The Mysterious Vanishing Tickets

So we are taking Spilly to see the Beatles on Saturday. Not the real Beatles, of course. We are all going to see "Rain." I ordered the tickets close to a year ago. They've been sitting on our fridge door, held there by a fridge magnet, for months and months.

Till today.

They are nowhere to be seen. Hubby and I searched high and low, turned the whole house upside down, while Spilly ran around alternating between wringing her hands and saying, "Oh dear, oh dear," and bursting into whatever room we were in, shouting, "I've found them!"

Finally she settled for sitting on the kitchen stool like a cabaret singer, holding a pretend microphone to her mouth and crooning softly to herself, "We can't find the tickets. We don't know where they are. What will we doooo?"

We think we know who to point the finger at--the same person who removed a lot of the fridge magnets just recently and stuck them on the radiator in the hallway, spelling useful words like "Susan" and "silly."

But she's not talking, mostly because she lives in the rare and wonderful World of Spills, where flowers talk and butterflies churn milk.

Fortunately, at the low low cost of $25.00, we have arranged for replacement tickets to be waiting at the concert hall for us.

Bathtub Serenade

Well, Spilly is sitting in the bath at the moment, bellowing at the top of her lungs. I think she is singing rock and roll. The words I just caught were, "I DON'T KNOW HO---OW TO MAKE MY PARENTS LOVE ME!"

It's a reprise of last night's concert, as she sang the same thing then. Afterward, as we were snuggled up together, I said to her, "Guess what? I've got news for you. You don't have to figure out how to make us love you, cause we already do."

"That wasn't ME singing," she said.

"Who was it?"

"It was Robbie."

"Robbie was singing?"

"Because of the naughty corner," she said.

"Ohhh," I said. "I see."

"It makes him sad," she said.

Her good friend seems to get in trouble a lot, and has several times been sent to the "naughty corner" in Spilly's presence. The first time Robbie was sent to the naughty corner in front of her, she went and sat down beside him. "Don't worry, Robbie. I'll sit in the naughty corner with you." It possibly negated the punitive nature of the moment.

I have always figured she accepted the whole thing as normal--that Robbie's parents disciplined him in this way, and that hers did not. But this talk of ours showed that she is beginning to weigh issues larger than her tiny sphere. She's beginning to think about different styles of parenting and even, it seems, to pass judgment on what she thinks is positive discipline and what is not.

I thought inwardly about how remarkable it feels that my little sage is processing the world so adroitly. I wonder if we would all change our parenting styles if we could get solid feedback from our little ones?

"Well, I said, "I think you have a very kind heart."

And now, I think, I must have another talk with her--to make it clear that Robbie's parents do, indeed, love him with all their hearts, just as much as I love my Spills.

Things Overheard From the Back Seat

Spilly's grandparents visited us for the weekend, and this morning we took them to Flapjacks for the Flapjack Experience. As it involves a drive through the countryside, Spilly had many opportunities to hold court from her car seat. The following is a smattering of what we heard going on back there.

1. Don't worry, little hermit crab, you can have a new home in my shoe.

2. Sanjaya, shh, I'm going to tell you how songs come out of the radio. [Voice gets very soft at this point, so that the secret of how it happens is kept from anyone else who might be listening.]

3. Hands on hip, finger on your lip.

4. Is that lady really going to go away from that man in that song?

5. Look Grandma, there's a barn, and beside the barn is a solo. Don't laugh!!!!!

6. When I grow up, I'm going to have twin babies named Donna and Alex, and Mommy will be a Grandma and Grandma will be a Great-Grandma. And we will all live in the same house together.

Small Miracles

Love it when something unexpectedly wonderful happens, whether it be great or small.

Spilly started a little music class today. She was quite worried about it. She was worried that she wouldn't know anyone, that she wouldn't know who the teacher was, that she would be attending without Daddy, that it would be scary. She thought maybe she wouldn't go. Daddy patiently tried to address each of her concerns, but they were still floating around when she arrived at the class.

They walked into the building, and Daddy says he saw a lady standing at the door of the classroom. She had a stroller. There was a little boy standing beside her. Daddy thought they looked familiar.

And as they walked closer, the little boy started jumping up and down and shouting Spilly's name.

And Spilly started jumping up and down too. "Robbie! Robbie!"

It was only the boy she is planning to marry, son of our closest friends.

Spilly took his hand. "Come on, Robbie, it's time for class."

And in they walked together.

Quiet Time

Grandma and Grandpa are coming for dinner and a sleepover on Saturday. Spilly is already preparing.

"When are they coming?"

"Oh, mid-afternoon," I said.

She looked cagey. "After my nap?"

