Will you know my name?

I rarely struggle with my faith anymore.

I feel certain that God is okay with my buffet approach to His Kingdom. I pick what I like from each religion I encounter and add it to my plate. I hardly ever feel the need to justify the various snack sized portions I choose to take in. 

After all, I was born on the other side of the world to devout Muslims and less than a decade later was learning about Jesus at Catholic school in Canada. The change in exposure did nothing to change who I really am.  This truth has always quieted me in the face of religious debate. I feel a deep connection to God and sense that He doesn’t care how I label it.

Recently, however, my smorgasbord belief system was tested.

Halfway through Heaven is for real one evening, Deaglan came into the family room.  I explained what I was watching and told him he should watch too. As always, he had 57 questions. He doesn’t quite understand the concept of non-animated television.

“Is this happening somewhere right now?”  “Are these people real?” “Did that guy just say the F word??”

I explained again that TV is mostly a person with a camera filming people who are pretending...someone has a story idea and asks people to act out that story in front of a video camera. 

It gets trickier when the movie is based on true events.  Our conversation about this particular movie went something like this:

Did that boy really go to heaven?

Well, yes, from what he says, it sounds like that’s where he went.

So this movie happened in real life?

Ummm, yes.

That boy right there went to heaven?

Well, not him, but someone like him.

More complicated than explaining the difference between the movie and real life versions though, was knowing how to respond to my son’s pointed questions about my faith.

Mom, do you believe Heaven looks like that, the way the boy says it does?

Ummm...yup, I think so.

Should I believe it too?

If you like that idea. Do you like that idea?

I think I do. Does everybody go to Heaven?

Well...if they believe in it, I guess.

I felt Shaune's eyebrow shoot up from across the room.  I shot back a look that I hoped said obviously I mean that if the concept of Heaven is not real for you then you might not care about going there after you die!

Okay then, I want to believe it too...Will I see Great Gramma Mac and Judge and Crash in Heaven?

Yes.

But what about you and Dad? Will I see you there?  

My son’s voice was no longer inquisitive. It had taken on something close to desperation.

Yes of course you will!

But if you look different in heaven (the boy in the movie saw his grandfather not as the old man he was before he died, but as a young man), how will I find you?

His heart broke open then. He cried heavy hot tears into my chest; hugged me tightly.

I won’t be able to find you! How will we find each other in Heaven?!?

Hey, shhhh...it’s okay. You won’t have to look for me, sweetheart. Daddy and I will be waiting for you. As soon as we know you’re coming, we’ll be standing waiting for you!

Speaking of Heaven, here are some pictures from Naveen's birthday and some from our trip to KOA.

 

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.

When did this happen?

My university roommate once told me that for a while, her younger brother was calling their mother “Old Yeller”. She, her sisters and Mom could not figure out how he knew of the movie or the main character’s name. Finally they asked him, “Tyler, why do you call Mom Old Yeller?”

“Because she’s old and she yells at me.”

He was five.

I haven’t been called anything so offensive, and frankly downright ageist, yet, but regularly hear that I’m really, really mean, or unfair, and often when no words carry the weight of the fury they’re feeling, simply, “I hate you Mom.”

Also, I’m not sure if my kids understand age. Naveen still thinks it’s all cyclical for some reason. He’s always starting conversations with, “Mom, when I’m weally, weally big and you ah a little boy…” or “Someday when you ah in my tummy and I’m the Mommy…” Deaglan on the other hand, could use a few lessons on regression; that kid can count too high for my liking. Sometimes he’ll ask me how old I am and if I’m feeling particularly girlish and extremely non-premenstrual, I throw caution to the wind and ask him to guess. It goes without saying I’ve finished the better part of a glass of wine at these times.

Lately I’ve thought about my age and mortality more than ever before. I’m trying to come to terms with the idea that I’m “middle-aged”. I mean when did this happen? And while I’m on the subject, where does the kid at the bank get off calling me Mrs. McNamara? Do they not teach simple psychology at bank telling school? Mrs. McNamara = I’m now irritated and defensive. And also? I hate your stupid tie. On the other hand, Kim, in a flirty tone that implies you think we’re close in age = unsolicited calls to your manager raving about your customer service skills.

Have a nice day my ass.

It’s not like I’m on a crusade. I don’t buy anti-aging creams or lotions. I don’t fantasize about Botox. And it’s not for the reasons you might think; it’s not because I don’t believe they work. I’m just too cheap to spend the money and too afraid of the unknown side effects.

A cheap coward.

