Some Warmth amid the Cold

It was the mother of all rotten drives home tonight. The snow hit out of nowhere, and the roads got greasy beyond all expectations. Even the tailgaters backed off. And the huge Mac trucks crawled along, trying to stay in their lane. There's nothing more fun than wondering if the mac truck coming toward you is completely in control or not.

And I should have felt absolutely horrible. But, you know, I've been nursing a very happy little secret for a couple of days, and it has really helped to colour the bleak world around me.

And what is that secret, you ask? You'll never guess. Okay, I'll tell you. This week, completely out of the blue, I received a couple of very special emails. And they came from someone I never expected in a million years to be emailing me. And who do you think it was?

Sanjaya's mother!!!

And I am touched beyond words at the kindness she has shown toward my Spilly. The child has been on a bender ever since. And so have I, feeling like I'm in the twilight zone. I really can honestly say I never expected to be typing, "So how's Sanjaya doing these days?" and to be receiving an answer...

Spilly is particularly delighted at the fact that "Sanjaya's Mommy" mentioned she would like to hear Spilly sing. Spills' immediate can-do response was, "Then let's make a recording for her RIGHT AWAY."

"Maybe later," I said.

A lot later.

Running the Show

So Spills received her little award today, and hubby says it was a very nice assembly. There was a choir with a soloist, and a presentation about Martin Luther King, and all of the kids getting certificates were called up one by one on the stage.

I asked Spilly this evening, "What did it feel like when they called your name?"

She said, "I jumped up like a Smarty out of a box!"

"Did you have a feeling of excitement?"

"No," she said in her are-you-crazy voice. "I had a feeling of PEACE."

"Oh. I see."

"And do you know what my certificate was FOR?"

"What was it for?"

"It said that I got to be the little-girl Principal for a day."

"Oh really? And what kinds of things did you get to do?"

"I got to say, SSSHHHHHHH to everybody who was talking."

Her Daddy says he missed this part of the assembly entirely.

The Other Side of the Fence

Spilly is getting a little award in her school assembly tomorrow. It's for "showing responsibility." She doesn't know. Her teacher sent us a note home last week telling us about it, inviting us, and asking us not to tell her.

It's funny--I've been giving out awards like these for years. And I've always enjoyed seeing parents get sentimental about them, had fun watching them tape the whole thing for posterity. But I don't think I've ever really understood how they felt. I would give anything to be able to be there tomorrow. I know I'd get all mushy and teary, seeing my own little crazy one walk up to the front of the student body and be given a certificate that represents something I love to think she possesses in her own four-year-old way.

I've gone back and forth in my mind about ditching school for the day so I could be there. I almost called in sick this evening. But, ironically enough, I have to give out my own certificates tomorrow. Mine are for "showing care for your school environment." They're being given to kids who haven't had a lot of experience at getting certificates, kids who have never found school easy but are amazing citizens of the classroom. Their parents were given cards earlier in the week, inviting them. I have no doubt they'll be sitting in the audience tomorrow, getting all mushy and teary, proud of their own babies.

Sometimes as a teacher-parent, it's a very tough call. There are no first-day-of-school rituals with your own one, because you're providing part of that ritual for other people's little ones. You have to miss assemblies. On the other hand, you have a unique perspective on the experiences your child will have in her classroom. Maybe you're uniquely ready to provide a sympathetic ear, the right kind of inspiration when needed. And maybe that's a kind of compensation.

Highlights of the Weekend

It was my birthday on Sunday, and in typical style our family celebrated most of the weekend.

On Saturday morning, Spilly presented me with some beautiful yellow flowers she had picked out (yellow is my favourite colour). She says that they are sunflowers, although I believe they are a bit too small and delicate for that. They are living in the dining room in a vase.

She and her Daddy took me out to a lovely restaurant on Saturday night. There Spilly tasted her first mussels, which caused her to retch repeatedly and nearly throw up, just at the moment when the waiter came to ask, "How is everything?"

We all went skating on Sunday morning at an indoor arena. Spills began skating two weeks ago (something my back still remembers not-so-fondly), and has made quite a bit of progress in fourteen days. The backyard rink has given her a place to practise. Yesterday she and her Daddy (who also basically started skating a couple of weeks ago) made it all around the arena together, hand in hand. Spills says she is going to be a hockey player.