Naps are becoming contentious areas. Really she doesn't need a nap anymore. But I keep trying to encourage (push) it, as I'm a huge fan of Spilly napping. She, on the other hand, is getting more and more uptight about the whole thing.

"Yes," I said brightly. "After your nap."

There was a long silence, while I waited for it.

"Well, I don't think I would be having a nap on Saturday," Spilly said.

"No?"

"I think," said Spilly, "I will be having quiet time."

This is my new euphemism. It means that Spilly goes into her room and the door closes behind her and Mommy doesn't care what Spilly does (within reason) as long as Spilly is relatively quiet for half an hour or so. It does Mommy the world of good.

"Yes," I said. "I think you will be having quiet time!"

Spilly jumped to her feet. "Come on, Mommy! Want to have quiet time with me right now?"

"Well...it wouldn't be quiet time if I was there."

"Yes! We'll be verrry, verrry quiet."

Moments later, there we were in Spilly's room, with the lights off and the blinds down.

"Now what?" I said.

"Now we get in the chair," she whispered hollowly.

We sat in the chair.

"Yes?" I said. "Now what?"

She snuggled close. "Now you tell me about when I was a baby."

Harsh Experiences

So Spilly walked into our room at about 6:05 this morning, said, "I think I have something in my stomach," and then promptly threw up everywhere. Hubby helped clean her up while I threw together lesson plans and called in my absence to the school (although hubby works at home, he was in meetings and also trying to meet a very tight deadline, so this latest Spilly illness couldn't have come at a worse time).

She slept for awhile, then woke up starving for cinnamon toast. There was no further sign of sickness. We coloured and played board games and read books. We sang songs and danced to "Zipper music" (a mysterious ritual she and her Daddy engage in each day, which involves throwing themselves around the living room as vigorously as possible while dancing to the Ramones; on the cover of the DVD is a zipper, hence the name). And she ate a full lunch.

So...we sent her off to kindergarten. And that seemed the end of all trouble. In fact, I had a perfectly lovely stolen afternoon, enjoying the fact that it was snowing heavily outside and I wasn't out in it. Nice all round.

But when we collected her from the bus stop later on, she was in tears. "Helen says she doesn't like me! Why doesn't she like me? Why did she say that?"

And then I was the one who felt sick, and it was like I was catapulted back to my own childhood, to the hurtful nature of the playground, to the subtle meanness that only young girls can adequately dish out. And we sat on the stairs together in the front hallway and talked it all through.

I said, "Maybe Helen was having a bad day. I don't think she could possibly mean it."

"She did mean it. And she doesn't like Fraser either."

"Did she say that?"

"Yes, and I said I did like Fraser."

"And then she said she didn't like you?"

"She said, and I don't like you."

Many more tears, while I tried to fumble my way through this unfamiliar ground. And dreamed passionately, for a minute, of homeschooling my sensitive little soul.

I have a feeling I am going to have an even harder time with these schoolyard negotiations than she will. And it's a family thing, I believe. Because when I dealt with these sorrows as a kid, my mother struggled with it too.

Which is why we called Grandma shortly thereafter, and Spilly told her the whole thing (along with a lot of other things too numerous and eclectic to mention).

And now Grandma and Grandpa are coming for dinner and a sleepover on Saturday. Because Grandma gets where Spilly is coming from, and she gets where Mommy is coming from too.

Yummy Leprechauns

Today's little tale comes from hubby. It happened this morning in the checkout line at the grocery store.

Spilly: Daddy, remember when me and Mommy ate leprechauns?

Daddy: (taken aback) When you ate what?

Spilly: Leprechauns. We bought them at the grocery store and then we took them home and ate them.

Daddy: You ate...leprechauns.

Spilly: And they had stones inside them.

Daddy: (light dawning) Oh, do you mean apricots?

Spilly: Yep, I mean apricots. Can we get some?

Sunday in the Jungle

We went to the Royal Botanical Gardens today, in search of a little break from the minus twenty-five windchill outside. The last time we were there, Spilly was about eighteen months old, and we wheeled her through most of it in a stroller--not an easy task, as the place is beautifully landscaped on multiple levels and is not really stroller-friendly.

Today it was much better. We pushed open the glass doors and entered the fragrant, tropical world within. Ferns, palms, fig trees, primeval pines, hibiscus, and everything else you can imagine, rose up on all sides to greet us. My blood pressure immediately started to drop, and I began to believe I might actually feel my fingers and toes again.

"Ohhhhh," Spilly said, awe in her voice. "It's the Jungle!"

"Yes," I said. "It's the Jungle!"

"Come on, Mommy, let's go find it!" She grabbed my hand, and started pulling.

"Go find what? The Jungle? It's right here."

"No," she said impatiently. "The LION."

