Payoff!

Today, for the first time, one of the boys helped me with the yardwork and was actually helpful instead of a hinderance! Woot!

We have this huge tree in our front yard; I have no idea what it is, but the builders put one in every yard eleven years ago when they were building on this street. It has these little tiny leaves, maybe the size of Simon’s thumb, that just laugh at my rake as I try to corral them. As I used a combination of the rake and the broom to make piles, Tristan wandered behind me and scooped up the piles using his kid-sized Caillou snow shovel like a dust pan, and put the leaves in the bag. How about that? Only four years old, and I’m getting actual yard work out of him.

Speaking of four years old… he’s melting my heart as I type. Two years ago at Christmas, just before Simon was born, Beloved make a slide show on DVD of all our favourite photos of Tristan and set it to Kenny Loggin’s “Danny’s Song.” Remember that one? It’s always been Tristan’s song for me. The lyrics include these verses:

People smile and tell me I’m the lucky one, and we’ve just begun,
Think I’m gonna have a son.
He will be like she and me, as free as a dove, conceived in love,
Sun is gonna shine above.

Pisces, Virgo rising is a very good sign, strong and kind,
And the little boy is mine.
Now I see a family where there once was none, now we’ve just begun,
Yeah, we’re gonna fly to the sun.

(Chorus:) And even though we ain’t got money,
I’m so in love with ya honey,
And everything will bring a chain of love.
And in the morning when I rise, you bring a tear of joy to my eyes,
And tell me everything is gonna be alright.

Tristan is in fact a pisces (I don’t know how to figure out his rising sign) and from the time I was pregnant with him until now, I can’t hear this song without tears coming to my eyes.

The boys have recently rediscovered the DVD with this song looped on it, and watch it over and over again. Tristan is now singing along with the song, his song, and it’s a perfect moment. Not a baby anymore, my boy. Strong and kind, indeed.

Mixed messages

I’m having a good couple of days. Pardon my enthusiasm, but I had to update you on Tristan’s school foibles.

You’ll remember a couple of weeks ago, we got called in for a parent-teacher confab after a mere eight days of school, causing me to believe we should perhaps stop saving for Tristan’s education and instead start saving for bail money.

Yesterday, we got the first ‘goal worksheet’ back in Tristan’s communication folder (because he alternates between a French and an English teacher, he hasn’t been back with the other teacher since the week of our conference.) Five goals, five happy faces for five goals achieved. Go Tristan!

And from the department of mixed messages, we also got a lovely little certificate signed by the principal saying Tristan was “Star of the Week” for October 2 through 5. I understand from our daycare provider, who has older children at the school, that this is an honour bestowed upon a student by having the certificate hang in the hallway outside the principal’s office for a week, then sent home to the child’s beaming parents. I have no idea of the significance of this honour, whether he was nominated by a panel of his peers, or whether he will be able to add it to his curiculum vitae some day, but Tristan was plenty proud and so am I.

And speaking of honours, one of you lovely peeps have nominated me (or rather, nominated blog) for a Canadian Blog Award again this year. I am in great company, with nominating nods – so far – to many of my favourites, including Beanie Baby, MUBAR, Martinis for Milk, Breadcrumbs in the Butter, Bub and Pie, and a peek inside the fishbowl. I’m honoured and touched by your nominations – thanks!

Eight days

Eight days. That’s how long it took for us to be called in for a meeting with Tristan’s teachers. Eight days of school.

When she first stopped Beloved late last week and said she would appreciate it if he could take some time to come to a meeting, I was curious but not overly concerned. (Of course, I also dropped a few things so I could clear my schedule and attend the meeting as well. My control tendencies run deep.)

We showed up on Friday afternoon with both Tristan and Simon in tow. Tristan took Simon on the cook’s tour of the junior kindergarten classroom while Beloved and I folded ourselves into half-sized chairs around a knee-high table and tried to look nonchalant. When the teacher laid out photocopies of a worksheet in front of us, I began to suspect this is a meeting she has with all parents. The worksheet had a section for Tristan’s strengths, areas of concern, goals for teacher and goals for parent. A few minutes into the conversation, though, it became clear that There Is A Problem.

Frankly, I’m not incredibly surprised at the nature of The Problem. Tristan is a little, um, wilful. Sometimes. The first “incident” she had listed on a separate sheet (no copies of that one for us) was that on Tuesday, she had bestowed Tristan the honour of being the helper of the day, and he threw a pout on Wednesday when he realized it was someone else’s turn. Um, pouting. Yep, we’ve seen that one at home.

