Five Stages of Grief in 68 Minutes

This afternoon, the optometrist, or opthamalogist, I'm not inclined to quibble, turned her back on my wife and I to have a one on one with the dude: "Gabriel, I have to tell you that your eye is broken."

A moment before, she had let us know that something was up while Gabriel occupied himself with eleventy bajillion dollar equipment she uses for eye exams. She showed us the scans of his eyes and the accompanying data on each eye. One measured something with a 1.50 and the other a 6.75 - a stark discrepancy. "Broken," though, for its simplicity to the ears and experience of a four-year-old sent palpable chills through mum and dad. I gave into to the urge to caution him to stop playing with the precision equipment, only to have the opto-expert chide me with, "Chill out, Dad," soon to be reused by my preschooler with some regularity, I'm sure. We booked another appointment to confirm the issue while I tried to recall the occasion where his reluctance to use his left eye presaged his efforts to get his right eye out from the shield she used for today's single-eye tests of his vision.

Mom's face reddened and eyes moistened. I was stoic and tried to joke about it. There is expectation that it'll correct itself with the proposed intervention of eyeglasses and further hope that he will take to wearing his glasses as I do. 

The walk home was somber and I pondered the restaurants we passed as a respite to stop and change the atmosphere. I passed, conscious that my appetite for sushi - the first option to present itself - surpassed that of my fish-phobic wife. I was not in the mood for the daily ritual of pulling Gabriel by the hand and running as hard as I could to drag him and his scrambling legs in my wake. It was only after some insistence that I relented and tugged him along. Even Mum trotted along. 

It is not the first time we have had a medical issue that sent us reeling to worst case scenario. Before he turned 3 months old, we learned that there were concerns about how his hips were aligning and he spent several months in a hips brace that kept his legs splayed until there was confidence that they were settling into their sockets the way they should. We know it could be worse and we ponder that aloud in first world problem terms as we acknowledge that we caught it and can intervene, and that elsewhere in the world, children do not have opto-experts near at hand and insisting on annual visits.

Gabriel is oblivious to his issue as far as we can tell. I moved his Toys R Us Lego catalogue to his left side so that he might use his weaker eye a little more. I also recall Gabriel's first evasion of his left eye. When I first introduced him to the SLR camera last month he peered through the viewfinder with his right eye and repelled my efforts to get to his left eye, the more balanced posture with a camera. It was of little comfort to recall that. 

The rest of the night unfolded as it usually does and I mustered the goofiness to try to read the first few pages of book to Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler" until the cadence mercifully veered away from that melody. Gabriel demanded that I keep singing the book that way there was nothing resembling the chorus. (Whew.) If I write a children's book maybe I'll set it to the melody of "Everlong."

We have, for the moment gone from grief to acceptance and we'll return to the opto-expert next Wednesday to flirt with denial and bargaining for a few moments before our charming little daredevil becomes bespectacled.

Dilemmas on Movie Night

Yesterday, Gabriel cracked the code.

Nadine and I were spelling "movie" and he had asked as if that was what we were talking about. The bit of progress aside, the recent institution of family movie night has raised some challenges as we ponder what types of movies he is ready for.

We have watched movies off and on for quite a while, making cautious selections from our collection of animated films and each time carefully confirming that a movie is rated-G and then going a step further to check on IMDB to review what parts of the films cause concern. There are instances where language, behaviour, violence or some other combinations of events and scenarios in a film cause parents some concern.

Given Disney's propensity for killing off mothers, I have had my own experience trying to cover Gabriel's eyes during the start of Finding Nemo where Coral and Marlin encounter the barracuda and have been wary of how he has dealt with deaths in the movies that he has seen so far.  He has not been particularly scarred by any of those events, especially if it occurs to the villain in a movie.  A few weeks back when he was watching The Princess and the Frog he remained rapt as the villain of the movie met his fate at the hands of some shadowy and threatening New Orleans-themed voodoo ghost types who sought mafia-variety payback. He slept to bed that night without interruption or drama.

He was not shaken by the scene nor by other deaths or peril that he has seen in the movies that he has watched.  If I recall correctly, and my mother would be the only one to correct me on this, I was not that particularly troubled by the death of Bambi's mother when I saw it.  I haven't seen the movie since it made its rotation in the Disney catalogue at that point of my childhood in the early to mid-1970s but while I remember the scene spoiling the mood of the movie, I ultimately was able to accept it as part of the course of events.

Gabriel, however, is particularly sensitive to the movies that he watches and can get caught up in what he is watching. When we took him to the cinema for the first time, for Inside Out, he was particularly emotional when Bingbong was left behind in the memory dump... (oops, spoiler alert?) and we assured him that Bingbong was not really dying, not in the literal sense of the word. He has been quick to point out when he is relieved to have a happy ending or when the bad guys were particularly unpleasant, as was the case in The Minions.

As we make the movie viewing more of a routine, we are that much more conscious of what we choose to show him and I find myself that much more sensitive to what he has already seen.  Apart for my aversion for the character product purchasing mania that the Cars movies have induced, I find myself looking that much more critically at the violence in the second instalment's James Bond tribute. After holding off on The Incredibles, despite its G-rating, and concluding that the Star Wars series is going to be years down the road, I'm conscious of already introducing him to, oddly enough, G-rated violence that has influenced him more than I would like.

I am not making him watch My Little Pony for the next ten years, but I feel more compelled to carefully vet my choices for all of those little things that I ought to be conscious of rather than simply contenting myself with my appreciation of a film's quality and artistic merits. I've been conscious of things that peeve me, but there are so many other things to bear in mind. The movie nights will continue of course and I look forward to the occasions when, years from now, I'll introduce him to my favorites. In the meantime, I'll try to ensure that we talk about the movies that we watch rather than rush him off to bed at the end of the show.

Memories As The Lad Turns 4

There are moments of my son's life thus far that well up from out of nowhere to grace me with memories that I never imagined I would have.  In and of themselves, they are too brief to fill post of their own, but perhaps together they add up to more than passing anecdote. At this point, as he turns four, they are among the things that I will tell him about himself to give him some sense of his character, his talents and narrative. The question is how much the stories will amount to as time goes on and he forms memories through experiences I will not witness or document.

The first fond moment is from when he was barely 10 weeks old and the milestones were supposedly a bit further down the road... steps, words, sentences, commando crawl... but on the evening of January 21, 2012 - a number numerologists would probably drool over - his first gurgle of the laughter. I have heard it since in so many forms, including forced, vaguely maniacal and downright heart-melting.  On that night, it was a simple, pure peal of joy that moistened the eyes.  And so I started compiling the highlights of his life to report back to him to bridge these early years when his memories slip away rather than form and I wait to pass them on at a time when he is more autonomous and he compiles memories and evolves with less and less of my storage and memory.

There are some things that could remain evident without much intervention and I hang onto them as points of pride. Whether I tell him or not may have little bearing, especially if it is an innate thing that he is hard-wired for.

For instance, his first indication of a precocious connection with music is a eureka I pass on as sign of talent that has been handed down or skipped a generation.  After a few attempts of subversively slipping some jazz into his musical diet thanks to a video that featured a train, he called out "train" upon hearing a completely different acoustic arrangement of the same song while we were in the car.  That may be one of those unique things that I will not have to tell him about but can trust.

There are other moments that I simply hang on to as a joy of fatherhood. This summer, while I was coming home from work, I checked my phone to fire up the audiobook I was listening to. Before I got to it, I noticed that there was a text with an image from my wife and was puzzled by the solid black form that appeared with the image she sent. I opened it and was treated to a drowsy rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" without any performance anxiety and his voice catching earnestly throughout as a profound reminder of the innocence and the delicateness that define even this robust boy at age 3.  I immediately replayed it again and again on my way home.  When the time comes I'll play it back for him and his embarrassment at the poignancy may mellow with the passing of time and the realization of how early he was generous in this way.

