The 98 things before Summer

There is nothing more disheartening than making the kids’ lunches and finding out shortly thereafter that it’s Pizza Day. And that I thought to write an entire post on it, well it might be an indication that I am ready for this school year to end.

READY.

In the last few weeks I’ve had to remember no fewer than 98 extra things each morning:

• $4.00 for chrysalises and tadpoles.
• Interesting but EDUCATIONAL show-and-share items (Not the Droid Gun Ship you got from Gramma and Grampa)
• Reading Log.
• Shoe box to transform into a rock family’s habitat.
• 40 mild chicken wings for the class potluck. (You know you’re raising boys when)
• Doing the reading for the bloody Reading Log.
• Birthday lollipops for the entire class.
• Birthday pin for the birthday boy’s shirt so the class knows it's his birthday on the weekend.
• Signed and dated math quiz.
• Where the hell is that reading log?
• Shin high white socks for tie dying.
• $13.00 for Naveen’s end of the year trip. (Really? $13?  Not say, a nice round number like $10 or $20?)
• $15.00 for Deaglan’s end of the year trip.
• Library books (Every single time the late notice comes, I scratch my head thinking I have never seen this book in this house)

And although I want to weep around this time, each year because it is excruciatingly clear to me that I did not end up with a career that gives me the entire summer off but my husband did, I’ll be glad when I can stop having to remember 98 extra things every morning.

I won’t have to keep up this charade with Naveen (let’s see, what can I put into his lunch today that he won’t eat  because, Mommmmmy, I told you, I HATE pizza with sauce on it!)

I won’t have to ask Deaglan WHY? WHY DID YOU WEAR YOUR INSIDE SHOES HOME? WHY????

I won’t have to apologize for above question because I asked it in YELLING.

Instead I can sneak away extra early to work out.

Or sleep in because NO LUNCHES.

I can put all wardrobe negotiations on hold. Those are pajama pants. You have to wear regular pants.

And beat myself up a little less on the drive to work for the YELLING.

I can expect to come home to a house that doesn’t look like it’s been robbed and ransacked because well, LOOKING FOR THE BLOODY READING LOG.

Instead I can come home to three sun-kissed, shaggy haired guys wearing swim trunks and mismatched shirts who are very glad to see me. 

Dear Naveen

A few nights ago as I was changing out of my work clothes, you sat on the bed and told me about your day. “Mommy, did you know that girls can marry girls and boys can marry boys if they want?” You actually said “Mommy, did you know that goals can may-wee goals” and I don’t mind telling you, the way you stumble on those R’s? FAVE.

I said, “Yes, I did know that. Are you going to marry a girl or a boy?”

“I’m going to marry a girl.” When asked why, you said “because boys smell like donkeys.”

And because it was just the two of us having a serious conversation and given your experience of boys (exhibit DEAGLAN and DAD), I  shrugged and agreed that it was likely a good thing to marry a girl because in general they do smell pretty good. You went on to tell me (for the third time this week) that you would have three sons named Leo (you ADORE this name!), Nathan and Mantartica (Yes Mantartica!) and all of them would also be named Matthew like you.

Your fourth year has been full of me and you moments like these. Me folding laundry, or perusing Pinterest. You hovering close by telling me your stories.

Things you learned at school.

Fun times you had with friends.

Injustices you have suffered at my hands (You gave him a bigger piece! You always cuddle with him longer! )

Hopes and dreams for the weekend.

And also the big plans for when you are a grown man (You, all three of your sons and the “goal you may-wee” will live with Dad and me. Forever!).

A funny thing happens to parents when they realize their last baby is no longer a baby. They start stalling, holding on for dear life. Their perceptions become impaired. Where others see a growing boy, fully self sufficient, these desperados are still dreaming of his once chubby thighs. 
They ask for things to be repeated just to hear the mispronunciation of a word. I said we read a polem (poemJ) Mommy, didn’t you hear me? A POLEM!!  
They smile at a potato chip remembering when it used to be a “pip”. 
They tell the same story over and over at the same gathering, laughing just as hard with each telling, blissfully unaware that the listener could recite it word-for-word from having heard it already on the other side of the room. Three times.

It has been like this for me.