The next “incident” had to do with Tristan not staying in line. Tristan only likes to be at the front of the line. We’d heard about this problem already, and were talking to him about how important it is to stay in line, and the importance of listening to the teacher.

The third “incident” was about circle time. She told us, “He’s very smart, but he has a tendency to shout out the answers instead of raising his hand.” Well, okay, I used to be like that, too. But really – we’re talking DAY EIGHT here. Give him a couple of weeks. And he tends to wiggle and wriggle in his spot and ‘put his hands on the other kids’ in circle time. Well, okay, I’ve seen this at home too, and while I realize he needs to learn to stop, did I mention EIGHT DAYS?

The final incident is the only one that really worried me. He has a little friend, whom I will call Dude to head off any possible future slander action on the part of his parents. (Hey, I read Suburban Bliss.) Tristan talks about Dude constantly; you’d think there were no other kids in his class. Well, apparently earlier in the week, Dude’s mother sent a note to school saying that Tristan had been calling Dude names like “poopy head” and that Dude felt intimidated by Tristan.

My first reaction was gut-wrenching shame. My child intimidating someone else? After I spent my entire grade-school career being the target of choice through three elementary schools? And then I really thought about it. First of all, Tristan is a gentle soul. He’s big, no doubt – the size of a big six year old. And I’ve no doubt that he called Dude a poopy head, because he and Simon are going through that poop and fart language stage right now, and I’ve heard it at home. But to be honest, I haven’t been incredibly stringent about it, because I find it pretty harmless. When Tristan mimicked one of the older kids and called Simon a loser the other day, the whole world stopped turning while I explained that some things are not acceptable and made him apologize. But “poopy head”? Isn’t that a four-year-old rite of passage? It just so happens that I know Dude has not been in daycare, and so maybe that’s why his mother was particularly horrified that Tristan unleashed this verbal assault on her son, but I’m having a hard time being concerned about this.

In all, I’m glad the teacher called us in for a discussion. Because Tristan alternates one week in English and one week in French, this was his first week with this teacher, and I can see why four incidents in five days would be of concern to her. And she herself admitted that she had seen no further problems beyond the first day with the ‘special helper’ incident. And I know that Tristan is both wilful and boisterous, and that’s something we’re all going to have to work on. Maybe it’s time to look for another form of discipline beyond the time out. Anybody got any good books to recommend?

Through the course of the weekend, I’ve gone from shame to bristling annoyance to filing it under “lessons learned + blog fodder”. The teacher is going to make up a little worksheet for Tristan with three or four goals for him (sit nicely in circle and raise your hand to speak; hands to yourself in the cloakroom; etc.), and each day she’ll either mark a check or an X and we’ll review it at home together at the end of the day. It’s a pretty good idea, and I appreciate her efforts.

Eight days. Ugh. How long until graduation?

(Edited to add: ha ha. Today’s Word of the Day on the sidebar is recalcitrant \rih-KAL-sih-truhnt\, adjective: Stubbornly resistant to and defiant of authority or restraint. See Tristan.)

The Blues Clues Miracle

If there were an award for Most Bickering Siblings, my boys would be declared winners by a large margin. They have been at each other constantly lately, today even more than usual. Israel and Lebanon are playing much more nicely together than Tristan and Simon these days. They bicker, they taunt each other, they tattle, they whine. They won’t make it to Labour Day at this rate.

That’s why I was even more dumbfounded by Tristan this afternoon. He was at a birthday party for one of his friends at a local place called Cosmic Adventures. Tucked away in one corner they have a bunch of arcade-style games and you win tickets by playing, then parlay those tickets into useless crap that wouldn’t even make the cut at the dollar store – Dora stickers and farm animals and other plastic bling.

Tristan perused the glass display case for a long time, pondering how to best spend his bounty of tickets. Finally, he selected a small Blues Clues figurine. I was a little surprised, because he grew out of Blues Clues more than a year ago (“that’s baby stuff,” he says with the derision of a teenager while Simon watches it with rapt attention), and the figurine would expend all of his hard-earned tickets. I checked with him more than once, to make sure he really wanted it.

“Simon will love this,” he confided as he admired his acquisition. “I thought of him as soon as I saw it and I knew he would love it.” Sure enough, as soon as we got home, he gave it to Simon.