We had lunch with our friends at Swiss Chalet, where Spilly announced that she planned to marry Robbie but have Simon as her boyfriend too. A very liberated perspective, I think. Not sure where Sanjaya fits into that scenario.

We had tomato soup and cake for supper, in the most remarkably decorated dining room imaginable. Spills even insisted upon a Dora tablecloth to celebrate my step closer to death. On the wall was a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game, and there were streamers and balloons.

And to cap it all off, the Oscars were on that evening, so Spills and I watched the fancy dresses, etc., until it was time for her to go to bed.

A good time, all around!

Incredible Music

So Spilly had her little Friday music class again. Apparently Mr. Fantastic was there. He was wearing a Spiderman shirt.

Hubby asked him, "Are you Mr. Fantastic?"

"No," he said, with some scorn. "I'm Mr. INCREDIBLE. See?" And he shot off along the hallway in a really incredible run.

We like his style.

After-School Concert

It was a grim, stressful day. Not enough sun, temperatures far too frigid, kids crazy, report cards looming, marking pile threatening to fall over and smother me. And an EQAO meeting after school, as if there wasn't enough on the old plate.

When I got home, there was no sign of hubby or Spills. So I took my bad mood up for a quick bubble bath. By the end of it--and a hair wash--I was ready to face the world again.

I heard the door open, and voices in the hallway. As I headed downstairs, I could hear Spills saying, "But why isn't Mommy HERE?"

"She'll be here soon," her daddy told her.

"Until she gets here, I'm going to pretend I have an imaginary Mommy," Spills was saying gloomily. At that moment, I leapt out into view.

"MOMMY!" my kid shrieked. There were many hugs. Then she added, "You look like Sanjaya."

"I do? Really?"

"You have a hat like him. Can I wear it now?"

I still was wearing the towel around my head from my hair-wash. "Well, it's drying my hair right now, so I don't think you should," I said.

"When you're done, can I?"

"Maybe we'll get you a dry one right now."

Moments later, we were on my bed, and she was dressed in full princess regalia (gown, slippers, scepter), with a towel wrapped around her head.

"And now I'm going to do a concert for you."

"Great!" I said, perched against the pillows.

She left the room. A great silence followed. Then she burst through the door, singing the entire song, "Ain't no mountain high enough..." It went on and on. It involved elaborate dance moves.
At the end, she began to climb onto the bed. I clapped enthusiastically.

"Mommy! I'm NOT DONE YET. I'm just climbing up the mountain."

"Oh, sorry," I said.

"But it's not high enough. DON'T LAUGH."

The After-School Joy of it All

So I arrived home after a long teaching day followed by a slog through report cards. They're due next week. The pressure's on.

I was greeted at the door by a frenetic Grassy the Ant. Grassy said in a high falsetto, "I'm Grassy the Ant! I've made a traffic light! Come and see!"

Sure enough, a large play dough traffic light was squished onto the wall, with all the right colours in all the right places. Clear evidence that the energy was a-scattered.

"Oh!" I said. "That's a traffic light, all right."

We managed to remove the play dough and tidy up slightly, and then Grassy and Mommy read together and began to watch a bit of Alice in Wonderland. Mommy actually began to unwind from her day.

Then Grassy was unexpectedly replaced by Child From Hades, who suddenly realized that when she hadn't been looking, Daddy had set the table. Apparently this had been the divine ordained right of CFH, although nobody is sure exactly when the honour was bestowed upon her from on high.

She began by shouting with terrible outrage, "You said I COULD DO IT!" Then she stamped her little self into the dining room and began forcibly removing all of the silverware. I went into the kitchen at this point. The way I saw it, if she wanted to remove everything and replace it, that was fine.

And it would have been fine, had she actually replaced everything. Instead, she meticulously put it all away in the silverware drawer, grumbling and growling all the while. Then she closed the drawer.

"So," I said after a minute. "Are you planning to set the table?"

"We....ll," she said. "Now I don't think I want to set it anymore."

