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.