Also, a part of me hopes to be able to just get on with it. Get old but still have the energy I’ll need to live my life. Get old but deal with it in some semblance of grace. Except when it comes to my hair. I will not deal with grey hair with grace. I will fight those greys right up until the end.

Fight them, do you hear me?


Speaking of aging, Shaune had a birthday at the end of January. He had the nerve to ask me how old I'd be this year. I didn't dignify him with a response. Seriously. How rude. Just wait till next year when he turns 40. He won't be feeling so smug.

I had a bit of time to write a second post today.

Shaune took Deaglan to a birthday party. It left me and Naveen together at home. Here's what I made him for lunch. He'll only eat "snack plates". You can put just about any combination of  his favourite things on it, just make sure you address it properly. Snack plate. Not lunch.

I'm no authority

I’m not sure I like being the authority on things.

Lately I find myself defining things I’d rather not. Naveen is full of questions all the time. Like last week he asked, “Mommy what does “part” mean?”

Huh?? Really? I wanted to ask. Right now? While I’m trying to hurry your brother into the school to sign him in so I can get you to the daycare and get to work? After I had to bargain with chocolate to get your shoes on? I have to now define the word “part” to a three year old with no other context?

It’s part of the parenting gig, I know.

And I enjoy it most of the time. I really do. But last week when I caught wind of Deaglan humming to himself I was sorry I asked what he was singing.

“Heyyyyyyyy,sexy lady!”he repeated louder, zooming Lightning McQueen up a couch cushion ramp. Then as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “Heyyyyyyy sexy Mommmmy!”

Gulp.

“You know what honey? Sexy is an adult word. Let’s not say that word.”

“That’s the song Sara plays for us at school in the program (the after-school program). Why can’t we say it? What does it mean?”

“Well, it’s just a word adults sometimes use to describe each other.”

Naveen suddenly interested: “Heyyyy sexwee Mommmy!!!, hahahaha.”

I was thinking about this on the drive this morning when Tom Power told the story about a time when he ducked into the Ship Inn Pub, in St. John’s Newfoundland for a pint and found the patrons eerily quiet, eyes fixed on the stage. He said when he scanned the bar he noticed that almost every person was mouthing the words to the song the band up front was singing.

The band was the Skydiggers. They were singing Fire engine (Red explosion). He then played the song.

A small thrill ran through me. I love the Skydiggers. I first saw them at the pub at Brock University in my second year and instantly became a fan. I had their album Restless within arm’s reach for the next 15 years.

To this day, track 12 still slays me every time I hear it.

Maybe when they’re old enough I’ll explain to the boys that that song is the definition of sexy. Come to think of it, by that point they probably won't want to hear me say the word sexy.

Totally unrelated but if you have two minutes watch this video I got of Naveen at bedtime tonight. He's explaining why he's angry at Deaglan. He has a lot to say on almost everything all the time these days.

 

 

 

Kind caring men who can bake pies

Friday after school I asked Deaglan how he did when it was his turn to tell the class how his parents had chosen his name.

We’d practiced the story the night before, how originally he was going to be named Patrick after Daddy (Shaune’s first name is Patrick) and Great Grampa but then Daddy decided that he needed his own name and after disappearing into the basement for 20 minutes to consult with Google, came back with the name Deaglan – pronounced like the more common version Declan but spelled the Celtic way. After I pared the story down a few times, we settled on this version: Daddy found my name on the computer. Mommy loved it. My middle name is William after my Grampa.

“I didn’t get a turn to talk about my name but I told everybody that my Mom is from Bangladesh.”

I’m always surprised when he mentions something about my childhood to other people. I don’t talk about it all that much and when I do I’m careful not to overwhelm the kids with too many stories. It’s a fight in me that I will never resolve. On the one hand I am desperate to teach them that they were born into this abundant life not because they are more deserving than the millions of kids who were born into severe poverty, but by chance. And yet I am acutely aware that belaboring my point for any length of time could have the opposite effect so I choose carefully when to bring it up.

More than anything, I want to raise kind caring men who are aware of the inequality that is so common in our world. I also want them to be happy. I want them to find good partners and good jobs and be surrounded by good loving friends. I want them to care about the world and contribute to making it better.

I also want them to live on the same street as Shaune and me for all of their live long days and provide me with a handful of grandkids.

But that’s a whole other post.

Deaglan told me that he couldn’t remember why he told everybody where I was from but everybody had lots of questions that he couldn’t answer. I made an excited mental note to show him again where Bangladesh is on the globe. But because the moment had presented itself, I took out the letter we’d recently received from one of the girls we sponsor.