There are those embarrassing moments that we will remind him of, such as his first encounter with wasabi, which we warned him about to no avail.  He threw a sizeable dollop into his mouth and suffered no end of pain.

However many memories I accumulate of him, there will still be gaps as he leads his own life and he accumulates stories to share with friends as he grows older, forms his personality and creates his narrative going forward. There has been an independent streak from a very early age. When I first dropped him off at daycare three years ago, I hung around for about 15 minutes to ensure that he knew that I was leaving him behind and sure that he was aware enough to not panic and wail when he finally realized I was gone. The last thing I wanted to do was make him reliant on strangers during such a moment of anxiety, no matter how professional and experienced they are in addressing those moments in life (and they are.) Instead, he sat indifferent to my farewell waves and I only gave up and got on with my day when he toddled over to a new schoolmate and started playing with her. They still play (and play well) together most of the time at daycare and she is among the guests attending his fourth birthday party in a few days time.  As soon as he started playing, I got the feeling that it was safe for me to go.

From that moment, I have never had much trouble acknowledging, though not necessarily accepting, that I am not going to be there for every moment of his life as he grows up. I still beam at the second-hand account of one occasion at daycare when he relieved one of the staff from the challenge of consoling one of his classmates.  A girl was sobbing into the arms of one of the staff at the daycare when Gabriel approached and extended his arms for a hug. The daycare worker regarded it as an "I need one too" gesture at a moment when her attention simply wasn't available to him. He was brushed off for a few moments, but stood his ground until the staff interpreted the gesture as "Let me help," instead of "my turn." The daycare worker let go of the crying child and Gabriel gave the girl a hug and calmed this classmate.  After the hug, she gambolled off, her troubles eased and forgotten. He then extended his arms to give the day care worker a hug. He wasn't even two years old. That account of his compassion is another reminder of the innocence and sensitivity that children possess.

There are other secondhand accounts and other bits of data that will find their way to me as time goes on and less and less that I will compile on my own for him. Accounts will differ and conflict or I will give a more detached version of events than he will at times. I have no idea when the secondhand stories about him will come to me or what they will amount to, but they will each be a part of a life that he will control in a way that will enchant me, make me weep, beam, burst out laughing, or recall with embarrassment how much he is like his father. But I will never quite control it. The best I can do is bear witness to as much of it as possible and occasionally fill in the gaps for him when the story or the self at stake are unfamiliar to him.

Halloween

Apart from the haunted traditions of the day, Halloween is also an occasion where I recall the countdown, as it were, to Gabriel's arrival four years ago. He was due on October 31 and, though we have dodged a lifetime of costumed birthday parties, it still prompts reminiscing and reflection as we prepare for his non-Halloween birthday party next week. Among the recollections is the regular checking in with close friends who were due around the same time. The possibility that the boys could have been delivered at the same time did not occur and Gabriel and our friends' son are actually 2 1/2 weeks apart.

After appearances as a heavily padded beaver (2013) and the Scooby Doo (2014) for his first two Halloweens, Gabriel turned himself out in a fireman costume and headed out on Halloween night full of excitement and patrolled the neighbourhood with abandon for 2 1/2 hours. There were a few houses where he was rendered timid by the more ghoulish decorations, but for the most part he dashed from door to door excited to accumulate as much candy as he could.

The acknowledgement of his fireman costume was consistent with the sardonic, "Here to put out the fire?", comments from those passing the evening by their fires with a potable of some warmth or strength able to bring a smirk of amusement to my face while Gabriel was too preoccupied with the reception part of the tradition to respond to any variations in the ritual. Those adult gatherings around a cozy fire was just one of the many differences that have indicated how Halloween has changed since my childhood. Despite the post-Tylenol caution that we have adhered to since 1982 and the consciousness about the sweets that we are ever-vigilant of, Halloween has gone off the scale for its scope.  The level of Halloween decoration continues to elevate each year and is starting to challenge Christmas. I suspect that there is a crew of factory workers somewhere in China huddled around their Saturday evening drinks puzzling over why exactly they had to make the plastic limbs that they were churning out for so many front lawns this year.

Throughout the evening we stayed at the end of the sidewalk, my eyes straying to to hockey game to get an update on the score, and prompting Gabriel to say "trick or treat," "Happy Halloween," or, most importantly, "Thank you," while he stood alone with stranger after stranger for these encounters. There were a few times where he seemed to forget what to say, but just as many where the hosts at the door called back to us, "he did," to our admonitions if we thought he forgot. He lasted much longer than we anticipated based on everything else he had done throughout the day, including a terse moment or two at his morning music class when he noticed that other kids in fireman costumes actually had a whistle as a part of their ensembles.

His night ended with a climactic moment that left him gobsmacked as a passing fire truck, having spotted him by the reflective tape on his coat, slowed down and flashed its lights while the crew waved to him.  He was truly starstruck and disoriented by the flash and wave and seemed uncertain if he was supposed to join them or not.

There are still things about the tradition for him to learn.  We did our best to teach him not to eat his candy until we got home and he has a very trusting tendency to walk right in an open door wherever he visited.  Hopefully we will break him of that habit by next year. By the time we got home, Gabriel was ready for bed. His haul included six pounds of candy and chocolate and we have not troubled ourselves to weigh the chips.  However, two days after his haul, Gabriel has not expressed any interest in or desire for the treats.

Name Games

In preparation for Gabriel's fourth birthday party - sure to be a future post - I have had to distribute handwritten invitations to daycare friends that we do not have email addresses for.  I took care of that last week and the RSVP's have come in accept one. Last night, Gabriel mused about there being two boys with the same name at day care. With names trending the way they do, it would not take much for that to happen.  Given Gabriel's certitude that there are two boys that have the same name and the slow or completely absent RSVP, we had to weigh the possibility that I gave the wrong boy the invitation and that he and his parents, nonplussed by the invite by a boy he hardly knows, disposed of it.

After pondering our options, we decided to send the older boy - okay his parents - a letter indicating that we may have goofed with the invitations and given it to the wrong boy. We didn't wish to uninvite the child, but we kindly request an RSVP one way or another.  If we got a response indicating that the boy was not going to attend, we would be able to invite the boy that Gabriel had wanted to invite and had not yet RSVPed.

Convolutions galore?  Hang on.

I penned a light-toned, cordial note to the older child's parents with a self-effacing apology for any confusion and my aforementioned request for an RSVP.  We wanted to be able to confirm who was coming and, if possible, invite the same-named boy that I may have overlooked before it was two late. (I am already mentally writing the apologetic, sorry for the late notice introduction to any replacement invitation we issue.) I head to the daycare early, without Gabriel because it is his day off, to drop off my note. I stopped shortly inside the door trying to appear nonchalant and purposeful for my solo visit to the daycare to drop off my note.  I nodded confidently to parents I knew who were dropping off their kids while I hovered in a room other than Gabriel's looking for the name of this boy that we were convinced there were two of.

No such name.  After scanning the list four or five times to make sure that my bleary pre-dawn grasp of reading material and focus without my glasses was not completely failing me.  Finally, I gave up as my confidence in justifying my presence evaporated.  However, given the circumstances that brought me into the daycare with this note, I thought it best to spare anybody the trouble of bringing their morning routine to a halt to sort out what I was actually trying to explain with the birthday invites, the confusion over two kids with the same name and our need to get an RSVP and you have a sentence that is getting a little too long.  At 7:08 in the morning, it is hard to justify postponing someone's date with their morning coffee to describe and collate the layers of confusion that had fallen upon me and brought me to the daycare without my son.  In the face of that, I just feigned confidence that I knew what I wanted to do and that could possible, somehow achieve my assigned mission. The letter that was in my hand, hovering above the class list started making its way back to my pocket because there appeared to be no child to give it to. For confirmation, I asked one of the staff at the day care if there were two boys of this name. Nada. I turned for the door well after I gave the staff the wrong impression of me.

