You will be six on Christmas Eve

Dear Deaglan,

Early this morning you shouted from your bed, “Mom! Is it time to get up yet?” I didn’t answer even though your loud question woke me from a dead sleep.

“Mom!!” this time louder. “Is it time to get up yet????”

“Not even close,” I said turning over, “go back to sleep.”

Then a raucous climb down the ladder of your bunk, a jump from the last step to the floor and then thud, thud into the bathroom.  And then, thud, thud thud toward me. 

“Mom! One more day!” 

This is how we’ve started every morning for the past week. The countdown to your birthday.

To be accurate, it’s how you’ve started every morning for the past six years.  

One second you were tiny, gripping the sides of your crib, fussing eagerly to be picked up. And the next second, bam! All of your pants are too small, your feet are gigantic; and you are sounding out words on the sides of buildings.

On the night you were born, the moment I first held you in the recovery room, the world melted away. I forgot that this kind of thing had happened before. Babies had been born before. Mothers had become mothers. Families finally felt like families. 

I forgot everything.

I forgot about the possibility of separation. I couldn’t imagine a day when we wouldn’t be close. I forgot that kids grow up. Become independent. Disagree with their parents. Learn to want different things. I forgot about families who become estranged from each other.

I forgot grade seven.  

I forgot about elaborately folded secret notes denouncing parents as annoying and downright dumb. I forgot high school where I was sure that if I could just get my own place, I would be free of their tyranny, stay out late, apply all the eye make-up I wanted. I forgot the escape to university where I could finally get my nose pierced without permission, embrace grunge without disapproval. I forgot all those years where phone calls home felt obligatory.

I forgot all of it.

Because that night I first held you, I knew with great clarity that you and I were going to be different. We would reinvent the mother-child dynamic. It would be different for us. You would always want to be with me, always need me, always look to me for the answers.

You, I could tell then, would always be agreeable, always attentive. Always compliant.There would never come a day when we wouldn’t see eye to eye on everything. 

That day did come though.

My fog lifted and there you were, already a whole person, separate from me.  You had opinions on just about everything: Your new winter coat “sucks”, you said, because it takes too long to zip up. You can't wear the waterproof thermal mitts because they don’t allow for proper snow ball formation. You hate plaid. Naveen can sit on your bed only if he takes off his socks, holds in all toots and burps and refrains from coughing on you.

When I was sad, you told me you liked my shirt. And when I was really sad you said "I love everything you're wearing Mom!" And sometimes.  Well sometimes, I noticed that you said things just because it was easier. You appeased me.

This year, you understood the vastness with which your brother adores you. At a birthday party a few weeks ago for one of your mutual friends, I watched as he hid behind you, waited for you to pioneer the way; his shield in this life.

His guide.

You love your family and tell us so all the time. You love school, your teachers and your friends. You love your grandparents, aunts, uncles and all of your cousins too. You love candy and popcorn, hockey and forts. 

Oh and Lego, you love Lego.

And you are itching for adventure every minute of the day. When we tell you about an upcoming trip, you want to go that minute. Time is such a nuisance. Are we there yet? You ask over and over.

Are we there yet?

Well no. We aren't there yet. I don't want to be there yet, is that bad? I want it all to slow down. I want to marinate in the you of today, bask in your light and sparkle. Get caught up in the world through your eyes. 

Happy birthday my big, big boy, thanks for letting me live it all again, through you.

Love Mom.

A deposit

My parents gave the kids gift cards this past Christmas.

Their decision was based solely on the fact that every gift they bought for the boys last year was a duplicate of something they’d already received from one of our other relatives at earlier gift-opening ceremonies. When I noticed the recurring pattern, (and the disappointment on my parents’ faces each time)  I cringed with every subsequent unwrapping, silently praying it wasn’t something else they’d already received, knowing full well that Deaglan would exclaim loud and clear to the affirmative if it was.

So this year when they opened their Christmas mail from Mimi and Papa  (my parents winter in Mexico and had sent the cards ahead of time should we want to choose the gifts for the kids ourselves to eliminate last year's dilemma), I quickly explained what gift cards were. I had them (mostly Deaglan) imagine a time, much, much farther into the future, after Christmas was well behind us, when they might finally feel bored with their Christmas (and for Deaglan, birthday) toys, a point when they might be thinking how nice it would be to have a new toy or book. I explained that this was precisely when they would be delighted to realize they could walk into the toy and book store (for they’d received a gift card for each) and choose something of their wanting.

I’ll tell you, the prospect of this sounded very good to Deaglan, very, very good indeed. So good in fact, that after I’d explained it to him, he could not tuck the idea away for that future day I spoke of. Instead he wondered out loud every single day for the next few weeks if it might be the right day, that very day, to spend those gift cards, so that each time, increasingly wearily, I pointed out what I felt was the obvious, that there was an enormous pile of new toys, some still in its packaging, fresh, yet unplayed-with at his disposal.

This did nothing to discourage him.

