room, we find a VHS of Birdcage and while we watch it, I laugh so hard I pee myself—well, it might just be more amniotic fluid leaking out. And the contractions build. And build. Soon I have to really breathe. Then close my eyes and breathe. Yes!

“How are things?” Nurse Kim asks at 4 p.m. “Good!” I announce. “That last one really, really hurt.” “That’s not the response I usually get,” she laughs. “But good to hear.”

So here’s my un-plan plan. Oxytocin-induced contractions, I amply remember from my induced miracle one, are not like natural contractions. The best way I can think of to describe the difference is that, if you think of contractions in terms of waves with peaks, induced contractions tend to have multiple “heads”—and you don’t come down off them as fully as you do off the “natural” thing. So a “natural” birth on Oxytocin—in other words, a non-medicated birth—I just don’t think I can do it. Not for three days (length of active labour with miracle one), not for two days (miracle two), and not for 24 hours. I’m going to stay epidural-free for as long as I can—7 p.m. is the mental goal line—and then, I’ll ask for the meds.

The contractions are building. After five weeks of prodromal labour, characterized by contractions that went nowhere, I’m thrilled. 5 p.m. comes. 6 p.m. The doctor checks the dilation.

“I’ll call it 4,” she says.

“What?” one bloody centimeter in the last five hours? One lousy centimeter? Gah! A contraction takes my mind off the outrage. The doctor asks me, between contractions, if I’d mind if a resident came in to observe the birth. I nod. Whatever. What birth? This baby is never coming!

I focus on my body, on my belly, on the little person inside. I feel his heartbeat. He’s working hard too. We’ll do this. However long it takes.

Nurse Kim’s shift ends at 7 p.m. She’s reluctant to go: “I want to be here for the arrival!” she says. We check the dilation again. “Should I say five to make you feel better?” says Kim.

I’m pretty sure I use some bad words. “No,” I say. “Fine. That’s fine.” But it’s not and I give up. I’ll take an epidural the next time an anesthetist’s around, I say.

Nurse Kim hands me off to Nurse Sue. She has warm hands. She says the anaesthetist is on the ward, could be here in a few minutes. “Should we get the bed ready?” I’ve been on it in a squatting position, holding onto bars. The bars have to come down, the bed to go up… I have to sit on the side, she explains, slumped over a pillow… her voice fades in and out.

I look at the clock. It’s 7:20. I’m not even five centimetres. And tired. And having another ridiculously medicated birth that will go on forever…

“OK,” I say. “But I have to go to the bathroom first.” The room seems very, very full and very loud.

I void everything, and think about puking, decide not to. Sean pokes his head in. “Everything ok?” I nod. “Ready to come out?” Not really. I don’t really want the spinal. I don’t want to have to be told when to push. I don’t want to not feel my legs. … I don’t really want to be in the room full of people again.

Sean pokes his head in again. Worried. He shepherds me and my IV back to the bed. Nurse Sue helps get me into the “position”—which I promptly get out of, as a the mother of all contractions rocks my world. I scream.

Baby number three, and this is my first birthing scream. It feels so good. And it hurts. Oh, it hurts. 30 seconds, 60 seconds, 90 seconds. I scream again. I have become, in the last five or so hours, an expert in time keeping. This is 30 seconds and this is 60. This is the pause – 30 seconds, sometimes 45, occasionally a long, blissful 60. And here we go again, 30 seconds… no, here’s the mother of all contractions again and I only had five seconds of down time. What is this? 30… 60… 90… 120…

“Why won’t this contraction end!” I scream. There is nothing left on the bed to hold on to. My legs are wrapped around Sean, my back is arched against my mother, and I’m screaming with my whole self, except for one teeny tiny part of me which is thinking that I should remember this post-partum, should miracle number three be a colicky or fussy baby: when you’re in certain types of pain, all you can do is scream.

“Jane, is the baby coming?” Nurse Sue cries out.

It seems to me an incredibly stupid thing to say.

“How should I know?” I snap. I disengage one leg from around Sean’s waist and stick it up into the air.

“Um… I think that’s the head,” Sean says weakly.

Honestly, I don’t connect the dots. I’m still doing math. 150, 180… I am so overdue for a break… 210…

“Push the red button,” Nurse Sue tells Sean. There’s a scramble. “What button?” “There.” “This one?” Sean yanks it out of the wall. There’s noise of feet, and the full room feels fuller. (Later, I find out pushing the button summons the doctor. Yanking it out of the wall screams emergency and sends all available staff running.)

I scream again.

“Don’t scream—push!” someone hollers. My mother, whose arm I’m in the process of breaking, snaps back, “It’s her labour and she can scream if she wants to!” She’s up in arms. It’s sweet. But I think… pushing’s a good idea. Yeah, I should do that. Definitely a good idea.

I push. Once.

And he arrives. Just like that, me on my side, one leg wrapped around Sean, one leg up in air, he slides into Nurse Sue’s arms.

“And he’s here. Your baby’s here,” she says, and I collapse, the pain is gone—the memory of it is gone. He’s here, he’s here.

