On Coins in the DVD Player

When I had but my first babe-in-arms, I went to the apartment of my girlfriend, who then had a toddler.  I watched in amazement as he toodled up to their DVD player and started putting dimes in it.  I nodded quickly in his direction expecting intervention, but she just smiled and said she didn’t really care.  Later she told me that she didn’t now what was the right balance between giving children freedom to explore and establishing boundaries, but she was pretty sure she didn’t have it .  But she erred on the former, because it was really important to her that her kids be in possession of themselves.

Now the earth has travelled around the sun a few times, and I watch myself as I allow my boys to do as much as I dare in the house.  They are allowed to climb on counters and stools, jump on the couch, cook with me, and generally run roughshod over our space.  My husband, a squash player, used to swing racquets in the kitchen with our first son, and said racquets would smash into the cupboards we had just installed in our ktichen reno.  The kids can get as dirty as they can outside, and often do, which means that a good bit of it inevitably comes inside.  They can re-arrange my pantry when playing store, do messy painting and crafting indoors, and scratch the wood floors with toys and sticks.

There are no adults-only parts of our house.  Just as some people pride themselves on having such spaces, I pride myself on not having them.  Part of this is just practical, as we live in a small house and cordoning off any part of it would just shrink it further.  But mostly I really want to foster a sense of family inclusiveness, to instill in my children an unquestioned knowledge that they are an absolutely integral part of this home, to last long after they leave its four walls.  To help create that sense of belonging, I have few boundaries around what they can and can’t do around here.

Like my girlfriend, I’m pretty sure I don’t have this boundary perfectly mapped out, but I’m happy to fall on the side that I do.  I was reminded of this a few months ago as my three-year old wandered over to put a record on our turntable.  Sometimes he can do it, and sometimes he can’t.  My mother was over and kind of raised her eyebrows.  But I told her that repairing the needle would cost only $35 (ask me how I know) and pointed out that lots of people would spend that much money picking up clothes or toys that their kids don’t really need, and most of us would not think twice about that expenditure.  In other words, extravagance when it comes to children is not just in the eye of the beholder, but also sways according to social norms.

Little did I know that when I gawked in amazement at my friend’s coin-laden DVD player years ago, I was in fact absorbing a parenting lesson.  Our turntable is, alas, broken – we haven’t made the time to take it to the repair shop.  But we will, and when we do, I’ll remind my three year old how to use it.  And when our favourite songs come on, we’ll sing to them together.

How I Know That I Am Getting Older

A few weeks ago we went out for a fancy schmancy dinner to celebrate a friend’s birthday.  It became clear to me that regardless of how young we feel that we have all stopped checking the 25-29 box.

Tequila shooters, Broken Down Golf Carts and Cement Mixers gave way to a full-bodied chianti and the conversation centered on work, kids, and biological clocks instead of hook-ups, student loans and wedding plans.

Everyone silently cheered that dinner was over before 11 pm so that we could all be home and in bed before the stroke of midnight.  We know there is no magic in being out past the stroke of midnight just brutally long mornings with whiney kids and/or clients.

While walking out of the restaurant we had to pass through the lobby bar.  It was brimming with so many scantily clad 20- somethings that when I looked down at what I was wearing, I felt like I was channeling my inner-Amish.

It wasn’t just the sartorial differences or the gaping abyss between sobriety and inebriation that reminded me that I am older more mature, it was the commentary from my friends:

“Wow, you can smell the desperation in here”.

 

“I think that girl forgot to put on her pants.  Oh look, apparently no one wears pants anymore.”

“What’s with the weird facial hair?  That guy needs to trim his side burns.”

Just a few days later, as I was listening to 90’s on 9, XM radio, each song a nostalgic trip down memory lane, it hit me.

I have officially become my parents: I listen to music that is 20 years old, and question the fashion choices of “youth”.

When did it strike you that you are not necessarily as “young as you feel”?

 

photo credit: bookrenter.com

 

Too Big for His Boots

I recently complimented my eldest on how handsome he looked in his new shirt.

“Mom, I’m so handsome, I could make anything look good.  I could even make what you are wearing look good.”

Caecillius est in horto. Mater non est compos mentis.

