My youngest son Nathan has a Cabbage Patch Kid. He has lots of Star Wars figures and vicious swords as well. But he really loves his baby girl. I had one when I was little, a girl with green eyes and brown hair like me and her name was Sarafina Jane. Nathan has decided that a fake baby girl will have to do since I refuse to have a real one for him.
His ‘daughter’ is named Carly Morgan but he insists on calling her Alyssa. Now, I don’t really like this because it’s breaking the Cabbage Patch Kid rule. How will this baby of his receive her birthday card from the Cabbage Patch Adoption Agency? But he won’t hear anything different, and when I try to change his mind he glowers at me while he changes her poopy diaper for the 5th time. I should maybe be grateful, because his original idea was for me to have a baby girl and officially name her ‘Pretty Lovely McGuire’.
“And we can buy her a white dress and a golden crown and on her birthday we will make everyone call her Princess.” Isn’t it a shame that I didn’t have a girl? It sounds as though she would have been a joy to be around, what with her crown and obnoxious demanding birthdays.
He is taking his child rearing very seriously, though, and his brothers have been just fabulous. Callum, who is 13, babysits for Nathan while he’s using the bathroom and Jack (7), or Uncle Jay, as Alyssa likes to call him, is responsible for nap time. He prepares her travel bed, checks her diaper, and takes off her little tap shoes. Ben likes to feed her her bottle, which is shocking and wonderful for an 11year old boy. Her blond hair is normally in a high ponytail but Nathan likes to pull it out all the time, and just this afternoon we were fighting about whether or not she looks better with her hair up or down. It takes so little for me to be sucked in.
Like yesterday, the 4 boys and I were all huddled in the doll aisle of Wal-Mart - normally a foreign land to this family - looking for baby outfits for Alyssa. We saw a great little Pucci patterned rain coat with an umbrella, a purple dress with matching tights and a holiday dress that I loved but Nathan thought would make her look fat. He’s judging her already.
Here’s where I need some advice. Am I making them weird? Not that I’m terribly concerned with convention, but I feel there may be cause for concern when Nathan comes grumbling down the stairs from his imaginary laundry room and says - “The damn washer is broken again. Now how do I wash her clothes?” Or when he tells me he’s exhausted from all of Alyssa’s rolling around in the night - when are we getting her that crib I promised?
You would think that, with 3 older brothers, he would get teased terribly. No, I must say the older boys are brilliant with him. They let him bring his baby to watch them play hockey at the rink and she takes ‘a turn’ on their video games. The other night Callum had a few buddies over and when they saw the doll - that’s what they dared to call Alyssa - one of them picked her up and pretended to rip off her head . Nathan fell to his knees and let out a wail, covering his face in terror like the perfect Italian Mama. Callum yanked her away, hugging her and giving her a kiss before handing her over to her father. I don’t know if that will earn him any friends, but he certainly earned something else from his brother.
I do feel rotten for Jack sometimes, though. Nathan can be so over-the-top with his antics (like when he asked me for a perm so he could have curly hair like Anakin Skywalker). Maybe Jack feels pushed aside? That must be why he whispered to Nathan - “Your baby isn’t real, you know” and proceeded to bash her head into the wall. Nathan grabbed Alyssa from Jack, checking in vain for a pulse. He checked for sounds of breathing, too. I thought we were going to lose him until Callum explained that babies don’t breathe or have a pulse when they sleep. All was right with the world again. At least our perverse little world, anyways.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The Man
Spring had finally sprung in the valley. Two nights earlier, he had decided to throw his mother’s annual party celebrating the rediscovered sunlight. When he had been a younger man, he had always enjoyed these parties. They were held in the conservatory mostly, to take advantage of the brighter skies above and the wet earth below. The lights of the valley spread out like tentacles below the privileged party. Soft music - always so soft it was like a faint whisper in your ear; his mother had abhorred shouting and revelry - wafted in from the sound system in the den at the other end of the house. There were lovely canapés and thick moist breads and fragrant trifles all made at the family grocery stores. Very few cocktails, naturally. After all, this village had once practiced strict temperance - in fact, it had been dry for years - and they had not moved far beyond their puritanical ways. At least his mother and her friends hadn’t.
But now she was dead. And it was his turn to throw the party. He had a caterer for the food, a gardener for the gardens, a party planner for the guest list and decorations. The list had really been the same for years, though. The wealthy, the local celebrities, the dying matriarchs and patriarchs. And a few of the younger eligible elite to set the tone for the next generation. He had met more than one of his old conquests at these parties. Women with bare shoulders and red lips who smelled like so many different flowers. They were drawn to him because he was handsome, and quiet and filled out his white dinner jacket better than the other foppish young men who had been invited. His mother had made sure of that. But they really loved the power they saw he would some day have. Not that he minded. He thought he would love the power he would some day have as well.