As I headed on to work, I was convinced that I had fallen victim to my son's first relationship with an imaginary friend.  We tried to sort through the mystery and discovered that it was simply a matter of Gabriel giving the name to a boy he did not know. He decided, on what grounds or formula I do not know, to just call this other, bigger boy that he regularly played with "Big H-----," after the younger boy, that I can confirm I did indeed invite.  He just has not RSVPed yet. If this older boy is at daycare tomorrow, I'll try to figure out what the boy's name is and take the opportunity to sort through the inner workings of Gabriel's mind to figure out why he reused the name on this other boy.

The party should be easy compared to this.

The Band-Aid Treatment

The humble band-aid has always been subject to no small amount of disregard and humour.  I cite Richard Sanders' continual use of bandages throughout his performance as Les Nessman on WKRP in Cincinnati and our denigrating use of the phrase I use as the title of this post as two instances of the disregard with which we regard the bandage's place as childhood placebo. However, as one who has limped through the past week with some foot issues and longing for an ample, substantial fabric Elastoplast bandage to keep the blistering and more from getting any worse.

Throughout my brief struggles with the severe blistering and worse my foot has gone through, I've had to chug along with two thin bandages from a Winnie the Pooh set adorned with a tiny imprint of Piglet on them to keep my toe issues from worsening.  My point (at this point) is that band-aids seem to be part and parcel of childhood more than anything else and I'm sure that any parent who really needs a bandage for a real cut is probably wandering around with a kid's version.

Gabriel has a couple of owies on his fingers at the moment - miniscule, of course - and is in urgent need of a regular covering to ensure the proper healing.  They are still part of a healing regimen with Mom's kisses and occasionally Dad's if mother is unavailable, but the mercurochrome smiles of my youth, that added smiling talisman of love and healing, has all but disappeared from childhood recuperation.

This morning, however, as Gabriel determined that his two-day old Hulk band-aid needed replacing with, if it were at all possible, a Spiderman bandage.  The request left us sorting through the supply that we have.  All of the various character sets we have - save the Winnie the Pooh set that has been residing in my bathroom since long before I needed them for some reason - are mixed together so we spent a few minutes trying to see through the wrappers to determine which was the required Spiderman plaster to hurry along recovery or provide the appropriate talisman for the remainder of his healing.  The Muppet band-aids with Kermit's eyes and Beaker's "meep meeps" exasperation were in ample supply.  (I would like to digress to add that Beaker's ailments regular surpass anything that a mere Band-Aid were to address and that there is an irony in a Beaker band aid that I will try not to dwell on too long or trouble myself to unlock.) As we went through the band aids and tried to distinguish the Planes and Cars bandages from the Marvel comics and other Muppet versions I wondered if Gabriel would ever subject us to a precise choice of character were he in a more urgent situation.

Ultimately, we abandoned our search for Spiderman settled on a Captain America bandage. As we affixed it, we struggled to explain who he exactly was without denigrating him too much, a challenge for me as I spent more time reading hockey books than comics.  I anticipate the occasion when he is ready for comic book movies and I remind him that hero X was actually someone that he had a band aid of and see his face contort as the ultra-trivial contribution to his association with a movie he is about to watch. As with any of these encounters with pop culture, I am surprised at how Gabriel gets exposed to it and seems to know it so well. His grasp of the Star Wars series, strictly through the ether and passing conversation with school mates astounds me at times. Tonight, he sleeps with his band aid clashing with his Spiderman pajamas without the least amount of concern.

This time.

Growth Spurts and Tough Talks to Ponder and Forego

One of the highlights of each fall has been "school" pictures of Gabriel that have been taken at his daycare.  The proofs from this year's efforts sit in front of me and in the place of the unconscious playfulness from the sets when Gabriel was on the cusp of 2 and then 3 years of age there are two options to choose from which are a stark contrast from those previous sets.

Apart from the fact that there are merely two carefully posed shots instead of a set of nine which were enchanting with their spontaneity, there is the suggestion that Gabriel has stretched out and that there is a leanness which indicates baby-fat has been shed and there is that boyishness seemed to be looming, but now is clearly evident.  In previous years the shots included moments of closed-eyed laughter and an impish smirk that suggested a bit of interaction with a photographer who knew how to capture the age group before them in all their innocent beauty.

Self-portrait, feet. Gabriel Hanlon, October, 2015.

As Gabriel approaches 4, the suggestion in the pictures is that he is more ready to engage with people and take direction - albeit from a photographer.  The poses show more evidence of a cue or request being acknowledged than a playfulness that was deferred to when he was younger.  The shots seem a little stiffer and no where near the poignancy of the shots from last year and the year before.  These shots, commemorating 2015 and his fourth autumn mark a different phase.  Much of what has happened seems to indicate that as well.

Two days ago when I spoke to him on the phone there was an attentiveness to the conversation or a clarity to his train of thought that made me think that time jumped ahead a year rather than a few hours since I had dropped him off at daycare.  Apart from that, he flipped the bird for the first time during Thanksgiving dinner, an indication that his surroundings are not as insulated and certain as they used to be. As he approaches school age, there will be more and more occasions where his peers initiate him to those less innocent skill sets and the hard conversations begin.

There are other hard conversations to weigh as well and with those the reminder that he is still a few years away from memories that will stick with him. One of my rituals with Gabriel from as far back as "the bucket stage" has been to take him to pizza with friends on Saturdays.  He has graduated from the bucket to his own place at the table and a pizza of his own.  Earlier this week one of those friends from that Saturday ritual, Mike, a stoic retired train engineer who particularly bonded with Gabriel, passed away after a few years of health struggles and informing us each Saturday that he was tired.

As I ponder breaking this news to Gabriel, I am inclined not to bother.  During Mike's final illness over the last few months, Gabriel never expressed concern about his absence and I wondered if it was a case of him not recalling Mike in his absence.  As I lean toward not sharing the news with him, I suspect that he has already forgotten Mike, though I hope there may be some trace recall of the particular fondness that they had for one another and an occasion where Gabriel asks after him and allows the opportunity to recall a friendship and discuss a simple reality of the passing of time.

The Generational Thing

There have been a few times over the past few weeks where friends have talked about differences between our generation and our parents' and have rationalized the differences between us as a consequence of generational differences. The differences, though significant, are hard to accurately delineate to one type of parenting versus another.  The technological changes, the evolution of gender roles and the sizes of families are just a handful of the differences that distinguish current parents from their own parents.

Many of my friends and I describe our anticipation of sharing things with our kids. The number of times that it is an aspect of pop culture is significant: whether the Muppets, Star Wars and its multiple trilogies, the music we grew up on (that has never seemed to go away) or countless other things we are looking forward to laying ourselves on the line for with our kids, despite our knowledge that there will be a day when our kids deem themselves too cool for anything that their parents want to talk about.  There may be, in my own case, the off chance that Gabriel will clamour for tickets to the Foo Fighters with good ol' mum and dad, but he still might outgrow that.

