Via Flickr:
Tristan often copies drawings from his books, in this case a Pokemon book. I was absolutely charmed this morning when I found Lucas had gone into his room and pulled an Elmo book off his shelf to inspire his own drawings, just like his big brother. These are the perfect moments in my life. 🙂
Category: Ah, me boys
Tristan’s race
A couple of weeks ago, Tristan came home with a permission slip for the running club at school. It said they were preparing for a 5K race in Osgoode, and the kids would be working their way up to the 5k during lunch hours over the next few weeks.
Tristan loves to run, and I am always in favour of finding new ways for the kids to burn off energy, so this sounded like a great idea to me. I have to admit, even when I signed the permission slip, I had vague ideas of backing out of the actual race by the time it came around, but the more Tristan talked about the perks (a t-shirt! a MEDAL!) the more I realized I was firmly committed and should make peace with the sacrifice of a Saturday morning to the run.
I was a little less enthused when a note came home about a week before the run saying that the school couldn’t be responsible for overseeing all the kids during the actual run, and parents were at all times responsible for the supervision of their own kids. Suddenly I was faced with the idea of actually RUNNING the 5K instead of simply spectating it. And I was not amused.
In the days leading up to the race, I resigned myself to donning my trainers and hoping that my weekly trips to the gym would be enough to keep me from embarrassing myself too thoroughly. However, in passing I spoke to one parent who was also spouse of an organizer of the run, and I was assured that he would need no supervision, that the runners were on a closed pathway (the newly minted multi-use pathway in Osgoode) and in fact out of sight for only 10 or 15 minutes. And really, does my lightning-quick 9 year old really need his lumbering mother like a ball around his ankle, slowing him down?
That’s how we found ourselves in Osgoode on Saturday morning, just Tristan and me, in the pouring rain.
Here he is at the starting line, twitching to go. He’s number 52, in the blue jacket.
Did I mention the rain? Not just a sprinkle, either. Driving, cold rain.
They were out of my sight down the path within minutes, but it seemed to take hours for them to run the kilometer or so to one end of the course and turn around. They’d run past the start, run another kilometer or so in the opposite direction, and then back to finish at the same spot they’d started. I peered up the path for what seemed like hours watching for him after the first turn.
He really doesn’t seem to think the whole run thing was such a brilliant plan anymore, does he? Once he saw me, though, he kicked his little engine back into gear.
I’m sure a week passed, maybe two, before the runners made the final turn of the circuit and headed back to the finish. I was wet and I’d been hiding under an umbrella. As the first runners crossed the finish line, I peered up the path watching for Tristan and staked a strategic spot for myself at the finish line. When he finally approached, I was so excited for him I almost forgot to take a picture. This is about four feet from the finish line.
I honestly thought my heart would burst from pride. It’s one thing to run on a warm sunny spring day, but this was the most sucky day imaginable, and his determination never wavered.
He crossed the finish line in 30:52. Was it really only half an hour? Because it seemed about five times that long. He was wet and dirty, red-cheeked and sweaty, but rather than beaming in pride, he was rather stoic about his accomplishment. Between you and me, I think it was way harder and way less fun than he’d imagined.
He’s the introvert to my extravert, but he’s got his mother’s need for external validation, and when I realized that there were no medals to be had, I thought we were in real trouble. No medals? The only reason he ran was so he could get a medal. Lucky for me, he’s also got his mother’s short attention span, and a medal was easily substituted by the promise of a stuffed yellow Pikachu he’d been coveting. He certainly earned it.
118:365 Laces
(I’d originally posted this on Flickr, but by the time I was finished writing it, it sounded suspiciously like a blog post!)
Via Flickr:
My oldest is not good with change but even I was surprised by the depth of his aversion to even the most rudimentary changes. He wore through his school shoes (I’m happy we made it from September to April, I think that’s a new record) and when we went shopping we found a pair identical to the old ones, which he immediately picked up. I showed him a few other styles and suggested he might like to try one on, but no, the exact same shoe one size bigger was what he wanted.
The next day, as I was packing the new shoes in his bag, I told him to just throw the old shoes in the garbage at school — and he looked at me as if I’d suggested he set fire to them on the principal’s desk. "But they’re still good, they just have a few holes in them!" he said with obvious dismay. And that night, there they were in the bottom of his backpack.
