We laugh, we sigh, and we shake our heads

Dear Naveen,

A few weeks ago on our way to Daycare, a ten minute drive after we drop Deaglan off, a motorcycle passed us. “Momma,” you said, “I wish I was a moto-cycle dwiver.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, “how come?”
“Because they’re weally, weally cool.”

Several hours later, that same day, on our way home, you told me that 

Adam*, a boy in your preschool room, had slapped you in the face.

“Did you tell Ms. Katie or Sarah?” I asked.
“No, but I wish I could have @*#$ him.”  You replied.
“NA-VEEEEN,” I said, “when someone hurts you, you need to tell a teacher.You don’t wish ____”

That night when I had a few minutes alone with your Dad, I told him the two stories.  His response and I hope you’re reading this as a grown man, sitting behind a mahogany desk, taking a well deserved break from the stacks of blueprints for your next skyscraper, or relaxing after deposing a very rich client’s husband, was to put into words what I’d feared all along:

“I told you” he said, “that kid’s gonna be a Hell’s Angel one day.”

Here’s the thing.

Your brother ruined “normal” for you.  He was a pretty predictable as three year olds go. He had the odd tantrum but on the whole was generally good natured and went with the flow. I feel often that this has not been the case with you.  

I mean this in the most loving-but-I’m–your-mom-so-I-can-say-this kind of way.

For instance you hate mornings. I think you would like them if you weren’t expected to eat breakfast or get dressed. You hate eggs and socks.  And most styles of pants.

You also hate public declarations of love.

From the time he learned to speak, your brother has told me at least a dozen times every day that he loves me. You however, could care less about my desperate need for validation.

On the drive home from school, if I adjust the rear-view mirror to see your little face, you scowl and tell me to stop looking at you. If I bump into you on the way to the kitchen, you accuse me of hitting you on purpose.  And lately, when you feel put out by one of my demands you’ve added the phrase “stinkin’ old” to whatever it is you’re protesting:

“I don’t want to lift the stinkin’ old toilet seat, Momma!”
“I hate stinkin’ old fish. I’m not eating!”
“I’m not wearing stinkin’ old shorts to school. I don’t care if it’s hot!”

You’re a grumpy old curmudgeon in a Preschooler’s body.  

And yet.

You're never far from me.  If we’re in the same room, you need to be in my arms or on my lap. If I’m in the basement doing laundry, you’re waiting for me at the top of the stairs. If I’m inside while you’re playing out back, you come in every few minutes and demand a hug.

“Let’s pretend I’m a baby,” you often say and insist we talk about the old days when you used to nurse. You ask me again and again what you used to call breast milk and are convinced that if I just tried, I could produce it for you even now. You have no intention of growing older you tell me all the time.

You adore your brother. When you draw pictures at school, they’re mostly for Deaglan. You mimic his speech, want the same toys and tell me secretly that your favorite colour is blue “just like Dekwen’s.” This past Saturday morning, I came downstairs to find the two of you sitting on the couch, his arm around you, watching cartoons.

I had no words.

You’ll be four tomorrow and I can’t help but mourn a little. Your chubby toddler legs have gotten lean and strong.  Your smooth little forehead is no longer adorably disproportioned to the rest of your face. You’ve grown into those gloriously abundant ears and you only sometimes sound like a native Bostonian – sadly, you’re learning to say your R’s.

This year you developed a fondness for video games, swear words and grilled salmon. The first two made me uneasy and anxious while the third was bittersweet because it was short-lived. Lately you sustain yourself on anything sugary and anything that resembles a pork chop. You hardly ever mention the vacuum cleaner anymore but you often wish out loud that you could drive a real car.

Don't worry, much to my dismay, that time will come soon enough my sweetheart. But for now, I want you to know that your Dad and I wouldn’t change a single thing about you; we laugh, we sigh, and we shake our heads daily, watching you unfold. I hope you’ll always be your own quirky, delightful, weird and wonderful self.

Unapologetic. Unconventional. Unpredictable.

And if you do end up joining a biker gang when you're older, then I hope you always stay Under the radar

Happy Birthday my sweet baby!

Love always,

Your old lady.

*The names and events in this scenario were changed to protect you from implication in any future crimes.

Some pictures of you from this past year.

The necessary transition from serial killers to swim suits

We took the kids to an indoor water park in Michigan for the March break this past week. 

On the three hour drive I was viscerally alert to the sinister. I noticed things. A few very suspicious looking items caught my attention.  What appeared to be an adult-sized body had been wrapped in an ugly plaid blanket and tossed ever so delicately just beyond the shoulder of the I-69 West. Why, I asked myself, had the driver (killer??) chosen this exact section of the interstate to dispose of the body?