For the time being, there is the excitement to share with him the latest books by the kids authors we have championed during our brief stint as parents, the occasional exposure to the Muppets and Bugs Bunny that has not altered his obsession with the Cars movies.  Still I rejoice in his recall of the occasional jazz piece that he recognizes, likes even and - most tellingly - identifies when there are different arrangements.  I stake so much in passing these things on to him and it leaves me wondering if my folks invested themselves in passing such things on and, more importantly, if I am passing anything else on to him.

From my parents there are things that have come my way in the pop cultural vein but it may have been more incidental than of the, "you have to listen to this" vein of John Cusack's Rob Gordon character in High Fidelity. (I'm hoping to get Gabriel to read the book first and then I'll risk a double feature of that and Say Anything... on a Saturday family film night during those very years when he will be tuning us out and dealing with a period when most relationships simply confound an adolescent.  If I'm lucky, he'll patiently indulge dear old Dad and ask what that big thing was that Diane had all those x's in.) From my parents I can trace my fondness for Burt Bacharach, Stan Rogers, Bill Cosby (still a comic genius, but I'll introduce Gabriel to Bob Newhart recordings instead) and Abba.  My father was quite discerning, more than he would ever let on, with his movie choices and having Gallipoli among the first tapes to visit out VCR has imparted a permanent reverence for its director, Peter Weir. I'm not sure if any of it was intentional, however.

The most telling image that comes to mind as I reflect on all of this, though was that rainy day in 1977 when my brothers and I saw Star Wars. To that point we had our occasional trips to the theatre for Disney fare and after a full summer of the hype that built as Star Wars became the biggest grossing movie of all time - beating Gone With The Wind which my parents, thankfully, never thrust upon us unsuspectingly. We had gone with the Manuels, who we'd all but grown up with and I was enthralled by finally piecing together this movie that had merely been in the ether for me to that point.  Dad stayed home and when we returned from the movie with our new wallets of pop culture cache loaded with one of the bigger deposits that we would pocket in the decades ahead, he glanced out of the basement of our split entry home with a small but noticeable gash in his forehead.

He spent that time in the workshop, starting to give shape to the unfinished basement that would eventually accommodate the TV room, the second bathroom and fourth bedroom that would ensure we three boys would have the space we would need as we headed on our journeys through adolescent and into bigger bodies and more sharply defined personas. Renovations and carpentry were a significant recollection from childhood.  My parents renovated the first house we lived in during the five and a half years we were there, finished the basement in the second and my father built the house where he and mum have lived since 1983. Throughout those years, especially when he was working on the furniture and cabinetry that he poured himself and his discipline into I came away with the metaphor of that discipline in the careful measurements of course but also the dedication to the sanding and finishing of the fine work that rendered the unvarnished wood one of the most intimate and proud moments of contact my hands will ever know.

When I look at where I am now and ponder the extent to which I avoid the tasks which my father is so expert at, I think of Neil Postman's book The Disappearance of Childhood which operates on the notion that childhood is disappearing not only because of the rush to make them adults but more tellingly the efforts adults make to arrest their development to a stage of childhood or adolescence which they do not wish to depart. When I think of my desire to cram the three seasons of The Muppet Show that I have on DVD (BTW can somebody get off their can and release the last two seasons!!!) ...uhm, where was I... right... I wonder how grown up an example I am setting for Gabriel when I strive to connect on the pop culture level.  (I am not 100% certain if it is my level or his.)

When I take my anticipation of sharing of pop culture and compare it with the example that my father set and the small amount of time that had for the things he enjoyed, unless the time he devoted to leaving his mark on the space we lived in was infused with his passion - the evidence would suggest that - there is a sense that the generational difference is not something that I can boast as an indication of progress from my father's generation to mind.  I think of the time that Gabriel spends with my father-in-law and the way that there is something more constructive or productive in the way that they ultimately work together.  I see that and beam with pride when Gabriel picks up the garbage in his path on a train platform and takes the mission of depositing that garbage where it belongs.

I take some hope in the small lessons of patience that I may teach Gabriel when we are out with the cameras and acknowledge that there is probably an openness among my generation of males that my father's may not have felt free to tap into, but in their way and with their sacrifices and discipline there is still much to honour.  I hope I can do more than merely aspire to pass that on.

The Lad and the Camera

Things did not exactly go as planned. Plan A was to take him to a landmark that he would remember (or be reminded) was the first place or thing he photographed. He was not in the mood to walk to the modern red bridge that he was so excited to see whenever we take the train downtown. Plan B quickly deteriorated when he got more focused on eating all of the snacks I had packed for the day. There was not going to be a perfect moment to introduce him to the experience of capturing the world as he sees it. At the point Plan B filled my thoughts with the challenge of getting lunch into him after he ate all his snacks, I retreated to a more perfunctory introduction to the camera.

After getting him set on how to properly hold a point and shoot with a few simple mantras about holding it with both hands, keeping still and keeping the wrist strap on, he set out. After being the subject of enough baby shots to develop a dislike for the camera, he had one to call his own and he was off.

Once he got the hang of it, he was eager to get moving and find what else he could photograph. We wandered around the city parks, shooting construction sites, of course, but also fallen leaves en masse and in solitude as autumn sets in on us. Once he got into it, I was able to tell him little things like "get closer" and "look carefully," foundations of whatever progress he will make over time with the camera.

At the moment, he is amusingly unfiltered with the camera. He started taking pictures of passers-by, while I, who loathes invading anyone's space pleaded, "Ask first! You have ask first!" He even snapped a shot of his urinal when I finally broke him of his quest for "one more shot" and got him into a washroom. All in all it was a good start to something I had not hoped to get him into until he was big enough to lug the DSLR I've had waiting for him. For now, he is happy to know the shutter button and the on/off switch and to look back on what he took.

For now, it is a pleasure to ease him into one of my passions and hopefully get him familiar with the patience, presence and attentiveness that the camera has rewarded me with over the years. Hopefully those microlessons about observation and patience will inform other things but in the meantime there is the joy and wonder of an uncensored view of the world from a height of 40 inches. Onward.

Joy in Insomnia

Before anyone thinks I'm being sarcastic, that is the furthest thing from my thoughts. My son is in a stretch where a full night's sleep is something of a rarity and my wife and I, no matter how deeply we manage to sleep still encounter an interruption through the night if our son has a fitful night because of a bad dream and cannot find the comfort of his favorite stuffed puppy.

When he manages to find it, we often awake to him crawling into bed with us, his trek down the hall signalled by the approaching light of the stuffy's nightlight tummy.  If he manages to get that far without waking us we will wake to find him wedged between us and ask one another when he got there.

On just as many nights though we take him back to bed and lay with him until he falls asleep again or until we wake up.  While our son favours having his mother put him down in the evening, he tends to prefer me during the bewitched hours when the dreams and what they stir in the imagination make him a bit more restive or uncertain about the coming of dawn and the more familiar patterns of the day.

Invariably I do my best to settle him down with consoling strokes of his forehead or a gentle hand on the belly and all the unsettling that is going on there when the dreams have awoken him.  For me it is a calm and patient hour of the night when I can be the calm shadow to the grumpier, stricter father of daylight.  I feel myself connecting to him in the quiet of the darkness or the dim nightlight of musical puppy with its renditions of ABC, Twinkle, Twinkle, Brahms' Lullabye or the primal simplicity of a beating heart.  He settles down or asks deep questions that I answer as well as I can.  He yawns with a gape that takes me back when he was a more literal handful of a few months' of age, his profile the perfect enlargement of the form I recall from when he was three or four months old.

I stroke his head again and again as he sentences grow incoherent and I think of my father stroking my head a lifetime ago or him stroking my grandmother's as we bid her farewell two decades ago. And as the breathing slips into its sleepy rhythm that will break in a few hours time with another thrash about the uncertainties that unsteady sleep for him through the night, I stay with him while I can, while he's small enough to spare me that space and vulnerable enough to need someone nearby until morning comes.

