bambamblog

The Blues

Dear Oliver,

You’re having a hard time with friends at school just now. You’re feeling bossed, teased, left out, made to sit with girls, and generally on the outs.

I want one or several of the following:

• to whisk you away from it all;
• to sneak slimy mud into the sandwiches of anyone who hurts your feelings;
• to hold a private meeting with each of your classmates explaining why you’re the best;
• to give you a superpower where your skin gets thick at crucial times.

I really do want these abilities sometimes. I totally feel it when you’re sad, and I know how sensitive you are (I am too). But then I think a little more and I know I have to let you figure it out and feel the bad stuff as well as the good. You’re going to feel each extreme hard no matter what age you are, I’m pretty sure. I’ll coach you as much as I can … tell you to say “whatever” rather than react too much, walk away, shrug as if it didn’t touch you. But we’re not really “whatever” people, you and me. So all I can do, it seems, is love you through it. I will.

Mom

Siblings

Aaagh. So long without a post. Somehow my DNS settings got reversed, whatever that means, and it took me forever to ask my friend Travis from Hop Studios to fix it (which he did in an instant). Oliver is now four-and-a-half and Georgia is 22 months, and everything’s turned up a notch since I last wrote. Mostly, the sibling deal is ON. Till a couple of months ago, Georgia was “baby” and Oliver thought she was cute and … kinda lumpish, really. A creature to be loved, yes, but one with little actual play value.

This is not the case anymore. She is his sister and not his baby anymore, and she can be teased and made to laugh and cry. What’s more, she can tease and make him laugh and cry. He loves it. She loves it. And oh my God, we love it. Georgia’s common refrain these days, delivered in a singsong voice, is “Dada, mama, Ah-ver. Dada, mama, Ah-ver.”

We are enlisting O’s help when it comes to teaching Georgia to talk. She’s got dozens of words and at least half of them we actually understand. O was enthusiastic from the get-go about helping, though he employs a slightly suspect teaching methodology. He simply thinks of a word, like “usually,” and asks G if she can say it. “Ooo-ee,” she’ll say, much to his delight, but of course it doesn’t mean anything. The other day I asked him if he could maybe choose objects in the room he could point to so she could link meaning to what she was saying. He was all up for this.

“Georgia,” he said, pointing to the light on the ceiling, “Light. Georgia say, ‘light.’”

Georgie: “Chueugh.”

O: “What Georgie?”

Georgie: “Chahlghr.”

[Pause]

O: “Mama! She said ‘Chinese lantern!’”

Georgia has also apparently said “groundhog,” “curry,” and “seatbelt” but perhaps I just don’t have a good ear.

Despite O’s kind guidance, Georgia is often a harsh judge of his performance. Should he even hint at crying—say a whine is escalating—she will move swiftly to his side, preferably with him prone on the floor. Not to comfort. Not at all. Upon releasing the first note of distress, O will meet with a small raised hand above his head. All too often, he won’t see the hand for the warning it is—not soon enough, at least. Too often, he will linger a little longer on the note, and then it will be too late: that hand will land swiftly and sonorously on his head along with a stern and meaningful glare from above. It is so funny, this tiny thing doling out the whoop-ass, that even O cannot help but succumb to the giggles and forget how much he wanted to cry.

For now. Georgia’s days as the untouchable half-babe, half-girl will soon be over, but my, we are enjoying them.

 

 

 

Georgia the Fierce

Things are pretty amazing with the kids right now. Oliver’s in a happy place—still karate-chopping, banging, and leaping through life as he does, and yet … unusually mellow and level (he’s normally a heart-on-the-sleeve kind of guy). He’s found his stride at school, having lost some self-consciousness that was making him both overly bossy and quick to feel hurt.

And Georgia. Oh, Georgia. My sweet little pea got restless and has turned into a ferocious, wobbly, adorable, loud tyrant. “Mein, mein!” she shouts, or “Nein, nein!” for anything within reach or sight (it’s definitely German the way she says it, hence the spelling). We can give her a whole counter-full of objects and still she will holler for more. She has suddenly become very aware, at 16 months, that she is part of a family—and by hook or by crook, she’s going to carve some space for herself in it and make us all know where she stands.