And then he proceeded to chase him all around the house, trying to take it away from him. He’d wait for Simon to put it down and snatch it away with a gleeful, “Simon, I’ve got your Blues Clues, and you can’t get it!”

Brothers.

The one with the conspiracy theory

This is how I imagine the conversation went:

Tristan: Hey, Simon!

Simon: Huh?

Tristan: You want to have some fun?

Simon: Yah!

Tristan: You want to see if we can make Mommy and Daddy snap?

Simon: Yah!

Tristan: Okay, here’s what we’ll do. You’re really good at waking up. You wake up every day at exactly five o’clock, okay?

Simon: Okay!

Tristan: And me, I’m going to start staying up late. They’ll put us to bed, but I won’t go to sleep. I’ll make Daddy read me four or five or even six books, but I won’t go to sleep. I’ll keep getting up and no matter how much they beg, threaten, or cry, I will NOT stay in my bed. Every single night, I’ll ask, “But WHY do kids have to go to bed?” And then I’ll say I’m thirsty and I need a drink of water, and then I’ll say I forgot to give Katie a goodnight kiss, and then I’ll say I have to go potty.

Simon: Yah!

Tristan: And I’ll make sure to stay up well past 9 pm every night, even though Mommy can barely stay awake past 9 pm herself. It will be like a contest, to see who can stay awake the longest.

Simon: Yah!

Tristan: So between me staying up late and you getting up early, there will be less than eight hours of sanity time in the house, which will drive Daddy buggy. And we know Mommy can’t function if she has less than eight hours sleep. And the best part is, because you go to bed early and I sleep late in the mornings, we’ll be perfectly fine while Mommy and Daddy unravel like a cheap sweater!

Simon: Brilliant plan, brother. Let’s do it!

Happy at home

I’ve been in a crappy mood all day. Not really much reason, except for the dreary weather, and a lack of sleep, the snotty remainders of a rather bad cold, and an unpleasant amount of work foisted on me at the last minute. I’ve been feeling that “curl up in a ball and lick your wounds” kind of blue – without any real wounds worth licking – for most of the day.

But as soon as I walked through the door at the end of the workday, and peeled off my work clothes for a t-shirt and jeans, and was greeted by the dervishes of energy that are my boys, I started to feel better.

They’re gifts, my boys and my husband. I’m so very lucky to have all this waiting for me at the end of a long day.

Simon and I went to pick up some pizza, and it poured rain. We got soaked, along with the pizza, just getting in and out of the car – and yet my mood was brighter than it was all day. I found the energy to do the laundry I’d been ignoring since the weekend after dinner, and I played with the boys for a little while. Simple pleasures.

Beloved gave the boys a bath, and is reading a few last books to Tristan before we settle down for a night of finale TV, but I wanted to steal this last moment to share a moment with you.

The boys were brushing their teeth before bed, and as they do every night, they clamoured first for a drink of water, and then for their “Bob lipstick” – a Bob the Builder chapstick. Every night, they ask for it – my preschoolers are addicted to chapstick.

(Of course, you can’t apply it for them, and god help you if you actually take the cap off the Bob Lipstick before you give it to Simon.)

Freshly bathed, brushed, watered and lipsticked (!), Simon was saying goodnight to Beloved.

Beloved: Nighty-night Simon. Can I have a goodnight hug and
kiss?

Simon, turning his head to the side: Kiss my cheek! Don’t kiss
my Bob Lipstick, kiss my cheek!

Don’t look at me, I don’t know where he gets it from…

Swimming in shame

Oh, the shame! Yesterday was ‘parents’ day’ at the boys’ swimming lessons, where parents are supposed to hop in the pool with their kids and get a hands-on idea of how the kids are progressing, what they are working on, and where they need improvement. For whatever reason, we somehow missed getting our notice about this last week, so while Beloved hopped in the pool as usual with Simon for the parent and tot lessons, I sat red-faced and miserable on the deck. I even asked the instructor if I could hop into the pool in my jeans and t-shirt, so great was my shame, but she gently suggested that wouldn’t be necessary, and instead I spent a guilty 30 minutes observing from the deck and wondering what psychological damage I was wreaking to my eldest son.

Judge: We have reached the sentencing portion of this trial. Do you have anything to say for yourself?
Grown-up, bearded, scruffy looking Tristan in shackles: I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve done. If only my mother hadn’t missed parents’ day in the pool when I was four, who knows where I’d be now…

Apparently not so much. Only two parents of six were in the pool, and when I asked Tristan about it, he didn’t even realize I was supposed to be in the pool with him.

