We had some time, they boy and I, to be in the house alone together, since his sister was playing with a friend for the afternoon, and wouldn’t be home for a while still… this is a Thursday thing. First, he always asks me where she is, and then as he remembers, he quickly realises he has me to himself.

And then he starts talking.

And talking.

I love that he tells me all his stuff.

He: Can we take pictures together? It’s a bit sunny. The light is good… is it?

Me: *smiling* Yes, it is! You’d like to? Come.

I open my arms and lie back on the couch. He grabs me in a hug, and kisses my cheek, telling me he loves me. Then, he looks into the lens…

He strokes my cheeks and tells me my skin is soft. And he smells my neck. Romantic little thing. And then he looks into my eyes and asks, What’s for dinner…? Punk kid.

One day before too long, he might stop wanting to tell me all his stuff… probably, he will. That’s normal, of course, but… *le sighs heavily* I hope that’s not for a long time yet.

Oliver, my lovely.

G.G.

The other day, while I was busily wiping down the kitchen counters after lunch, moaning to myself about what (oh, what?!) to make for dinner, Oliver walked over to me, cocked his head to the left and said, “I was wondering if maybe around three-thirty or four o’clock, you might like to watch Harry Potter with me?”

I stopped pushing the damp cloth around, and stared at him for a moment. Did he… ask me for a date just now? Well, of all the cuteness…

Me: *smiling big* That a very nice invitation, Oliver, and yes please, I would love to watch Harry Potter with you at three-thirty. Wow!

He: *smiling* Yay.

Me: And you know what? That’s is exactly how you should invite someone to do something. You look a person in the eye, and say what you’d like to do, and at what time… and then you let the person say yes or no. That’s just how you ask someone you like for a date.

He: *high eyebrows* Really? But… what if the person says no?

Me: If you say it with that smile of yours, you’ll be hard to resist. *winks*

He: *winks back* But really… what if the person says no?

Me: Well, that’s okay – it’s no big deal if a person can’t join you when you invite them. But if they really like your company, they might give you an alternate day or time to go. *shrugs* You work it out. Or, you ask someone else. In any case, it’s nice to be asked. Especially in such a nice way. *rubs his head*

He: Oh.

Me: Yeah. But don’t worry about it too much.

He: I’m not worried. *grins*

Me: Maybe you should ask your dad and Ava Scarlett if they want to join us?

He: I was just going to, but I wanted to ask you first.

Me: Why me first?

He: Because I want to sit beside you.

Never in my life…

Me: Well that’s… that is just so nice, Oliver. Thanks.

He: I love you, mummy. So much. *squeezes me with his eyes closed*

Much of the time, that’s just what living with this boy is like.

Sometimes I just can’t stand it, and I worry my heart might explode from the pure love I feel for this darling and delicious boy. I hope he stays happy. I hope he gets what he wants.

And when facing the girls, and the bigger girls, and the women-girls in his future, I hope they’ll be kind. I hope I hope he gets more yesses than no’s…

G.G.

I posted something over here for the occasion, but just look at my little dude getting his birthday-groove on…

It’s been all smiles and giggles, and presents and surprises. He is SEVEN! And he is loving it. And I am loving him more than I ever thought I could. What an awesome kid I have – for reals. The kid is cool, yo.

But here’s the other cool thing – I mean, the part that make this about ME. (You know how it’s always about ME, right?)

Dudes. I baked a cake. From scratch.

Now, let me explain something: I don’t know from The Baking. Really, I don’t. My mum wasn’t much of a baker (though she could rock the shit out of a banana bread or an upside-down pineapple cake – believe it!) so I didn’t grow up watching someone play with flour and sugar and eggs and stuff, et voila! turn out lovely, sweets confections and things. Plus I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, save for chocolates. Especially chocolates that say CADBURY and have hazelnuts in them. Or like those adorable golden foil-wrapped Ferrero Rocher chocolates. I like chocolates.

Mmmm… chocolates…

Wait.

Oh right, I made a cake…! A flourless chocolate cake, one in which I hoped would satisfy both the birthday boy AND his father, who decided to eliminate gluten from his diet early last fall, which has wreaked havoc on all my culinary plans for our family ever since. Boo! Hiss!!

To those of you who bake, BRAVO to you, and you can stop reading this post here, because the rest has got to be baby-steps banal to you. For the rest of us, please read on…

Cooking is fine for me. Mince, puree, dredge, blanche, de-bone – no problem. Words like mirepoix don’t scare me at all. (Okay, the word souffle scares me a little a lot.) But cooking is not baking. The precise measuring of baking… the fats and the sugars… Is this a soft peak? How glossy is glossy? Whenever I read the word double-boiler, or candy-thermometer, I close my eyes, quickly slam the book shut, and chuck it under the couch. Then I go to the cupboard and take down a box of anything with the words Betty Crocker on it, and proceed to break eggs, stir, and bake.

But not this time. I used this recipe I found online. It listed a scant few ingredients (I had them all in the house) and boasted a very quick start-to-finish time. But I swear, had this required folding in whipped cream or blending in hot espresso or something, I would have trashed the whole idea and searched the cabinets for a Bag of Wonderful with Quaker-man on the front.

So, I braved the double-boiler thing and put a pot of water to simmer – but not boil – Jesus save me! Ava Scarlett got up on a chair beside me, and asked me about a thousand questions as I was blending the butter and the freshly chopped chocolate. I could barely speak to her… I was worried about over-mixing (?) and scorching (?) and ohmylord, what am I doing? Oh, the STRESS of it all!! And WHY did I attempt this?! There won’t even be time to buy something when this fails… JUST SHUT UP, CHILD, I COMMAND YOU!!