But now the day had arrived. The house bore not a single mark of the party from two nights earlier and neither did he. In fact, it was like it had never even happened. The same people had come and eaten the same food and remarked on the same flowers. But it was not the same. He was not his mother - and people were slowly starting to realize that. She had been boisterous and outspoken and charming. It turned out he was really none of those things. After a few awkward hours of small talk, he had retreated quietly to the den to sort through some c.d.’s and drink a little brandy. No one had taken notice other than Carolina Bennett, who had waited until everyone left, followed him down to the den and let her black strapless number fall to the floor while she watched him wordlessly. She was beautiful, different. Exotic but familiar. Thin but curvy, and brazen. Any man would want her. He had been slightly embarrassed for her.
He was to meet her for lunch today. Because he felt terrible for sending her away and because she was the woman he should probably think about marrying. His few friends were excited for him - she was the catch of the county, just like him. And she really seemed to care about him. So it was going to be terrific, he was certain.
Sometimes he wished he could be like the boy out his window, slowly picking his way up the hill and stopping just at the edge of his property. What freedom that must be. He had seen him a few times from his porch, wandering through the forest for hours on end. In fact, there had even been a few times when he had tried to encourage the boy to climb a little higher.
“Don’t worry about it boy.” He had called out just the other evening while enjoying a cigar from his mother’s seat on the porch. “No one will stop you if you’d like to climb a little higher.”
He had smiled and waved slightly, but had never progressed any further. What in the world was stopping him, he wondered? The man was not his mother. He was happy to see children using his forest. Perhaps she had given the boy a good talking to, and now he was nervous of coming too close to the house. Well, it needn’t be like that.
“Boy! There are some nests here for you to see. Come have a look.” He hadn’t meant his voice to sound so gruff. The boy just smiled and said nothing.
“Boy! I noticed some rabbits just over to the west the other day - go and see if they’re still there.”
Nothing.
He had tried again and again. As he and Carolina had begun their mating rites. As they had begun to look at wallpapers for the forgotten bedrooms in the east wing and copper fixtures for his ensuite bathroom. He watched the wet earth turn to dry cakey dust. The air had stilled around them, the whir of central air conditioning giving him chronic migraines as it had always done. But people like him didn’t open their windows for fresh air. Fresh air was for the poor. Carolina had teased him softly about his fascination with the boy.
“Leave him be, for pity’s sake. You’ve probably scared him away.”
But there’s no reason to fear me, he had reminded her. I am not my mother. I’m not like her.
Again, as the gloaming came to the valley and pink moonlight made everything fresh and foreign to him, his eyes fell on the little cottage.
I’m not like her.
But now she was dead. And it was his turn to throw the party. He had a caterer for the food, a gardener for the gardens, a party planner for the guest list and decorations. The list had really been the same for years, though. The wealthy, the local celebrities, the dying matriarchs and patriarchs. And a few of the younger eligible elite to set the tone for the next generation. He had met more than one of his old conquests at these parties. Women with bare shoulders and red lips who smelled like so many different flowers. They were drawn to him because he was handsome, and quiet and filled out his white dinner jacket better than the other foppish young men who had been invited. His mother had made sure of that. But they really loved the power they saw he would some day have. Not that he minded. He thought he would love the power he would some day have as well.
But now the day had arrived. The house bore not a single mark of the party from two nights earlier and neither did he. In fact, it was like it had never even happened. The same people had come and eaten the same food and remarked on the same flowers. But it was not the same. He was not his mother - and people were slowly starting to realize that. She had been boisterous and outspoken and charming. It turned out he was really none of those things. After a few awkward hours of small talk, he had retreated quietly to the den to sort through some c.d.’s and drink a little brandy. No one had taken notice other than Carolina Bennett, who had waited until everyone left, followed him down to the den and let her black strapless number fall to the floor while she watched him wordlessly. She was beautiful, different. Exotic but familiar. Thin but curvy, and brazen. Any man would want her. He had been slightly embarrassed for her.
He was to meet her for lunch today. Because he felt terrible for sending her away and because she was the woman he should probably think about marrying. His few friends were excited for him - she was the catch of the county, just like him. And she really seemed to care about him. So it was going to be terrific, he was certain.
Sometimes he wished he could be like the boy out his window, slowly picking his way up the hill and stopping just at the edge of his property. What freedom that must be. He had seen him a few times from his porch, wandering through the forest for hours on end. In fact, there had even been a few times when he had tried to encourage the boy to climb a little higher.
“Don’t worry about it boy.” He had called out just the other evening while enjoying a cigar from his mother’s seat on the porch. “No one will stop you if you’d like to climb a little higher.”
He had smiled and waved slightly, but had never progressed any further. What in the world was stopping him, he wondered? The man was not his mother. He was happy to see children using his forest. Perhaps she had given the boy a good talking to, and now he was nervous of coming too close to the house. Well, it needn’t be like that.