"What lion?"

"The one who is always sleeping in the Jungle."

I stared at her, until it dawned on me. "Oh, do you mean in the song? In the jungle, the lion sleeps tonight?"

"YES!!"

"Well, okay!" I said. "Let's go find it!"

It was pure joy. As we ran around, it occurred to me that Spilly and I get each other in some strange way (maybe because we share a few genes). That said, I'm sorry to report that although we spent the better part of the afternoon looking, the lion was always elsewhere. The closest we came was a cave where Spilly said the lion had been only a moment before.

Not a bad way to spend a freezing January Sunday, just my kid and me, lion-hunting.

Peaceful Saturday Mornings (not)

I love Saturday mornings. I love lying there and realizing that no alarm is going to go off. I'm happy thinking about the long hours ahead, the lack of pressure, the many cups of coffee to be drunk.

And then I hear the click of the bedroom door next to ours. And the footsteps in the hall. And our door being opened ever so quietly. And a little voice by my elbow. "Mommy! I'm up! Can I have a back rub with your fingernails?"

Then all my fantasies (because that's what they are) vanish, and I realize it's show time.

Today, for example, the following things took place next:

1. Spilly turned into Mr. Kiss, our euthanized cat, and pounced around the covers meowing playfully.

2. She took all the things off my bedside table and made an alternative bedside table in the hallway.

3. She bashed me in the nose with the back of her head while trying to get comfortable on my pillow.

4. She pretended to be "Sanjaya with Joe Parrot" (we think she meant Joe Perry) and did quite a nice job.

5. She balanced Ribbon on my nose and mouth.

6. She wanted to know when we were going to make Ribbon a new ribbon to replace the old one that vanished a long, long time ago. She wanted to know exactly how we would do it. And at what time specifically.

7. She asked what would happen if the chicken we were about to eat turned back into a live chicken. What would I say? What would we do? What would we do next? What would the chicken do? Why would it do that?

8. She was curious as to when we would be getting up, and what we would be having for breakfast, and whether she could help to make it.

9. She wanted to know why she couldn't wear my glasses anymore (this is actually the thing that finally got me out of the bed).

10. She pulled Daddy out of bed and then sat on him.

R & B at Swiss Chalet

We were back at Swiss Chalet tonight for the first time since Christmas. We were just settling into our meals (courtesy of Mai, the best waitress ever), when Spilly made a surprise announcement.

"I'm Sanjaya Malakar, and I like to eat pizza at SWISS CHALET." Then came a bizarro, riffy, R & B-y, improvisational bit of glory: "Yu-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-um."

It was accompanied by what looked like a kind of weird liturgical dance.

Hubby and I were too busy choking on our chicken to respond.

Raucous New Beginnings

So I dragged myself home after school, having sat through a particularly long staff meeting. I was prepared to drop like a pile of debris in the front hallway. But instead I was met by shrieks and giggles, and two apparitions who were wearing at least five or six costumes between them. Our little friend from down the street was back, and spirits were beyond high. (Spilly's spirits are quite high enough at the best of times.)

My first thought was, "Oh dear." Then it was a kind of resigned, "Oh well." And after a few minutes I started realizing it wasn't the end of the world to walk into a warm, happy, loud house after the cold drive home with tailgaters biting at my ankles the whole way.

"What are you guys up to?" I asked.

"We're the kids, and you're the KID CATCHER!"

I sighed a bit. Then I shouted, "Grrrr!" and pounced.

Lots of shrieking later, her dad showed up and we asked if she could stay for dinner. He said she could. Then we all stood around the front hall and gabbed for the better part of a half-hour, until his daughter pushed him out the door so that she could get on with the excitement of Staying For Dinner. But first her dad asked if we could come over on Friday night. And we said we could.

And I started realizing that a new friendship was staring us in the face if we wanted it.

Which was a good deal better than anyone could have expected at the end of a long day and a longer staff meeting. Just goes to show that once in awhile the universe intervenes a bit and brings shy people together.

Feelings that are Too Strong

Every so often a moment happens, and you have joy and grief mingling at the same time, joy because it is so precious, and grief because you know that it is already half-over, destined to keep its meaning in memory only.

Spills and I sat in her rocking chair last night, in the dark. We told some silly stories together, and talked to Monty and Ribbon, and had a cuddle. Then I said, "Do you know that this is the part of my day that makes me the very happiest?"

In her sing-songy, dramatic little way, she said, "Oh, Mommy, do you really mean it?"

"I really really do."

"Oh, that makes ME so happy!" And she stuck her arms around my neck. "Mommy, do you remember about strong feelings?"

"What about them?"

"About when your feelings are so strong, they make tears come in your eyes?"