But I managed. I beat in sugar. I sifted in cocoa powder. I stirred until just combined. I greased the pan, and baked the fucker.

And look:

Pleased. As. Punch.

I was a bit worried I’d over-baked it (it felt dense and très crispy on the outside to the touch) but it’s like a brownie. A homemade brownie, thank you very much! We served it with Häagen-Dazs vanilla bean ice cream, and I also had some plump blackberries, but forgot to serve them. Nobody cared.

Martin got to have some this time… and Oliver LOVED it. Score: 1 for mummy!

Happy Birthday Oliver, my darling, my treasure. Please know that we love you a little bit more every day. And also, please know that I’m totally riding the hell out of your scooter in the house when you’re at school.

Love, mummy. xox

Though I really can’t understand why the children don’t go back to school until AFTER the Labour Day long weekend, (I mean, really!) I must admit, I’m thrilled to get back to the school schedule.

I don’t love the 7:55 AM start time of the school day, which is ohmygodsofuckingearly, nor do I relish the opportunity to do French homework in the evenings while at the same time making dinner AND keeping the other Little entertained and out of harm’s way, all during the hungry/tired/cranky hour(s) of day. Plus there’s a shitload of karate lessons to schlep to and from… but I think it’s easier than the entertainment juggling mums (and dads) often have to do all summer long. Whether they’re in some sort of day-camp or not, they’re always bored. They’re always hungry. They’re always all up in your grill, telling you how you’re wrecking their young lives. Oy.

So!

I’m happy to report that the child went to school this time without a single tear (from either of us) since, after all, this is his second year at The Big School, and he was eager to see a lot of his friends after the long summer apart. He’s thrilled with all his back-to-school stuff in his new backpack. (That’s the best part of the back-to-school-ness of things, you know – all the cool new stuff. Even if it cost parents a small fortune every year.)

Oliver had been looking forward to entering the first grade since the end of the school year, so it was a surprise to me when a few weeks ago, while visiting family in Toronto, he suddenly burst into tears when asked if he was excited about school starting soon. His face crumpled, and he BURST into tears, sputtering and choking on his HUGE sobs.

“I… just… don’t… WANT… to… go… to… first… grade…” He hid his face in his arm and cried and cried.

His sister lay her head against him and patted his back with one hand. “You jus’ say no FANK-you, Ol’ver… jus’ say no FANK-you.”

(It was really the cutest thing ever.)

I chalked up that mysterious piece of drama to being completely and obscenely overtired from the six-hour drive, plus staying up until nearly 11 PM the day before. You can expect a pretty spectacular meltdown before noon the next day under such circumstances.

So, unlike last year, the child was perfectly fine today. He did ask on the way out the door if it was okay if he cried a little bit when we got there. I told him to shut his whiney cake-hole and to grow a pair already – be a man, and shit.

Just kidding.

I said it would be okay, and that there might be some other kids a bit tearful this morning too… but that really, there’s nothing to be sad about. This is a great day! Big Kid!! Practically a GROWN-UP!! (Enthusiasm is everything, yo.)

And it worked. Moments later, I took this pic:

My big, brave boy. I expect he will be tired and cranky for the next several days – getting back to the early sleep schedule after summer’s too-late bedtime hour of 9 PM is not going to be easy on me for any of us. Madame has hardly napped this summer at all due to her time spent at Camp No-Nap, and the 6:30 AM rise today will render everyone near useless by dinner time tonight, I just know.

Le sigh.

One down… one to go after Labour Day. (JOY!!)

G.G.

For the last two of weeks, Oliver went to an arts-based camp, which was TERRIFIC in and of itself. The downside was it was just Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays from 10 AM until noon.

I know.

And on top of it, his sister is going to day camp from 11:30 AM until 3:30 PM.

I know.

But as of today, as he’s off to a full-day camp, I’m realising how nice it was to have him home – how rare the time is that we get to hang out together, just the two of us. It’s quieter without his sister home. The flow is different, and he’s a bigger kid, so wandering around together is easier… no strollers or wipes or sippy cups to pack up and take along. When he wasn’t on his bike, he’d just stroll along side me. Sometimes I’d search for his hand first, but often, I’d feel his hand grab onto mine.

I love that he still wants to hold my hand. (I have to fight with his sibling to get her to hold mine, because she’s two and she’s the devil defiant.)

He’s growing. He’s lost four teeth since summer vacation started (including one last night!) and he bites all foods with the teeth on the sides of his mouth. He’s always got a little mayonnaise schmutz on his cheek after he eats. (I’m so happy he’s a napkin-using kid.) He’s taller too. The wording and tone in his conversation is maturing. Wow, this child. There are days when he treads heavily on my last fucking nerve, but most of the time he’s just a sweet, sweet boy.

But he can be so freaking serious sometimes, and last week while I was snapping pics of him, I couldn’t help fucking with him, just a little…

Me: Oliver, um… I have to tell you something.

Him: What?

Me: Well… it’s not good news, I’m afraid.

Him: What is it? You can tell me, mummy. Just say it.

Me: *heavy sigh* Okay. Um… well… gosh, Oliver…

Him: Can you just tell me? Just SAY it, okay? Just tell me what it is.

His eyes are so round with worry. I can’t help it.

So, of course I continue. I mean, I must.

Me: Okay. I spoke with your doctor the other day… remember your check-up?

Him: *gravely and with a solemn face* Yes…

Me: Well… the thing is… you’re… you’re not growing anymore. This size you are? Well, this is as big as you’re ever gonna be. I’m so sorry.