Oliver, for his part, finds this hilarious. She can whack him, poke at his eyes, stick her finger up his nostril … whatever, and he will succumb to a fit of giggles. Last night, when he, Georgia, and I were rolling around on the floor (this is what became of my attempt to show him how to do a sit-up), he said—as much to himself as anyone else—“She’s perfect.” It was one of those moments you just don’t forget.

Georgia’s assertiveness coincides with a new period of heightened separation anxiety, which is awful when we’re trying to work and having to leave her screaming with her poor, lovely nanny, but wonderful when we get to reconnect at the end of the day. Just this week, she began insisting on kissing and hugging both Craig and Oliver before I put her down. Last night, Oliver had fallen asleep early on Craig after a vigorous swimming lesson, and this was unacceptable to G: kissing him on the cheek wasn’t going to do it for her. We eventually cranked O’s head round enough so she could peck him on the lips. She smiled with utter satisfaction, then called it a night. “Nigh' nigh',” she cooed, and waved her royal wave.

Our Day

I know I talked about wanting to write more of the “bad” stuff, and I should, and I will, but as life goes on I realize how crazy it is to not hold on to the good stuff (morbid, ponderous, but true). So I will write a possibly saccharine but unapologetic account of the way my family spent our afternoon and evening today.

5 pm: Oliver gets his hair cut by a beautiful woman named Hiba. She tells him that she loves him and that he is her favourite client. He looks handsome as a devil and believes every word.

5:45 pm: Oliver, Georgia, Craig, and I head to a restaurant of Oliver’s choosing and order calamari, “Nona’s meatballs,” and a thin-crust pizza. Oliver chokes on a calamari but overall we are all very happy with our meals and environment. Oliver brings Georgia over to a baby at another table and makes the two do fist-pumps.

6:30 pm: To Dovercourt Park, where O and Craig chase each other and play hide and seek, and Georgia withstands the attentions of a three-year-old bruiser who quite likes her but not enough to share or not trample her a little.

7:30 pm: Bath, then Craig puts O down and I settle in with Georgia.

8 pm: Georgia and I head downstairs—she’s way too ramped up. She flings books out of the library and then we work on identifying all 100 stuffed animals in our basement.

8:15 pm: Oliver and Craig come down—O wants to go to sleep with me. He provides some help with the stuffed animal classifications then cuddles in with Craig on the futon to boo the Boston Bruins.

8:30 to 9 pm: Georgia empties then fills up pretend cookies into a box roughly 314 times. Each time she pops one back in coincides with a satisfied and emphatic “there!” She also practices her walking (she can do about five very proud steps now on her own).

Meanwhile, O is full of dada love. He walks through the basement picking up various objects for either a full give to Craig or a sharesy (the Senators’ blanket). Craig winds up with about ten new toys, and Oliver professes earnestly that he is giving these presents “because I love you so much, dada.”

9 pm: Up we go for a snack. Oliver: “This was the best day. The greatest day.” I ask him why. “Because I gave my dad all those things.” We go through all the highlights. When we hit calamari, he says he wants some more. I say we don’t have more but I should figure out how to make them. “Oh I know, mom. I figured it out with my mind.” It turns out it requires sugar, ice cream, sprinkles, and cinnamon then you just bake ‘em in the oven like that.

“Nigh’ nigh’” says a by now wobbling Georgia. “Night night” say Craig and Oliver, and then it’s over. It was good. So good.

Savour It

For the most part, Oliver has adjusted amazingly well to having a sibling—he loves George, especially now that she's out of adorable blob phase and can actually play with him, or at least try to. She reveres him and of course finds him hilarious; their favourite game right now is chase, at which she is at a distinct disadvantage given even fast crawling can't keep up with running—but she doesn't seem to mind, and sometimes he even drops to his fours.