So I began to give her a lecture about how you can't take everything off the table and put it in the drawer and not replace it.

Midway through, she decided she would set the table.

"Good," I said. "I'll be back in a bit."

I went out to the living room and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally I went back into the kitchen. Spilly was fingering all of the forks peacefully.

"Are you going to set the table?" I said.

"Yes!" She jumped. Apparently she had been lost in thought. She began grabbing silverware again. In the meantime, I poured milk for everyone, and put it out on the table (Spills is not allowed to carry the glasses around).

Next thing I knew, from the kitchen I could hear grunting sounds, as if someone was lugging something cumbersome.

"What are you doing?" I called.

No answer.

Out to the dining room I went. There she was dragging glasses off the table, liquid sloshing here and there, a mulish expression on her face.

"You are spilling the milk!"

Daddy showed up at this point, less than satisfied. Turns out, good chunks of his day with Spills had been less than satisfying--tantrums over zippers, refusal to put on outer clothing, etc.

Let's just say the whole thing ended in tears. And words. And more tears. Tears throughout dinner. The tears of a tired and frustrated small person, who would like to be a good deal more autonomous than she is. And who had a supply teacher today and sat through a boring RRSP meeting at the bank. And whose Mommy came home late because she was wrestling with report cards.

We worked it all out during dinner. And at last Spilly's tears dried, and she became philosophical.

"Mommy, what did you want to be when you grew up?"

"Well," I said. "I wanted to be a kindergarten teacher, when I was about your age."

"And you AREN'T."

"Well, I'm a grade six teacher. And I wanted to write a book, and I did. And I wanted a little girl exactly like you."

"And you got me!" she said with great satisfaction.

"And I wanted to marry someone like Daddy, and I did."

After awhile she said, "Mommy, I'm not going to work when I grow up."

"Really?" I said. "What are you planning to do?"

"I'm going to stay at home and look after you."

And suddenly the day seemed a lot less dark and a lot less gruelling.

What did Spills do when she got home from her grandparents' house, you ask?

1. rang the doorbell at least twenty times because it's funny

2. took a walk around the block with Daddy to refamiliarize herself with where everything is

3. ran full-tilt into the glass coffee-table and had a good sob until Mommy showed her Mommy's bruise from yesterday, when Mommy ploughed into a row of chairs at the movie theatre

4. devised several methods of getting Mommy and Daddy out of the kitchen so she could try to sneak another of the gingerbread heart-shaped cookies she and Grandma made

5. showed off her very full tummy after dinner, saying, "I've got a baby in there, and her name is Rebecca."

6. had a first-class argument with Grandpa over the lyrics to Sergeant Pepper, insisting they go, "It's Sergeant Pepper's only heart slum band."

7. threw her clothes into as many rooms as possible while ostensibly getting ready for her bath

8. sang reassuringly to her bulgur at dinner, "Don't worry, little bulgur, I'm going to eat you."

9. treated everyone to multiple versions of "I don't know how to make my parents love me."

10. processed into the living room dressed up in princess attire, complete with crown and high-heeled shoes, and then gave everyone in turn a sternly stiff-handed royal wave

Silence

Well, Spilly has gone to visit her grandparents for a couple of days. It's very quiet around here--no belting out rocker tunes, no "you be me and I'll be you" games, no Constant Communicating.

It wasn't so quiet before she left. She wanted to pack her own suitcase, so I let her (I added a few little things later). Lots of clinking sounds and lugging of items. I ignored them.

Then she came to me, quite worried. "Mommy, I found something that isn't fair."

"What is it?"

"Well, I have antlers for me and Grandma, but I can't find the antlers for Grandpa."

"Oh," I said. "Let's take a look."

We searched high and low, and finally found Grandpa's antlers (the ones with the jingly bells) at the bottom of the tickle trunk. They went into the suitcase immediately, and I had my first glimpse of what else was in there.

1. Most of the bookcase, including picture frames and ceramics

2. A wiggles DVD

3. Monty

4. Ribbon

5. Purple socks with hearts on them

6. A princess outfit

7. Antlers

I made a point of telling Grandma about the search for the antlers, wanting to make sure that she and Grandpa would recognize that it was important to Spills that they be actually put on the head.