I can feel his panic, but I wait. Delicious. Oh, he will HATE me after this…

Him: *shocked* What? But.. but… but wait! Are you sure?! When did he say that?!

Me: *puts hand on his shoulder assuringly* But don’t worry, love. You’ll get OLDer… you just won’t get any TALLer. Okay? I’m glad I finally told you. That went well, don’t you think? Phew! Daddy and have been trying to tell you for DAYS!!

Him: You’re kidding.

Me: *shakes head from side to side* No, no I’m not at all… so sorry, darling. But the GOOD news is, your BEARD should start growing in next week. *smiles broadly*

Him: *giggles nervously* No. No! You’re just joking. You are joking, right mummy? Right?! For serious. Seriously.

But just one tidbit more to drive him nuts…

FOR CERTAIN…!

Me: *deadpan* And daddy and I ordered a wife for you. She’s from China. She should be here sometime next week too…

Him: Nooooooooo! *shrieks with laughter* Stop it! You’re kidding…

Me: I’m NOT kidding! She’ll be here by Monday after next, I think… her name is Ming-Kai.

Him: *hysterically laughing* Mum! Ming-Kai is a BOYS name!!

Me: Oh, sorry… maybe it’s Ming-Li. Yeah, that’s it… your new wife’s name is Ming-Li! Sorry about that… and you should probably make some space in your dresser for her things. She’s about thirty years old, or so she said in her letter…

Him: Stop it.

Me: Hey! Do you think they have Superman razors at the pharmacy?

Him: STOP IT! I mean it. Stop. It’s not funny.

Me: Oh, c’mon. That’s TOTALLY funny!! That’s funny, no? Yes. Funny.

Him: It’s NOT funny. AT all. Stop it. I’ll call daddy.

Me: oooOOOooo! *mockingly, waving hands in the air, surrendering* Please! Don’t call daddy… yikes!!

(I kill myself laughing for close to two minutes, I’m sure. Shit, that’s funny.)

silence

Me: Okay. I’ve stopped.

Him: Thank you.

Me: I was just kidding.

Him: I know. It’s not funny though.

Me: Okay. But I hope Ming-Li has better sense of humour than you do. I mean, GOOD GRIEF child!

Yep, he hates me.

. . .

Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m a perfect asshole sometimes. But really, I just can’t help myself… heh.

G.G.

This post is tres late. My boy’s birthday was February 2nd, and I’ve started and stopped this post for many crappy reasons.

It’s been a bit of a shit storm here for weeks… lots of stuff in the forefront of my head, stuff I can’t blog about here, and it’s all been in the way of my creative stream. But I’m dealing with my crap the best I can… but this post is late. Very late. Meh. Too bad, I guess.

Winter will be over soon.

. . .

So, I got a boy the first time around. We were so certain we wanted a girl, when they said, “If you look riiiight heeeere, you’ll see the scrotum…” we were totally shocked. It was weird! I have a sister!! Martin has a sister too… we knew from girls. But, indeed, the child that was coming to us, sometime after a miscarriage the first time at bat (these things happen) was to be a boy. In fact, just as we were ready to try once again, we found we were already expecting. A boy. This boy. Wow.

My father was an OB-GYN once upon a time, so all the pregnancy-related information and questions eased any of my fears, since it was so commonplace in our house growing up. And my mother wasn’t a hysterical kind of woman, which helps. The process didn’t freak me out at all. Neither did the birth part of things, though I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the pain part. Me no likey pain. Like, no pain, no pain. It’s a motto I like.

I had (still have) a fantastic OB-GYN who happens to specialise in high-risk births. (I was mos def not in that category, but he sometimes treated me as such.) He was super-irritated when I told him I’d had some wine, so I stopped telling him whenever I did – which was probably daily, though only a wee bit at a time. He worried that I wasn’t gaining enough weight – I only gained 17 pounds that time, but I’m little to start with, and Martin’s not a big man either. I was expecting a six-pounder at best. I said I was fine – well rested and happy… no problems. Leave me alone. If you need me, I’ll be at McDonald’s…

I didn’t tell him about my midwife, or about our plans for a home-birth though. I knew it would just make him crazy in da head… so I just made my appointments with him when I was supposed to, and stayed mum about my other plans. My midwife was the polar opposite of my doctor – all calm and easy-going… we chatted a lot. I seemed perfectly healthy and well to her, as my belly measurements were on par with where I should have been at every step… everything was fine. We went along with our plan to deliver at home.

I’m no hippy, in case you’re wondering. Far from it. I figured, if I can just get past the pain part of things, then I will be in my own house, in my own bed, with two specialised people here for ME, and ME alone, and I can have French toast and bacon a mimosas when I’m finished. Joy! But, that awful pain… I probably won’t die, right? So, here’s his birth story:

Three days past my due date, I’d been feeling super-tired, tres uncomfortable, cranky and Braxton-Hicks-y. Sometime around 5 AM, I felt different, and those Braxton-Hicks-y pains were coming a lot. Holy crap, this is it… I thought. We called the midwife around 6:30 AM, and she arrived with her assistant sometime before lunchtime. It felt like years before she finally showed up.

When she came to check me, I’d been having regular contractions that felt exactly like death for hours. I thought, it can’t be long now… She calmly examined me, smiled and said in her lilting French-accented English, “You’re doing so well, Trah-ceeeeey!! You have about two centimetres dilation!”

Eeep!

“Um, what?! TWO centimetres? Only?! Are you sure??! Check again, please…”

She patted my leg and told me everything was perfect. Oh moan. Could this really take eight or ten more hours? Lord have mercy on me, please!