Grown-up Tristan, handsome and content, in conversation with his girlfriend: Oh, you got your hair cut off? Oops, no, I guess I didn’t notice.
Pretty girlfriend: Argh! Men!

When I was registering the boys for their swim lessons, I was a little wary about scheduling them both for the same time slot. Two wet preschoolers plus one wet parent (Simon is too young to be in on his own) is a lot of chaos mixed in with the regular chaos of 30 other families in the changerooms, but it’s working out pretty well. We go as a family, and Beloved and I alternate who stays dry and who goes in the pool with Simon, then we each bring a child into the changeroom. Gratuitous props to any of you who do it on your own, without a dry parent as backup! Two wet kids I can wrangle. Two wet kids PLUS one wet mommy is a little too much, especially when you’re rushing out to get home in time to watch Survivor!

In the parent and tot class, I am often the only mommy, which was a bit of a surprise, but it’s nice to see all the daddies in the pool with their 2 – 3 year-olds. And I have to laugh at Simon’s fearlessness. I dunk him, he comes up sputtering and laughing. I put him on the side and he jumps back in before I can even get my arms out. (Well, the jumping is new this week. Up until now, he just kind leaned forward and tipped stiffly into the pool. It’s very hard to catch a 30 lbs slippery board-baby in time to make sure he doesn’t belly-flop into the pool.)

It’s very interesting to watch Tristan interact with his swim instructor. He watches her with wide-eyed intensity (when he isn’t wandering off) and is usually one of the first to follow her instructions. I haven’t decided whether this is encouraging or annoying, after having spent the rest of the day practically howling at the boy to get him to listen to my words at home on the eighth or tenth utterance, let alone the first. He is, according to the instructor’s assessment, very strong and doing exceptionally well at this level.

Announcer: And now, the Canadian national anthem begins as the gold medal is awarded for the 2024 Olympic men’s 400 metre freestyle to Canada’s own Tristan….

Celebrating Simon’s birthday

Although today is Simon’s birthday (and thank you for all the birthday wishes!), we celebrated it with the family last Saturday. And since Simon’s story yesterday was perhaps one of my wordiest stories ever, I’ll let the pictures do most of the talking for this one.

In the morning, we went for a walk to Hog’s Back Falls. It was the perfect day for a winter walk – clear and mild and still. This is my favourite time of year to visit Hog’s Back, because the snow is white and clean but the spring melt is beginning and you can hear the water rushing nearby.

First, I took a turn pulling Simon in the sled…

…and then Tristan took a turn.

Then Simon realized he could get into a lot more trouble under his own power. Here he is walking with Beloved.

We brought some bird seed and peanuts, but to our great disappointment, we discovered that chipmunks are hibernating creatures. Or, at least we didn’t see any. But there were chickadees and nuthatches who were quite willing to sit on our fingers and have a snack.

(See, Andrea? Emma and Tristan would at least have this in common!)

All that walking made for a great afternoon nap for Simon, but alas, not for mummy. While Beloved and Tristan went off to the library, I decorated the kitchen and living room. The balloons and streamers were intentionally put up high and out of reach, but the box of Wiggles cards (Valentine’s Day cards, in fact, but don’t tell Simon) got taped up at toddler eye-level throughout the main floor.

Granny and Papa Lou came over for dinner, and we made sure to have Simon’s favourite food, which you really should hear him pronounce because it’s so damn adorable: gu-a-co-MOOOOOO-leeee. (Other special birthday guests could not make it, sadly, because their beautiful baby girl developed croup that day, which Simon has somehow managed to catch via my phone conversation with her mother. Go figure. “What did you get for your birthday, Simon?” “Croup.”)

And of course, what birthday would be complete without prezzies? Tristan was very helpful in extricating the presents from their packages with Simon.

For years, I have contemplated getting a cash register toy for the boys – since Tristan’s 2nd birthday, I think. Beloved has always seen it as a bit of a lame gift. I perservered (yes, I’m laying it on thick, hoping Beloved is reading today) and was – can you believe it? – right! They loved it!

And a special bravo and thank you to our bloggy friends who suggested an AquaDoodle as a great gift for a two-year-old. (Nancy, you get props for being the first to suggest it – I remember when you first got one for the Troops and how much they liked it.) Granny read all your suggestions, and in the end chose the fancy Thomas the Tank Engine AquaDoodle. Even mummy and daddy get a kick out of playing with this one, and watching the Thomas train follow the tracks we’ve drawn. The boys like it so much, they even (gasp!) SHARE it!!