Still, there is the whole problem of my having to divide my attention between two. He's overall patient, but he also makes it clear how much he wants alone time with me, which I try (with Craig's help) to give him whenever possible.

When I pick him up at school, his first question following the usual "Can I wear my Canucks shirt now?" (this shirt still makes up at least one-third of our daily conversation—we're into year two of the obsession) is,

"Can I do something with you?"

Then,

"Do you want to do something with me?"

Second to Canucks attire, with Oliver, is a big deal. To be honest, his bond with me is sometimes overwhelming; it can be hard to catch my breath sometimes from the sheer force of it. There are nights when I'm told at least ten times how much I am liked and loved.

See? What am I complaining about. Life changes in the blink of an eye. This is a blink. There will be many, many years in the future where I will return to this blink and try to remember every blessed, intense second of it.

Wondrous G

I gotta get it down, I know I do. I look back on all the entries on Oliver and I know I would remember less than half of what happened had I not documented it here. But so far, I’ve written so little on Georgia.

The story with G is both more complicated and simpler than with O. O was and is so outrageous that his exploits demand a public venue. And writing it out makes it easier to laugh than to cry; the two emotions are so close when it comes to parenting O. I am rarely, rarely quietly soaking up the best of O: I am hit over the head with it, sometimes literally. He either makes you want to pull your hair out or cover him with kisses. The other day at a christening: “Mama, can you pull my pants up? I just peed under the table with Molly” (and ripped up all the grass to boot). The other night in the tub: Me: “Should I get out now to make some room for you?” O: “No, I love you too much.”

With G, things are quieter. Of course part of that is that she’s only eight months old; but O was yammering and yelling his head off at eight months. G coos, and cries, and laughs, but mostly she smiles. Mostly she concerns herself with letting you know you’re the sweetest thing she’s ever laid eyes on, and every time she sees you, it’s like she’s surprised to have been blessed anew. She looks up and simply beams. You smile back and she looks like she might topple over from gratitude. When she’s really thrilled with something, G succumbs to a fit of snorting and sniffling that scrunches up her whole face and her toothless grin doubles in size. She’s normally a beauty, but this show of ecstasy is almost creature-like in its bizarre adorableness.

Like all second children, G watches her elder sibling closely and is particularly chuffed when she’s allowed to follow in his footsteps, like when we guide her down slides or push her slowly in a baby swing. She struggles for O’s attention when he’s not bestowing it vigorously of his own accord; if it’s won, she gets a look of pure satisfaction and adoration. If anyone’s going to make Georgia laugh, it’s Oliver.

I am writing this in bed, in the dark, with Georgia dreaming beside me. We have at most three nights left before she leaves my bed to be sleep-trained, away from me and nursing, into her crib in another room, soothed for the first few nights by her dad and eventually by no one but herself. It seems impossible. I can’t imagine not sleeping with her, though she now wakes at least four times a night and I can’t function most mornings I’m so tired. In the night, when she cries out expectantly, whether it’s for the first or seventh time, I turn over lightning quick to put her back to sleep. And stroke her downy hair. And hold hands. And listen to her breathe as she settles again. 

I will miss this. But I have written it.

 



Talking Points

When Oliver turned three last month, he really took it upon himself to shake off the lowly two’s and assume his rightful place as a big boy. He wished the year adieu—“Goodbye, two,” he said solemnly, walking on Elgin Street the morning of his birthday—and, as if he had it all mapped out, he updated his persona and activities to suit the new times.

In particular, Oliver is done with simple declarations and plain old fart and poo jokes. The latter will always entertain (duh!), but he’s now experimenting with more sophisticated humour, word play, and stories. I don’t think we’re alone, as parents, in delighting in the awkward, foreign weight of the “adultisms” (my word for the throwaway phrases we all get used to using) he’s peppering into his language.

It started with “actually”:

• “Actually, I’ll have raisins with my oatmeal.”
• “Actually, these are not pants, they’re jeans.”
• “Actually, is my Spiderman mask still in the Jesus dryer?”

Okay, maybe not the Jesus part, but you get the gist of it.