Just a few days before this, I was prepping a chicken to roast, and while washing it down in the kitchen sink, cradling my hands under the wings to shake the excess water off, I realised that I’d very soon be trying to pass something similar in size through my teeny tiny perfectly unstretched vagina. Only it would likely have an enormous head attached too. Holy fuck. This was a giant mistake!! The very idea of it… in the moment, I could feel my cooter cringe.

I laboured on and on, threw up a lot, wandered around naked in my house… had a bath… threw up… moaned a lot. I was pretty sure I was dying. (No, not really. And by that I mean, yes, YES REALLY!!) My also suffering husband tried his very best to ease me in whatever ways possible, but naturally, it was of no real aid to me. One minute things would be fine, and the next, I was dragging everyone into the Pit of Misery with me. He’d rub my back, but it was always in the wrong spot. “Not there… THERE! Oh fuck, are you stupid or something?” He’d try chatting with me to pass the time, but his voice was all wrong, and just too damned LOUD! And I’d want him to cuddle me in the bed, but then he was just taking up too much room. “Can you please stop breathing for just a second? GAWD!!” Poor Martin had to leave the room to cry a little bit now and again – he hated seeing me in that kind of pain, of course. It was a long, hard day for him too. My sense of empathy for him made it a little easier for me not to dream about raking my nails down his face.

Four centimetres… six centimetres… seven… it was the Longest. Day. Ever. I wanted to smoke some pot, but nobody would let me. Anyway, I didn’t want the experience to feel like it was taking l-o-n-g-e-r… I kept asking them to just smash the bottle of champagne we’d been saving for the occasion over my head, but of course, they just smiled and patted me, and sweetly refused. I remember wishing they’d stop smiling at me like that, for fuck sake. Those smug, I’m-so-glad-I-don’t-have-to-take-a-huge-shit-only-it’s-a-BABY-coming-out kind of smiles. I tried so hard not to hate them. And I tried not to think about the chicken.

So, I got to nine centimetres… and… just… stalled. I’d been there for some time, and around 9 PM or so, midwife said, “I think we should break your bag of water, and see if it moves things a little bit.” I was in full agreement. Anything to make this baby come out already, and Make. This. Wretched. Pain. STOP.

So she did. And we spied meconium (baby’s first poop) which wasn’t super-alarming as he was already past his date, and this can be completely normal for a full-term child. But, this can also be indicative of distress…

After another hour or so moaning and cursing the baby Jesus, midwife noted changes in his heart rate, and decided we needed to head to the hospital, just to be cautious. I wasn’t disappointed, really. I had a bag packed for just such an emergency, and more than anything, I WANTED THE PAIN TO BE FUCKING OVER!! So off we went into the frigid, February night, and Martin did his best to avoid the potholes which are the size of Africa in many places in the city – damned these old city roads! It wasn’t a comfortable ride at all, but it was only about a four minute drive.

Upon arrival, I just told the doctor-people that my water broke, and there was a bit of meconium, and so now here we are – where’s my room? I didn’t mention the whole home-birth thing. I didn’t want to be scolded or have the disapproving eyeballs of shame all over me for the rest of my stay. The midwife came as our “friend” and helped carry my bag and coat and things. The nurses checked all my vitals and stuff… everything was okay. “You’re about eight centimetres dilated… and you can have an epidural, if you like.” I guess I’d regressed a little bit during the bumpy car ride. I wanted to say Oh, hells to the YES, woman, I’ll take that shit RIGHT NOW!! But I think I actually said, “Um… okay… yes, please.” And within five minutes, I got a needle in my spine, and let me tell you, that stuff is gooooooood. I like drugs. Drugs are nice. Pain all gone now. Thank you, baby Jesus.

AND THEN! Within about five minutes of having lovely, lovely drugs in my system, pain-free and jovial again, happy, with my sense of humour back in place, the nurses said, “His heart rate is dropping. We’re prepping you for an emergency C-section now… sign here, please.” And I was all, Really, Jesus? Oh well. Let’s go then.

Sometime after midnight, after some quick guidelines to the surgeon about how to keep that scar line low and nearly invisible, please, they worked their quick scalpel-magic, unwrapped the umbilical cord from around my baby’s neck (wrapped twice in fact – no wonder he wasn’t descending!) and brought out a seven pound, nine ounce beautiful baby boy that made me gasp when I looked at him. Bigger than I thought! Much bigger!! He had daddy’s ginormous head, with lots of black hair… and beautiful. Oliver Chase. Perfect.

And here’s how he grew:

He’s changed from a chunky, dimply little baby into a longer, leaner… boy. Gone is the pudgy baby belly, and in it’s place is a set of abs that seem unfair on such a little kid. It makes a grown person feel envious, even. He’s lost his two bottom teeth, and an uppper front one is loose, we discovered on his special day. He learned to ride a bike over the summer. He still has a completely infectious laugh. His eyelashes look to long to be real. He smiles a lot. And outside of a knotted lock trimmed here or there, he’s never had a haircut. It’s crazy long, and a bitch to wash, but it looks pretty fabulous… so I’ll leave it alone.

I used to lift him from his crib when he was an infant, and smile each time his body curled into a little “S” shape, as newborns tend to do. Now, I almost stagger when I hold him, his long legs gripped around my waist. He’s grown close to half my weight, but he’s still my baby.