Keerthana is the same age as Deaglan so we had a  wonderful discussion about the differences of being in grade one in Canada and Sri Lanka.

Today Shaune took the kids to the apple orchard  and taught them how to bake a pie.

60 one hundred lasterdays

If I’m going to be completely honest, I’ve resisted just about every new phase of parenting.

There was that initial few months with the first new baby where a part of me couldn’t help but think – this is a bloody nightmare, and though the strength of this sentiment eventually rounded and fuzzied itself out in my heart and mind, there was still a fair bit of swearing under my breath when both kids began crawling, and then again when they needed to be toilet trained and weaned from the things they didn't want to give up.

I almost always trip a little when my sense of control is challenged.

Three years ago when Deaglan first started skating lessons, I again felt light-headed at the thought of spending every Saturday morning of that winter shivering behind dirty glass watching him fall and then get up, fall and then get up.

Each fall a physical blow as if to my own body.

We’re a bit seasoned now, two skating sessions and three years of soccer under our belts, some baseball and swimming too. And so it should be no surprise to you that this weekend we entered into that rite of passage so many Canadian families enter willingly – we suited up our skinny kid, handed him a stick and hoped for the best as he slowly made his way onto the ice. We again stood watching and cringing and this time I saw Shaune vomit a little in his mouth when a more experienced parent mentioned that the hockey season includes every Saturday and Sunday right into March.

I was tempted to weep that hockey would rob us of any overnight weekend plans but then I remembered how we felt at the end of this last soccer season: A part of something with the other parents. We all cheered our kids and the kids on the other teams; we didn’t care about goals and winning. By the end of the summer all of us parents knew all the kids’ names, cared for them as if they were our own, unwrapping granola bars and wiping chins, bringing extra treats for the younger ones that weren’t old enough to play.

This morning Naveen came into our bed and asked if we were going to the hockey balrena like we did lasterday. I squeezed my eyes shut tight. A few minutes later Deaglan crawled in, cuddled up close to me and whispered I love you Mom, I love you 60 one hundred times around the world. You’re the best mom a kid could want even when you’re mad at me. For no reason whatsoever.

I sunk into acceptance. What else was I going to do this early on Sunday morning?

It digs beneath my surface

It must have been crippling for my mother when she had to leave my sister and me behind.

Now and then I think about how it was for her and I can’t escape this truth: Mutilation. That’s how it would surely feel if someone told me I could no longer see Deaglan and Naveen every day, no longer inhale the nape of their necks whenever I needed to.

Mutilation with no hope of medical treatment.

Last night I stayed up late reading this and by the middle of page 45 I had to put it down. I cried noiselessly into my hands trying not to wake my family. It’s not surprising that his writing has this effect. I wept deeply in places when I read this and this. Khaled Hosseini’s storytelling digs beneath my surface everytime. I believe his words to ring true because essentially he tells the stories of my history too.

He tells stories that push me to the brink of gratitude and guilt.

Last night I surveyed my life; my fortunate, easy life. I wondered for the thousandth time since coming to this country how much different it could have been if I was still in Bangladesh. I cried more. I saw no logic. I looked over at Naveen who was asleep beside me, his long dark lashes settled fanlike on his sun-kissed brown cheeks. Earlier in the day, at Costco, we’d indulged him and walked up and down the vacuum aisle three times so he could savor each model, each make, the different colors and sizes. I thought too of Deaglan, who stopped playing long enough that morning to lightly touch my big toe and tell me that he loved my toenail polish. His sometimes version of “I love you.”

Last night I had to put the book down.

Those kinds of stories, the ones about real suffering and real sorrow weigh on me heavily. I find myself unable to process them for long stretches. It’s a weakness. Just like the way I am acutely aware that I have not yet ever written a letter to either of the girls we sponsor. I’ve never sent them the small gifts they are allowed to receive. Never sent them pictures of my boys or our life.

I justify it.

I justify it by remembering how it felt for me in the orphanage when other children would receive photo albums from their new parents in Canada or America. Photos of large lavish homes. Cars. Televisions. I remember how it felt to suddenly want things you didn’t even know existed. Want things you didn’t even know you needed.

Last night. I read the book and thought of these things. I thought about how it must have been for my mother.

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.

Simple, human and oh so far from perfect

I’ve spent a lot of time this past year wishing we had a bigger house in a different neighbourhood. 