Grandma said, "I think we'll wear them for dinner tonight."

So, while my Hubby and I went to see Oscar-nominated movies, I took pleasure in imagining Grandma, Grandpa and Spills sitting down to their salmon dinner in their special headgear.

Spills will be back on Monday night.

Sweet, Sweet Music....

Today I got to chaperone a middle school dance. If you offered me the choice between being repeatedly clubbed in the head or chaperoning a middle school dance, I would be hard-pressed to choose (but the clubbing might have a slight edge). At least my tour of duty was only an hour long; but by the end of it, my head was pounding, and my eyes were sore from squinting through near-total darkness in the school gym (there were some laser-y kinds of things dancing around the ceiling, but they didn't provide much illumination to those of us below).

Spilly enjoyed some music today too. She attends a little music class on Fridays with her friend Robbie. Today was extra-special, apparently. She told her Daddy afterward, "There's a new boy in our class!"

"Oh?" said her Daddy. "What's his name?"

"Mr. Fantastic!"

Daddy was slightly taken aback. "What's his real name?" he asked.

Spilly glared at him. "Mister. Fan. Tas. Tic."

"Did you see Mr. Fantastic?" I asked Daddy later.

"I actually did, for a minute."

"And did he look fantastic?"

"Well--kind of," said Daddy, after thinking about it.

Sounds like Robbie, Spilly's current main squeeze, is going to have a run for his money.

Valentine's Day

I was greeted this morning by my student saying to me, "H V D, Mrs. C."

To which, of course, I said, "H V D, B."

It has been a day of high spirits and adolescent hormones firing. We had a party this afternoon that was really, mostly, a language lesson (we have been studying Bridge to Terabithia, and wrapped up the unit today by watching the movie, while making a Venn diagram comparing similarities and differences between the movie and the book--oh, and while eating a whole lot of junky food and giggling over the Valentines we had received).

Later on, after school had ended, Mommy and Daddy and Spilly put on their best duds and headed to the fancy Italian restaurant. There we met the best waiters ever, who plied Spilly with never-ending maraschino cherries and heart-shaped pasta, and paid her the kinds of compliments to which she feels she should become accustomed.

She held forth on the subject of love, giving it her own unique twist. Tenderly she said, "Mommy, I love you more than this whole building."

"I love you more than this whole building too," I said, feeling all sentimental.

Then the mood turned.

With unexpected menace, she muttered, "Not for long."

Not sure what to expect in the near future. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

For now.

The Fabulous New Word

Well, Spilly learned the word "nincompoop" today. She thinks it's great. As I write this, she is singing, "I'm just wild about nincompoop, and nincompoop's wild about me."

Don't know who the nincompoop is, but he should really run, run as fast as he can.

Tomorrow night, speaking of people being "wild" about each other, we are all going out for a romantic dinner for three, at the new Italian restaurant near us. We were there once before, when they first opened. Tomorrow, they are having a special Valentine's Day menu, and the helpful person on the phone is planning to arrange a special kid's menu for Spilly. We shall see what it is, but I bet it will be nice. Just hope she doesn't call the waiter a nincompoop.

Where's My Family??

So more crummy weather in our neck of the woods. Snow blowing in off the lake, coupled with the snow we were supposed to get anyway. And something out of Ohio that they're talking about hitting us now. Oh, and something bad is supposed to move in on Thursday night.

Today's weather warnings started, of course, once I'd made it to school. They were forecasting a really unpleasant drive home, with whiteouts and visibility less than a kilometre. So, in my wimpy way, I started trying to call my hubby from my classroom phone during recess. He's such a very good driver, and I'm such a very bad driver. My cowardly reasoning was, my little car could sit in the school parking lot overnight, and my family could come to get me.

But there was no answer at home. Very bad news indeed.

So I had to drive home, and it was as rotten as forecast. It was made even more rotten by the jerk in the huge Mac truck behind me, who didn't feel I was going nearly fast enough, and wanted to give me a big kiss in through the back window.

I got home shaking. Hubby was shovelling the driveway.