And just like that… now we are six. Such a sweet boy (when he’s not being beastly) with a great vocabulary and a thoughtful mind… gentle in soul and spirit. His favorite foods are sushi, chocolate, and dumplings (yes, in that order) and he’s completely serious about his karate lessons, which could make me weep when I watch him in class… focused, studious… he wants so badly to do a good job. Learning French at school this year has been frustrating for him – not being able to accurately say what he means has been tough on my smart little guy, but every day it gets a little bit easier, because he’s learning more, and he’s trying his best. He’s coping. It’s a wonderful thing.

And this is really the biggest wish I have for him – to be able to cope. Of course I want him to be happy – this goes without saying. He’s generally a pretty happy kid, and I’m very thankful for this. What I want is for him to be able to cope when he’s not feeling so happy. That he can find a way to manage, even when he’s frustrated, or angry, or sad about something. Now, and for the rest of his life. This is my hope for him. So far, so good.

I can be tough on him sometimes… I want good things for him, and life isn’t always easy. I make sure to let him know when he’s doing well. I try to point out all his strengths and make him feel proud of all the things he can do. I also let him know when he’s fucking up. He’s little, and he’s learning. It’s all so exhausting sometimes, both for him and for me… I let him know how smart and capable he is, but I take it easy on remarking on his looks. It’s very nice that people respond to him so positively, and I know this is in part because of how good-looking he is, but that can’t (and shouldn’t!) carry him. Smarts matter. Manners matter. Others can (and will) tell him he’s handsome. His mother will bolster all the other stuff that makes a good boy into a good man… or at least, I will do my damdest.

This child fills me up. And he tears me down sometimes too… that’s the way it goes. I adore him. My boy. My baby. That he came to live with ME is a miracle of all miracles. I’m so lucky to have him in my life, this wonderful child… I hope I don’t fuck it up.

Happy birthday, Oliver! You’re loving your goldfish we got for you… so much in fact, that you gave him your own name. (Hilarious!) I’m excited to see what you do this year… all the new things you’ll learn, now that you’ve already mastered finger-snapping and winking at chicks and stuff. Onward, my darling. You can do anything. Yes, really.

I love you so very much.

G.G.

Like most other people in the world, this disaster in Haiti has been weighing heavily on my heart. Oh my lord, this situation is beyond desperate. Beyond!

After the 9/11 incident, I learned that I need to let these kinds of crises seep into my brain slowly. Never again will I sit down in front of the television for three or four straight days, bawling helplessly, feeling crazed by the overwhelming sense of incapability and uselessness. The horrific snapshots of that time will forever be hardwired in my brain, like a newsreel that isn’t really real… but it was. Incomprehensible, still.

So, since then, as tsunamis wiped out populations in Asia, and Katrina displaced most of New Orleans’ people, etcetera… (etcetera!) I take in the information in smaller bites, so I can digest the situation more slowly. I shut the TV off when I can take no more. I merely scan the A-Section of the newspaper, rather than reading every word. It’s all entirely too heartbreaking.

My first thought about Haiti was, Are you kidding me? That country is such a fucking wreck to begin with!! Holy shit. Now as I’m carefully taking in more and more information and images and stories, I really can’t help but feel that I’ve been right all along: There is no God.

But what I believe or do not believe is hardly the point here. These people need help. They need so much help, it seems insurmountable. It seems impossible. And a donation of ten bucks seems like such a teeny-tiny drop in an ocean-sized bucket. Ack!! WHAT IS TO BECOME OF THESE POOR PEOPLE?!

A reporter friend of mine who works for our local paper in Montreal is in Haiti, reporting daily. Every day I read what she writes, and we stay connected through Facebook. She is exhausted and heartbroken. She can’t get the putrid, rank smell of death and decay out of her clothes and her hair… that a face-mask doused in perfume, nor lime peels stuffed into one’s nostrils can help mask the sickening stench. A stomach-lurching stench all around you, every day.

People who owned modest homes just last week are sleeping in the streets with their children, trying desperately to keep them safe, to find shelter from the hot sun during the day, to find something to fill their bellies with. People are stealing what little possessions they have from each other. Medical emergencies like Caesarean-sections are being performed in outdoor make-shift clinics. There are bodies, swarming with flies stacked everywhere, bloated, stinking and unclaimed. Women are being raped in the streets. Queues for water and food are never-ending. Many haven’t sipped or eaten much (if anything!) in a whole week.

To be empathetic, to put yourself in the shoes of another helps one understand another the best one can.

Imagine what it would be like to go without food for or water for two whole days. To not have a thing to put past your lips for 48 hours or so. My own mouth goes dry at the very thought. Imagine sitting curb-side to the house that was once yours, knowing that most of the family you knew and loved just hours ago are now dead and buried, crushed inside precariously crumbling concrete and rubble, save for the little voice of your six year old boy, still calling for you… help me, mama, I’m here… while you hold another listless, injured child in your arms, begging you, oh please, for something to drink, and you haven’t seen your husband since he left for work that fateful morning… and no one has seen him since…. and your own belly, swollen with your next child, nudging you from within, is rumbling voraciously… and you have absolutely nothing but the clothes on your back… what is to become of you if you don’t actually become catatonic from insanity? Dazed. Destitute. Dying. Somebody tell me what will happen to these people? Seriously, I have no idea. I have no freaking idea how one can get out from under in a situation like this.

Snippets of stories… scores of stories like these, assaulting my sense of fairness in the world. My sense of empathy makes me feel completely nauseous. The trauma they’re bound to suffer from for years is staggering.

My head feels so full, I want to cut it off.

. . .

We’ve been busily renovating an apartment we have for rent downstairs from us, fretting about the little details… heated floor for the bathroom? Trim molding on the ceiling in this room, or that? Marble tiles, or slate? It almost seems silly compared with everything going on in the world. (Of course, this is all relative.)