The Pitfalls of Social Media, I

My wife and I have been conscious about Gabriel's use of computers and further to that have avoided posting images of him on Facebook, etc.  We rarely do it and on those rare occasions that it happens his face is hidden from view.  We are in no rush to set up any accounts for him, though we did muse about setting up an email account for him to receive various digital artifacts from us until the time comes for him to open it up and learn a little about himself. We do not wish to get him habituated to Facebook any sooner than necessary. I'd love it if that day came and he simply said that Facebook was so passé or something to that effect.

Still, he likely has more screen time than we would like and there are times when we do use it to pacify him. (Guilty as charged, but Your Honour we only do it when we really, really need him to chill.) He values that screen time but there have been a few times when we've grounded him with a few days without TV and he manages not to miss it and we even got into the fifth day without him asking for it.

There are times though when he is more eager than we would like to watch Mighty Machines or Bob the Builder on the phone when boredom sets in. A few weeks ago, he flailed away at my wife's phone while she was scanning her Facebook time line. He happened to see something along the lines of a children's video and wanted to see it. My wife settled him down, but little did she know of the consequences. Sounds ominous, doesn't it?

A day or so later when my wife was putting down Gabriel for the night, my mother-in-law called my wife's phone to check in. I answered. She wanted to see how things were for us and update on things that were going on with the rest of the family. Having covered off all of those items, she tried to investigate into an article that Nadine had apparently liked on Facebook. She was not entirely certain that Nadine would have liked an article on a parenting page where a wife was complaining about her husband losing interest in ahem... you can guess. I tried to check my wife's timeline for interest in such an article while trying to ease my mother-in-law's curiosity or concern as tactfully as I could. As I opened the computer to check my wife's Facebook activity, I was able to report that, as far as I could tell, she had not posted anything for about two weeks.  I could not, however, track down what my wife was liking. Meanwhile, my mother-in-law was asking if I knew any of the other people who had liked the article. The unspoken question about my husbandly ... ahem ... hung like a cloud that showed no signs of dissipating with a calm shrug and the conclusion that someone hacked in. The call ended without curiosity or retention of reputation... Hold it, what? reputation?... assured or resolved or otherwise safely consigned to "don't ask and don't tell" (wrong phrase?) or perhaps put back in that place where all parties involved are blissfully ignorant of the topic and no longer able to recall that it was ever raised or why. It was as awkward as the voice mail sequence from the bro movie classic, Swingers.

The phone call ended without much resolution and when my wife emerged from putting the lad down for the night, I mentioned the more uncomfortable aspect of the phone call and she promptly checked on her timeline.  There was indeed a like on said article from a parenting website or Facebook page. It was the result of the lad's flailing reach to start the video he wanted.

It was then - carefully - unliked.

A Trip to the Museum

It is easy to fall into ruts when exposing your child to things. In our instance, Gabriel has been quite happy to sit on a curb and watch construction and excavation equipment at work and gawk in wonder at the noise and quick accomplishment of those heavy machines.  He is always eager to plunk down in front of the television for a while and zone out as well.

Music classes, gymnastics and soccer have stretched him out and broadened his horizons, but that the same time we have made sure that we have not over-scheduled him (or ourselves) to the extent that raising him becomes a matter of scheduling and logistics rather than on going spontaneous interaction where he can let us know what his interests and talents are.

The trucks regularly capture his attention and his talent for spotting them is preternatural.  We have regularly exposed him to all kinds of music and I'm not sure if he has taken any interest in the jazz that I've tried to slip past him but he has a sharp knack for singing along and identifying what he's listening to.  He has been to plays on a regular basis and there have been other efforts made to get him out and exposed to new things.

When we have been on holidays, we've seized the opportunities to take him to aquariums and have struggled to find the right time or age to engage him in the exhibits there.  When he was two he just wanted to splash around in the contact pools and when we took him again at age three he did not take as much interest the second time around. (I did, however, enjoy him calling the shark "Bruce" while all the other kids were calling the clownfish "Nemo.")  We took him to an outhouse museum in July when we were in Nova Scotia and that kept his attention for a while.

I'm not sure how the outhouse museum ranks amongst other institutions that we could have taken him to, but his first visit to a "real" museum was earlier this week when we headed to Drumheller to visit the Tyrell Museum which is replete with the dinosaur fossils that would hold the attention of many a boy.

Upon arrival at the museum, Gabriel was immediately captivated with the dinosaur sculptures that were between the parking lot and the building.  Once we got in, there were the landmark exhibits with the models of T-Rex's and other dinosaurs that were found in the area, along with the "lesser" dinosaurs from the badlands of Alberta.  He managed to keep his attention on the exhibits that were around.  There were a few interactive pieces int he museum that he did not have a knack for figuring out the proper use of but he found his way with the other exhibits that more closely resembled the dinosaurs he had expected to see - alive and active at the museum.  To that extend the animatronic dinosaurs at the Calgary Zoo may have been more appealing to him.  He enjoyed the exhibits, I think. He scampered around the museum, following the intended path as well as he could though he ran much more than he wanted to walk.

He seemed intrigued by the exhibits throughout the museum, but for a near-4 year old the quick progression through the museum was likely enough for him.  We got out and we even managed to get him out of the gift shop without incident.  It may have been more of a rite of passage for my wife and I than it was for him, but it will likely be something that we check in on as we revisit the topics of dinosaurs and museums in the time ahead.  We will likely be back at the Tyrell in a few years and we will try to gauge his memories of the place when the subject of dinosaurs comes up again in the future.  There will be other museums as time goes along and they will be age appropriate for the next few years as well.

The Making of a Dad Band

One of my outlets on a regular basis has been to get together with a few friends to play guitar.  We actually started playing together 11 1/2 years ago, a mark that certainly gives me pause about how quickly time has passed since we first started gathering in the basement apartment I was in at the time. We had religiously stuck with the routine every week on Thursday nights. over the course of that time, doctorates were completed, musical trends came and went and I slowly discovered 1990's alternative rock, which I had essentially missed due to my travels or only discovered via the back door route of covers played by jazz pianist Brad Mehldau.

Those evenings were simple affairs.  We'd unpack, play our first three songs and order pizza that we could normally count on having in another 30 minutes or so. There were musical discoveries, challenges that would turn into benchmarks of progress as we found a way to master them, rules about forbidden groups or songs. I still, after all this time, refuse to waive my Eagles veto.

We have seen our circle expand and contract over that course of time and we are at a solid core of three despite our open door to additional dad-players, especially those with drums or a bass. Obligations expanded as one of our trio became a Dad. He furtively missed a Thursday while he was getting acquainted with his daughter. A few months later twin daughters arrived for the most talented of our trio.

The weekly ritual disappeared with those demands but we are working our way back into a routine of at least a month. Those night continue to be blessed with as much conversation as ever, but the talk turns to the kids where it once turned to music trivia and whether or not our mention of certain musicians at certain times coincided with their deaths.  I assure you we have never played Boney M and probably only mentioned them in reference to their contribution to the Christmas muzak we had grown familiar with.

The nights are less frequent and the pizzas even less so. Guitar is now on Fridays instead of Thursdays and there is a dram of scotch rather than a 2 litre bottle of soda water, which we named "flavourless" in mild self-deprecation of the pop we played as well. Over the years the conversation has continued to be good as we have marvelled at the achievements of those we have played, occasionally cursed the slow wheels on the studio recorders the Beatles used, made copious references to The Big Lebowski, Spinal Tap and Christopher Walken's seminal appearance on SNL.