"I thought maybe you'd call for a ride," he said, quite surprised I'd made it home.

"I TRIED!"

"Oh!" He frowned. "Well...I guess we were out skating for awhile."

It took a second for this to register.

"On our rink?"

He nodded.

"Is it ice now?"

"Oh, yeah!" He proceeded to emote at length about our magnum opus, the backyard rink to end all rinks, that slopes sharply down toward the back fence, like the mother of all luge runs.

"How was Spilly on the ice?"

"Much better!" He described stumping around in his boots, holding on to a cackling Spills who had coined her variety of skating as "bottom ballet."

And I realized that the bad news was also good news. It was almost (almost) worth a rotten drive home if it meant that our little family had taken its first collective steps toward a wonderful new active hobby together. The rink has arrived!!

Let me Count the Ways....

I said to Spilly today, "I love you a little bit, you know."

"Just a little bit?" she said.

"Well, I love you a lot bit."

She thought for awhile. "Do you love me...thirty-seven pounds?"

I got down on her level so we could see eye to eye. "I love you THIRTY-SEVEN POUNDS."

"Good." She smiled, perfectly satisfied.

How to While Away a Drowsy Sunday

So. Last night we made plans to meet with friends of ours at 10:30 this morning, some 45 minutes away. Before that time, we were going to quickly pick up for Spilly a pair of skates, a helmet, and a push-along-the-ice thing to help her with balance. We thought we might also get Daddy a pair of skates, as he also doesn't know how. Then we and our friends would head to an ice rink near their home for the Family Skate at eleven o'clock.

We were at the doors of Canadian Tire just as they opened at nine o'clock. Off we trotted to the Sports department, filled with purpose. And the skate shelves were nearly bare. No skates, no helmets, no pushy things. But a lot of spring stuff, in the middle of February.

So off we raced to another Canadian tire. There we found a helmet, and skates for Spilly and Daddy. Oh, and skate guards. By now it was too late to make it to our friends' place by 10:30. Plus there were some wicked squalls coming in off the lake, and the winds were up to nearly 100 km/hr.

So we called the friends. They suggested we all reschedule for the following week. We agreed, then determined we would find our own Family Skate in our town.

Then we sat in the car and thought, where else can we look for a push-on-the-ice thing? We headed to a couple more sports stores, while Hubby, behind the wheel, squinting through the white-outs, began saying gritted-teeth things like, "This is starting not to be fun."

There were no pushy-ice things anywhere. So we went home, in time for hubby to go out and be an icicle in the backyard with the hose, on our "rink" that is one in name only because it is a kind of spongey crust at the moment (just so you know, I did offer to go out, more than once, but he nobly refused, and I cheerfully accepted his refusal).

While he was out there, I got the bright idea of calling sports stores. And I ended up speaking with a lovely young man who may or may not have been entranced by my currently husky voice (thank you, influenza), because he began actively searching online himself. And he found me a push-ice thing in the next town to ours.

Well!

I shouted the good news to my half-frozen hubby, who said weakly, "Oh, great."

So after a hearty lunch and some warm white tea, we all piled yet again in the car and headed to the next town over. I don't know how you describe white-outs that are getting more intense than the previous white-outs, but that's what we faced the whole way. We got there in one piece, and in we went to the Canadian Tire, where they were holding our ice-pusher at the Hockey Desk.

Home we went in high spirits to research whether there would be Family Skates anywhere. Turned out the only one left was already going on, and would end in just over an hour and a half.

Not a problem! Hubby opened the ice-push box, to find that the "easy assembly" was going to be slightly less easy than advertised. Particularly with Spilly wandering away with pieces that she kept turning into other things. "This is my telescope!"

Half an hour later, though, it was assembled, and we were throwing skates, helmets, etc., into a carry bag. More slithering in white outs.

We got to the arena, and the girl behind the desk said, "Did you know it's ending in half an hour?"

"Yes," we said. "We know."

She waved us in.

And what followed can best be described with a good old-fashioned Charlie Brown "Aauugh." No sooner had we gotten on the ice than a power mother shot up to us (with excellent balance, I might add), bellowing, "They're not going to let you have that on the ice."