I am smitten with you. Crazy in love.  And also on the brink of insanity every single day. You swoop onto my lap or into my arms with a fierce propriety any chance you get, but you also refuse to put on pants. EVERY WEEKDAY MORNING. YOU. JUST. REFUSE.

Your foray into school has been a complete success though...except see PANTS. You love the teachers, the required change in footgear at recess and adore your two best friends, Logan and Lawson.  

Which is all to say, four has been a good year. I was thinking about this yesterday.

At drop-off I whispered that I loved you a zillion billion times around the moon, the world and all the planets. In return, you gave me a pitiable smile, pecked me dutifully on the cheek and muttered,  I love you too.  And as an afterthought: Around our town and up the chimney, Then you demanded I roll up your pant cuffs and went off in search of your friends. 

I smiled all the way to work.  

Happy birthday my sweet, sweet heart. I am so blessed to be your Mom.

Your first ever school picture. Seriously. I can't even.

On the rock in the front yard yesterday morning. You're all about a good cuff on your jeans.

His ordinary days

I really like Deaglan’s teacher this year.  I like her quite a bit. I wasn’t sure at first but after a few encounters I realized she was the perfect teacher for  him to have this first year at a new school.

A few weeks ago, on a Sunday evening, Deaglan lay between Shaune and me on our bed and cried. He was dreading school the next morning and didn’t understand why he couldn’t just go back to his old school. We explained again about zoning and reminded him that three of his best friends had also moved schools this year and were feeling the exact same way – something I was sure of because I’d texted back and forth with all of their moms.

He was dreading Monday morning because sometimes at recess he found he had no one to play with. Closer to the beginning of the year, when he was in a similar predicament, he’d make his way to the Kindergarten playground, and while away the time, chatting with his brother, separated only by a fence. They’d even invented their own sport where they threw a hat or sweatshirt back and forth over the fence, a makeshift game of catch. But lately, he explained, Naveen is always busy playing with his own friends.  

We told him that this was all a part of the experience of being a new kid – he was having a harder time establishing a set group of friends because most of his classmates had been friends since Junior Kindergarten but because  everybody in Naveen’s class was in the same boat - they were all new, it hadn’t taken as long.  We tried to assure him that by the end of the year, he’d feel like he belonged and always have a gang of guys to hang out with. In the meantime we promised to continue to have friends over as often as possible to help him develop these relationships.

He cried for a long time.

Our hearts ached. 

Up until now his life had been one fluid ride surrounded by friends, family and familiar places. He loved the old house and was blissfully unaware of its shortcomings. To him, it was the perfect size, filled with the perfect people situated on the perfect street. He didn’t notice the graffiti piling up on the neighbor’s fence or worry about the endless sea of unsavory characters coming in and out of the house across the street.  He didn’t care that we were tripping over each other all winter long, stuck together in one small living space.

Several days ago, I had to pick him up in the middle of the day – he had a temperature and upset stomach. I had a few minutes alone with his teacher in the office before collecting him so I told her about the Sunday night. Tears sprang to her eyes and she vowed to help out. I told her that although we tried to teach our kids the importance of all experiences, that each feeling played an important part in who they were,  we felt completely helpless watching our guy go through this transition.

The next night when we were doing homework, Deaglan told me that he’d felt really special at school that day. Not only had his teacher moved him beside one of his friends (a kid we’d had over to our house twice already) but she'd also told him that everybody missed him when he went home sick the day before. 

At parent-teacher interviews this past Thursday, I had a chance to connect with her again about it. After we discussed his academic progress, we chatted about other potential friendships she saw developing. We talked about our childhoods a bit, how sweet six and seven year olds are in general , and how important their friendships are at this age.  

I left feeling overwhelming gratitude that my son was spending his days being guided by this special person. 

We built gingerbread houses to welcome the Christmas season. Deaglan was meticulous with his, taking the time to carefully place jube-jube shutters and M&M doorknobs. 

Naveen looked like this the entire time. 

He cared very little about shingles and doorknobs. He wanted us to cut to the chase. "When can I eat my house????"

Which is all to say (as you can see from this picture - thanks Honey!) that I could have used a good stiff Christmas toddy to relax my jaw muscles after insisting over and over the Christmas house was supposed to be a decoration. Oh what fun!