"Yes, I remember." We had had a complicated talk once about why people sometimes cry even when they're happy.

"I'm having the strong feelings."

"I am too," I said.

Snow White and the Seven Monts

Miracle of miracles, the little girl along the street showed up at the door after school, and she had already had the chicken pox!

Her dad said, "Can she come in to play?"

Spilly and I practically shouted together, "YES!!!"

It was as if the queen had come. Snacks and drinks all round. A little Dora. And then they drifted to the kitchen table to do some art. That progressed to drawing TVs. Then they decided to create their own TV show. This required full costumes and props, a whole pile of stuff strewn everywhere and a lot of whooping up and down the stairs. They also requested a wet cloth so that they could wash the kitchen floor at the beginning of the story (this was the part I liked).

In the end, they produced their own version of Snow White, complete with an evil stepmother dressed as a bride. The seven dwarves were all played by Monty dressed as himself. I was the prince, who spent part of the time kissing people to make them wake up (although I kept forgetting what I was supposed to do--love to get the cheap laughs), and part of the time cooking bulgar in the kitchen.

Our little friend is going to come back on Wednesday, possibly for dinner. Or, more likely, dinner and a show.

Letters from Spillcatraz

The Mighty Spills continues to be incarcerated with the chicken pox. She is filling her time with a variety of activities including:

1. Insisting on making a salami and cheese sandwich from beginning to end without help, only dropping the knife on Mommy's foot once, and only smearing margarine on her sleeve, her sock, and her hair. (Somehow manages to use three plates in the process.)

2. Giving people the peace sign and saying, "Two, ya dig?"

3. Noting that Sanjaya "was born in all countries and can speak all languages."

4. Bashing Mommy accidentally in the head with an alarm clock while trying to wake Mommy up, and then sobbing, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

5. Noting that Mommy took too long while grocery shopping, then beatifically adding, "But I forgive you. And you know what else? I will never forget to forgive you."

6. Helping to dust by swinging a Swiffer sweeper wildly around the living room.

7. Observing that we still sometimes find cat hairs from Mr. Kiss (who was sadly euthanized a number of years ago) and wondering aloud if it could be because Mr. Kiss creeps back into the house at night. Accepting Mommy's theory that just the fur creeps back at night.

8. Noting "I am tired of everything, but baking would make me feel better."

9. Playing "throw the hair band between Mommy's feet" over and over and over again while Mommy tries to put groceries away, cackling like the wild witch of the west.

10. Lovingly carrying a wad of frozen gingerbread dough around the house, waiting for it to thaw. Shouting, "Everyone! I've got the dough in my hand!!"

The Power of Enzymes

The Spills is housebound with chicken pox and stir crazy. She missed a birthday party today. She is a danger to herself and everyone else.

Favourite Spilly Conversation Overheard Today:

Spilly: I'm not me anymore! I'm a STAIN!

Daddy: Well then, you'd better watch out for enzymes.

Spilly: What are em-zimes?

Daddy: They can get rid of stains.

Spilly: [running around and banging at things violently] There's an em-zime! SQUISH IT!!


...If only enzymes could get rid of the chicken pox.

Celebrating the Stuff that's Going Right

Today I opened the doors again on my classroom store, "The Hut." I open up shop about once a month or so. It would be fair to say that I sell junk in my shop. Dollar store stuff--goofy pencil toppers, tiny plastic pinball machines, miniature whoopy cushions, etc. The kind of stuff no sensible teacher allows kids to have at their desks. My students think it's fabulous. They can't wait for their turn to come up and spend the "money" they've been earning for homework completion, great behaviour, etc.

And as I watched them coming up one by one to spend their dollars, I had one of those moments--the kind where you stop and look around, as if time could be captured like a digital photo, and you could examine where you've been and where you're going. And it occurred to me that, as a class, we're getting somewhere.

It would be fair to say that my class struck me as a touch demoralized at the beginning of the year. In general, many of them came from fairly unsuccessful academic backgrounds, some from difficult family or economic situations. They had learned that it didn't matter whether they did their homework or not, or whether they stayed in their seats or not. And I played along, harranguing left and right, battling them at every turn, trying to get them to see that it did matter. It took me awhile to realize that the approach didn't work, not with this crew. They were used to being yapped at. You could practically see the film drift over their eyes while I lectured away at them. They were finished with that, had heard it all before.

So I stewed away one weekend, and came up with "The Hut." Introduced it on the Monday morning, saw homework completion shoot through the roof by the next day. In fact, in the last three months, we've gone from about 25% of the kids completing their work on average to about 95% . And the classroom atmosphere has become really lovely--they're nice kids to be around. All because they see a link, however tenuous, between performing certain behaviours and getting certain results. Fulfilling your obligations leads to a reward. It's not bad training for life, actually.