I pulled them out to throw them in the garbage, and hesitated over the can. I dropped them on the floor, added the baseball, and now they’re memorialized. Good old shoes, thanks for putting up with a lot of boy stuff these last seven months. Then I buried them in the garbage a bit, so he doesn’t see them. And so I don’t have to look at them. Because I was tempted to just throw them in the closet, yanno, in case he needs a backup for his backup pair.
You can see why we won’t let him get a hamster.
A love letter to Tristan, Age 9
My dear, sweet Tristan,
Today you are nine years old – the last year of single digits! You, my eldest son, have had quite the year. I feel like I’ve gotten to know you much better as a person this year. I have seen bits of you that foreshadow the teenager you will soon be, and the man not far behind that. You already stand as tall as my chin, and you still laugh when every now and then I push down on the top of your head in an always-unsuccessful attempt to cram you back into the toddler that you were just yesterday.
You are still my adventuring son, the one with endless energy who will leave no snow-mound unscaled, no tree unclimbed, no ledge unwalked. You love to go places, to see new things, to explore new places. And yet you are also the most resistant to change — possibly even moreso than me, and I didn’t think that was possible. Our recent move was hardest on you of all the boys, but I think that six months later, you’re finally okay with it. Thank goodness for that treehouse, that’s all I can say!
Tristan, in your ninth year you like Sonic the Hedgehog, Super Mario Bros, Pokemon, Beyblades, Smurfs, and playing Wii and DS games. You still love Lego, and you will spend endless amounts of time at the table with nothing but paper and pencil to entertain you. You’ve drawn your own comic books, and on an average day you create at least three or more works of art. You are a scavenger for art projects, and make fascinating compositions out of kleenex boxes, paper rolls and whatever other trush ephemera you can lay your hands on. You’re also reading way above your grade level, consuming book series like Geronimo Stilton and Percy Jackson.
You are doing well in school, solidly in the B to B+ range. You joined the school choir this year, which you seem to enjoy. Math seems to come easily to you, but getting you to do journal entries is like herding angry cats. How can the son of a hard core blogger hate writing journal entries so much?!
This year you had a fun party for friends old and new at the movie theatre, and it was another smashing success. Your cake was decorated with Sonic the Hedgehog action figures, and we all laughed our way through Gnomeo and Juliet. Tonight, Granny is fulfilling your special birthday dinner request: roast beef, mashed potatoes … and stuffing! (You sure have come a long way from the finicky eater you once were!)
You are an amazing older brother. Lately, you’ve taken to teaching Simon the math and cursive handwriting that you’re learning in school, and you have endless patience for Lucas. When Lucas and I took a quick trip to Toronto this past weekend, my heart nearly burst with pride when you drew a special colouring page full of Lucas’s favourite characters to keep him busy on the plane.
You have a big and sensitive heart, Tristan. You’re thoughtful and creative and very aware of the feelings of people around you. You’re not particularly good at putting your clothes in the hamper or keeping your room tidy, and the way you bicker with Simon may yet make my head explode. But you make me proud every single day, and I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to feel like we’re friends as well as mom and son.
Happy birthday, my darling Tristan. I hope this year is your best year ever. We love you very much!
Liveblogging the move to a big-boy bed
So I had this idea that I would live-blog Lucas’s move to a big-boy bed. I mean, this is the last time I get to do this, right? After nine years of faithful and nearly constant service (save for a quick break from 2006 through 2008) this crib has logged near-constant use.
I even sat Lucas down in his room on the weekend so I could take a few pictures of him to memorialize the occasion.
He’s been ready for the big-boy bed for a lot longer than I’ve been ready. Beloved even proposed that we leave the crib behind when we moved in October. There was no way, though, that I was freeing Lucas from baby-jail any sooner than I absolutely had to!
It was Tristan who traumatized me for life on the idea of transitioning to big-boy beds. He was 20 months old when we turfed him from the crib to make room for Simon and I was 100 months pregnant, and he absolutely refused to stay in his bed. We put up a baby gate to keep him upstairs, and we’d find him at the top of the stairs at the end of the evening in a little camp he’d created for himself with his blanket, pillow and soother. And I won’t even get into the midnight rambles and the shock of waking up to a toddler staring at me at all hours of the night. *shudder*
And so, here we are. I’ve read Lucas his three nightly books, secured his soother, and carefully tucked him into his big-boy bed. I’m waiting for the shenanigans to begin.
And waiting.
And waiting.