Now he’s progressed to reminding me of things (not a bad idea):

• O: “I’d like to remind you of something, mama.”
• Me: “Yes?”
• O: “I’d like to remind you that when I was a baby, when I was just borned, my titi [his penis] was attached to your bellybutton by a string.”
• Me: “Well, not your titi so much as your bellybutton, kind of.”
• O: “Mama, I’d like to remind you that when I was a baby, my bellybutton was attached …kind of … to your ... bellybutton ... by a string. [Pause] Why mama? Why?”
• Me: [Pause] [Pause] “Thank you for reminding me, Oliver.”

It’s with gusto, too, that O is trotting out his new sense of language. Gusto and a touch of sanctimony. For about a year, I have neglected to tell Oliver that his pronunciation of “orangutan,” that smelly jungle swinger, is well, wrong. That’s because his own version is so danged cute: “tangorang.” But now that he’s all big and worldly, I felt I owed him the truth the other night when one of the monkeys appeared in a bedtime story. I was a little nervous about what his reaction would be; he’s not in love with being corrected (a trait inherited from his father). I needn’t have fretted.

• Me: “Oliver, you know that, actually, that monkey is an O-RANG-A-TAN? An O, RANG, A, TAN, you know?”
• O, with the merest of blinks: “Yes, or, ‘Tangorang,’ mama. ‘Tangorang’ for short."

That was a peaceful night. On not so peaceful nights, sometimes we offer Craig up as a threat to O for bad behaviour. Is this a good idea? No. Will it scar their relationship forever? Maybe. But it does make for some good humour. For example, when Oliver was wriggling madly out of protest on our insistence he get in the bath the other night, we informed him that Craig would go to sleep with him rather than me if he didn’t hop in pronto. His response:

• “Go to bed with dada? [Pause]. Not mama? [Pause] We can’t have THAT!”

Three is definitely, for us, the transition from O’s merely enjoying communicating and acquiring words to really playing with them and exploring concepts. One of these concepts is friendship. He definitely associates friends with good things. When he and Craig were traipsing through Halifax’s beautiful Public Gardens on Spring Road a couple of weeks ago, he noted, “I used to live here with my friends.” Hmm. And whenever he sees kids his age when we’re out walking, whether he knows them or not, he says, “Those are friends of mines [sic].”

No matter how much of a big boy Oliver is now and sophisticated with language, there’s one concept he can’t grasp; but none of us can. We had to put our kitty down last week (very sad) and we thought it had kind of gone over O's head since he wasn’t too troubled the day it happened. But tonight, he wanted kitty back.

• O: “Where is kitty?”
• Me: “Oliver, he’s gone now. He died.”
• O: “How much did he die?”
• Me: “All the way.”
• O: “Oh.”
• O: “I want kitty back.”

So we hugged. Sometimes talking is good, and sometimes hugging is better.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Beauty

Oliver called me beautiful tonight. We were lying in bed after a tough evening caused by what we suspect was a tough day at school. He is betwixt and between being little and big and can't decide which he prefers. On the one hand, he’s fascinated by the older kids at school, who inhabit the upstairs, or “Casa,” of the Montessori he attends. On the other, he’s loath to give up the leadership status and security he’s achieved in the downstairs toddler program. He oscillates between wanting to go upstairs, where he is welcome because he is now potty-trained (yay!), and aching to stay downstairs where he “remembers” the kids (his way of saying he knows them). The confusion manifests in his being wild, whiny, and prone to nonsense talk, fake laughter, and other irritating tics.

Except at night, when I lie down with him before he goes to sleep. Then I hear a bit more about the hurts and insults of the day, and his wired body gradually releases its tension. It was during this time tonight that Oliver called me beautiful. “You are beautiful, mama,” he said, sort of out of the blue and sort of in context. He was gazing at my face, but I don’t think he was assessing it for its aesthetic qualities. But neither do I think he is so sophisticated as to be referring to anything like inner beauty. Three-year-olds are pretty superficial in how they look at things.