This weekend, we had birthday parties and karate lessons to attend, and in my limited time to get things done, I shopped for the presents instead of shopping for the groceries. Sunday evening, after a full day of activities, I found my cupboards almost completely bare. We had potatoes and eggs and cheese. I reasoned, in the worst case, we can always order something. And we did – rotisserie chicken, fries, and all the trimmings.

I’d neglected to put away the newspaper – I’m “hiding” the front section from the eyes of my boy, who is not quite reading yet, but the images that grace the front page are harrowing to say the very least. I don’t want him to worry. I thought I’d been doing a pretty good job of shielding him from magnitude of this disaster, until:

“Mummy? How do you say Haiti in French?”

“It’s the same, really. Ha-yee-TEE.” I pronounce for him, drawing out the word, with the emphasis on the TEE part.

“Oh. Where is Haiti?”

“I’ll show you on a map.” I fetched our National Geographic atlas, and outlined the Carribean islands with my finger. I showed him where Jamaica is, explaining that I was born there, but that we moved to Toronto when I was a very tiny baby. Haiti is just across the way, with the Dominican Republic on the other side of the land mass. He nodded with interest, taking in the geography.

“Something bad happened in Haiti, I think…”

Oh, crap. Here we go. Careful now…

“Yes.” I said. “There was an earthquake. A really big one that made most of the buildings fall down, and now there are a lot of people with nowhere to live.”

“Did people die?”

“Yes.”

“A lot of people?”

“Yes.”

“Like, hundreds of people?”

“Yes.” There’s no point explaining that it’s more like thousands. Tens of thousands. We’ll never know for certain. There’s no point worrying his little head.

“Kids too?”

“Yes.”

“Babies?”

I almost choked with grief. “Yes.” I watched his face carefully, looking for anguish, but really he was just concerned. So far, so good.

“But are some people still alive?”

“Yes! Lots and lots of people are still alive, but they don’t have anywhere to live yet, and they’re hungry and thirsty because the supermarkets fell down too… but the world is sending help. They’re going to get food and water and houses again soon.” I felt like such a liar in that moment, you have no idea.

He wandered away for a while… processing, I know. Dinner was on the table. When he came back, I could see that he had more questions.

“Could we have an earthquake here in Montreal?” He looked nervous. Carefully…

“Um… yes,” This is totally possible. “But not like that, baby.” I grabbed the atlas again, and tried to explain as basically as I could about fault lines, and the equator, and about underground volcanoes… and how this kind of thing is unlikely in our city. “There have been tremors once in a while, but it’s nothing. It feels like standing on the platform of the metro… just a little rumble for a few seconds.”

“But, would everything fall down?” Worried.

“No. Our buildings are nice and strong here. They won’t just fall down.” Big, fat lie. Canada’s oldest city has a wealth of issues with it’s infrastructure. A large piece of concrete fell off a building and killed a woman last year. But still… I shook it off. “Come, eat your dinner.”

We chatted some more about it all, and I was careful with my words. I tried not to lie. I had to gloss over things though. A lot. He was thoughtful.

“Are those people going to get some dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” I lied. “And you should eat yours. Please eat it all up. Isn’t it a good thing that we have something to eat?”

“Yes. And I love this sauce…”

Oh, my boy. My family that I love so much, safe in our home with full bellies and warm, clean beds to sleep in. How random the woes of the world are…

People, please. Times are hard for everyone everywhere, I know. But to lives like many of the ones we live, ten bucks is equal to about two cups of coffee at Starbucks. You can’t even get a good sushi lunch for ten bucks. It seems like such a small drop in the bucket, the crisis is soooo massive, I know… but if it could mean the difference between life and death for even ONE person, we really must do all we can. Please do, even if it’s only ten bucks. If you can do more, dig deeper. Please do something to help these people. We are so very fortunate not to be in their shoes.

And if it’s your thing, please pray for them.

Haiti, we all weep for you… help is coming. (Right?)

G.G.

The baby doesn’t listen to anything I say. It would appear that her brother rules the roost.

I say, “No running!” and she only runs faster. If her brother tells her not to, she will (usually) stop dead in her tracks.

I say something like, “Miss? Can you please put that wrapper in the garbage?” and she just wanders away from me, like she’s deaf or something.

I repeat: “Ava Scarlett? You need to put that wrapper in the garbage where it belongs, please.” She walks away, shaking her head saying, “Ah… no t’ank you, mummy.”

I say, “Madame! Come back here!!” Nothing. Of course.

Oliver calmly looks up from his crayoning, and says, “Ava Scarlett, you see that wrapper from the chocolate you had before? Well, you have to put it in the garbage where it belongs, so mummy will give you MORE chocolate next time, and anyway, Santa is watching, and he won’t bring you any presents if you’re a naughty girl, so could you please just put it in the garbage now, and don’t antagonize mummy, because anyway, we don’t want her to be cross.” (Yes, this is exactly what he said. I am amazed.)

She blinks at him twice.

Then she walks back over to the table, picks up the crumpled piece of cellophane, and says, “O-tay, Al-lay…” and promptly deposits the debris into the trash can under the sink.

I take a deep breath and pretend not to be offended that I clearly have no authority here. Le sigh.

And then I get a great idea.

“Oliver? Do you think you could take your sister to the potty and explain how it works to her? I think she’d like your company. Maybe you can read her a book too?” He can’t exactly read yet, but he’s heard the stories a million times… pick your book.