It’s difficult for me to reconcile this kind of excess. On the one hand I’m exceedingly grateful to our very generous families for using their hard earned money to create wonderful Christmas experiences for our boys. I’m very, very grateful for it; I can’t stress this enough.

But I wonder too, each year, whether there is a way to stop the insanity of it; to bring the season back to its essence, you know, family time, helping people who need it, celebrating without all the commercialism and consumerism.

Every time I consider that the right thing might very well be to take a stand, stop celebrating Christmas in this way altogether, I am forced to play the scenario out. And this is exactly when I recognize that although I could really get behind a more wholesome, natural way of doing things, due to the fact that I’m easily distracted, in order to really pull it off, we'd likely have to cut all ties with everyone we know in the free world, move out to the deep, deep woods somewhere in the northern part of the province perhaps; an isolated foresty locale where we would be required to live out a rustic, pastoral existence, without TV or internet influencing our desires for little more than twigs and rocks for amusement. A lifestyle  I fear I am in no way equipped to handle either emotionally or by way of skillset.

I’ve rambled. 

And I’m sorry.

Because this is not at all what I wanted to regale you with today. What I really wanted to tell you, mostly because you’ve received this kind of thing so well over the years and also a teensy bit because when you’re the mother of small kids who consistently do things that astound and amuse you (and so we're clear – also irritate the crap out of you), there is an itching desire to tell someone or many someones about it.  

You realize, however, not everyone thinks your kids are as charming as you do, and you can only deposit so many stories of their adorable antics into the Bank of Good, Kind, Listening Friend (GKLF if you will), so that you find yourself taking the leftovers to your blog to fully document the depth and breadth of how scrumptiously delectable your naughty two year old is.  

Sheesh, I’ve sort of built that up in a way I may not be able to deliver.

Here’s the thing: Every time Naveen sees me squeezing my Shea butter lotion into the palm of my hands, he asks if he can have some too. And every time I give him a dab, he rubs his pudgy little hands together, takes a whiff and says, “Mmm, Mommy your lotion smells like soup!” Only he has an S impediment (Love!) so he says thoup.

Also when we went to Toys R Us last weekend to spend the gift cards from Mimi and Papa, while Deaglan took close to eight hours to deliberate on just the right thing (an Iron Man star tek armour set) Naveen walked straight to the bright pink aisles, found a sparkling fuchsia Minnie Mouse tea cart on wheels, fully equipped with three different cupcakes, a lazy Susan, and purple serving tray and declared without hesitation that this is what he'd be taking home.

Phew. 

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

Cost savings

On the weekend we went shopping at one of those enormous toy warehouses that have popped up in recent years. It was held in a large event center, for a limited engagement, and promised discounts so high that had it not been for the free admission, lack of shopping carts and food samples, I would have bet the geniuses at Costco were behind it.

Because let’s face it, you have to be brilliant to charge a membership fee to a giant warehouse filled with jumbo-sized crap people didn’t even know they needed until you suggested it. Needless to say I was giddy with shopping joy at the prospect.

We had just one small problem: the kids were with us.

The thing is, we don’t go out often enough to have established any regular local babysitters – Shaune’s folks drive the hour to where we are when we need them.  Besides, we reasoned, how bad could it be? We’d just prep Deaglan - tell him that we’d be going to a toy store to get an idea of the things he and Naveen might want to ask Santa for. We’d emphasize that we weren’t going to buy anything. And when the kids weren’t paying attention, I’d subtly point out the things we should grab so Shaune could sneak back around, pick those toys up, lose us so he could pay, hide them under blankets in the back of the van before finding us again. Seamless, right?

You can imagine how well this went over.

My subtlety was completely lost on my husband. Every time I pointed to something I wanted him to take note of, he’d look at me baffled.

“What??”

“The G-U-I-T-A-R”, I’d spell through tight lips, doing my best ventriloquist.

“I have no idea what you’re saying.” He’d say loudly, clearly irritated.

“That’s because you’re deaf.” I’d hiss, “Get your bloody hearing checked!”

And Deaglan went between begging us to let him get one toy – just one and crying big fat watery tears because we were the meanest parents that ever lived, while Naveen hurried down each aisle, telling us strident and clear that he wanted every toy for his borthe-day, could he pease have his borthe-day now. He didn't care that he was born in May. 

At one point, after Shaune had left to take our purchases to the car, I was held hostage between books and playhouses. Naveen refused to come out of the Dora tent and Deaglan wouldn't budge unless I agreed to buy him just one toy. A child-less grandmother-type who’d been watching me from a few feet away came over with what I at first mistakenly assumed was a sympathetic smile.

“I guess you’ll know better next time. These poor little guys are just learning about Santa, they shouldn’t be here.” 

Miraculously, with great restraint, I didn't wrestle the old bat to the ground; didn't  pummel her with the frustrations of my day. You want to talk about savings. I mentally tallied the thousands of therapy hours I'd just saved my kids.

Instead I crawled in after Naveen, dragged him out and threw him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes - a  screeching, kicking, pinching sack of potatoes and forcefully led Deaglan by the elbow toward the exit. 

I don’t need to tell you how early the cocktail hour came that day.