But that's not the great part. The great part is that every Friday, which is "payday," I get to go to each kid in turn and have a truly positive discussion about the past week. I get to congratulate them on what's gone right. We set goals together for what's going to go even better next week. And I think they get the sense that, within the four walls of our portable, it is completely possible for them to set a goal and meet it...and get a whoopy cushion on top of that. If they're not careful, some of them are even going to start getting engaged in their learning.

So I drove home tonight feeling great about it all. And was met at the door by a harried hubby and crazy-eyed Spilly, both stir-crazy beyond words. (Spilly started developing chicken pox last night, and couldn't go to school today. Hubby had to juggle work and child care.)

Spilly was wearing pants, a shirt, and a sundress. She had a huge floppy straw hat on, and at least one chunky necklace. She was barking.

"How are the pimples?" I said.

She waved them in my face. "I'm a space puppy! Does Sanjaya have a pimple on his finger? I was watching Raffi, and can we have ice cream for dessert?"

I could tell from Hubby's face that he was pretty much cooked. Spilly in a confined space for a sustained period of time becomes a potent force to reckoned with. Plus he was several hours behind in his work. He was no longer Feeling the Joy of Spilly. So I relieved him of his post.

"Come on in here," I said to Spilly.

We read some books. We were space dogs together. We pulled out all the DVDs and spread them around. Then we curled up together on the couch to watch part of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

And she cuddled up next to me. "Mommy, I love you."

"I love you," I said. "Guess what? I love you even more than gold."

"But what if I was made of gold?"

"Hmm. Then I guess I'd really, really love you."

"But what if I turned back into just me, and I wasn't gold anymore?"

"I'd still love you the very best of anything."

And it occurred to me I was doing the same thing now, at home, as I'd been doing at school. Trying to get to the root of what's going right--trying to see the miracle underneath the craziness. Tuning in to the stuff that can get camouflaged by the frustrating nature of a cooped-up four-year-old, or a demoralized twelve-year-old.

When this red spot grows up, it will become a pimple

So...there I was doing something busy and important this afternoon after school, when Spilly said from the living room, "Mommy, I have a pimple on my finger!"

And I said, "That's nice, honey."

"Oh--and I have a pimple on my leg! A nice...big...pimple." She spoke with great satisfaction.

"....Really?"

Then I clued in to what she had said. Pimples on finger and leg. Oh. No, it couldn't be.

When I popped my head in the living room door, there she was, inspecting her small hand with interest.

"Let's see this pimple of yours," I said.

She showed me.

"And the other one."

"See, Mommy?"

"Yes, I do. Are they itchy?"

"Oh, yes, they sure are!" She spoke with satisfied gusto as if I'd asked if her meal had been yummy.

"Really?"

"Oh, YES!"

"Hmm," I said. "Itchy bumps. You're not supposed to have itchy bumps." She'd had her shot against chicken pox.

Unfortunately, a subsequent google search about chicken pox revealed that you can still get it, even if you've had the vaccine. It will apparently be a lighter dose, if that's a consolation. You still have to stay away from other kids for awhile--including the little girl whose birthday Spilly was supposed to go to on Saturday.

"Maybe you'll only get two bumps," I said to Spilly.

"Not bumps," she said patiently. "PIMPLES."

"Yes. Pimples."

But bathtime tonight has revealed another one on the back. And Spilly called me in a moment ago, very excited indeed, because another is starting on another finger OF THE SAME HAND AS THE FIRST!!!!

"Oh, yes, look at that, another pimple!" I said, trying to sound cheery while mentally beginning to figure out lesson plans for a substitute teacher, should one be necessary (hopefully hubby can take tomorrow off, but if the bumps aren't gone by the end of the weekend, I may need to cover the parenting duties early next week....).

"MOMMY. NOT A PIMPLE."

"I thought it was a pimple."

She sighed at having to explain such a simple concept to such a dunderhead. "Mommy, it's only a red spot right now. But when this red spot GROWS UP, it will be a pimple."

"Ah," I said. "I see."

I see all right. I see my future, and its name is Calomine Lotion.

* * * *

(....By the way, this is a quick message to Lou to say that indeed I am the "momofspilly" who popped over to the "Daze of Fire" website to see what was what with the fanjayas. Thank you very much for the warm welcome!!)

Filling the Pre-Dinner Lull

It's amazing the number of things Spilly can accomplish while sensible people are putting dinner together. The following, in no particular order, occurred sometime between the time when the school bus dropped her off and she dropped in at the dinner table.