…
*nothing*
So I creep back down the hallway 30 minutes later, and he’s fast asleep, curled into a perfect little ball and looking more like a newborn in that giant bed than the oversized preschooler he is.
The next sound I hear from him is nine hours later, just a few minutes after I open my own eyes and before I’ve broken the seal on my flanneliciously warm bed. “Mo-ommy!” comes his sing-song voice from the next room. “Come and get me!” Just like he has called me after every nap and sleep for months.
Not much in the way of riveting blog fodder, I’ll grant you that — but it sure was a sweet way to wake up!
Goodbye, lovely crib. I still remember agonizing over spending what seemed like an exorbitant amount of money on it (I think it was $300 or so) but had I had even an inkling of the years of faithful service and happy memories it would bring, I would have happily paid triple that. (And now, due to changing Health Canada regulations on drop-sided cribs, it’s consigned to the scrap heap. Sigh.)
A love letter to Lucas, Age 3
My sweet and silly Lucas, happy birthday to you!
No longer the toddler tyrant my son, now you are a precocious and precious preschooler. Three years old! I can hardly believe it!
You, my littlest one, are relentlessly curious and in that aggravating endearing phase of questioning everything. Everything. EV-ERY-THING. Who knew “why” could be a dirty word? And one question begets another begets another begets another. I would never have guessed that anyone could ever hope to challenge Simon as the most talkative member of our family! And you have learned, as Tristan observed just last weekend, that repetition is the key to attention. You have been known to ask the same question three, four, five times in a row, in the exact same tone and inflection, patiently waiting for someone to finally hear you and respond. Call it the curse of the third brother!
You are finally a good sleeper, something I’m not sure I could say in your first or second birthday letters. And you are still, if not for much longer, sleeping in your crib! I’m sure your transition to a big-boy bed is mere weeks away, but congratulations to you for being the one who lasted longest of my three boys before achieving this milestone. I must admit, I will miss very much the sound of you calling out to me in your most sing-song voice when you wake up, “Mommy! Come and get me!” And I hope you never outgrow the ritual nighttime exchange with your Daddy, where on his way out the door he says, “Night-night Little One,” and you reply, “Night-night Big One.”
Some of your favourite things are jigsaw puzzles, action figure toys like the Smurf village and Imaginext playsets, colouring and crafts, and anything your older brothers show the slightest interest in. Your favourite TV shows are, inexplicably, Max and Ruby, Caillou and In the Night Garden. And all three of you boys are deep in the midst of a Smurf obsession.
You are gradually overcoming your earlier shyness, and you show signs of a romantic and jealous heart. You have a sweet and obvious crush on the 13 year old daughter of your daycare provider, but I think it’s safe to say the feeling is mutual. (It’s okay, though, your father has a thing for older women as well.)
You were once a hearty eater, but toddlerhood has made you fickle. Your favourite foods are yougurt, toast, egg whites and most fruits and vegetables. You’re less fond of certain family favourites like pizza and guacamole, but there’s time to rectify that yet. One of your favourite dinnertime rituals is the daily questioning of each member of the family: “How was you day, Mommy?” “How was you day, Simon?” “How was you day, Tristan?” “How was you day, Daddy?” And of course, the conversation may not progress until someone has asked you the same in return.
You are smart beyond your years (observes your mother in a completely unbiased fashion). You have a wicked memory and can “read” board books to me verbatim after having heard them only a few times. You have also learned how to both entice your brothers to do your bidding and enrage them with just a few words or actions. I suppose that’s the nature of brothers!
You love music and you love to sing. Your favourite songs are Lukey’s Boat, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, You are my Sunshine, and K’naan’s Waving Flag. It’s beyond cute to hear you singing to yourself, as you play contentedly with your jigsaw puzzles or lie waiting for me to retrieve you from your crib, “When I get older, I will be stronger, they’ll call me freedom, just like a waving flag (And then it goes back, and then it goes back, and then it goes back, woa-oah-oh…).”
Because you are the littlest, we tend to forget that you are, in fact, quite large for your age. While walking down the street one fine day last autumn, a stranger looked at you chasing your brothers and laughed. “He’s a big boy, that one,” said the stranger. “Better get him enrolled in football!” It’s only when we see you playing with other kids your age do we notice that you’re more the size of a four-year-old than a toddler — and you speak more clearly than some four-year-olds we know, too!