Those things are balm and magnet that keeps us together as regularly as we come together every couple of weeks. We muse occasionally about performing for an audience and conclude that it will most likely be at a birthday party. If that is the case, we will have to hurry up and do it while we are still cool to the kids. It amy be nothing more than a distant goal and one that would require a bit more work that our intermittent meetings might allow. There may be an unplumbed symbiosis that we would unwittingly draw upon, or a sense that the stakes playing without a net would be minimal or minor compared with other things that we have grappled with over the last decade and change.

The one thing we all share is a desire to pass the baton on to the kids, especially if any of them take up an interest in bass or percussion and share our fondness for Crowded House, Talking Heads or R.E.M.  All of the kids are exposed to music in various ways and taking lessons and their progress probably give us more pride than any progress we make with more esoteric chord progressions that were beyond us when we all began.

Street-proofing the Extroverted Child

It was evident from very early that my son was going to be an extrovert. I can cite several occasions where he has "worked the room" like a campaigning politician out on the hustings while my wife I and fell consigned to the background. We look on in wonder while we try to assess everyone else's tolerance for this three-year-old who can be remarkably charming when he wants to get to know people. My wife can cite occasions where trips to the zoo involve meeting a fellow tyke, bonding at the penguin plunge and then visiting the rest of the animals and having a bit of lunch over the course of the rest of the day.

It has been the case throughout his life, whether visiting his grandfather in the hospital or starting day care on the cusp of turning one and leaving Dad behind without the least trepidation about being in this room full of unknown kids. In our condominium, he has been introducing himself to everyone since her could say his name.

Earlier this summer, however, he wandered off from his day care group while out on an excursion. It did not surprise us, but we were just as horrified at the possibilities. 

From early on we have been conscious of the need to make him not so trusting and open with people and not expose himself to the risks with strangers, but at the same time we have not wanted to erode his innocence and unduly inhibit him from interacting as freely as he does. He is incredibly open and friendly in most situations with people of all ages and we do not wish to deny him that aspect of his personality. There are risks in him walking up to that stranger that we would most likely prefer to keep him away from, but at the same time he may also be building a pool of people who would recognize him and look twice if they saw him with an adult other than my wife or I.

I believed that he has the confidence with people that would make him a harder target. He is likelier to be at the centre of a group of friends rather than the periphery and in need of being at the centre. In our condominium he has incidentally built a network of vigilant eyes who know him well enough to get suspicious if he is not with us. That was the case with him wandering off from his daycare group, but that is a consequence of the safeguards that are part of the routines and procedures at the daycare. In our condominium, where he knows half the puppies in the building and most of the adults who are on our floor there is a sense that there are people who know him and recognize him and us well enough to know when something is awry if he is in the wrong company. But that network has not been tested and we do not wish test it.

We can not be certain that he will always be that confident with his friends and that he will not make himself vulnerable by seeking the attention or friendship of strangers who may be waiting for such an opportunity to pose a threat to him. There have been times when his attempts to strike up a friendship or a brief period of companionship at the playground do not succeed and he is at a loss for what to do on his own while other kids play together or simply go home with their parents.

We have tried nudging the matter of caution with strangers onto his radar with various children's books that attempt to address the issue and the best of the bunch is still "Little Red Riding Hood." (There is a version populated by trucks instead of wolves and girls but that is too cringeworthy.) Other books on the theme strike me as too didactic to hit the mark in the memorable but carefree way I think is required. My wife and I seize our teachable moments as well with the emphasis on generalization rather than "stay away from her," but there is no certainty that the objective of this lesson is ever achieved. I heard from a mother a few weeks ago that there was a test with children on how they would behave with a potential lurer or children predator. The test showed that despite the training and safe words that parents drill their kids on, they are still prone to being tempted into danger. (Damn puppies!)

There is the hope that there will be something about my son's extroversion - whether his confidence with strangers or his ability to make friends - that would make lurers more reluctant to fix on him, but I know that is mere wishful thinking. A parent's hope is not enough and we can only hope that the daily routine imparts some caution to him over time and keeps it rooted there without making him more frightened that he ought to be. Open, but cautious.

Dad On Duty

A few months after Gabriel was born, I was able to attend a New Dads course. At this point, 3 1/2 years after the fact, I can't recall if it was two or three sessions but I can remember those of us who chose to converge being representative of a new generation of men, whatever that might be. We caught and corrected ourselves when we risked talking about babysitting our children. Others in the group bristled with the tension and challenge that came with fatherhood and in some there were hints of baggage that would cause or had already caused difficulty and left some overmatched for the task of being open and vulnerable to their prime vocation.

I have been capable of talking or writing a good game when it comes to being a father, but there are, granted, times where patience runs thin and there is a reversion to whatever offers expedience or an easy response.  In those moments where I'm losing my temper or just cutting corners to get out the door or the like I feel like the laggard of the partnership. For example:

When brushing teeth during the bedtime routine, I more often than not forget to wash his hands and face.  Same thing with sunscreen when heading out for the day.

Last week, I left a developmental screening report from his daycare in my backpack neglected long enough to become a sopping wad in the torrential rains that fell last Friday. A great "my dog ate it" variant.

I've let him stand instead of sit. (Discuss in your groups.)

I often forget his water bottle when heading out and have to buy him bottled stuff en route.

I mix up his indoor and outdoor shoes at daycare and bring him home in the wrong pair.

I had refrained from slathering every part of his zone with cream before sealing up his diaper.  I also preferred the pull-ups over the tape tabs even though I recall practicing with pins and cloth in the 1980s when I took a babysitting course and was willing to go the cloth route for the first few weeks of his life until I was overruled in favour of more sleep.

I occasionally rush ahead a step or two on a Lego project when his attention has drifted instead of trying to recapture it or setting things aside. I mean, c'mon, it's Lego!

I skip entire pages rather than mere adverbs in his books when it is time for him to nod off and he is adamant about his quota before turning in.

I've laughed when I shouldn't such as the time that he squeezed a bottle of ketchup and geisered a wad of the red stuff onto his shirt, his hair and myself.

Those little things out of each week or day or hour leave me conscious about the opportunities that are constantly available to me and leave me convinced that I'm the second-stringer or the laggard in the task of raising Gabriel.  I wonder if I have taken the verb "father" more literally than I care to admit.  "Father" doesn't have the long term connotations that the verb "mother" does and perhaps there is something wired in me, despite my better intentions, that prompts me to slack off or become reluctant to put on the original Disney score that he prefers when my jazz is playing.

I do, however, remind him to look someone in the eye when he says, hello, thank you, good bye or sorry.  I stroke his forehead or rest a hand on his stomach when he is too restless to find sleep and I get the chance to tuck him in or settle him down.  I've gently pointed out the proper use of "because" and "so" which he has mixed up regular in phrases such as, "It's raining because I'm wearing boots." I've even tried to work a second language into his head by practicing Japanese and a bit of French with him.

Perhaps it all stems from being the first one to leave the house after he arrived and in the nearly four years since he was born, starting with that rush to the pharmacy to get some formula while we were still waiting for the milk to come in.  In that time there have been so many moments that I have missed out on, things I have only heard afterward, secondhand.  I have not been synched with his every need the way that my wife has whether it is from the moment of his arrival or going back to the closer synchronization that they once shared.

Regardless of the cause, when I am on duty alone there always seems to be an error or two or an oversight to make me self-conscious. My wife assures me that there isn't a wrong way and that is a brief bit of balm. Last week, though, when I had full on Dad duty to put Gabriel down for the night, he was finally signalling it was all right for me to go with the see-saw rhythm of his sleepy breathing. I slipped out of his bed as stealthily as a could and promptly activated the hard rock guitar riffs of one of the toys that did not get put away (by me? by him?) before turning in.  A froze on the spot as a litany of curses went through my head.  I paused to see if I could detect some disturbance in his sleep. On the crest of his snoring he uttered a drowsy, "I love you," and remained asleep.