1. In the guise of "Flakey," the strangely rectangular snowflake she and her Daddy made yesterday, she lugged all of the shoes out of the laundry room and distributed them in various inventive places throughout the downstairs. When asked to put them away, initially responded, "But I can't, because I'm just a snowflake, and I don't have arms." She later revised this point of view.

2. Asked if she would always be a little girl. When told that she wouldn't be, she asked why not.

"Because everything about you will grow," her Daddy said. "Your arms, your legs, your brain, everything."

She intoned darkly, "And...it....will....hurt...."


3. Ran madly screaming at her Mommy: "We didn't have candles!"

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"On Sanjaya's cupcakes! We didn't have candles!"

I confess I'd forgotten that we'd had cupcakes for Sanjaya, but then remembered we had, back around the time when school started, because it had been mentioned during the concert we'd seen that his birthday was coming up. Never assume that anything you say to Spilly will fall on deaf or passive ears. We'd had a party. We'd sung "Happy Birthday."

4. Ran to the door multiple times to see if a chef had come to cook dinner for us. Never make jokes about how you wish chefs would show up to cook you meals.

5. Pretended to be the chef. Concocted a memorable meal made of plastic toast and eggplant, wearing a chef's hat and apron. Left the food everywhere (ignored my point that real chefs clean up).

6. Made several circuits of the kitchen, dragging her Princess Dancing mat on which was piled a lot of other plastic food, a cushion, various clothes, and a scepter.


...And now she's sitting in the bathtub shouting something in a falsetto. Actually, she sounds like Mr. Bill. "Oh nooooo!"

I quite agree.

Doctor Spills

Spilly and I sat together in the kitchen after school.

"Ooh," I said, massaging my feet, while she ate her cheese crackers. "Mommy has sore toes!"

"Why do you have sore toes, Mommy?"

"Mommy was wearing inappropriate footwear to teach."

"Why were you wearing inappro - propriate footwear?"

"I don't really know. I will wear better shoes tomorrow."

"Oh, Mommy," she said, sighing at my foibles, and getting up from the table. She sat down on the floor by my feet and took my right foot in her hands. She rubbed it for a minute. Then she held it to her ear.

"That is very nice!" I said.

"Ssh!!! I want to hear the heartbeat."

Bedtime Rituals

Well, the child is a bit off her game today. She and I both went back to school, which took us considerably out of the comfort zone we'd developed over the last couple of weeks. No more Princess Dancing whenever we wanted....no more impromptu snuggles on the couch with new Christmas books....no more spur-of-the-moment tickle fights, or serious philosophical discussions, or cooking marathons.

She was exhausted tonight, but clung to the world of the living. After she'd had her bedtime story and had brushed her teeth and said good night, the fun began.

She came trotting out of her room, brazen as a hussy, and crawled under the computer desk where I was working. With her were her best friends, Monty the delapidated stuffed Welsh terrier (I have tried without success to find another like him, but I believe he has been discontinued by Douglas toys...so he'd better not fall apart completely or the world will possibly end), Ribbon the threadbare cat (bought for about $3.00 at Shoppers Drug Mart and definitely an end-of-the-line model), and her sippy cup filled with water (not such a collector's item).

"Ahem," I said.

Giggles from under the desk.

"What are you doing there?"

"We're here for the questions."

"Oh really?"

From the darkest recesses under the desk, a little arm pushed Monty upward. "Monty first."

"Does Monty have a question?"

"No, he wants you to ask him a question."

I have learned it's sometimes easier just to do things when they are requested. "Okay. Monty, do you like to play lots of games?"

A squeaky falsetto from under the desk replied, "Oh, yes!"

Monty was shoved into my arms, and then Ribbon popped out.

"Hi Ribbon," I said. "Do you like dogs?"

"Oh, yes, I really really do!"

"Great. Oh, hi, cuppy. Cuppy, do you prefer water or milk?"

"I like apple juice the best!"

"Oh good. Okay everyone, let's go back to bed now."

"No! Wait! I have to have the questions too!"

How she avoided bashing her head on the desk I don't know, but somehow she wormed her way into my lap.

"Well well," I said. "Do you love all the kids?"

"I do!" she squeaked at top volume, and flung her arms around me. I don't know what that suggested about my adult status.

"Right. Let's go." I marched her back to her room. "Into the bed!"

"No! Chair, chair!"

So we sat for the second time that night in the rocking chair in which I rocked her when she was an infant, and in which I sat even before she was born, staring around the decorated nursery and wondering what it would be like to have a little girl. In those days, I pictured the child-to-be as, I don't know, being a bit more docile. Less like a cyclone.

But as I rocked her tonight, her little head resting in the crook of my arm, while she whispered, "I love you, Mommy," and I whispered it back, I knew I was quite happy with exactly what I was given.