When we looked at Naveen's gingerbread house this morning, it was no longer on the tray. The candy and icing were cleaned (read licked) off and there were several bites out of the roof.

My spiritual guides

Last night when I told Deaglan it was time to turn his TV off, he lost his mind. He wasn’t tired, he insisted and besides his friends at school had been discussing this very thing earlier in the day and they all get to stay up later than him.

I asked for specific examples.

“Brandon gets to stay up like really, really late,” he said.

“How late?”

“12 hundred o’clock.”

He was completely serious. I bit my cheek and added telling time to my mental checklist of things I needed to teach this kid.

“I’m sorry buddy, but you have a hard time getting up in the morning and your body needs a good amount of sleep to be healthy.”

“I hate you!” he said, “I’m not going to fall asleep. I’ll stay awake all night in the dark.”

“Listen, I get it. I remember how much I used to hate having to go to bed when I was a kid. It did seem unfair. I especially hated it when I was in the middle of doing something. (I figured this was not the time to tell him I didn't have a TV in my room until third year university) But I’m the Mom and it’s my job to take care of you.”

“But I’m not tired!!!” he yelled.

“You will be once you lay your head on the pillow, I promise. It's time.”

I left the room then.

He was forlorn. He cried out of sheer frustration. He was a kid with very little control over this circumstance. I sat in my room and wondered if I’d done the right thing.

Five minutes later he was sound asleep, snoring softly, long limbs askew. Relieved, I patted myself on the back for handling it the way I did. I didn't raise my voice. I  didn’t react to his anger the way I typically might. I’d taken a deep breath and found a way to connect with him.

I’ve been practicing.

In the Conscious Parent  Shefali Tsabary says there is a way to be firm with our kids without getting caught up in the drama of the situation. “As much as conscious parenting is about listening to our children, honoring their essence, and being fully present with them, it’s also about boundaries and discipline.”

It’s a beautiful book.

There’s such goodness and wisdom on every page. I’ve underlined and asterisked something in just about every chapter. I’ve wanted to call each and every single one of you with kids in your lives to say OMG, you have to read this book.

It’s that good.

One of my favourite things she says is that although we believe as parents that we hold the power to raise our kids, the reality is that our kids hold the power to raise us into the parents they need us to become.

I find this profound.

For me, parenthood has been deeply satisfying. It’s been hard at times but so, so fulfilling. I do believe what she says in her book that our children are spiritual guides put into our lives to teach us to become our best selves.  

This morning my little guides were doing a lot of teaching but I was in no mood to learn a thing.

We all slept in. I made the lunches and fed the kids breakfast to help Shaune get out the door sooner. He was grateful and asked if there was something he could do to help before leaving. 

"Dress Naveen" I said without hesitation. 

It's the part I dread the most every morning. He's very particular about what he will wear. His most favourite outfit is a vivid green ninja hoodie paired with a pair of Disney-blue sweatpants, a hand-me-down we received for Deaglan several years ago from a co-worker of Shaune's a few jobs ago.

They have the word DINO written down one leg. 

I've let him wear this get-up at least three times each week since school began but have had to put my foot down the other days simply because it was filthy and I hadn't had a chance to do laundry. He refuses to wear most of the new clothes we bought him for school.

Shaune wasn't successful with the first or second outfit he suggested. I could tell he had to go so I offered to  take over. 

A lot of crying and angry words ensued. We finally settled on some old worn shorts (I thought I'd gotten rid of these ages ago!) and a hand-me-down red Lightening McQueen hoodie. He let me know a few times that he really dug this outfit. 

Great, I thought, your teachers can continue to think I found your clothes in a dumpster.

I know there is a spiritual lesson in these morning struggles somewhere but as a fashion-conscious soul, I am very resistant to learning it.

When I got home, he'd ditched the T shirt underneath and was just Marky Mark-ing it. I'm definitely getting him some white Calvins.

The move and all it entailed did Shaune and me in this spring and summer. I've taken no pictures to show you the new house. I wrote no posts to tell you how we're settling in. A sad state of affairs!

Here's a few pictures I found on our camera. The kids love the pool and despite the crummy weather we had all summer, they used it all the time.