“Boy! There are some nests here for you to see. Come have a look.” He hadn’t meant his voice to sound so gruff. The boy just smiled and said nothing.
“Boy! I noticed some rabbits just over to the west the other day - go and see if they’re still there.”
Nothing.
He had tried again and again. As he and Carolina had begun their mating rites. As they had begun to look at wallpapers for the forgotten bedrooms in the east wing and copper fixtures for his ensuite bathroom. He watched the wet earth turn to dry cakey dust. The air had stilled around them, the whir of central air conditioning giving him chronic migraines as it had always done. But people like him didn’t open their windows for fresh air. Fresh air was for the poor. Carolina had teased him softly about his fascination with the boy.
“Leave him be, for pity’s sake. You’ve probably scared him away.”
But there’s no reason to fear me, he had reminded her. I am not my mother. I’m not like her.
Again, as the gloaming came to the valley and pink moonlight made everything fresh and foreign to him, his eyes fell on the little cottage.
I’m not like her.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Feet
If The Shoe Fits…
I hate my feet. Actually, I hate feet in general, but mine especially. The juxtaposition of it all being that I really love sandals - and they sort of showcase my feet in a way. Now I realize that, in the grand scheme of things with war and famine and no good movies at the box office this is a terribly small thing. But, like any woman with a major flaw on the canvas of her body, it can be almost debilitating.
When you hate your feet (as I do, we’ve now established), summer can be rough. I’m stubborn enough to still wear the sandals, but if someone comments on my shoes my toes retract self-consciously like tiny turtles retreating to their warm shells. What if they notice my cuticles? I fret. Or my disgustingly cracked and hardened heels? No to mention the sheer acreage of foot, naturally. At 5’6 I wear a woman’s size 10 shoe - I’m not sure why my feet are so large, possibly because they need to balance out the rest of me, who knows. So summer comes along, I manage to find three or four pairs of lovely sandals that fit and I spend all of my time trying to camouflage the feet inside. I wear my pants longer at the back to cover my heels. I paint my toenails in a neutral shade so as not to call attention to the feet. But every once in a while, someone will catch a glimpse of them…and we can never be friends again.
My mother, wise woman that she is, has declared she’s ‘had enough of it‘. She has lovely feet, by the way. She goes for pedicures once a month - and just this week, as a thoughtful little ‘surprise’ to me, forced me to go with her. And boy, do I mean forced. I made up excuses not to go, I said I’d have a manicure instead, I couldn’t leave the kids, anything I could to stop this invasive intimacy I was having thrust upon me. Because feet are very intimate, aren’t they? Letting a stranger that close to your feet is like letting the Postal carrier snoop through your underwear drawer - it’s just wrong on a lot of levels. And I have long since given up on being a girly-girl even if my mother refuses to give up for me.
But…well, she was giving up her lucrative gift certificate for me. I decided it wasn’t very sporting of me to refuse. I just prayed to God I would get someone who couldn’t speak English working on my feet so I wouldn’t understand her when she started weeping to the heavens at the sight of my heels. Not so. We arrived at this tiny little spa with soft music, a nice big fireplace in the entry way, and beautiful smiling women in impeccable black pants and t-shirts who all spoke perfect English. I confessed the moment I met the discreet young lady who would be working on my feet that she was in for a bumpy ride. And then told her again. And again. And then made an ill-timed joke about her needing a chainsaw for my feet. I hoped to scare her off her job, you see. But she was a tough cookie, just smiled breezily and told me not to worry, she could guarantee there had been worse cases than mine. I doubted it, but I’m nothing if not a trooper. I doffed my clunky hiking boots and socks in favor of soft white slippers and allowed myself to be drawn to the back room. Which was like an apothecary for women only. Every surface was covered with special lotions and foreign tools of beauty. On the ground lay two bubbling, scented foot baths for my Mother and I to start off with. Like an appetizer. Oh…oh,.. my. Why had I waited so long, I ask you, why?? The sheer decadent glory of it! My mother and I rolled up our jeans, ordered coffees from the still smiling aestheticians (and they were even genuine smiles!) and soaked for 20 minutes. Then there came the foot massage, the perfectly done nails, the scented creams…if only they served liquor I would never have to leave!
Well, I won’t divulge any more of the trade secrets after that, but suffice it to say I’m hooked. I don’t know how I will hold back until my next visit - my feet, for the first time in my life, look beautiful. Really beautiful. And they feel soft as a baby’s bottom. When we got home I forced each of the boy’s to check out my new feet. They pretended not to care, of course, but I could tell that they were really impressed. Sandal season, here I come!
I hate my feet. Actually, I hate feet in general, but mine especially. The juxtaposition of it all being that I really love sandals - and they sort of showcase my feet in a way. Now I realize that, in the grand scheme of things with war and famine and no good movies at the box office this is a terribly small thing. But, like any woman with a major flaw on the canvas of her body, it can be almost debilitating.
When you hate your feet (as I do, we’ve now established), summer can be rough. I’m stubborn enough to still wear the sandals, but if someone comments on my shoes my toes retract self-consciously like tiny turtles retreating to their warm shells. What if they notice my cuticles? I fret. Or my disgustingly cracked and hardened heels? No to mention the sheer acreage of foot, naturally. At 5’6 I wear a woman’s size 10 shoe - I’m not sure why my feet are so large, possibly because they need to balance out the rest of me, who knows. So summer comes along, I manage to find three or four pairs of lovely sandals that fit and I spend all of my time trying to camouflage the feet inside. I wear my pants longer at the back to cover my heels. I paint my toenails in a neutral shade so as not to call attention to the feet. But every once in a while, someone will catch a glimpse of them…and we can never be friends again.
My mother, wise woman that she is, has declared she’s ‘had enough of it‘. She has lovely feet, by the way. She goes for pedicures once a month - and just this week, as a thoughtful little ‘surprise’ to me, forced me to go with her. And boy, do I mean forced. I made up excuses not to go, I said I’d have a manicure instead, I couldn’t leave the kids, anything I could to stop this invasive intimacy I was having thrust upon me. Because feet are very intimate, aren’t they? Letting a stranger that close to your feet is like letting the Postal carrier snoop through your underwear drawer - it’s just wrong on a lot of levels. And I have long since given up on being a girly-girl even if my mother refuses to give up for me.
But…well, she was giving up her lucrative gift certificate for me. I decided it wasn’t very sporting of me to refuse. I just prayed to God I would get someone who couldn’t speak English working on my feet so I wouldn’t understand her when she started weeping to the heavens at the sight of my heels. Not so. We arrived at this tiny little spa with soft music, a nice big fireplace in the entry way, and beautiful smiling women in impeccable black pants and t-shirts who all spoke perfect English. I confessed the moment I met the discreet young lady who would be working on my feet that she was in for a bumpy ride. And then told her again. And again. And then made an ill-timed joke about her needing a chainsaw for my feet. I hoped to scare her off her job, you see. But she was a tough cookie, just smiled breezily and told me not to worry, she could guarantee there had been worse cases than mine. I doubted it, but I’m nothing if not a trooper. I doffed my clunky hiking boots and socks in favor of soft white slippers and allowed myself to be drawn to the back room. Which was like an apothecary for women only. Every surface was covered with special lotions and foreign tools of beauty. On the ground lay two bubbling, scented foot baths for my Mother and I to start off with. Like an appetizer. Oh…oh,.. my. Why had I waited so long, I ask you, why?? The sheer decadent glory of it! My mother and I rolled up our jeans, ordered coffees from the still smiling aestheticians (and they were even genuine smiles!) and soaked for 20 minutes. Then there came the foot massage, the perfectly done nails, the scented creams…if only they served liquor I would never have to leave!
Well, I won’t divulge any more of the trade secrets after that, but suffice it to say I’m hooked. I don’t know how I will hold back until my next visit - my feet, for the first time in my life, look beautiful. Really beautiful. And they feel soft as a baby’s bottom. When we got home I forced each of the boy’s to check out my new feet. They pretended not to care, of course, but I could tell that they were really impressed. Sandal season, here I come!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Column for Sun Times, Tues. Mar 13
Am I Too Old For Pyjama Parties??
There are days when I worry I’ve made the wrong choice. Days when I’ve spent the morning on the phone with my friend in the city, and she is about to spend the evening at a cocktail party promoting some artist or another. She asks me - with a smirk in her voice - about the ‘small town’ thing, asks me about the snow and the shovelling and terrible white cocoon that has overtaken my little home (and proceeds to tell me that she has been wandering the streets in ballet flats for a month). Asks me when I’m going to get over it and come back already. Because she can’t quite believe that I’m willing to live this tiny boring life when she knows something better for me is probably just around the corner.
This is my problem, I think. I’m always waiting for something fantastic to happen to me around the corner. Always looking so far ahead to where I maybe should be and not seeing where I really am. I wonder if it’s like this for a lot of people who have moved back home to a small town. There’s always so much going on in the city, so many blinking lights and 50% off sales. I missed it yesterday. If I were back, I thought wistfully, I would head to the huge book store. I could spend an entire afternoon in a hidden corner with books I hadn’t bought and a cappucino that cost me $4 - and no one would see me. I missed not being seen.
Which is why living in a small town sometimes feels wrong to me. People see me all the time, and I must tell you that I put as little effort as possible into my appearance at the best of times. One of these days, I should really try to slap on some lipstick before I hit the grocery store, so that I’m not taken by surprise by the 15 people I see while picking through the banana pile in dirty sweats. It’s noticed when I drop the boys off at school in my pyjamas (and it’s really noticed when I’m screaming ‘don’t forget your snow pants, Nathan!’ after my son), it’s noticed when I forget to mow my lawn or get my van stuck in a snow bank for the millionth time. People see my small, sometimes crazy life for all it is, laid mostly bare, and there are days when I am made so vulnerable by this that I am ready to pack it up and go back to being no one.
But last night there was a pyjama party at Dufferin School. We were celebrating Literacy Week (which my sons were shockingly excited about) and their fantastic Principal, Dan Russell, was heading up a party to celebrate the bedtime story between 7 and 8. Everyone wore their pyjamas, even the parents (except for a few party poopers - they know who they are). The Principal even wore these terrible one-piece baby blue footed pyjamas with his tie - and a straight face, if you can believe it. He’s just fabulous. The gymnasium floor was covered in mats for parents to cozy up to their children, with bins full of books to read. There wasn’t a whole lot of fanfare, just some good old-fashioned reading, some milk and cookies and singing along to Robert Munsch. Would we have done this in the city? I can’t help but wonder. There was always something going on at their old school too, but there would be such a crush of bodies clamouring for space with heated cheeks and migraines that I avoided after school activities unless absolutely necessary .
Here, though, at this little school with real trees and long lawns and teachers who love their jobs, it’s all about small joys. The joy of having your sons and their friends cuddle up on the mat beside you while the Principal reads to them from his rocking chair. The joy of having this special little party just because it’s a Wednesday, really. Parents volunteer out of desire instead of choice. Families stand in the school yard, long after the last bell has rung, and talk about their day, their kids, their lives. Because as much as my life is laid bare before them, they are willing to lay their lives bare for you. Sure, they know that you struggle and complain and nag your kids, but at the end of the day, it feels like this little school is gunning for you. Gunning for your kids. Gunning for each other. Because we’re all we’ve got. They remind me of why I came back, why I am staying, and why I still really love being a Mom. Keep it up.
There are days when I worry I’ve made the wrong choice. Days when I’ve spent the morning on the phone with my friend in the city, and she is about to spend the evening at a cocktail party promoting some artist or another. She asks me - with a smirk in her voice - about the ‘small town’ thing, asks me about the snow and the shovelling and terrible white cocoon that has overtaken my little home (and proceeds to tell me that she has been wandering the streets in ballet flats for a month). Asks me when I’m going to get over it and come back already. Because she can’t quite believe that I’m willing to live this tiny boring life when she knows something better for me is probably just around the corner.
This is my problem, I think. I’m always waiting for something fantastic to happen to me around the corner. Always looking so far ahead to where I maybe should be and not seeing where I really am. I wonder if it’s like this for a lot of people who have moved back home to a small town. There’s always so much going on in the city, so many blinking lights and 50% off sales. I missed it yesterday. If I were back, I thought wistfully, I would head to the huge book store. I could spend an entire afternoon in a hidden corner with books I hadn’t bought and a cappucino that cost me $4 - and no one would see me. I missed not being seen.
Which is why living in a small town sometimes feels wrong to me. People see me all the time, and I must tell you that I put as little effort as possible into my appearance at the best of times. One of these days, I should really try to slap on some lipstick before I hit the grocery store, so that I’m not taken by surprise by the 15 people I see while picking through the banana pile in dirty sweats. It’s noticed when I drop the boys off at school in my pyjamas (and it’s really noticed when I’m screaming ‘don’t forget your snow pants, Nathan!’ after my son), it’s noticed when I forget to mow my lawn or get my van stuck in a snow bank for the millionth time. People see my small, sometimes crazy life for all it is, laid mostly bare, and there are days when I am made so vulnerable by this that I am ready to pack it up and go back to being no one.
But last night there was a pyjama party at Dufferin School. We were celebrating Literacy Week (which my sons were shockingly excited about) and their fantastic Principal, Dan Russell, was heading up a party to celebrate the bedtime story between 7 and 8. Everyone wore their pyjamas, even the parents (except for a few party poopers - they know who they are). The Principal even wore these terrible one-piece baby blue footed pyjamas with his tie - and a straight face, if you can believe it. He’s just fabulous. The gymnasium floor was covered in mats for parents to cozy up to their children, with bins full of books to read. There wasn’t a whole lot of fanfare, just some good old-fashioned reading, some milk and cookies and singing along to Robert Munsch. Would we have done this in the city? I can’t help but wonder. There was always something going on at their old school too, but there would be such a crush of bodies clamouring for space with heated cheeks and migraines that I avoided after school activities unless absolutely necessary .
Here, though, at this little school with real trees and long lawns and teachers who love their jobs, it’s all about small joys. The joy of having your sons and their friends cuddle up on the mat beside you while the Principal reads to them from his rocking chair. The joy of having this special little party just because it’s a Wednesday, really. Parents volunteer out of desire instead of choice. Families stand in the school yard, long after the last bell has rung, and talk about their day, their kids, their lives. Because as much as my life is laid bare before them, they are willing to lay their lives bare for you. Sure, they know that you struggle and complain and nag your kids, but at the end of the day, it feels like this little school is gunning for you. Gunning for your kids. Gunning for each other. Because we’re all we’ve got. They remind me of why I came back, why I am staying, and why I still really love being a Mom. Keep it up.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
The Woman
This was to be the day for the last snow. She could tell it was the end of the dark, long months, because the shape of the snow outside her window had changed. Now came slushy wet drops that were half rain, half snow from the sunny skies. The air smelled blue again after days of grey. The woman felt at once exhilerated and full of dread. With the great thaw came, of course, an expectation of activity she was never prepared to meet. Soon she would have to shovel herself out of her thin driveway, she would need to rake up the rest of the soft wet leaves she had left over winter. There would be a fresh crop of goings-on along her path, with people picking their way through the old snow and new mud.
She wondered, quietly to herself and out loud to her dog, how many repeat customers they would have this year. With any luck, she wouldn't see any of the neighbours' grandchildren, at least not the ones who saw this vast forest as their own playground. They were a young boy and girl, aged about 7 and 9, and they were monsters. The best clothes outfitted their backs, naturally. There was always attached to the plaquet of their brightly coloured coats an expensive looking moniker, and with it a satisfied little sneer. Her dog refused to go outside when they were hovering too closely to the yard, and the woman didn't blame her. Their little bodies always seemed tense with an unnamed anger, as though they were simply biding their time until someone came along for them to spit upon. But there was a boy, a little older than they and always by himself, who the woman found herself watching for almost daily.
She decided his name must be Sam - he seemed like a Sam. He was the first boy in shorts, worn khaki coloured shorts that had stopped fitting him last year. This little Sam was quiet, always. And careful. And happy. He wandered through the forest in his shorts and black rubber boots for hours once the thaw had given way to a blanket of warm moss and cool mud. Often he carried things for exploring, like a small inexpensive shovel, or an empty margarine container or binoculars with the strap broken. Sam always seemed to touch everything he passed. The white, peeling bark of a dying tree, the sap pooling in the armpit of a low branch, moss covered black stones imbedded in the earth. He would keep his fingertips splayed at either side of his little hips so as to experience the textures of the earth. The woman had wondered once whether or not Sam was, perhaps, blind. His tactile nature and careful steps speaking of a different sort of sight. But one rainy afternoon long past the snow, when the earth had turned hot and a little dusty, drinking in the rain with long grateful pulls, he had stopped just at the edge of her yard.
This was something new, she realized. In the long months of spring and short days of summer, when she had changed from her shawl that first day, into a light cardigan and now into an old, faded pink cotton dress, when she had gone through 2 novels and 4 journals, many bottles of wine and pitchers of minted iced tea, he had never come near the border of her yard. This day was a busy one along the path, and Sam had retreated further into the woods - looking to the woman as though he may be on an expedition to catch some grasshoppers. She supposed that he listened with a heightened sense for their gentle leaps and soft legs. He had been at it for hours in the rain - so long, in fact, that she had forgotten he was deep in the forest. Mostly that afternoon, she was writing unkind, funny little notes about the couple who had been fondling each other under the oak just outside her window.
They were astonishingly unattractive, and made more so by the wet slurping and groping in plain view. But, she supposed that it was rather lovely that they had found a mate who accepted their lack of physicality so - ardently. And desperately - she was just hoping that they stayed clothed - for the first time she wasn't even concerned if they saw her, so long as they stopped. When their strange passion finally ebbed under the tall oak, the drank from their bottles of Diet Sprite, finished the last of the Rice Krispie Squares the man had hidden in his jacket pocket, littered the garbage about them and left. The woman felt a stab of irritation, directed as much at their arrogance as their wet, dirty bottoms swinging away in perfect unison. Once the rain has stopped, she decided, I'll tidy it.
Her little Sam came back then, happily skidding down the forest wall to where the couple had been. He scooped up the trash from under the brush, tidied the twigs they had scattered about in their strange lovemaking, lifted his head to her window and waved. With a wide smile splitting his crooked mouth. He sees, she thought, tears unaccountably welling in her eyes as she watched him bound off to his unknown home. He sees me - he sees everything.
She thought alot about Sam before retiring that evening. She thought about his little shovel, and his margarine tub and his binoculars. She thought about his once white face growing steadily rosier with each sunburn, she thought about his bare head. She wondered what his small scalp would feel like if she were to pat his head. She wondered if he would like to play with her dog. Mostly, she wondered if he would return tomorrow.
And when he did, he found under the same tree, in the early morning silent sunshine, a box marked 'Sam, with thanks'. In it were brand new binoculars, a bucket hat with little pockets for his tools, some sunscreen and a heavy duty shovel.
John thought to himself; 'Whoever Sam is, he's one lucky buggar.'
She wondered, quietly to herself and out loud to her dog, how many repeat customers they would have this year. With any luck, she wouldn't see any of the neighbours' grandchildren, at least not the ones who saw this vast forest as their own playground. They were a young boy and girl, aged about 7 and 9, and they were monsters. The best clothes outfitted their backs, naturally. There was always attached to the plaquet of their brightly coloured coats an expensive looking moniker, and with it a satisfied little sneer. Her dog refused to go outside when they were hovering too closely to the yard, and the woman didn't blame her. Their little bodies always seemed tense with an unnamed anger, as though they were simply biding their time until someone came along for them to spit upon. But there was a boy, a little older than they and always by himself, who the woman found herself watching for almost daily.
She decided his name must be Sam - he seemed like a Sam. He was the first boy in shorts, worn khaki coloured shorts that had stopped fitting him last year. This little Sam was quiet, always. And careful. And happy. He wandered through the forest in his shorts and black rubber boots for hours once the thaw had given way to a blanket of warm moss and cool mud. Often he carried things for exploring, like a small inexpensive shovel, or an empty margarine container or binoculars with the strap broken. Sam always seemed to touch everything he passed. The white, peeling bark of a dying tree, the sap pooling in the armpit of a low branch, moss covered black stones imbedded in the earth. He would keep his fingertips splayed at either side of his little hips so as to experience the textures of the earth. The woman had wondered once whether or not Sam was, perhaps, blind. His tactile nature and careful steps speaking of a different sort of sight. But one rainy afternoon long past the snow, when the earth had turned hot and a little dusty, drinking in the rain with long grateful pulls, he had stopped just at the edge of her yard.
This was something new, she realized. In the long months of spring and short days of summer, when she had changed from her shawl that first day, into a light cardigan and now into an old, faded pink cotton dress, when she had gone through 2 novels and 4 journals, many bottles of wine and pitchers of minted iced tea, he had never come near the border of her yard. This day was a busy one along the path, and Sam had retreated further into the woods - looking to the woman as though he may be on an expedition to catch some grasshoppers. She supposed that he listened with a heightened sense for their gentle leaps and soft legs. He had been at it for hours in the rain - so long, in fact, that she had forgotten he was deep in the forest. Mostly that afternoon, she was writing unkind, funny little notes about the couple who had been fondling each other under the oak just outside her window.
They were astonishingly unattractive, and made more so by the wet slurping and groping in plain view. But, she supposed that it was rather lovely that they had found a mate who accepted their lack of physicality so - ardently. And desperately - she was just hoping that they stayed clothed - for the first time she wasn't even concerned if they saw her, so long as they stopped. When their strange passion finally ebbed under the tall oak, the drank from their bottles of Diet Sprite, finished the last of the Rice Krispie Squares the man had hidden in his jacket pocket, littered the garbage about them and left. The woman felt a stab of irritation, directed as much at their arrogance as their wet, dirty bottoms swinging away in perfect unison. Once the rain has stopped, she decided, I'll tidy it.
Her little Sam came back then, happily skidding down the forest wall to where the couple had been. He scooped up the trash from under the brush, tidied the twigs they had scattered about in their strange lovemaking, lifted his head to her window and waved. With a wide smile splitting his crooked mouth. He sees, she thought, tears unaccountably welling in her eyes as she watched him bound off to his unknown home. He sees me - he sees everything.
She thought alot about Sam before retiring that evening. She thought about his little shovel, and his margarine tub and his binoculars. She thought about his once white face growing steadily rosier with each sunburn, she thought about his bare head. She wondered what his small scalp would feel like if she were to pat his head. She wondered if he would like to play with her dog. Mostly, she wondered if he would return tomorrow.
And when he did, he found under the same tree, in the early morning silent sunshine, a box marked 'Sam, with thanks'. In it were brand new binoculars, a bucket hat with little pockets for his tools, some sunscreen and a heavy duty shovel.
John thought to himself; 'Whoever Sam is, he's one lucky buggar.'
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Thank God I Bought The Queen Sized Bed...
When I went to bed last night, I’m fairly certain I started off alone. Yes, that’s right, now I remember. It was around 11 o’clock and I had read for a bit, turned off my bedside lamp and moved to the middle of the bed. So how did I end up here, at 4 o’clock in the morning, with someone’s knees drawn up into my spine and another someone curled tightly around my legs?
I don’t know why I’m surprised. None of my sons have ever been big fans of sleeping in their own warm, comfortable clean beds. With bedding that they specifically picked out for themselves and nightlights shaped like torches and stars. No, I can see how this is much more comfortable for them - no matter that I am now paralysed from the waist down. My only comfort being that Jack doesn’t have his toes curling into my spine at 3 second intervals throughout the night. He’s just drooling all over my clean pillow and grinding his teeth.