“Okay,” he breathes, putting his crayons down. “C’mon, Ava. Let’s try to have a pee-pee on the potty, okay?”

“O-tay, Al-lay.” She follows him blindly into the bathroom.

It takes all of my restraint not to interfere. I overhear him explaining “being a big girl” to her. “And you know what else? Maybe we can make a chart, and you can get stickers, and if you do a REALLY good job, mummy will give you some marshmallows or something. You like marshmallows! But, you have to have a pee-pee first. That’s just how it goes, you know. Just sit right here…”

I saw him take a train picture book in the bathroom. I hear him asking her which diesel she likes better – the red or the yellow? They chat and giggle. I get the camera.

And this is what I saw…

She didn’t make a pee-pee, but Oliver assured her that it was okay, and that it’s important that she tried. That they will try again a little later. Can you imagine?!

Oh my lord, sometimes I just want to EAT them… freaking adorable is what they are. (Though sometimes I just want to roast them, really.)

I’m so pleased and thankful that my boy is such a good little egg… or at least seems to be. For the most part, he is very kind to his sister. And I believe he has more patience than I have to spare at any given moment in the day, so perhaps that’s why she listens to him and not me. She thinks she’s his twin. She wants to do everything he does. I’m thrilled that he’s so polite, because she is following suit… she says everything the way he says it. It’s making the job a little bit easier.

Yes, I hereby declare that Oliver is in charge. My work here is done.

Please pass the wine.

G.G.

My quadriceps actually burn today. They burn because yesterday was Oliver’s first full day of kindergarten, and we are adjusting to the new morning routine, and trying desperately, racing in a near-sprint not to be late. He needs to be at school by 7:50 AM. Yes. 7:50. SEVEN-FIFTY in the morning. Every day. Oh my god, this is going to be awful.

The school is only about four blocks from the house, and as I picture the walk in my mind, it takes far less time to get there than it actually does. Jesus… 7:50 AM? A smart woman would leave the house by 7:35 or 7:40 at the very latest. Yesterday we left at 7:45, and we were running, as usual. Summer camp has been over for three weeks, and since then, we’ve had no pressing deadlines to meet, and we’ve only really ambled about town since then, under no pressure to do anything or go anywhere in particular. I’m three full weeks out of this hurried stride, and my legs are paying for it. Man, I really need to get my act together.

Since we arrived at school yesterday with only seconds to spare before the teachers started ushering the wee ones inside, we only had time for a very quick peck on the lips, and I promised him I’d be back at 3 PM to get him. He understood this – he’d already been at the school twice last week, for short, introductory hour-long sessions to meet his teachers and get acquainted with the new digs. He’s been anxious about not knowing anyone, but there are several recognizable faces in the crowd – kids from his soccer league, and some other kids he’s met at birthday parties past… and everything is in French this year. He doesn’t speak very much French, and his understanding is very limited too, but he’s five years old, and he will learn. I’m not so very worried about it. In a short time, I know he’ll be fine.

I met him at the schoolyard fence yesterday, with a huge smile and a hug, and eagerly asked him how his day was.

“Not very good…” and his face crumpled and his eyes brimmed with tears.

“What happened, my love?”

“Well, it was a long day, and I missed you very much, and my water bottle started leaking all over my lunchbox, and then in my new knapsack, and it was all over the floor, and it was all my fault, and everything was wet, and there’s something wrong with the zipper, and I can’t close the bag now, and I think it’s broken…” He was sobbing with big tears, my poor baby.

“Don’t cry, baby. I know. It’s okay though. I think the water bottle just wasn’t closed very tightly, and so it leaked – but we can fix that. Everything will dry in the sun on the balcony… it’s fine, I promise. And let’s see… the zipper is okay. Look! Just a few threads got caught in it… we can fix that. Look! It’s fixed. It’s okay. Let’s go home now. Go say goodbye to your teachers, and see you tomorrow.”

“Bye. À demain.” Good boy.

As we walked home, he reiterated how much he missed me, and how he cried a little bit at the rest time, and how he wanted to call me, and that’s how come he needs a cell phone. (There’s a cell phone pocket on his new book bag, and he’s determined to have one. He can keep dreaming about that though.) I gave him a Kinder Egg, thinking he could use a sweet little treat after his first day. He thanked me, smiling.

Today, we didn’t have to run quite as fast, as we did manage to leave the house at 7:40 AM, leaving us a full ten minutes to arrive in time, but it was still a brisk walk. We waded through the multitude of parents hanging around, watching their kids twisting around nervously on the playground, some of them begging their parents not to leave them…

I don’t know why these parents don’t just drop them off and run. Seriously! I really think a quick separation is best. This-is-the-new-normal-so-get-used-to-it, kind of idea. I’m not trying to be mean to my kid. I don’t think it does a child good to watch his or her parents on the other side of the fence with pained, anxious, sad faces… just go. Go and cry at home if you have to, but just go. They will be fine. It is the New Normal. The better they can get used to that idea, the better it is for everyone.

Of course, this has been a little bit easier for me – it’s not our first time with this. Oliver had three years of pre-school under his belt before this, so we both know how this goes. Even the first couple of days of summer camp were a bit anxiety-filled for him. And I have been looking forward to this change, for myself, since school ended for the year in June.

Still, this is a brand-new school for him, with new friends, and a new language even. They do not speak English, which is his first language, and as a highly verbal kid, I know this will be challenging for him. I have a pretty good idea that he may even HATE it for a little while. I’m prepared for this, at least to some extent. I’m a bit nervous too, as the Anglo-mom, who must now do all her school-dealings in French. Shitballs. My French husband would be much handier if he were more available during the day, but with the hours he works, I know I’ll be left to do most of this on my own.