 
By the end of the summer, Deaglan was swimming without the floatie. Swimming lessons courtesy of Dad.

Grade one reading: a job aide

A few years ago if you asked me what the hardest part of motherhood was I’d answer without hesitation, “the lack of sleep.” These days I’d like to say I’d take no sleep over teaching a six-year old boy to read but that wouldn’t be completely true either; well, because nothing would be worse than having to teach a six-year old boy to read on no sleep.

It’s likely not a very parenty thing to say, right? Grade one reading? What’s so hard about that?

Well first there’s the tiresome negotiation that must ensue to get said six-year old boy to the kitchen table after your long day at work when the only thing you'd rather be doing is sipping wine while scrolling through Pinterest.
Often this means prying whatever toys he’s holding out of his death grip, swearing an oath on anything resembling a bible to give them back once the homework is done. It also means telling that six year old boy to sit still  a total of 57 times.

“On your bum, please.”

“Sit.”  

“Please, on your bum.”

"Deaglan!"

“Sit still.”

“Sit.”

“Please.”

“Bum.”

Then 38 reminders to put his finger under the words he’s reading. And just as many times bringing him back to the right sentence. When suddenly you are forced to focus on the noise in the periphery and find it’s the six year old’s younger brother in your armpit literally diverting your attention, small hand on your face, “Momma, you ahn’t   listening, can I watch anothoe show?”

This is when you are forced to say very loudly in hopes your husband, who actually is in the living room in plain view of the TV tapping away the next day’s lesson plans without a care in the world, will hear you: “YOU NEED TO ASK DADDY TO PUT ANOTHER SHOW ON.” Often this must be said loudly one or two more times with the addition, “BECAUSE MOMMY’S DOING HOMEWORK WITH YOUR BROTHER” to get its intended effect.

And all the while you are holding back the urge to say: “You just read that word 25 times!!! Why the hell are you acting like you don’t know what it says???” This is about the same time you realize you just aren't cut out for this parenting gig.

But then you remember to practice deep breathing and remind yourself that he’s just learning. You must remember this every time he pronounces the word “like” as “lik” even though you know with certainty you’ve explained the function of e at the end of a sentence something like two hundred times.

You pat yourself on the back each time you bite your tongue recalling how far you’ve come. You can’t remember the last time you put words to the near rage that “said” is not pronounced “sss-ahhh-iii-duh” even though it’s a sight word we’ve been memorizing for the better part of two years.

Said.

How hard is that?

Instead you cheer him for every small victory. You give him a bear hug after every book and tell him how proud you are. Because you are fairly sure he will eventually get it. You convince yourself of this by remembering that most adults you know can read. To be sure you mentally list all the people you know and try to remember if you'd ever heard them read out loud.

Then you get to that glass of wine that’s been practically begging you to drink it while Googling Google because you'd heard somewhere that most of their meetings are done while their workers are walking around. You take a few sips of the wine and relax, imagining your fidgety son with a perfectly successful career at a place where everyone can read and hardly any meetings require a person to sit still.

This year the kids got new bikes for Easter. I know, I know, gifts at Easter now???

Also, my birthday fell on Easter Sunday. I try not to get too worried that the sidewalk message below says: Happy birthday Mom.

 As always, there was an awesome Easter egg hunt at Gramma and Grampas. This year I had to gently remind Deaglan that he was not to plow past the younger kids and find all the eggs himself.

And I had to encourage Naveen several dozen times to keep looking for more eggs even though he was content with the first one he found.

 

 Good times with Grampa.

 

Often it's about getting out the door

This morning I was able to get Naveen to eat most of his scrambled eggs by promising he could wear his pajamas to the hockey rink. It was my third attempt at bribery. Candy and money were surprisingly ineffective. It’s sad when you’ve used every trick in your book before 9.am.

It won’t surprise you to know that I believe parenting isn’t about achieving perfection.

Often it's about getting out the door. I think it’s also about showing our kids that we are human and just trying our best. Almost every weekday morning, I apologize to Deaglan and Naveen on the way to school. That’s because for the half hour prior, both boys lose their sense of hearing which triggers in me the opposite of good calm parenting. And I know it’s temporary, localized deafness they suffer from, because a few minutes later they hear my apology just fine.