And of course, no Wiggles birthday would be complete without a Wiggles cake…

… and a birthday boy to enjoy it.

Happy Birthday, Simon! You are more wonderful (two-derful?) with every passing day. I love you!

Another day, another broken heart

Maybe I should just stop answering calls from home when I’m at work. Last week, it meant I had to bail from work to tend to a sick baby. Today, it was to tend to a broken heart.

Beloved: Sorry to bug you, but do you have a few minutes to talk to Tristan?

Me: Sure. What’s up? (I secretly love getting calls from the kids at work. I love the fact that I have to talk extra loud and that there is no mistaking the conversation for a business call and half the floor gets to hear me talking to my adorably preccocious preschoolers.)

Beloved: I actually had to wake him up to get ready to go to daycare today, and now he’s upset that he didn’t get a chance to kiss you goodbye.

Me (heart shrinking into pea-sized lump of coal): Sure, put him on.

Beloved, in background as phone is handed off: Okay, here she is. No more crying, okay?

Tristan: (sniffle)

Me: (with false brightness) Hi baby! Did you have a good sleep?

Tristan: (snuffle) Mommy, I’m sad! I didn’t get to give you a hug and a kiss before you went to work!

(SNAP! Sound of my heart breaking in two.)

Me: It’s okay, Tristan. I’ll give you an extra big hug and kiss when I get home, okay? And anyway, I gave you a nice smoochy kiss when you were sleeping before I left. Don’t cry, sweetie. We’ll have extra kisses as soon as I see you tonight.

Tristan (reluctantly mollified): Okay, mommy.

Me: (hangs up phone. Dissolves into puddle of unhappy guilt)

Sigh…

The sqaushed dandelion

His beautiful grey eyes are cloudy as he comes through the door, and Tristan bursts into tears as he sees me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask gently, pulling him toward me. A tearful entry is not uncommon, as he is buffeted by his emotions on many days.

He holds out a wilted and slightly brown dandelion head with a bit of stem attached. Where he found a dandelion flowering in November, even one as pathetic as this one, is a mystery to me. “Bobbie squashed it!” he cries, as I looked over his shoulder and make eye contact with his father, coming through the door with Simon in his arms. Beloved’s shrug says, “Don’t ask me.”

“Bobbie squashed it?” I prompt, genuinely moved by the fat tears rolling over his downy cheeks. Bobbie is the daycare provider, and usually held in high regard. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to.”

“But I wanted it to be special, for you!” he says through tears so thick I can barely understand him. “And now it’s ruined.”

I pull him close and wrap my arms around him, my heart enormous with my love for him, and aching for all the things in life that will hurt so much more than a squashed dandelion. This treasure is my son, my first son, but he’s not my baby anymore. I have tears in my own eyes as I rock him on his feet, his shoes and coat still on, the dandelion pressed between us.

“He’s not so squished,” I try to reassure Tristan. “He’s quite beautiful, actually.” Tristan will have none of it, and is disconsolate.

“I wanted it to be special!” he insists. “Maybe we should put it in some water, and then it will feel better?” he says, showing his first sign of hope. I look at the sad remainder of a former dandelion, and I know no amount of water will ever make a difference.

“Well,” I begin, thinking quickly, “what if we planted this beautiful dandelion in the garden? We’ll plant him in the garden, and next spring after all the snow has melted, he’ll sprout into a beautiful new dandelion with a bright yellow flower.”

Tristan nods and smiles, and no rainbow was ever so radiant as his bright eyes as the last tears melt away. I hunt for a moment in the garage to find a small spade, and we step out onto the walkway leading to the front porch. Even though it is not yet dinner time, the sun has set and we both shiver as we stand coatless in our stockinged feet on the cold bricks. I clear away some dried leaves and dig a small hole in the damp earth.

“Do you want to drop it in?” I ask, and Tristan nods. With tender ceremony, he takes the mottled ochre flower and places it gently in the hollow. I hand him the trowel, and he smooths over the earth and leaves.

With great satisfaction, he hands the trowel back to me and turns back for the house. I smile to myself, thinking of the hours I spend each summer pulling the infernal weeds out of the yard, only to plant them in a place of honour in the garden in the fall.

To be honest, I hope it blooms. This is one weed I’ll let grow in peace.

Categories: