A stick by any other name

"Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom."

Thomas Jefferson

We went to visit friends the other day and Pip wanted to take a gift to the four-year-old boy we'd be seeing.  She found a little stick on the beach and decided it would make the perfect present.  When she offered the stick to the little boy, his grandmother was squatting beside him: "Oh, my," she began, "what a wonderful gift!  What do you think this could be?" she asked her grandson.  

"It could be a flute," he said.  His grandma responded with the appropriate nods and affirmative sounds.  "It looks like a dog," the little boy continued, "or maybe a shark!"  He was good at this game.

The grandmother said something like, "All great ideas!" then she turned to Pip.  "And what do you think it is, Pip?"

"Well," Pip began earnestly, "it's a stick."

Full Circle

"In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future."

Alex Haley

We’re staying at my parents’ beach-house this week, and I’m experiencing many, “full-circle,” moments.  The first occurred when Big Daddy-O, Pip, Crazybaby & I went for a morning walk on the beach.  Crazybaby was riding in the backpack on Big Daddy-O and I was helping Pip walk on logs.  I told her that, as kids, her aunt and uncle and I used to try to get all the way to Kitty Coleman Park only by walking on logs.  At that point I actually thought, “Whoa, when I was a skinny twelve-year-old leaping from log to precarious log, I had no idea that I’d be helping my wee daughter log-leap thirty years later on the very same stretch of beach.”  Glorious.

Another full-circle moment arrived during a tea-party with Pip.  My friend Wendy wrote a lovely piece about having tea with her grandmother, and it reminded me of the tea-parties my grandfather and I used to enjoy.  He would call me Mrs. Hefflefinger, speak with a British accent, and we’d have wonderful conversations, but we would only pretend to drink tea.  Wendy’s story inspired me to serve Pip real tea. (Heavy on the milk and sugar.)

Pip was beside herself with excitement.  We invited her two stuffed frogs to join us at the table, but we didn’t set tea-cups for them because Pip insisted that they were, “too young to drink real tea.”

I treated every part of the tea-making as a sacred ceremony: filling the kettle with water, pouring it into the tea pot over the two bags of tea, pinching the delicate little papers at the end of the tea-bag strings to perform a few critical dunks, and finally pouring the tea into our eager cups.  Pip chose a flowery cup with red tulips and I went with a short round mug that felt best when held with two hands.

The sound of tea being poured into a cup has to be one of the most soothing sounds in the world.  Wavelets on a beach, my daughters’ breathing when they’re asleep and the tea-pour; those might be my top-three soothing sounds right there.  Pip smiled when she tasted her warm beige drink.  “I like it Mama.”  I asked her if I could call her Mrs. Hefflefinger, but she said, “I’m Murray Mama,” so I called her Murray.  I did, however, launch into my best British accent with:

“I can safely say that this is the most delightful cup of tea that I have ever enjoyed, Murray.” 

And it was.

 

Ducklings

"Leadership involves finding a parade and getting in front of it."

John Naisbitt

I saw something crossing the highway this morning.  At first I thought it was a peacock with it's long tail flat on the ground, then I realized it was a mother duck with eight or nine ducklings following closely behind her in a perfectly straight line.  Many cars stopped to let the feathered family walk safely across the highway; we were all united in spirit, sitting there in our vehicles hoping that the ducks would survive the crossing.  

As I watched the busy little webbed feet following in their mother's footsteps I admired how perfectly behaved the ducklings were.  They moved as one.  I wondered if the mother duck had to have a chat with her babies before attempting the treacherous crossing, "Now dears, we're about to waddle across a very busy highway and you must stay close together in line behind me."  Did she use positive reinforcement?  Were the ducklings going to be treated to a snack once they reached the other side?  Perhaps she had to threaten them with a time-out.  Whatever she did, it obviously worked.  Good little ducks.   

Imagination

"Imagination is more important than knowledge."

Albert Einstein

I've been Anthony Wiggle for over a week now.  Pip has chosen to be Murray Wiggle and she won't wear anything that isn't red.  We're both still females and I'm still 'Mama,'  but she calls me Anthony and I have to call her Murray.  In case you're not familiar with The Wiggles, they are a collection of peppy Australian men who sing and dance on their own Kid's Show.  

Having only been acquainted with the Wiggles for a couple of weeks, I think Pip is playing the role of Murray exceptionally well.  She's more of a method actor, like De Niro.  "Anthony, look, it's your favourite colour, blue!"  she'll say to me.  And any time I call her by her real name instead of Murray, she corrects me, "Silly Anthony, you know my name is Murray."  She also speaks about herself in the third person, "Murray doesn't like beans Mama," and "Murray has to pee."

Just when I was growing weary of the Wiggles role-play, I was reminded of Albert Einstein's quotation.  Where would our society be without the great imaginers of our time?  In a technological age where knowledge is so readily accessible, imagination becomes even more of a commodity.  So, I'll continue to be Anthony as long as Pip wants me to be.  (The frightening thing is, I'm getting used to calling her Murray.)

Labels

"We are each so much more than what some reduce to measuring."

Karen Kaiser Clark

Marlo Morgan wrote a fascinating book called, "Mutant Message Downunder."  It's about a walkabout that she went on with a group of Australian Aboriginees.  After the book was published, some controversy arose regarding the book's authenticity, but I met Marlo in my girlfriend's apartment in Vancouver long before she was published, and I believed her story.  

There were many beautiful things that she learned from the Aboriginal people, one of which had to do with labels.  Instead of calling someone in their tribe a doctor or painter or dancer, they held the title, 'interested in medicine' or 'interested in art.'  And they could change their title at any time!  Someone could be 'interested in medicine,' for years, then decide to become 'interested in dance.'  Doesn't that seem liberating?

This concept really resonates with me now that I hold the title of, "Stay-at-home-Mom."  I dislike this label.  It implies that all I do is stay at home mothering.  It doesn't define me.  I find, at parties, it's a bit of a conversation-stopper.  People don't know where to go with it. 

Instead of asking the mundane question, "So what do you do?"  I've started asking people what they're passionate about, or what they're interested in.  So far, people have rolled with it and I've enjoyed some great conversation.  

Don't get me wrong, I am very proud to be raising my two daughters full-time, but today I think I'll be 'interested-in-writing.'  

Bittersweet

"The little things?  The little moments?  They aren't little."

Jon Kabat Zinn 

I like the word 'bittersweet.'  It's strange that there aren't more words like it in the English language, because we often feel two opposing emotions simultaneously.  It happened to me last week.  

It was a warm, spring afternoon and the girls and I were heading to the beach for a picnic.  The car was quite toasty when we first got in, so I buckled the girls into their seats and unrolled all of the windows before starting 'Goldie's' engine.  (Incidentally, Pip named my husband's macho red jeep, 'Creampup!')  Pip requested "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree," because she likes to look for black horses and cherry trees on our road trips, so I turned on the music.

I heard giggles coming from the back seat so I snuck a peek in the rear-view mirror. Crazybaby had a look of happy astonishment on her face as she enjoyed the new sensation of wind in her face.  And there was Pip; the wind was blowing her hair all over the place, her face was speckled with moving beams of sunlight, and she was singing through a glorious smile.  "Is it too windy for you Pip?"  

"No Mama, I love it!"  Pip yelled back.

I suddenly thought about all of the, "summer-wind-blowing-your-hair-with-car-tunes-blaring," times that lay ahead of Pip.  I hoped that she would enjoy many such experiences in her lifetime, but the excitement I felt for her was accompanied with a little sadness at the thought that I probably wouldn't witness most of those moments.  Bittersweet.

A few months ago I had a conversation with my dad about how difficult it must have been for him when we left home as teenagers.  Imagine one day just watching your child leave for University in another province, when you've known exactly where they were every minute of the day for sixteen years!  Dad just smiled and said, "When it happens, you're ready for it."  I trust his words, but I'm glad that I've got at least another thirteen years to get ready for it.

To Dance

"Kids: they dance before they know 

there is anything that isn't music."

William Stafford

We have a little evening ritual that has somehow come to be known as, "Nudie-Lie-Down."  It happens during the time after dinner and before the girls' bath.  While one parent clears away the dinner dishes, the other parent takes the girls into the living room, strips them down to their respective underpants & diaper, and plays.  (Just to clarify, both parents remain fully clothed.  Not that I have anything against naked dishwashers.)  Usually Nudie-Lie-Down  involves a bit of wrestling, the playing of various musical instruments, and of course, dancing.  

Our favourite song to dance to at the moment is called, "Hot N' Cold," and it's a real crowd pleaser.  Even Crazybaby does a form of "seat-dancing," because she's not standing on her own just yet.  Last night Pip decided that it would be appropriate to lose the underpants and don a pair of fluorescent green goggles for the dancing portion of our nudie-lie-down.  There she was, buck naked except for the green goggles, dancing her little heart out while Big Daddy-O and I tried to contain our laughter.

It made me wish that I was as unselfconscious as Pip.  I do recall Irish Jigging in someone's kitchen at a party once, but that was after a few ale.  It seems that we start off as kids being completely uninhibited, then something changes and we spend the rest of our lives trying to regain the confidence to express ourselves freely.  What is it that changes?  Is it simply the awareness that we are separate from others?  Is it the perception of peer-judgement?  A disapproving glance?  I think I'm becoming more uninhibited in my old age as I care less about what others think.  It's not an easy one for me, but I'm learning...from a be-goggled little nudist.