What does it say about your child when he, having grown weary of the old-school teaching style of his Mandarin teacher (Mandarin being a required subject at his school as part of the TDSB’s integrated International Languages program), decides to try to convince his parents to write to the school excusing him from further Mandarin lessons, such a concession by the school to be made possible on promise that his mother will home-school him in her free time in another language of his request? And he continues this campaign for a couple of days straight?

And what if his language of choice is Latin?

Despite his pleas, and much to his chagrin, eldest child has not been excused from ongoing attendance in Mandarin class. He is now, however, the possessor of the first four chapters of  Latin for Children, which he shall start working through over the March Break.

All of this is to say: be careful what you wish for, especially when – surprise! – your mother studied Latin in high school.  You never know when a request like this might bite you in the nates.

Tales of a Reluctant Hockey Mom

“Hockey mom.”  There are two words I never thought I’d use to describe myself.  I’m not at all a fan of the professional sport, though I do get very caught up in my kids’ games when I’m there to watch.  Truth be told, I don’t feel fully entitled to the moniker, since I am the parental unit who is usually on the home front while my husband is at the rink.  Dragging a three-year-old boy along to hockey games is no one’s idea of fun, and I’m not so keen that I want to arrange babysitting to allow my two hockey players to have both parents rinkside.  So I’m a proud mother of two hockey players who is very often in the background. 

Our house was minus two for the February Family Day long weekend: G and Ted were in Montreal for G’s hockey tournament.  There are so many things I once would have resented about the time that hockey takes out of our schedules, the dent it makes in our time as a family of five all in one place at one time. 

But, while our little family of five was not together all weekend, G had as spectators for one game his grandfather, who drove five hours to see him, his great aunt, two of my cousins and their families.  My father is one of twelve children.  We have a sprawling family, and that was four separate branches of the family tree out to watch one kid play hockey and gather for a meal and a chin-wag.  I was profoundly humbled that they took time out of their weekends to gather at the rink.  Call it “Aren’t We Blessed to Have Such a Wonderful Extended Family?” Day.  That G’s team won gold was also news to warm his distant mother’s heart.

As it happened, we five were together for Family Day Monday, but it was a very quiet sort of a day.  I wanted textbook Quality Family Time, but I was too tired for orchestrating a perfect memory, and so we drifted into our day, hanging out in pajamas all morning, reading, playing tag at the park, making bread, cooking wholesome soup and unwholesome nachos, playing Lego, and catching up somewhat reluctantly on homework.  G worked out how long it would take him to get all of his homework done and then wilted.  The crash after the high of a fun-filled weekend.  But then he found the solution to a difficult math problem in a fraction of the time he thought it would take and rejoiced, saying, “That felt as good as winning gold!”

And that’s where all of these pieces fall into place for me.  G has had to work really, really hard on this select team.  Goals, which come fast and furious for him on his school and house league teams, elude him in this group of stronger players.  A few days ago, G said to his dad, “I love being on the Select team. Winning is so much more fun when it’s hard.”  He is not the star of the team, but he is a fully committed member who works his heart out.

The rewards of being a somewhat reluctant hockey mom are plentiful: seeing him recognize the value of hard-won victory, seeing that spring in his step as he drags his hockey bag along to the next game, seeing him feel part of something bigger than himself.  That, surely, is something to celebrate on Family Day.

How Old do I Look?

A conversation yesterday morning on the subway:

Sebastian: Mommy, where did you eat lunch when you were a kid? Did you eat at daycare?

Me: No honey. I went home for lunch.

Sebastian: Oh lucky! Did your mom pick you up?

Me: No, I walked by myself, or with friends. Even in kindergarten, some kids walked home by themselves.

Daniel and Sebastian: (shocked looks)

Daniel:  We’re not even allowed to leave school without a parent until we’re in grade five!

Me: Yes, a lot has changed since I was little. I remember that we used to walk home without their parents all the time when I was a kid.

Sebastian: Did you have to cross any big streets? With streetlights?

Me: No. I was lucky. I only had to walk about four blocks. But I did have to look both ways before crossing, of course.