But “Put on your socks and shoes!” at the top of my lungs 28 times? Not so much.

After three years of the same old speech, I feel that Deaglan and I understand each other, the way an old, weary, married couple might understand each other; they don’t always like each other but they know they can’t change the other person either. As soon as I say something like, “Guys, Mom’s really sorry for all the yelling this morning. You’re both really good kids and I love you very much,” he usually responds with, “we understand Mom, it’s okay, we know how hard it is for you to get us out the door every morning.”

That he says it with sincerity and sympathy, well, I think it means he’s not planning on divorcing me anytime soon.

And I don’t think this Arctic Freeze we’ve been victim to is helping me grow as a parent.

This afternoon, I peeked out from under the comforter on the couch and asked in my most excited, positive voice, “Guys, isn’t it great that we have three days off to do whatever we want? Mom can “work” on my computer (aka peruse Pinterest) while you play whatever you want.”

I wasn't afraid to proclaim this several more times over the next few hours to get them fully on board that Mommy sitting on the couch completely ignoring them was indeed great. What can I say? I will go the distance for a cause I believe in.

Oh, in case you're wondering, I look sorta like this guy today, only my hair is a little more Jack than his, my pajamas aren't as cute and I don't have a fraction of his energy.

That post I always write

I’ve been writing this post for a few weeks now. Sometimes in my head. Sometimes on the screen. And I’ve stopped every time at about precisely this point. Because the only post I seem to want to write is the same old one I’ve been writing for the past six years. The same old one you’ve learned to expect from me. The one that tells you how busy life is. The one that admits I don’t know what work-life balance looks like or even if there is such a thing.

It’s essentially the one I’ve written over and over; sometimes laced with guilt, often tinged with feelings of failure. The one that calculates the ratio of time the kids spend in the company of others versus us, making me question, once again, what we first world  societies really value.

It’s also the post where I tell you that I simply cannot find any time to do some of the things that nurture that Me I really like. The Me of my dreams. The one who threatens to take the reins more often. The one who has big plans for me, for no reason whatsoever. She yearns to chip away at those writing projects. She has a hundred posts she’s dying to share with you. She insists I bring back my Saturday morning runs because she misses the serene and rhythm of feet on pavement, small hills and valleys, and the music.

In some ways it’s the post I’ve been writing since that November right before Deaglan was born, six years ago.  

The one where I reflect on motherhood: the little people who amaze and frustrate me every single day, compelling me to share it with you, here in this little corner of the internet I’ve carved out for myself.

A continuation of the story of Deaglan. Deaglan who lately shines with the wonder and magic of grade one. He can’t wait to get to school every morning and some mornings even insists I put gel in his hair. Most of the time he has just the right outfit in mind and won’t accept any suggestions from me. And it won’t surprise you to know (if you know me at all), that it secretly swells me with pride that just about every outfit is dead-on.

A story that includes how a few weeks ago he stopped me mid-swipe through a fashion blog; a tall thin blonde 20 something.

“You like her outfit?”
“No.”
“You like her?”
“Yeah,” he looked away. Shy smile and that dimple of his. “She has the same yellow hair as Elizabeth in my class.”

It left me fascinated and heartbroken.

And Naveen.

Yes. It’s a continuing of the story on the marvelous yet rascally ways of the three year old. Always a study in heart-melting enchantment and nerve-jangling frustration.  A bittersweet constant where I find myself refusing to correct mispronunced words: “Mum, I want Santa to bwing me a Tweenage Mutick Inja Tuhtul ShellWaiso” (A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Shellraiser –their vehicle).  Or refusing to resist the urge to scoop him into my arms any time he’ll allow it, this last bit of lush baby-hood I want to capture somewhow.  But also a study in restraint where on an hourly basis I am on the verge of insanity because this three year old of mine is a sneaky naughty imp of a boy.

It's the same post I’ve written so many times before.

Deaglan did his first Science project. He chose the Little brown bat. It was a lot of hard work for (ahem) him. He was graded on the detailed poster and his presentation of it. I was tempted to call his teacher when I read through the "Grading Rubrick", and remind her, "Uhhh, you do know he was literally in my womb only five years ago, right?"