Baby Bel Idol

You haven't lived until you've negotiated grocery aisles while your four-year-old pretends to be Sanjaya comforting a bag of Baby Bel cheese.

Spilly enjoys grocery shopping. She likes the fact that there's a captive audience all around her that has to buy groceries and therefore cannot ignore her easily. She enjoys having her mother wheel her around like royalty. She has a lovely time singing dramatic lyrics about the produce around her. (Today, my favourite was a throaty-but-tremulous-kind-of-mournful-Greta-Garboesque-portent-of-dark-times-ahead, "One pepper...two peppers....three peppers...." followed by cackles of laughter because she could tell that her Mom, who was trying to be severe about not bothering other shoppers, was a little amused.)

Today she took a shine to the Baby Bel cheese and wanted to carry it up front with her. She began pretending to be the cheese, who was apparently nervous about riding in a grocery cart. "Oh, I'm just a bag of Baby Bel cheese, and I'm very scared. I've never been in a grocery cart before. There are so many people! What if something happens?" etc. etc. I admit I partially tuned it out, as it did go on and on (as it generally does).

Then the voice changed: "It's okay, little cheese. You don't have to be scared. I'll look after you."

Falsetto: "Oh, who are you? You scared me!"

"I'm Sanjaya Malakar. And I'm here to take care of you."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!"

"And now I'll sing you a song so you won't be scared. 'Girl, you really got me now. You got me so I don't know what I'm doing.'"

At this point, my hubby and I started to lose it. But we couldn't lose Sanjaya or the cheese. The dialogue continued right up to the checkout, through the parking lot, and into the car. Sanjaya and the cheese entertained each other all the way home, as a matter of fact.

Camouflage at the Science Centre

Well, today we took the mighty Spills for the first time to the Ontario Science Centre. It was a great success--she's old enough now to do lots of the things there, and she knows a fair bit of background about some of the exhibits, thanks to her many conversations/messy experiments with her father. She loved the space stuff, and the electricity exhibits, and a lot of the natural history things. Best of all, it was free admission for teachers, which was a savings of $17!!

I was glad to see her goofing around with the other kids, as she sometimes hangs back. But I will say that I notice a definite trend. She's happiest when she is pretending to be someone or something else. She loved the simulated rainforest, because she could be "Keekachu the fruit monkey." She enjoyed being a bat in the pretend cave. She hung out in the beaver den for a long time, speaking in falsetto: "I'm just a little beaver and I'm in my den! Want to come in and visit me?" She found the beaver den to be such a hit, in fact, that she took some books in there from the bookshelf nearby, and pretended to be a "teacher beaver" who would read to anyone who was foolish enough to go in with her. It took quite a lot of cajoling to get her out.

My favourite pretending-to-be-someone else moment, though, was when she stood atop the simulated tornado, waved her arms in it, capered around, and shouted, "I'm Dorothy! I'm Dorothy!" to the amusement/bemusement of the people standing around.

But on the way home, she proved she was still a little grounded in reality. A song came on the radio and I said to her, "Who's that singing?" I was wondering if she'd recognize that it was the Beatles.

She said, half-asleep, clutching her Cinderella doll, "Oh...it's Paul."

Bizarre Kid

And now for today's latest freaky-deakiness (don't believe that's a real word, but I like it).

From time to time, Spilly surprises/scares us with insights we don't expect. Today's zinger comes to us courtesy of Tchaikovsky. While we were we were working hard on our sticker book at the kitchen table, I put on his Pathetique Symphony.

I said, "This man was very sad. You can hear how sad he was in the music."

"Why was he so sad?"

"I don't know exactly," I said. "He just had a lot of worries. Can you hear them in the music?"

Spilly has a lot of worries herself. I could tell this interested her. We spent some time listening to the music and discussing what each part was saying, till Spilly said, "Is he dead?"

"Well, yes. He lived a long time ago." Death is a subject she keeps returning to these days.

"Was he killed?"

"No," I said. "He wasn't killed!"

"Maybe," she struggled to find the words, "Maybe himself killed him."

So that's when my heart skipped a beat, since in fact some people think Tchaikovsky might have committed suicide. But why would the thought even cross a four-year-old's mind? Where would she have met up with the concept of suicide in the first place?

When I told my hubby, he said, "She picked it out of your mind."

"I didn't say anything about suicide! I just said he had a lot of worries!"

"I know," he said. "She picked it out of your mind."

Or out of Tchaikovsky's mind, I guess.

Multifaceted Gifts

Spilly has a dear friend who is a boy. I might even venture to call him her "boyfriend." Certainly that's what she calls him. And since they often play "wedding" together, and we have video footage of them kissing (great blackmail material), I'd venture to say it's reciprocated.