Whew.

Renaissance and Revelation on the Trail

As the summer of 2015 winds to its end, something harshly portended by a 24-hour cold snap that included freezing temperatures and snow, we took Gabriel for a hike in the mountains.  He had gone on a hike or two around the city on well-worn public trails, but today he took on a 4K hike with a gain in elevation of 250m.

Mum was in her element, having grown in the shadow of the mountains we hiked through and honed her rock climbing skills at the place where we peaked for the day.

She has regularly promised him that she will take him to Nepal and he in turn has promised to take her to Madagascar.  (I am not certain if it is the real one or the animated version he has in mind, but he has been earnest each time he has made the promise.) As we ascended the trail, Mum opted for the tougher trail and laid out the courtesies and the strategies of the hiking trails: step between, not on, the roots and rocks that obstruct the way; step aside for the faster hikers and make sure you say, "You're welcome," to those who thank you; to roll a needle between your fingertips and know that it is from a spruce by square edges make the roll rough.

I could see a long-dormant side of my wife resurfacing as she had a chance to initiate Gabriel into a long-held passion that she has set aside over (at least) the last four years and is now getting the opportunity to share the fundamentals of.  Whether or not he takes up this passion to the same extent that his mother has, it is a thrill to see that side of Mum emerge for him and flesh out one of the main characters in his life while she rekindles a spark that has idled for too long. He will see her, eventually, as more than just a provider and healer but as someone who has lived with this particular passion: to hike, to climb, to travel and so many other things that he still does not know about her. Perhaps there is knowledge of this in him already, aspects of her that will resonate and possess a trace of deja vu in a story she will tell about her achievements or hard-earned scrapes on rock-face.

He climbed his first big climb easily and with more enthusiasm than fatigue.  When we got to the top he was preoccupied with dogs that had made it to the top, but he did take note of the rock climbers who ascended by the toeholds that took them even higher than we went.  He confessed to preferring the hike down, despite the utilitarian scenery of an old fire road setting the background instead of the rock staircases and the approaching roar of waterfalls. Don't we all, though?

More importantly, Mum is already eager to get the next hike in sooner than later and is sorting through the terrain of the mountains and parks that formed the backyard of her youth and the landscape of her imagination. One thing that seems possible or even evident as Gabriel closes in on age four, is that we will be sharing more of ourselves on ventures such as this. It will be good to show more of ourselves to him as time goes on.

Mom and Dad Dare to Get a Babysitter

Letting ourselves out of the house, as adults, sans Dude, took us some time.  After a few months of having the memory of the clunker of a movie Tower Heist and an indulgent trip to Five Guys as our last "date," just hours before Nadine conceded we ought to go to the hospital just to see if everything was okay, we let ourselves go out for an evening to see the Blue Man Group.  The tickets were purchased long before Gabriel was born and it was the night of or night before my birthday.

Gabriel has been a low maintenance little guy almost straight out of the gate, but we still felt reluctant to not so much trust him with anyone as to ask for the favour or impose on anyone who dared to offer.  Even so, we settled on asking close friends first rather than asking one lone teenager to take him on. We basically enlisted a team: mother, father and their then 4-year-old who had been doting on him since his arrival and may have been ready to shoo her parents home to take over.  Instead, her parents shooed us out before we could complete our eighth utterance of the double checking, "Any questions?", with the assurance that they'd babysat before, or something like it and that Gabriel was in good hands.  We reviewed all of the things that might occur and reiterated our desired turn in routine and time as we retreated.

We trotted off to see Blue Man Group at a theatre that was a 12-minute walk away from home.  I'm still not sure if we would have let ourselves out that night if it was a 20-minute walk or drive.  We sat and never really allowed ourselves to acknowledge or enjoy the fact that we were out for the night. For the first part of the evening my cell phone sat on my thigh and kept glancing at it on a constant basis.  Eventually, the show grabbed a bit more of my attention, but (no offence intended) I never quite got fully immersed in the program.

We returned home after 2 hours and 23 minutes of entertainment, walk there and sprint back to find that the dude was sleeping as he was intended, but that the routine we had requested had not been followed to the letter.  Our "sitters" varied the routine as they were comfortable with and Gabriel responded well and, much to our surprise, was not thrown off kilter by the variation. There was, it seemed, even a broadening of horizons after the 4 1/2 months of being locked into the patterns that my wife and I established for ourselves.

It was not only good for us to get out, but it was good to realize that we did not need to be spot-welded to our routine.

We are still on our first hand when it comes to counting the times we've left Gabriel with sitters, other than my in-laws, for a night out whether it is dinner, a movie or something else but we are getting a little more daring.  Last week we even arranged to have that competent team of mother, father and now-8-year-old take on the first stage of the babysitting until a teenager - yes a teenager but she has graduated high school and is headed to university in a few weeks - could get to our place after finishing her day job.  We did spend a good part of the night texting to the team and the teen to ensure that the handover went as smoothly as it did and to let her know our ETA at the end of the show and we even allowed ourselves to be out for 5 hours.  We first used our new solo babysitter last October and we plan to use her again in November while we make a 12-minute walk to see a show...

Sleepy Bones

Gabriel was a great sleeper early in life.  While other parents from our prenatal class were quick to cite the sleep they had lost due to feedings and random dark AM crying, we were doing our best not to be conspicuously quiet during those laments.  We'd nod vigorously and add a well-timed, "I hear you," to avoid boasting and express our relief to one another when we were alone.

Those salad days have been long gone and apparently, according to The Walrus we are not alone. We now wake regularly to a cry of some sort from Gabriel as something disturbs his sleep.  There are occasions when he - despite our interventions - rolls out of bed with only a thud (and no howl or cry whatsoever), the soft patter of his bare feet wakes us as he comes down the hall or we stir at 4am to find his form wedged between us and eking out more space.  A recent conversation was something like this:

Nadine: Stop kicking!
Gabriel: I'm stretching.

Whereupon Gabriel is escorted back to his room and slept with until he is asleep again.  Often, Nadine or I fall asleep first and stir an hour or so later and return to our bed.  We have tried to implement a bit more of a routine and get him to stay in bed - quietly - when he wakes up rather than come to our bed or call out to us.  Nadine has come across a plan where she cues Gabriel to be in bed when the 7 is up on his digital clock and stay there until it reappears.  It has worked relatively well in the evenings but asking him to lie still and stare at the clock until the hour turns from 6 or 5 into 7.  As I type, it is 6:39am. He is just stirring now and heading to bed with Nadine.  A decent achievement, but still not enough sleep. We know that this will end eventually, when he is in his teens and the lethargy of growth sucks out all desire to move.

In the meantime though, there is the challenge of getting him to sleep through the night or cope with his interruptions on his own.  There hasn't been much luck.  Last night over dinner we talked to him about staying in bed and staying quiet until 7am, but he replied that he wanted someone to sleep with. Nadine reminded him of the retinue of stuffed animals that he shares his bed with each night and even suggested a rotation if there were new favorites that he preferred amongst, Sully, puppy, Thumper, and everyone else.

He replied, "I want to sleep with someone who has bones inside."