Shaune's sister asked us to join them at the Sloan Christmas Tree Village yesterday. It's a great place. There were a ton of activities for the kids including a giant stack of hay, a miniature train, a zipline, horses and bonfires. The kind of thing people like us get into.

 Here's Naveen and cousin Layton on the giant stack of hay.

Deaglan would have set up camp on the giant stack of hay if we let him. It's the only thing he wanted to do all day, climb it and run through its secret mazes.

 You'll want to bundle up.

 Here's Grampa Bill looking on as Deaglan ziplines.

 And Gramma Fran feeding the goats with Naveen and Layton.

 Oh, I forgot to mention, you can also wander the tree farm and pick the tree you want then cut it down. Here's the one we picked.

 Shaune sawing.

Making peace with hard

This morning I ran nine kilometers.

It felt like early May. The sky shone clear, blue and showed off with the most liberating  breeze. The sun was gentle and warm; not it's oppressive self, like last week. Even by the midway point, I was thankful I hadn't opted for a running jacket, although I know if I’d been walking I would have wished for one.

It was one of those runs.

I noticed a hundred different shades of green, emeralds and jades, olives and khakis. Lush and healthy from all the rain. And even though I’d woken up feeling tired and failing, I ran my course and remembered that my grass was just as green. The trees seemed to cheer me on, their branches dancing in that gentle wind. It was hard to believe we were deep into July.

It was a hard run.

I took last week off from the gym; I embraced my vacation that way. And the week before that I’d been able only to find enough time to scramble to the cycling classes over my lunch hour. My lungs did not like this sudden wakening, the kind only running seems to induce. But I’ve made peace with this kind of hard in the past and I refused to let it stop me today. Sometimes, like this past week at work, I remind myself that hard is like good strong coffee on a cold dark morning. Necessary.

I let Shaune do all the parenting this week.

And along the way, I collected guilt and a dwindling self-esteem. Each time one of the kids asked me to play or take them to the park, I laid paralyzed on the couch and explained that sometimes Mommies don’t have what it takes to do it all. I leaned on Shaune. I’ve never been happier to have him at home with the kids. A temporary kind of leaning made sweeter by the fact that he's been hired as a fulltime high school teacher, set to start in September.

I explained things to Deaglan. How sometimes work takes all of your energy when you get older. I explained it to him because I knew Naveen wouldn’t understand yet. I tried to buy myself some understanding.

After my run, I ate leftover steak and a handful of strawberries.

I told the kids to get their helmets on and we rode to the park. We played soccer and then they rode circles all over the park’s paths and driveways. I sat on a bench, warmed by that mild sun and watched them make tracks with their wheels from riding through the patches of leftover puddles.

I talked myself into believing that they’d remember only this.

 

Just the right words

Last night we had an episode at our house.

I was settling the kids in after Naveen’s Blastball game (think pre T-ball, pre-pre baseball) and an extra hour of play past bedtime because, well you know how hard it is to be a kid and agree to go to bed while it’s still bright and sunny outside, when we reached official episode status.

By the time we made it upstairs I was tired, and hot. And in no mood.

I was in no mood for the usual delay tactics:

Mom, I’m hungry,
Mom, I just want to say goodnight to Daddy one more time
Mom, I have to go find my Spiderman
And on
and on.

So when he asked me I told Deaglan he would not be allowed to go down one more time – it was bed time. End of bloody story.

“I’m mad at you Mommy!”

“I’m okay with that, now please go to sleep.”

“You hurt me and that’s why I’m mad at you.”

“Hurt you?? When?”

“A long time ago, you hurt me.”

“Hurt you how? Accidentally?? Or do you mean I hurt you when I spanked you?”

Oh.

Have I not told you that we occasionally spank our kids? I'll wait here while you consider how that makes you feel. It's a polarizing statement, I know.  Go ahead and take your time. I'll understand if you decide this is no longer a place you'd like to stop by...

You still here?

When I say occasionally, I mean rarely. To be honest I’m not even sure why we do it. We get much better results when we send them to the time out bench or take away a toy or do the old "I'm going to count to three".

You know, sophisticated parenting.

A swat to their bottoms usually gives us no results. Sometimes we get a momentary pause before they carry on with what they were doing, sometimes a giggle and often a “that didn’t hurt”.