I’ll tell you why.

The shoulder there was narrower. And the ditch a good few feet deeper so that should someone with my scrutinizing abilities notice the evidence, it would be almost impossible to pull over to get a better look.

Twenty or so miles later when we pulled into a rest stop, I scanned the parking lot. In the sizeable yet rustic bathroom, I held my breath to fend off the porta-potty stink, peeked under the stalls and inspected the alignment of the ceiling tiles. When I was sure there was no one lurking in wait, I hurriedly did my business and ran breathlessly back to the van.   

You can never be too careful. These things are almost always connected.

A hundred miles later at the water park, I fine tuned my radar.  I was on the lookout for serial killer types.

Incidentally, that evening when I connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, I could not find my show on Netflix. I felt something close to panic at the prospect of waiting three whole days to find out how Dexter would deal with the murder of Rita. The season four finale was a crushing blow and I was desperately in need of a tidy explanation.

After a few hours poolside though, I was able to transition from serial killers to swimsuits. I am equally fascinated by both in a sick twisted sort of way. I never want to be (in) one but can’t resist their demented charm when confronted.  

The water park was teeming with parents of young children. In other words, I was among my own people. Men and women in the sophomore and junior years of parenthood, milled about; their babies and young children in tow, outfitted safely in water wings, life jackets and swim diapers.

Almost every mother there seemed to shrink behind some semblance of swim outfit she’d pieced together, wondering like me, why she’d allowed herself to be talked into this type of ‘vacation’ destination when it meant walking around helplessly parading the wreckage child-birth had tolled on her body.

There were plenty of tankinis. I assessed each one, hoping to see at least a few variations with the right built-in bra structure and enough give in the mid section. I was ready to ask for the shopping details, if the perfect one should cross my path. But no such luck. They all fit the same.  Plunging V-neck with little to no support and a too narrow cup area, so that half of each post partum breast hung low and exposed.

There were also many sporty one pieces, which without exception made the wearer look as if she had a short, squat, square torso. The exact opposite effect any of us wants when so scantily clad. I’d gone down this road after Deaglan was born. It was a very dark period of my life. One I am appalled Shaune caught on camera and one I can only hope to someday forget.

Some of my colleagues thought they could hide the damage with a strategically tied sarong or fetching beach cover-up, a tactic I’d used a few summers ago when the stifling heat and unbearable humidity had us driving to the beach at least a few days each week.

Yet most commonly worn, I noticed, was a throwback to a bygone era - a variation of the one piece with the added skirt/skort so that we looked like a modern less modest version of this.

After two and a half days of sucking in my stomach and walking around with a wet knotty bun, I was ready to move on. 

Our plans had included sidetracking so we could squeeze in a visit with my sister and her gang near Detroit. On route I spotted a DSW, a coveted oasis amid the desert of kiddie care I'd been lingering in. I convinced Shaune that I was in dire need.  In 20 minutes I was a new woman; refreshed and ready for the next phase of the trip. 

I hold these two beauties solely responsible.

The kids had a wild time reconnecting. Ashalina, my youngest niece, even fell asleep on the ride from the playscape to the restaurant. My brother-in-law Rick kindly turned around so we could capture her in this group shot.

I was relieved to get home late last night. I did a little reconnecting myself. I'm happy to report that Dexter was again in my queue.

About Movember - can we set some boundaries?

I don’t know about Movember.

Well it’s a great cause, sure. And why not come up with a fun way to raise money to support men’s health? Lord knows it’s like pulling teeth to get them to go in for check-ups on their own. Genius when you think about it - appealing to their sensibilities while raising awareness. Kind of like hiding the baby’s antibiotics in the ice cream.

But honestly?

Do you know the level of concentration it takes to make eye-contact with some of my male colleagues lately? Without laughing out loud or cringing? I mean shouldn’t there be some guidelines? Rules like if growing a moustache takes you from urban soccer Dad to creepy-looking minivan guy in a few short weeks, then maybe consider showing your support in another way?

And do I now need to have this same conversation with Shaune every November? That growing a moustache might not be one of his strengths? That those patchy little tufts of hair sprouting on his face when he foregoes shaving cannot accurately be called a stache?

I’m not saying only the Tom Sellecks should don facial hair. I get how freeing it must be to let loose, get wild, join the Mo brotherhood. I’ve been known to let my hair down. I’m the first one to slap down my two bucks on Denim Fridays.

But hey, you don’t see me squeezing myself into a pair of low waisted skinny jeans just because it's a good cause.

 Movember.ca