What I do think is that he was telling me he loves me. He was looking at my face and seeing beauty because he was loving me a lot at that moment. And wow, did I ever feel beautiful. Beyond that, I felt panicky. “I always want him to think I’m beautiful,” I thought, and immediately worried about getting older (temporarily missing the beauty = love connection). Then I thought about how I look at my mom. I remember, as a kid, being gobsmacked by her beauty. I watched her among her friends: always shining but in such a natural, inclusive, unthreatening way. I watched her dress: bohemian, ethnic chic enhanced by a willowy frame. I watched her at work: serious, passionate, and determined to pursue her career despite (or because of) me and my brother. I watched her joke, get mad, sing, cry, laugh, and love us. Just … love us. And she was so, so beautiful.

My mom is in her mid-sixties today. She is still so, so beautiful.

Here she is last summer with O. As I was saying.

Bring on the cheese

I’ve lost touch with what’s going on in music today, and I hate that. For most of my life I’ve been lucky enough to have cool friends who put me on to notable new music, music that’s slightly edgy, slinky, groovy, hypnotic, grungy, or otherwise interesting. Usually this is music that critics like and that stays just this side of mainstream—keeping it cool.

As an example, check out this video by Gomez: a great band I listened to a lot in the 90s.

But I’m not hanging out with cool friends at the moment. I’m hanging out with Oliver and sometimes his most excellent nanny, Julie, while Craig works upstairs (maybe listening to music, but mostly just slaving away on income generation). Julie is a Filipina, and something I’ve noticed about South Pacific cultures is that love songs are massively popular. Ballads. Stuff that we consider schlocky or cheesy here—stuff whose symbolic queen is Celine Dion or perhaps Whitney Houston in her heyday.

Anyway, this generalization aside, Julie’s MP3 player is Oliver’s favourite thing in the entire world, surpassing even my cell phone (which no longer really works because he’s goobed it so thoroughly). And on Julie’s player is some of the most exemplary cheese of all time: Bonnie Raitt’s Total Eclipse of the Heart, Bryan Adams’ Heaven, Air Supply’s I’m All Out of Love, Faith Hill’s Breathe, and yes, Houston’s I Will Always Love You and Dion’s My Heart Will Go On.

Oliver is WAY into this music. He sings terribly to it and rocks back and forth on the floor staring down intensely at the player he keeps possessively on his lap. He cries when we try to take it away from him, so the player is kind of a fixture in our livingroom.

Mostly I’m upstairs when it’s on, but today it had been left playing while I was downstairs cooking while Oliver napped and Julie was cleaned in another room. As I soaked lentils, chopped leeks, and boiled cardamom and cinnamon, I listened to the syrupy playlist.

And sang my heart out.
And knew every word.
And felt my heart expand and my spirit soar.

By the time my soups were finished, I was in a fantastic mood. There’s something to be said for abandoning cool.

The Chosen One

How does one teddy become The One? How does he go from teddy to Teddy?

Is it the way his fur tumbles into his eyes? His slightly sad and bereft expression? Is it his smell—does he just beg to be scrunched up to a slobbery little face and inhaled? Does he seem somehow more real than the countless other stuffed candidates lined up for the job?

Whatever the reason, Oliver chose his Teddy two days ago suddenly and fiercely. He calls for Teddy anxiously when he’s gone missing (“de-DEH!”). He’s branded Teddy with an avocado french kiss. He crawls with Teddy clenched in one fist, dragging him facedown across the floor. Today he pitched Teddy out of the stroller just so he could say “uh-oh!’ with pretend surprise. Teddy felt the stroller wheels—at least two of them—before I could rescue him (and place him right back with his loving tormentor). Teddy then played with Oliver in the park, which for Teddy meant a lot of sand sandwiches and not much else. Teddy is already looking ragged after a two-day reign.

 

But I know he’s happy. This is the fate every stuffed animal dreams of. Every blight, every ground-in clump of dirt, every tear and new deformity, all these are badges of honor. To be loved hard is the lot of every Teddy.