Let me tell you the long story that started it all.

Shaune and I agreed even before we had kids that we would never ever spank our children. It didn’t seem to make any sense for us to hit when ultimately we wanted to raise gentle, peaceful kids. We were strong in our position.

We felt good about it.
We were united.
We stood firm.

Then Deaglan turned three.

One hot summer day that June, I ignored the nagging voice in my head advising me otherwise, and took both kids for a walk; Naveen in the stroller and Deaglan on his tricycle. We’d been cooped up inside in the shelter of air conditioning out of reach of the stifling heat. But Deaglan was dangerously close to exploding if he didn’t soon get an exercise break, so we ventured out. 
In hindsight I should have taken my chances and stayed in.

Because, it was hot. It was hot and Deaglan was uncooperative.

He stopped listening to my instructions to wait at the end of the sidewalk before crossing, early on, which forced me to constantly park the stroller mid-sidewalk, run up ahead, and bring him back to where I was. The sun was unrelenting that day, nary a wind to be found, so that I had to stop every few minutes to offer the kids water.

Deaglan refused to drink.

Besides refusing to hydrate and heed my crosswalk directions, he also refused to keep his hat on his head which meant that every few minutes I had to back track and retrieve it. Twenty minutes into the walk, when I could see his face was flushed from the heat, I stopped to assess the situation. We were now far enough from home that his uncovered head and uncooperative demeanour had me panicking a little. I poured some of the water he wouldn’t drink over his hair and patted a little onto his shoulders. It felt right to try to cool him down. He didn’t agree.

He went ape-shit crazy.

He shoved aside the tricycle and ran out into the street wild and crying. Cars came to screeching halts. My heart rose up into my throat. I braked the stroller and ran out to grab him. When we got back onto the sidewalk I asked him why he was so upset. He told me he didn’t want water on his head. Before I could explain why I’d done it he ran again, a wee madman with no hat on.

I felt half out of my mind with panic and fear.

I  ran out again and grabbed him. This time I threw him over my shoulder and spanked his diaper-covered rear. On the sidewalk I put him down and spanked his bottom again, telling him that what he’d done was unacceptable. I plopped him into the stroller beside Naveen. They were squished together but at least they were contained.

I was shaking.

I slung the tricycle awkwardly over my back and pushed the stroller home, a caricature of the hunchback on a hot summer’s day. The hunchback who’d just spanked her child for the first time.

I texted Shaune when we got home. I told him what I’d done. Confession-style. The phone rang immediately. It was Shaune. We lingered in silence for a few seconds. Then he broke the silence with this, “Well it’s high time we started hitting that kid. He had it coming!”

Last night when Deaglan accused me of hurting him, I felt sick and wounded. I searched back for a time in recent history I might have spanked him. A time when he’d likely crossed the line in the sand I’d drawn out for those rare occasions. I couldn’t remember a time where he’d even flinched after I'd warned and warned and finally swatted him.

I asked Shaune to come upstairs. I needed backup for this.  It worried me that he kept saying I’d hurt him but couldn't pinpoint when or how. I was getting nowhere with the specifics. Shaune sat him up and asked him to explain what he meant.

“Tell me how Mommy hurt you D (He rarely calls any of us by our given names). When did it happen? Was it when she spanked you?”

“No.”

“Did she accidentally hurt you?”

“No."

“Then what?”

“She hurt my feelings when she wouldn’t let me go downstairs tonight and sneak up on you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Even though I felt clear that I'd never hurt my own child, for a  few minutes I felt unsure. Had I done something unintentionally? Had I been rough in a moment of anger?

I apologized for hurting his feelings.  Yet I stood firm that it was bedtime. I asked him to let me in on his plans next time explaining that had I known he wanted to play a prank on Daddy, I would have helped him. Even then, he stayed angry at me, refusing to kiss me goodnight.

I lay in bed feeling something very close to awe. 

I'd only recently learned to express my feelings. Growing up, I automatically bottled up anything that was unpleasant or negative. I was always agreeable. Always pleasing. Always pleasant. Even now I struggle when I must tell someone I’m angry or hurt. I grew up around people who rarely expressed themselves properly or appropriately.

Yet here was my five year old with just the right words.