Eavesdropping Older Lady: Just in case of horses and buggies…

The Age of Self-Awareness

The Rouge Test is a self-recognition test that identifies a child’s ability to recognize a reflection in a mirror as his or her own.  Beginning at about 18 months, a child who sees rouge on the nose in his or her reflection in a mirror will wipe his or her own nose to remove the smudge, thinking, as infants do, that “That is me in the mirror, I’d better do something about that unsightly blotch of red.”

We have discovered a new self-recognition stage in our house:  The Quotability Factor Recognition Stage.  Beginning at the age of 10, a boy might say something funny, then immediately ask, as children do, “Are you going to put that in the next Christmas letter?”

The Computer Melted

Now, there’s a title you don’t get to write everyday.  And yes, it really did.

This story boasts two protagonists.  My three year old and a space heater.

The space heater was brought up from the depths of our basement because the weather turned properly frigid last week.  I took it upstairs to the drafty third bedroom where my newborn and I sleep.

Then, in the middle of the night, I awoke to a popping sound, and the heater switched off.  I don’t know what happened exactly, because the socket still works for lights and the heater still works in other sockets.  But it’s an old house and maybe the heater took up more energy than the bedroom socket could manage.  Whatever.

I brought the space heater downstairs so it could warm our (surprise!) drafty sunroom and computer nook.  At the end of the night, I unplugged the heater, and angled it toward our computer tower, which rests on the floor.  I did this on purpose so the kids wouldn’t trip on the cord and to get the heater out of the way.

The next morning, my three year old woke up first as usual and discovered the heater.  He apparently plugged it in “to warm up the house”, sweet thing, but he didn’t angle it away from the computer tower.

And so it melted.  Which meant the button on the front could no longer be depressed, and the computer could not be turned on.

I called our trusty (and well-used) computer guy and he suggested trying to pry off the front cover to see if the power button beneath it could still be turned on.  I got out the proper screwdriver bit and wrenched that baby off (feeling so very handy), and lo! the computer can still be turned on because only the plastic exterior melted.  Yay!

The only trouble is that now the computer looks like this. (Notice how I staged the the space heater on the left for dramatic effect?)

Oh well.  Possibly in some other life I might care.

On an off day, a glass of spilled milk can frustrate me, but for some reason I looked at the melted computer and was all Doris Day about it,  que sera, sera-ing to an easy resolution.  I know some may find my approach to an accident involving a heater and a computer overly blase (perhaps emailing me links for socket covers protectors?), but me, I’m loving my under-reaction and want to employ it for all future household shenanigans.

Besides, a part of me thinks my son was trying to warm up the house for me, because I’m always cold in it in the winter (close the door!  close the fridge! quick, make me a tea!).  It’s almost enough to make me look at the computer wreck with a certain fondness.

You Know You’re Raising a Child in the City When . . .

A few weeks ago I picked up my oldest son from his art class.  I usually walk the half block from our house and we take our time discussing what he learned that day.  He shows me what he’s added to his latest canvas and shares with me some art-facts that are always new to me (did you know that Warhol had 25 cats all named Sam?).  I like the leisurely way our pick-up unfolds.

At his last class before the Christmas break, I had the opportunity to speed around and complete last minute shopping during his art time while my mother-in-law watched my younger two boys.  Just as the hour hand struck two o’clock, I pulled in front of the studio.  I couldn’t believe my luck:  a parking space facing the storefront.

If you don’t live in a city, let me explain.  Scoring a parking spot, right where you need to be, when you’re running late is like the perfect trifecta and only comes around as often as Haley’s Comet.

If you live in a city, I know that you virtually high-fiving me.  Thank you.

I rush past the ticket machine (because like any city dweller you never pay for parking when you’re doing an “in and out”) and greet my son with what could be described as madness.

“You can tell me all about it in the car.  We have to go quick!  I’ve got a parking spot!” 

He hastily gathered his things and we said another round of “happy holidays” to his teachers while bolting out of there.

That’s when I saw him.  His ten-speed bike was propped on its kickstand just a few feet from where he stood.   He leaned back from the front end of the car reading the numbers and letters of my license plate.  And across the back of his electric blue windbreaker in silver reflector lettering it read Toronto Parking Authority.

It’s true what they say:  He who has giveth can taketh away (or something to that effect).  The Parking Gods had turned their back on me.