Nurse Sue puts him on my chest and he’s purple and slimy and the most shockingly beautiful thing in the world. I look at him and he looks at me, and we drink each other, and at some point the doctor runs in and there’s a technical discussion going on at the foot of the bed about time of birth (“7:39 p.m.”), when I started to push (“Well, I’d say… 7:38 p.m.”), and all those fascinating details needed for the paperwork (incidentally, the doctor—and not Nurse Sue—got credit for the delivery, but now you know how it really was). I hear it through a filter whose name is Ender.

Our miracles come into our lives any way they need to come. My little miracle wriggles on my chest. He is healthy and perfect in everyway. He starts rooting for the nipple. The arrival is over; the real adventure begins.

39 Weeks And 6 Days

39 weeks and six days of gestation—our third baby is almost here—and I’m on my hands and knees in the bathroom at 2 a.m., retching. The nausea comes on suddenly in the night, apparently unprompted by anything other than my body deciding to experience a few more pregnancy symptoms before it’s all over. It hasn’t been the easiest of pregnancies this time around—if I’m brutally honest, there have been considerable stretches of it when my answer to the question, “How are you feeling?” was an unequivocal “Never felt worse in my life, dear god, how much more of this can I endure?”—but it’s been relatively nausea free. I’m making up for it this week.

Sean, once again, feels helpless and frustrated. “Is there anything you need, love?” he asks from the bedroom. Between retches, I vocalize “No.” “Do you think the baby’s sitting on your stomach again?” he asks, sleepy but concerned. That’s our theory behind my intermittent night puking of the last week. Or has it been two? In response, I retch again—shut the door and turn on the fan to drown the noise.

It’s tough on Sean. He’d like to push a button on me to “fix it”—a back rub, a foot massage, a magic drink? I think this is why tough pregnancies are so tough on male partners—and in many cases marriages. They can’t fix it, they don’t know what to do, and they go from feeling helpless to useless to … worse.

It’s tough on me, too, of course… but different. Isn’t it? This last stretch—so exhausting, so frustrating, so painful, and we haven’t even hit the “hard” part of active labour yet—is tough, tough, tough and turning me into a big fat whiner… who swears she will never, ever EVER yearn for a baby in tummy again, she’s done, go ahead and get that vasectomy tomorrow if you wish, sweetheart, because I am not going through this again for anything, not ever… but I know that when that baby pops out, amnesia will start to set in. Perhaps not right away—perhaps it will take a few weeks or few months—but that “never, ever, oh god, how is it that I’ve been able to endure this?” feeling will give way first, to wonder and gratitude at the little miracle in my arms, then conviction that this of-me-now-out-of-me creature at my breast is worth EVERYTHING and ANYTHING, and finally, possibly, as he grows bigger and bigger and bigger, the longing to experience the miracle again, accompanied by complete denial of how difficult the last pregnancy was.

I finish retching, clean up, ponder the odds of being able to keep down whatever remains in my stomach if I lie flat, and go peek at my two out-of-me babies. One seven years and four months old today, the other four years and nine months. Almost seven and a half and five—I can’t believe it. My Flora sleeps on her side, both her hands tucked under her cheek, her mouth slightly open. Cinder’s upside down, legs on his pillow, head beside our—his—beloved puppy, 10-year-old Anya. He’s all legs and arms. He’s huge. He fills up the whole bed. My baby, who not that long ago—those seven years passed in a flash—swam within my womb. My first miracle.

As he falls asleep at night, I still whisper in his ear, “You are my first miracle. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me—you’ve changed my life.” (When Sean comes into the bedroom at those moments, the loveliest, most love-filled thing I can say to him is, “Thank you for my babies.” Does he understand what I mean by that, how much I love him for being their daddy, for helping me make them? I don’t know. I don’t know if any man, or any non-mother, can.)

My second miracle stretches. At bedtime and bath time today, we were playing baby Flora. She was baby Flora, swimming in the uterus—in the tub—until “pop! Out I come like an asteroid! I’m born!” I was, alternately, mama and Cinder—“Can you play two characters in the game, Mama? Just tell me which one you are, ok? Are you Cinder now? Are you saving me from rolling off the couch like Cinder did the time I was just born?” She’s so excited about the imminent arrival of a baby sibling. “I’m going to be a big sister, just like Cinder is a big sister. I mean big brother. And Cinder will be a double big brother. And the three of us will be triplets!”

My triple miracle. The nausea recedes farther. The uterus contracts, not too intensely, but not what you’d call pleasantly. It practices for the main event. I take a deep breath and rub it. “Come out, come out,” I tell miracle three. “We’re all waiting for you. I’m not sure if you can conceive how much love is waiting out here for you. A mama, a daddy, a brother, a sister… so much love.”

One of my out-of-me double miracles lets out a meowling noise, tosses and turns. I tiptoe out of the room. Turn off the light. Must make myself sleep and rest despite the turmoil in my body: must be able to take care of all my miracles tomorrow. We have books to read, games to play, pets to take care of, food to make, walks to take, messes to create and perhaps even clean up… a baby to welcome.

The hormones surge, and a level of delirium sets in. I write for a while, until exhaustion defeats both the nausea and the contracting uterus. To sleep. I hear the breaths of my children, my husband. My dog (she’s the loudest). Miracle three kicks and stretches. To sleep. To dream. To live.

30 September 2009

3:15 a.m.