My French was actually quite good once upon a time, but it’s been nearly two DECADES since I was in a high school French class, and we live an English life in Montreal (shameful, I know) I’m hoping some of my Jurassic French may come back from the deep, deep recesses of my mind. And so Oliver and I will learn together, from the beginning. We’ll see how it goes.

Today when I got him to the school yard, there was still no more time for anything more than a quick peck, and a “Later, skater… see you at three o’clock!”

“Um, mummy… do you think you could get me at, maybe two o’clock, or one o’clock, maybe?”

“Ah, sweetie… everyone gets picked up at three o’clock. School ends at three. I’ll see you then, okay? I’ll be right here waiting for you.”

“But mummy, it’s such a long day, and I’m going to miss you…” My poor baby.

“I know, babe. I know. But I’ll be back at three, okay? I love you. Have a GREAT day, and I’ll see you right here. At three o’clock. Okay? Go on! Bye…” And I turned and walked away, back to his sister in the stroller, who I had to leave near the gate, for the crushing throngs of parents hanging around, waving, taking pictures, consoling the crying ones. Why are they hanging around?

If I’d stayed a moment longer, I know my kid would be crying too. That kind of crying is often contagious to other kids and parents alike… better to leave them before that emotion has a chance to breed and gain momentum. It’s better for everyone.

During the stroller ride home, Ava Scarlett is piping up. “Al-lay, ya?”

“Yes, Oliver has gone to school now. We will see Oliver later. Soon Ava Scarlett will go to school too! Ava Scarlett is a BIG girl, and will be going to BIG girl school, just like Oliver. Won’t that be fun? Are you a big girl too?”

“Ya!”

“Yes, you are…” Baby begins pre-school next week, and though I have a moment of reservation about it now and again, I think it will be better for us all. She will have loads more enjoyment at school than hanging out at the grocery store, or running errands with mummy. And I will have a moments peace for a change. I feel so happy about this, it almost feels illegal.

Squeal! A quiet house for a few hours!! A chance to tidy up the house in a way that actually pleases me, that will last for hours and not minutes, as it has for far too long now… I relish the quiet time I can have in my head again. The uninterrupted time to do… well, almost anything! Anything I want. The very idea of this kind of freedom is just so freaking delicious, I can hardly stand it.

I’m about to be sprung from baby-prison – at least, from the maximum-security standpoint. I’m near-crazed at the thought. Now I can start planning my back-to-school brunch for my mummy-foxes in the ‘hood – the third annual. This is cause for celebration in my circle of friends.

And yes, of course it pinches my heart a little bit to know my son is at school, missing me and feeling a bit sad and scared, unsure of how things work around this new school, trying to learn new names in a new language… this definitely pinches my heart. I wish everything could be easy for him, but this is not the way the world works.

I’ve been trying to explain to him that anything a person tries that is new, usually makes a person feel uneasy. It is the same for everyone, everywhere, and this doesn’t tend to change, no matter how old one gets. And that’s the truth, Ruth. Everyone is new to his school in his class, and everyone is a bit nervous about it all. This is normal. There are other kids in his class who do not speak French either, but they will learn. That’s what school is for. He will learn. They all will. This is the new normal. Everything will be okay.

And it will be. I hope think know it will. No tears for this mummy. Not today.

G.G.

“Oliver, can you please go to the back door and get the trash bin that belongs in here? I left it there when I emptied it earlier.”

“No.” I can feel his eyes on me, testing. Waiting.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“No. I don’t want to.”

“Um, sorry… that wasn’t a question actually. Go. And get. The trash bin. From the back door. Please.” I only look at him once, and go back to changing the baby. I know what’s coming next.

“No.” I knew he’d say that. It’s a new thing he’s trying with me. The only thing he’s really doing is making my blood pressure rise to stroke-like levels, and if one of us is to die today, he can be certain it will be him, the little punk, and not me.

He’ been doing this kind of thing, testing me this way for days upon days now. It’s the lazy, crazy, last days of summer, when camp ends but before school starts (and I mean full-time school, not this one-hour-meet-and-greet with mummies-hanging-around-to-hug-their-nervous-kids-crap.) He’s a good boy – usually quite cooperative, happy to help, and at the very least, fairly obedient, but he’s staging a mini-revolt lately. This is completely normal once in a while, I’m certain. It isn’t the first time he’s behaved atypically, nor will it be the last time he does this kind of thing. I know he’s adjusting the stricter bedtime routine and the quiet undercurrent of change in the house, so I’m doing my best to be patient with him. I swear to god I am. I am trying. But lordhavemercy, I will kick him through the front door of the school with my right foot on Monday morning, and skip all the way home without a single tear in my eye…

And if I’d ever sassed my parents this way as a kid, I wouldn’t be alive to write this now. That is mos def true.

“Oliver, I will say this exactly one more time…” I turn and look at him. “Look in my eyes so I know you can hear me. Are you listening?”

He nods.

I keep my voice as low and steady as humanly possible. “Oliver Chase, GO and get that trash bin from the back door RIGHT NOW or I will call Natalie and tell her that you cannot make it to the birthday party this afternoon, and you will spend the REST of the day in your ROOM until dinnertime. I am not joking at all, mister. Do you understand me now?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, mummy.”

“GO!”

And he did. And he fetched, like a good little monkey. And now he can go to the party and have cake and pizza with everyone else we know in the neighbourhood.

Le sigh. Threats are good sometimes, and there ain’t nothing idle about mine… ever. My mama didn’t raise no fools.

G.G.