Nathan, at 6, doesn‘t require as much room, and seems to content himself with any part of my body to which he can attach himself . Thank God that, at 13 and 11 respectively, Callum and Ben have finally grown out of sleeping in my room - the Queen sized bed was starting to feel a little snug. You know, when I first started having children I was determined to do it my way. I didn’t want advice from anyone - I would instinctively know what was best for them. So when everyone in my family told me not to let my babies sleep with me, I scoffed. They didn’t know what they were talking about, I would sniff. Besides, as any nursing Mom knows if you can figure out how to nurse on your side it’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet for the night. And you don’t need to get out of bed. But then you have another baby who needs to be nursed, and the first baby is still a baby so you can’t kick him out of bed. A few years go by, neither one of them seem ready to budge and you’ve had ANOTHER baby. Then another. And you can’t seem to break the chain.
It was a little easier when we still lived with my husband. He liked structure, enough so that he would get out of bed 5, 10, 15 times in a night and march the older boys straight back to their beds while they stared at me over their shoulders with censure in their eyes. Ben was particularly stealthy - he learned how to get in bed beside me without even wrinkling the sheets - he would lay his head on my arm, then slowly lift his upper body onto the bed, then his lower, then squirm as close to me as possible without a sound. So that I would wake up with him tucked into my arms and have no clue how he got there (my husband stayed awake one night to catch him in the act).
But then we moved out on our own, and their sleeping bodies littered about my room was - healing, in a way. It was important for all of us. When to stop, though? Perhaps when, in a conciliatory gesture to Ben when he was having some problems dealing with the divorce, I forced his brothers to sleep in their own room and told him he could curl up beside me. It wasn’t until later, after we had both finished the books we were reading in bed, he had closed his with a sigh, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek and said;
“Don’t forget to turn out the light before you fall asleep, now.” That I realized I may be grooming little mini mates for myself. Ewww. After that I tried to make the younger boys sleep in their rooms. For awhile I let them fall asleep in my bed and then carried them each upstairs. And was rewarded by a sharp poke in the ribs in the middle of the night and an indignant hiss - “Why exactly was I in my own bed?”
I bribed them with extra books before bed. I laid beside them and rubbed their backs. I waited to try to put their laundry away until they were in bed so they could be comforted by my silent presence in their room. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, like when Nathan wakes me up by touching my face and telling me he loves me, I’m not in much of a rush to change.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. None of my sons have ever been big fans of sleeping in their own warm, comfortable clean beds. With bedding that they specifically picked out for themselves and nightlights shaped like torches and stars. No, I can see how this is much more comfortable for them - no matter that I am now paralysed from the waist down. My only comfort being that Jack doesn’t have his toes curling into my spine at 3 second intervals throughout the night. He’s just drooling all over my clean pillow and grinding his teeth.
Nathan, at 6, doesn‘t require as much room, and seems to content himself with any part of my body to which he can attach himself . Thank God that, at 13 and 11 respectively, Callum and Ben have finally grown out of sleeping in my room - the Queen sized bed was starting to feel a little snug. You know, when I first started having children I was determined to do it my way. I didn’t want advice from anyone - I would instinctively know what was best for them. So when everyone in my family told me not to let my babies sleep with me, I scoffed. They didn’t know what they were talking about, I would sniff. Besides, as any nursing Mom knows if you can figure out how to nurse on your side it’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet for the night. And you don’t need to get out of bed. But then you have another baby who needs to be nursed, and the first baby is still a baby so you can’t kick him out of bed. A few years go by, neither one of them seem ready to budge and you’ve had ANOTHER baby. Then another. And you can’t seem to break the chain.
It was a little easier when we still lived with my husband. He liked structure, enough so that he would get out of bed 5, 10, 15 times in a night and march the older boys straight back to their beds while they stared at me over their shoulders with censure in their eyes. Ben was particularly stealthy - he learned how to get in bed beside me without even wrinkling the sheets - he would lay his head on my arm, then slowly lift his upper body onto the bed, then his lower, then squirm as close to me as possible without a sound. So that I would wake up with him tucked into my arms and have no clue how he got there (my husband stayed awake one night to catch him in the act).
But then we moved out on our own, and their sleeping bodies littered about my room was - healing, in a way. It was important for all of us. When to stop, though? Perhaps when, in a conciliatory gesture to Ben when he was having some problems dealing with the divorce, I forced his brothers to sleep in their own room and told him he could curl up beside me. It wasn’t until later, after we had both finished the books we were reading in bed, he had closed his with a sigh, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek and said;
“Don’t forget to turn out the light before you fall asleep, now.” That I realized I may be grooming little mini mates for myself. Ewww. After that I tried to make the younger boys sleep in their rooms. For awhile I let them fall asleep in my bed and then carried them each upstairs. And was rewarded by a sharp poke in the ribs in the middle of the night and an indignant hiss - “Why exactly was I in my own bed?”
I bribed them with extra books before bed. I laid beside them and rubbed their backs. I waited to try to put their laundry away until they were in bed so they could be comforted by my silent presence in their room. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, like when Nathan wakes me up by touching my face and telling me he loves me, I’m not in much of a rush to change.
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