Yes, the ice-pushy thing. Not allowed on the ice.

Several other moms were quite interested in it, though. "Where did you get that?"

"Canadian Tire," we said grimly.

"Oh, really? I've never seen it there."

"No, it's not at every location."

So the two of us--me with my minimal skating skills, and hubby with his nonexistent skating skills--tried to hold Spilly up between us while she undulated back and forth, her feet flying up backward and forward. Children half her size whizzed past us in all directions.

After about five minutes, she sat down on the ice. "My feet hurt."

"Oh, no!" I said breezily. "We just got here! Let's just do a little more!"

So for the next twenty minutes or so, we laboriously inched back and forth along the boards, while Spilly moaned about how horrible it all was, and my back began to seriously consider snapping just above my waist.

When the whistle blew to signal the end of Family Skate, I felt we had had more than enough for our first experience.

All the way home in the car, though, Spilly kept up a running monologue: "I love skating! When are we going skating again? Can we go tomorrow? Daddy, will they let us take the holder on the ice tomorrow? Daddy, can we go skating on our rink tonight....?"

Hubby was silent, very silent.

Things to do While your Parents are Trying to Build a Skating Rink

1. Figure out how to ride your toboggan off the back deck so it slides the length of the area Mommy and Daddy are stamping down, nearly knocking Mommy's legs off at the kneecap.

2. Turn your climber into an ice castle and dance around on it shouting, "I'm a Queen! I'm a Queen!"

3. Tearfully request your own shovel and then use it for three and a half seconds before placing it directly in front of a parent who is trying to stamp down the snow the shovel is now on.

4. Loudly point out that in weather like this it sure is nice to have hot chocolate.

5. Ask if Daddy is going to learn how to skate now.

6. Ask Mommy repeatedly if she will go under the climber to retrieve the soccer ball that has taken refuge underneath it.

7. Throw yourself into the snowbanks Daddy has just built up and then allow yourself to slide gently backward onto the ice, saying, "Aaaaahhhhhhh."

8. Place your toboggan directly in the path of whatever shovel is nearest.

9. Lie down on the ice and gloomily say, "I'm tired of skating."

10. Ask when we're going to go to the tobogganing hill.

Encounters with Poison

Spilly said tonight at dinner, "Daddy, can poison kill you?"

Her Daddy said solemnly, "That's what poison IS. It's something that can kill you. And we have poisons in this very house."

"REALLY?" Her eyes grew round.

"Yes. We have bottles that have poison in them, and we use them to clean with. And there's a picture on the bottles that tells you it's poison. And as a matter of fact, I will show you that picture right now. And you must never, never touch these bottles."

Then he got up from the dinner table, went into the laundry room, and came back with a cleaner.

Spilly said in a hushed voice, "Is that POISON?"

"It is poison. And see the picture here. Is that a nice picture?" He pointed to the skull and crossbones.

She whispered, "No."

"That's right. It's not very nice, is it? That picture says, 'Don't touch this. It's poison.'"

She stared at it for awhile. And then she breathed, "Can I touch the bottle right now?"

"Yes," her Daddy said. "You can touch it right now, but only right now."

So she reached out and put her finger on the bottle, snatching it away again as if she'd been burned. And she looked quite scared.

Her Daddy said, "It's okay. The bottle didn't hurt you. It's what's inside that is the poison. That's what you must never, never touch."

She nodded solemnly. Then she whispered, "It didn't hurt me. But it DID give me a pimple."

Snow Day!

Yep, we had another one. And the storm's not over yet. I can hear snow whipping against the windows. When I looked out earlier, I could barely see across the street.

A snow day with Spilly is never dull. Here are some of the things we did:

1. started our first-ever chapter book together and very grudgingly stopped for meals (the concept of a cliffhanger is a new one for Spilly)

2. made the world's best smoothie with banana, milk, a dollop of peanut butter, Splenda, some low-fat hot chocolate powder and a little vanilla (and boy, could that blender make some surprising noise)

3. did a vaudeville number entitled, "I'm just wild about Harry and Harry's just wild about me."