The truth is, we’re quickly outgrowing our three-bedroom semi-detached with its shared front yard and driveway. I think six years ago Shaune and I made an inadvertently good decision. At the time it was in our price range but we couldn’t have known then how much two children, childcare (Close to $15,000 this year!) and everything else that comes with family life would someday cost us .

Over the years, we’ve grown attached to our little street, made some very good friends with our neighbours and to my delight have connected with some of the parents of Deaglan’s school friends because they live on our street or the one only a block over. 

It satisfies a deep yearning I’ve always had, to plant myself firmly in a home, feel connected to it and the people close by.

And yet in the back of my mind I know this rootedness is only practice for the next house we move to. The one I keep calling our “forever” home; the one I imagine will be in another part of town, flanked by like-minded neighbours with kids the same ages as ours, comparable salaries and jobs, maybe a pool in the backyard, and definitely a double car garage for Shaune.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of grand things. 

It never occurred to me to imagine a large wedding or granite countertops. I didn’t know I was supposed to want crown moulding or an ensuite. And I watch myself even now, on some level, keeping a distance from a crowd that might make me think these things are important.

A few days ago Deaglan told me that one of his friends, his best friend actually, during play at school, constantly threatens to call the police when things aren’t going right or his way. I dug around a bit with gentle questions and it turns out Reid* threatens to call the “cops” if he feels he’s been wronged or mistreated somehow. He does this all the time according to my boy. I added this information to something else Deaglan told me about Reid a few weeks ago which is that once in a while Reid goes to his Daddy’s house on the weekends without his Mommy.

My heart hurt for Reid. I couldn’t help but play out the scenes of his parents fighting, sometimes violently, before they decided to separate.

Last night our neighbour across the street walked over with her two oldest children. She wanted to let me know that her husband had been arrested again. She wanted us to know in case we were wondering why we hadn’t seen Marcus* around lately. 

Their oldest child is also in Deaglan’s class, a tiny raven-haired beauty with the inkiest black eyes you've ever seen. I adore all three kids but this girl, well there’s something about her that makes me ache for a daughter.  We’d socialized with the family a few times and almost always call the two oldest girls over to play in our backyard on sunny days.

The mother, my neighbour from across the street, told me that she’d lied to the kids (ages five, four and two), told them that Daddy had gone back to Jamaica* to visit his sick father and might have to stay there for a while. She didn’t think the oldest girl, Deaglan’s classmate, believed it.

All last night my heart hurt for those kids and especially for that little girl. I couldn’t get her hauntingly beautiful but sad eyes out of my mind.

And while I lay there, something else crept in. It wasn’t as noble. It snuck in the way it always does; when I wasn't paying attention. It filled me with shame. I was reminded that I am still, afterall, simple, and human and oh so far, far from perfect.

It was a whisper of a voice urging me to move my family to a better neighbourhood; one without jail sentences and late-night domestic calls.

All day that family across the street, the one with the dad who is sitting in a jail cell, all day they were on my mind. I wondered what was better for my boys: to live in a neighbourhood where backyard barbecues and two-parent families is the norm or one where we are forced to witness the realities of real life.

The truth is, I don’t know.

*Not their real names. Not the real place.

Dinner conversation

Last night at dinner Deaglan told us a story about a new kid in his class. The kid had the same name as another kid. I asked him if he meant that kid – thought maybe he was still referring to him in this way because he was a junior kindergartner while he himself was a senior kindergartner this year. 

 

"No." he explained. This new kid was not the one  I was referring to. This new kid had “brown all over himself.”

 

Shaune and I looked up from our plates.

 

We have never had any lengthy discussions about race in our house, mostly because the kids are young. But also because a conversation about race these days is made considerably more complicated by the fact that a noticeable number of the kids our kids' ages are of mixed ethnicity just like our boys.

 

One time before this, when we’d landed on a channel airing The Karate Kid movie (the new version with Will Smith’s son), during a fight scene between a group of Chinese boys and the Karate Kid, Deaglan jumped up and exclaimed very excitedly, “Mom, those are Shilo’s brothers!”

 

This was at the beginning of the year when we still hadn’t put names to faces of his new class mates. When he kept bringing Shilo (pronounced Shee-lo) up I’d thought maybe it was an Arabic name. 

 

“Oh, does Shilo look like those boys honey?” I asked.

 

“Yes! I think those might be his brothers. They even have the same hair!”

 

So when he described the new Nathan and clarified the difference between the old Nathan by telling us that he was "brown all over himself", Shaune and I were amused. The Nathan I was referring to, the son of a work colleague is of African-American descent. Although he is biracial.