But as it turned out, I was not so helpless.  I had the power of a five-year-old boy.  The five-year-old boy who cried out:

“Nooooooo!  Please don’t give us a ticket.  My mommy was just picking me up.  Please!  Please!  It’s Christmas!!!!”

And with a nod of his helmeted head and the spirit of Christmas in his heart, the officer in blue straddled his bike and was off.

Just like his first hair cut and his first day of school, I will always remember the first parking ticket he squirmed his way out of.

 

image source: safetysign.com

Jonespeak 2011

A few years ago, I received a Christmas card from Nathalie and inserted between the fold was a list of Quotable Quotations (click here to read her most recent post on the subject) overheard in her home. Innocent, funny and yes, downright adorable, quips her boys had made over the past year.

I loved the idea of recording the some of the boys’ conversations and made-up words (or mis-words) that have caused me to cover my smile with the back of my hand or turn away, hoping that the shaking of my shoulders won’t give me away.

I jot down these funny sentiments each year, using the Notes app on my iPhone but I blogged about this journal earlier this year and think that I should probably invest in it.

Here are some of the memorable Jonespeak quotations overheard this year. (For 2010′s click here)

My middle son had tubes put in his ears at the start of 2011 to stave off infections. It was a big relief for him – and provided me with lots of notes for my Jonespeak file.

When asked why he was getting tubes put in his ears, my middle son replied:

I am getting my ears fixed because I don’t listen to mommy.

On his way into surgery for his ear tubes, a very cranky and very tired, 2 year old says to the ENT:

I don’t like wearing your pajamas (referring to the scrubs). Go put them in the laundry!

At his follow-up appointment, my middle son showcased his new hearing (and aptitude for comedy).

Audiologist to S: Repeat after me.

S: Okay.

A: Toothbrush.

S: Toothbrush.

A: Apple.

S: Apple.

A: Cupcake.

S: Yes, please!

Last year, my oldest son taught me perhaps we should improve our church attendance.

J: We had a supply teacher today.

BA: Was the teacher a man or a woman?

J: A woman and she goes to church.

BA: How do you know she goes to church?

J: She’s old.

After watching Toy Story 3 and Andy leaves for college my oldest says to his crying mommy:

J: Why are you crying?

BA: Because one day you will get big and I will be old and you will move out.

J (starting to cry): I don’t want to move out. I don’t want you to get old and start going to church!

2011 proved to be an exciting year for our family. My brother got married the weekend before Halloween and I learned that what’s exciting to adults just doesn’t hold the same appeal for kids.

BA: Are you excited for your uncle’s wedding?

S: No. But I am excited for Halloween!

J: I am going to wear my dress shirt, my dress tie and my dress pants to Uncle M’s wedding because that’s nice. What are you going to wear?

S: My dog suit, because that’s nice! (see picture)

Apparently, my boys notice the lack of females around this house too.

J is making a construction paper bracelet for mommy.

BA: Where did you learn how to do this?

J: I learned from Beatrice. She knows everything about sparkles and girl stuff.

BA: Do you like learning “the girl stuff”?

J: No, I like learning boy stuff. I learn girl stuff so someone can look after you.

S to BA: I know what you need for Christmas.

BA: What do I need?

S: You need a baby girl because you have too many boys!

In 2011, I learned that I need to brush up on my birds and bees talk.

J: How do babies get in your tummy?

BA: Well, we all start off as eggs.

J: I was an egg?

BA: Yes.

J: You were an egg?

BA: Yes.

J: S was an egg?

BA: Yes.

S: Ugh. I don’t even like eggs!

And of course, there was just some adorable exchanges that enforce that kids really do say the darn’dest things.

BA: Good night. I love you. Sweet dreams.

S: Good night. I love you. Sweat jeans.

J: Hey, I like your elephant hat. It’s pretty cool.

S: Yeah. I know, I am lucky. Do you want one?

J: Yes.

S: Too bad.

My middle ones sees some crumbs on the counter after I made banana bread.

S: Mommy, this place is a mess! Looks like you have a big job to do!

BA: Please take your books upstairs with you.

S: I can only do one thing at a time. I am a boy!

J: Don’t litter. You’ll make the polar bears stink!