4. pretended we were Pirate Pete and his parrot, and ran around stealing jewels from giants

5. went tobogganing (okay, that was Daddy and Spilly; Mommy stayed inside and read her biography of Charles Schultz)

6. turned out all the lights so that Spilly could have a "nap" (okay, that was mostly Spills, who got very inventive about how to get up to all the light switches, while Mommy said, "Be careful!")

7. had an extended conversation about how the house was too slippery

8. held a number of concerts with the signature number, "I don't know how to make my parents love me."

9. watched The Sword in the Stone and talked a lot about medieval England, kings, what is right and what is wrong

10. tuned in repeatedly to the Weather Network, while Spilly sighed and groaned and rolled her eyes and whispered loudly, "Why can't I talk right now?"

Anticipation

Well, there's yet another snow storm forecast to come our way tomorrow. Seems like there have been nothing but storms all winter.

And on nights like these, when I'm watching the weather report with interest, I realize how lucky I am. As a teacher, I know that if the freezing rain gets too bad in the morning, I won't be asked to get into my car and slither along icy roads to school, heart in my mouth. Able to sleep in, I can look forward to Spills waking up on her own and slipping into our bedroom. She'll whisper, "Mommy, I'm awake!" and crawl in beside me, warm and flannel-y. She'll probably demand a back rub with fingernails. And she and I will have a day of reading and snuggling and lip syncing to anything that appeals to us. Probably we'll bake something. Maybe we'll string some beads. Definitely there will be something nice for lunch.

And if I'm really lucky, maybe sometime during the long, lazy storm, she'll do a repeat performance of her latest gem, a Sanjaya-heavy rendition of "Girl, you really got me now...." in which "Girl" is replaced by "Mommy." The last line goes, "You're my kind of Mooooommmmmmmmy." (The first time she sang it, though, the last part of the "Mommy" was obscured by an involuntary belch, and peals of laughter.)

Yes, I do love it when the snowflakes begin to fall, because it means I steal a few extra hours with insanity chick. Now, all we have to hope is that ENOUGH flakes fall.

Early Writing

Well, Spills is starting to be quite interested in letters and how they go together. And yesterday she put together a sentence that thoroughly managed to articulate her thoughts at the time.

She had been rattling around the place for a good few hours, crabby as--well--a crab. It was a kind of post-Beatles hangover, an unhappy morning-after devoid of concert halls and nice restaurants and visits from grandparents who live far away. Nothing suited her, and she suited no one.

And Mommy called her Mommy and Daddy (Grandma and Grandpa) on the telephone to say hello. Spilly hopped around in front of Mommy hooting, "I want to talk to Grandpa," until finally Mommy passed over the phone.

Twice.

When it got to the third demanded conversation (complete with rhythmic pounding of hands on Mommy's back that got harder and harder), Mommy told Spilly to go and see what Daddy was doing.

Off Spilly went instead to the kitchen table, with paper and crayons. Mommy continued her phone conversation. She only half-noticed as Spilly went on an intensive search for tape. But Mommy was quite aware when a defiant and offended little Spills stamped into the hallway with her sign, and taped it up on the wall directly in front of Mommy.

It said, "NO SOSAN."

The Mother of All Days

Well, it was like the Perfect Storm yesterday--several little happy-storms all converging at once. On any given day, it would have been exciting to have breakfast with Mam and Grandad, who live in Halifax and see Spilly only once or twice a year. It would have been exciting to go to Flapjacks. It would have been thrilling to attend a Beatles concert. And it would have been very nifty indeed to go to a Quebecois restaurant for dinner to eat crepes and chat in French with the waiter.

But to do it ALL in one DAY....?

We met with Mam and Grandad in the morning at their hotel, and whisked them away for breakfast, before returning them to the hotel to get ready for their flight to Portugal (we are joining them there in 5 weeks, for March Break). Of course we took them to Flapjacks, where the owner gave Spilly her usual royal treatment.

When we had dropped them off again, we headed into Toronto, arriving at the Sony Centre an hour early to PICK UP REPLACEMENT TICKETS FOR THE SHOW. Having got the tickets, we hung out downstairs and ate multigrain cheerios until it was time to go to our seats. And I started feeling all sentimental because I first went to this theatre (it was called the O'Keefe Centre in those days) when I was about Spilly's age.