 

“Is he brown all over himself like Mommy and Naveen?” Shaune asked.

“No, he’s dark brown with balding hair.”

 

I bit my cheek to stay very serious. "Like Daddy's hair?"

 

"Yes."

 

“What colour am I?” I asked, trying to get a better sense of Nathan’s background.

 

“You’re light brown.”

 

Delighted by the way he saw us, I probed further.  “What colour are you?”

 

“Yellow.”
 

 Yellow

 

 Light brown

 

 Biracial

 



  

Balding hair:)



You can find me in a club; bottle full of bub

Last night during bath time, the kids and I were kidding around about our names.

Naveen insisted on being called Grandpa, then Grandma and finally asked us to refer to him only as Daniel. So Deaglan decided they should both start calling me Kimberly. It was a big improvement from a few nights ago when they landed on Mommy-tub. I feigned horror and acted appalled. I knew they didn’t get the implication; they thought it was hysterical because they were in the tub, and well, I’m their Mommy.

Still, I’m glad it didn’t stick.

I don’t mind telling you that for just a second a portal of fear opened up inside me – I caught a glimpse of us around a table 30 years down the road, me as big as a house, wearing a colourful kaftan, the two of them affectionately calling me Mama-tub.

A scene straight out of a Tyler Perry movie.

I listened to Deaglan make a mockery of my name: Kimbo, Kimmy, Kimball (Naveen repeating each one, then both of them laughing maniacally) and it dawned on me that he didn’t know I wasn’t always Kim. So I told him that when I was born, my Bangladesh Mommy and Daddy actually named me Rohima. When I came to Canada Mimi and Papa changed it to Kim.

“Ro-HEEE-MAH????” he asked over and over. He said it to himself a few more times. Then when he was dry and partially clothed again, he ran downstairs and I could hear him asking Shaune if he knew that Mommy’s name was actually Ro-Heee-Mah.  In the middle of the night, when I was escorting him to the bathroom, although half asleep, he whispered it again.

Ro-Heee-mah.

Wait till I tell him that I'm not sure if April 20^th is actually my real birthday. That some orphanage director picked it randomly to fill out my adoption papers. This kind of thing freaks even adults out so I decided to wait a few years; maybe I’ll tell him on my 50^th when he’s 13 and has the ability to process information like that.

It’s hard to believe I’ll be 50 in eight years.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the point I'm at in my life. Wondering how I should look at it. It’s easy to sink into a middle aged depression. There are a hundred things I haven’t accomplished yet.

I’m not thin enough.

I haven’t finished editing the book I’m working on.

I haven’t found the perfect skin care routine.

I haven’t tried to get published.

I've only seen one Springsteen show.

I haven’t been back to Bangladesh or spent any time in India.

I haven’t put good enough effort into healing all the broken relationships in my life.

I haven’t spent enough time with my friends.

Shaune and I have never been on a honeymoon.

I don't own a pair of these Black Laboutins with the wooden heels

Etc. Etc.

But there’s also this: I realized that this could be the midpoint of my life. I could be halfway through this journey. It made me reconsider and I thought hmmm, this is not so bad. After all I

Survived a difficult childhood

Earned a university degree and college diploma

Lived on my own for most of my twenties.

Met Shaune.

Was blessed with Deaglan and Naveen.

Have been to Graceland.

Have called a peaceful free country my home.

Know how to crop myself out of digital pictures.

Have enough shoes.

Deaglan told me that on Saturday when it’s my birthday I should stay upstairs until he calls me because he and Dad would be working on a surprise. He smiled and whispered  loudly that they might even be getting my favourite cake from Costco but he didn't want to say for sure. It was definitely going to be a surprise though.

This morning, because I was having a good hair day and the resulting smugness was making me a bit uncomfortable, I asked Deaglan how old he thought I’d be turning. He closed one eye, looked up at the ceiling and blurted, “56 right? No, I know, I know, you’ll be one hundred."

And just like that, I was back to my insecure humble self.

 I asked Shaune to take a few pictures this morning before I headed out to work. I wanted to post a picture of myself so you wouldn't forget what I looked like. 

 Some of these are from back at Easter. It's been too long since I've posted. I hate that. 

 Shaune put together this set-up so the kids could dye eggs.

 We were so lucky to have a beautiful day to do the Easter egg hunt at Gramma and Grampa's.

Last weekend we painted birdhouses. The next day we filled them with seeds and hung them in the front yard.