It's all the sweeter because this little boy was not expected to live when he was first born, and spent the first several months of his life in the Toronto Hospital for Sick Children. Our family grew closer to his during that time, as we shared a little of that experience with his mother and father, through cooking for them, visiting with them, and sharing the strange coincidence of the fact that Spilly also needed some ongoing medical attention during that time, in the same area of the hospital (not that her medical troubles were anything much compared to Robbie's).

Now that Robbie is in great health, and only six months younger than the mighty Spills, we all watch their budding romance with great affection. We joke a lot about becoming inlaws one day, and we're possibly all secretly hoping it'll come to pass. And I sometimes think about the strange path our friendships have taken, from a work-based friendliness (I taught with Robbie's dad for a number of years) to a relationship tinged in pain and desire to help, to a strong friendship based on our children's mutual love for each other, to something that really transcends friendship and is much closer to family. A precious gift indeed.

Robbie was over today with his family for a post-holiday get-together. It was intended to be a playdate, but turned into an impromptu rustle-up-what-you-can dinner and a great time. The kids played beautifully (Spilly showed off her new wedding dress, part of a box of costumes she received for Christmas) and they staged their wedding, among other raucous activities. The adults all gabbed away happily.

And tonight the talk turned to our jobs. Robbie's dad is still at my old school, the one I often feel I wish I hadn't left (although it was for the best at that time, having to do with wanting to drop some of my hours due to having Spilly, and needing to switch schools in order to make that happen). He knows I'm not particularly happy at my current school, where I've been for the past four years. He knows I miss my old staff and the tone of that school.

Tonight he said to me point-blank, "You should just come back. Why not?"

And as the evening wore on, I thought to myself, What if?

And it continues to rankle at me. My gut is starting to say, maybe this is my year for change. I've been thinking it for awhile, feeling quite unhappy in my current position, but it took Robbie's dad to articulate it for me. So I'll continue to chew on it for awhile. And be thankful for friendships that have grown in multifaceted ways and continue to bear fruit when you least expect it.

Making Rules

Today Spilly said to me in a testing-the-waters way, "I make the rules in the house."

I looked up from where I was doing dishes. "Uh, no. Your father and I make the rules in the house."

"But I make up some rules."

"Like what?"

"No stealing bread."

"Okay, yes, that's a good rule."

"And no bathroom words." She proceeded to list several that were off-limits.

"That's enough of that," I said. "But I like your bread rule. That is a grown-up rule too, that you can't steal. There's even a law about it."

"What happens if you're a grown-up and you do steal?"

"They can send you to jail."

"To JAIL???" She seemed to think this was both horrible and deeply fascinating. "But what if you're in jail and you want to go to a restaurant?"

"You're not allowed to go to a restaurant if you're in jail. You just have to stay there in jail."

She thought about this for awhile. "But maybe they could take you to the restaurant in your cage."

"No, they wouldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"Well, the cages aren't made for moving around. They just stay inside the jail."

"And the people stay inside the cages."

"Yes."

She thought quite a bit longer. Then she said, "Do reindeer come down the chimney with Santa?"

"No, they stay on top."

"Always?"

"Always."

"Then WHY," she said, hands on little hips, "Did the reindeer eat part of the CARROT?"

It took me a minute to figure out what she was talking about. Then I realized. On Christmas Eve, we had of course put out cookies for Santa. We'd also put out some baby carrots for the reindeer, all of which had bites out of them in the morning. And how could that happen if reindeer didn't come down the chimney?

"Hmm," I said, thinking hard.

"I know, Mommy," Spilly said. "Santa took it up to the reindeer. And then when they couldn't finish it, he brought it back down again."

"Yes! That's it, I'm pretty sure."

"It is it," Spilly said in a very haughty and dignified voice.

A great example, I might add, of how Mommy's rule was completely overriden by basic logic, and replaced by Spilly's rule instead. Which does actually raise the question of who is making the rules in this house.

Sanjaya Rings in the New Year

Happy New Year!

We are moving slowly today, after a New Year's Eve sleepover with Spilly's friend Simon and his mom and dad. It was a great night, with lots of laughter and reflection punctuated by the shrieks of children hurling themselves around the house attempting to dislocate/relocate as many things as possible.

And I was reminded once again about how lucky we are to have good friends in our lives, and about how caring they are. Simon's mom made a very special gift for our Spilly - a handmade t-shirt featuring none other than our good friend, the mighty Sanjaya. She apparently found an image of him online, made it into an iron-on transfer, and then put it onto the shirt. It's absolutely marvellous. Our kiddo shrieked aloud when she saw it, then said delightedly, "Oh, it makes me feel very shy and embarrassed."

He is grinning at me even now, ushering in the New Year in consummate style.