We got to our seats and admired the movie screens and purple curtain for quite awhile. We talked through how these were not the REAL Beatles (Spilly is quite a Beatles fan, with Beatles posters on her wall in her room and most of their appropriate lyrics memorized, so we needed to clarify).

Then the show started with a recreation of Ed Sullivan on the movie screens, introducing the Beatles from 1964 (we have this performance on tape at home). And of course when the moment came for the Beatles to start performing, up came the curtain, and the lights, and there they were onstage.

Spilly turned to me and shrieked above the music, "Mommy, it IS THEM! It's REALLY THEM!"

And she was so enchanted by this, that I found myself getting even more sentimental. I am taking Spilly to a real, live Beatles concert, I was thinking. And with the screaming crowd and the fab four sounding just like the FAB FOUR, I could almost believe it.

But at intermission, it all came crashing down. "I know it's actually not the real Beatles," Spilly said.

"Oh," I said, partly disappointed. "Yes, that's true."

"Do you know how I know?"

"How?"

"Because John and George are dead. REMEMBER?"

At some point in the past, this fact had come to light. The moral of the story is, be very careful about what you say to Spilly, because it will come back to haunt you.

"Yes," I said, "I do remember that now, I think."

"So John and George are actors in the show. But Paul and Ringo are real. It's the real Paul and Ringo."

"Okay, yes." And I was half-guilty and half-relieved.

We twisted and shouted. We sang along to Hey Jude. We danced to Sergeant Pepper. And at the end Spilly personally clapped hard enough to bring the boys back onstage.

After the show, exhausted from all that dancing and singing and standing on the chair, we made our way through the slushy streets, hoods up against the snow that had started falling again. And we headed to the restaurant Mommy had first gone to when she was Spilly's age, after attending a show at the same concert hall Spilly had just been to. It's a lovely French restaurant, called Le Papillon. It's been in Toronto for a million years. It has trees inside it, with lights in them.

The child ate escargot, and only balked momentarily when we told her they were snails. Then: "can I have some more?" She had smoked salmon and capers. She enjoyed her Crepe Philippe very much. And then came dessert. We coached her, and when the Quebecois waiter came to take her order, she said, "Creme glace, s'il vous plait."

"Oh, mademoiselle!" he said. "You speak French!" And with the creme glace came complimentary chocolate sauce. And with the chocolate sauce came the Maitre d'e. She said, "I hear there is a princess in the restaurant, Mademoiselle. Or maybe you are a duchess?"

And Spilly yet again surrounded herself with slavish admirers.

Sigh. Today is going to be a letdown.

Emoting from the Tub

You know when you laugh so hard that your stomach hurts and you find yourself bending over sideways trying to hold it in, because you know you can't let on that you find anything funny--because it's not supposed to be funny? It's that laughing-in-church thing.

Anyway, we have spent the last hour listening to Spilly roaring her signature tune, "I don't know how to MAKE MY PARENTS LOVE ME." It has gone through a lot of incarnations, with many soulful gradations of emotion, new verses, heart-stopping climaxes, whispered afterthoughts, etc.

And I was just invited in: "MOMMY, THERE'S A CONCERT! COME ON!"

There she was standing up in the tub (and yes, we've since had a serious talk about how you don't do that) with her stretchy rubber squid stretched around her little torso, the squid holding a washcloth in place that hung down like a little sundress. And she was in full headbanger rocker chick mode.

"What are you going to sing?" I asked.

"A song about Terry Fox, written by Sanjaya Malakar."

"Oh!" I said, surprised, having expected the signature tune. "Great! Take it away."

(And this is where I need to clarify that Spilly thinks the world of Terry Fox, worries about him, and frequently asks questions about him. Her song was most definitely a tribute to him, and I hope it wouldn't be construed as making fun of him in any way.)

She put her little head back, put the imaginary microphone to her mouth, and bellowed at the top of her lungs.

"And he hopped and he hopped around CAAA-NAAAA-DAAAA...."

I had to leave the bathroom. And out in the hall was my hubby, already doubled over.