You are the child of a thousand nicknames: Lukey, Luke, Lukey-Lou, Pookie, Pook, and yes, even Poo. I’m sorry about that last one. It was your brothers’ idea. Speaking of brothers, you’ve finally learned the difference between the two of them, but it charms me every time you refer to them as “the brudders”, as in “Mommy! The brudders won’t let me play with them!” Or “No, I didn’t do it, the brudders did it.”
I could go on, my darling boy. You are funny, sweet, and altogether delightful. You love to joke and to indulge your old mum’s sense of humour. Our quiet Wednesdays together are one of the best days in my week. Could you please stay three forever?
Happy birthday, my handsome Lucas. I love you!
Protected: A love letter to Simon, Age 7
Tristan helps out
So I haven’t quit the sequel edition of the 365 yet, although I’ve thought about it. Really, who the hell let me commit to this while I was still in vacation mode? It’s EASY to get a shot a day when you don’t have pesky WORK taking up eight hours of each day. Yeesh.
The good news is, Tristan’s got my back. The other day, he dug out his Little Tykes digital camera, a gift from several Christmases ago that has been languishing in a drawer with dead batteries for, um, a long time.
“Can we put new batteries in this?” he asked me. “I want to help you with your 372.”
And good parent that I am, I was able to turn that into a teachable moment. I explained to him that I call it a 365 project because there are 365 days in a year. But did you know, I continued, that there are actually more than 365 days in a year, but just a little more, which is why we have a leap year every four years. Except of course, years which are divisible by 100, which skip the rule. In fact, even those small accounting measures will mean that over the course of 8,000 years, we’ll still lose an entire day, but the vernal equinox will shift by an as-yet unknown amount, so we don’t have to worry about the potential Y2K-like chaos that will ensue from that eventuality just yet.
(Yeah, his eyes glazed over right about then, too. I really have to learn when to turn it off, don’t I?)
Anyway, I was delighted to have stirred up enough enthusiasm for photography in my almost nine-year-old that he wanted to play along on my photo-a-day project. Once I loaded him up with some fresh batteries, he went about the house capturing images of his brothers, his Super Mario stuffies, and a retreating dog.
He was composing a picture of the about-to-be-served dinner on the table when he said, “I call this one ‘delicious dinner.'”
I heard a noise somewhere between a guffaw and a groan from behind me, and Beloved said, “Oh my god, now he’s naming his compositions? I blame you.”
I’m okay with that. 🙂
A bedtime conversation
It’s beyond bedtime, and I’ve gone downstairs to say goodnight to the big boys, who are temporarily sharing a room again while we reconstruct the bedroom recently divested of its mould problem.
The boys are giggling.
Simon: “Mom, Tristan is telling me how far away things are!”
Me: “Is that right? Well, just be careful what you believe. Your brother is occasionally full of bananas.”
Simon, with admiration in his voice: “He says Mars is 99 kilometers away from the Earth.”
I decide against launching into an explanation of the vagaries of measuring the distance between two celestial bodies orbiting around a common point, and instead simply say, “Um, not quite. It’s more like 100 million kilometers.”
Both boys, in unison: “Whoa!”
*small pause*
Tristan, still sounding impressed: “I did not know that.”
I laughed all the way upstairs. I hope the day never comes that I’m not smart enough to impress my boys.
Bits
So I’m changing the baby’s toddler’s littlest terror’s diaper the other day, and of course as soon as the diaper is open he’s got his hand down there groping his bits. (What? You want a blog post on a Friday, this is what you get.)
He tells me as I finish wiping him down and wrapping things back up, “It’s MY ding-a-ling!” with a mischievous grin. I think of the various tactics I could take, including but not limited to launching a discussion on personal privacy, hygiene, social norms, or simply the fact that I made him and therefore by default everything that he is belongs to me, and instead decide to go for the linguistic angle. Because I do believe in kids calling things by their right names, even though I admit to nearly endless personal amusement at the various names for the male anatomy.
“Yes,” I reply in my most didactic tone. “That’s your penis.”
“No!” he laughs, practically braying in delight. “It’s my willy willy whacker!”
Oy. He is such a third child.
And the very next day on Twitter, I eavesdropped on a bit of a conversation that revolved around what a young girl might call her private parts. The term in question was “front bum,” one I admit to finding a little less than enlightened.
Is it really possible we’ve never mined the rich topic of the naming of private parts around here? Do tell me, bloggy peeps: how literal are you with your kids? Do they get the Gray’s (as opposed to Grey’s) Anatomy version, or are you more euphemistic in your descriptions?