Nick Bland: Savior of the Modern Reading Parent

As a voracious reader and aspiring writer, the books that inhabit Gabriel's life have been a preoccupation from before he was born. I bought a Dr. Seuss compilation a week before he was born, read to him while he was in the womb and proceeded through the pages of a thick tome during the quieter moments in the delivery room and read to Gabriel from that same 900-pager in the days that followed.  Since that time, books have been a part of his routine and I can recall a meltdown two weeks ago where a very weary dude wailed his desire to go to the library that very moment despite being in his birthday suit and the library certain to close before we would arrive there dressed.

Almost everyday there have been a few books to round out the day and there are have been a few occasions where my little extrovert disappears on his own to a quiet space with a book.  I think the habit has been formed, though there enough bleary-eyed, first thought of the day requests to watch TV or something on the iPad to keep me vigilant about ensuring the habit keeps rooted.

The evening bedtime routine with books, invariably involves him promising that he'll turn in after one more book and then one more and so on.  Whether we are reading his books or those we hoard each week from the library, I am left to wonder at times what it really takes to publish a children's book.  There are so many books about fire trucks, fire stations or firemen, that have the exact same plot that I really wonder what sets a prospective kid lit author apart from the others.  After pouring through a book of truck photos or a story lionizing the limited things that trucks or construction equipment actually do, I shrug at the kid lit industry and wonder if it is all an inside game.  When bored with those books and their premature product placement by Tonka, I drifted into the tones and pomposity of a radio ad pitchman.  Gabriel responded with the first furrowing of his young brow. I've let up, unwillingly.

Apart from those books, there are my wife's well-worn and loved collection of Dr. Seuss books which we have complemented with the brilliant posthumous works that have come out in recent years. There has been great relief and pleasure in the discovery of current writers.

I've been lucky enough to have friends recommend the likes of Canadians Melanie Watt and Jon Klassen, but the great discovery in the kid lit section of the store has been the work of Nick Bland, who has in about 10 years assembled a body of work that I have quickly come to trust and adore.  My wife and I can recite the entirety of Bland's The Very Cranky Bear from heart in the dark as the concluding tale for the night before putting Gabriel down.  Cranky Bear has the depth of theme that is missing from so much of the other kid lit that is aimed at the appetite boys or girls have for the items that fill their respective toy boxes.  I know that there is a lot of Young Adult lit that will not match the depth that Nick Bland has etched into the few hundred words he carefully penned for this story and the subsequent ones with the Cranky Bear.

Beyond that brilliant series of five "bear" books are other paths that Nick Bland has followed about incompetent monsters, fathers, pigs and hugs (my non-Bear favorite) that have further confirmed his talent as a big-hearted, wise and ambitious author willing to give kids a little more or require it of them.

With that, I say a resounding, "Thank you," to Nick Bland and look to compile more of his brilliant work.  He will emerge as an author to join Seuss and Sendak in the masterful blending of poetry, humour and simple wisdom.

And if you want the kid's point of view, Gabriel's one word review is, "Again."

Walking Boy

A simple goal for Gabriel is for him, when the time comes, to walk to school.  It seems a simple goal, perhaps even an odd one to set or aspire to, but as someone who walked to school throughout Primary in 1972-1973, I'm motivated to make sure he manages this, especially since it is a shorter walk.  Too many children are bussed to school or ferried by their parents.  Apart from the concerns about the sedentary thumb-flexing routines of children today, I just want to have him walk a bit and get a sense of independence sooner rather than later.

After having Gabriel in a daycare closer to my wife's work than to home, we have had the luxury of placing him in a daycare merely 500 metres away from home.  With that, we have had the opportunity to walk home at the end of the day and there have been a few occasions where he wants to have me walk him to school at the start of the day as well.

The walk is usually a distracted dawdle as the seasons invite him to pick rocks or dandelions to bring home to mom or a preoccupation with whatever leaves and branches hail or strong winds may have thrown into his line of sight.  There is also the regular stop outside the fence of the daycare for him to bid farewell to his friends who are "still on the inside" and have yet to be picked up.  As our first winter of walking home passed we relished the first opportunity to walk home in daylight and I was happy to assure him we would have daylight for the walk for the next eight months.

On Saturdays, thanks to a theft of Gabriel's stroller, the test was a much more ambitious sequence of walks for the routine of story time at the library, the traditional pizza lunch that has been a part of my Saturdays for over 8 years now and then on to Mount Royal University for music class.  It is a long day, with a departure around 10:30 in the morning, two trains, two busses, a few lengthy walks uphill and a return home by 4:30 or 5pm.

On the occasion that the stroller's departure was realized, I grit my teeth in anticipation of how quickly he would walk and how much energy he'd have after a few long walks.  I dreaded the possibility of him trudging into his music class only to depart early because of a meltdown that would try the patience of his gracious instructor.  If he whined that he was tired, I was ready to loft him onto my shoulders and carry him along if need be.

Nothing.  Throughout the day that we were first thrust into the routine, Gabriel never uttered a complaint.  He actually liked being able to grab a seat on the train or the bus and interact with other passengers, not to mention the diggers and other construction equipment that are the only things that ever line his routes through the world.  He was great throughout the day, only to fall asleep on my lap on the last bus home to leave a puddle of drool on my denims.

Apart from putting in the mileage, the regular travel has made him familiar with the travels.  He knows the name of his stop on the LRT.  He knows to watch the traffic and press the button (about 9 to 11 times) for the walk light at the busy intersection between daycare and home on our afternoon walk.  I suspect that he is more capable than I am prepare to test to make his way to the playground near our house and to the library on his own.

Despite his potential to do those walks on his own, I'm in no rush to thrust that independence upon him.  I wonder if he would be able to make those walks on his own without drawing the suspicion of an adult who would raise an eyebrow and the possibility that the independence is required because of abandonment.  Colleagues of mine with school aged children have already admonished me for even thinking of letting Gabriel walk to school on his own when the time comes.  I also know that no matter how capable Gabriel would be at walking to the closest supermarket and traversing the LRT tracks and busy street that are in his way, the biggest issue would be the dismaying sight of an 8-year-old heading to the Safeway to buy a loaf of bread on his own.

That prospect is at least 5 years away, but there I already have to acknowledge that there will be pressure to put that off until he is much older than I was when I ventured on similar chores with the mantra of eggs, bread, milk dissolving in my mind and learning whatever there was to learn about my neighbourhood and myself in that interlude of the day.

Abbegard!! Or... As Memories Fade

As Gabriel closes in on 4 years of age, I thought it was time to start blogging about screwing him up raising him.

Why now?

It has not been a matter of suddenly finding the time to get to it. The notion had come to me on a regular basis over the years and even prior to his arrival. There were times that were learning moments for me when his ability to be excited, open, capable of resetting his moods in a split second and so many other things that he has the youthful capacity to do that I have treasured and taken pause to savour.

At the same time, there are moment of his life that he has moved on from and left behind without him even knowing and they are things that I know will predate whatever living memory he can look back to a few years from now. My wife and I and others who have seen Gabriel grow will be able to tell him the things that he used to do but already those conversations leave him puzzled and perhaps even nonplussed as we try to suggest where he has come from and he -- yes even at this formative stage -- was.

When watching Inside Out with him we had to have a conversation with him about the Memory Dump: a dark, forbidding place in the mind that was frightening with its darkness and fade of past. It may have seemed an apocalyptic setting to him, a place of demise although on so many levels that we are otherwise indifferent to. At least we are indifferent to it when we lose those early memories without much contemplation.

In Gabriel's case one of those early disposals to the memory dump was a made up word he sprung upon us when he was just becoming verbal. Amidst all the mama's, dada's and other combinations that my wife and I deciphered during his first year came this utterance: "Abbegard!" We struggled to figure out what it meant.  The first thought was that he had latched on to someone else's use of "Oh my God" around him and we went through mental checklists of our own possible use of it and then other people who may have been careless enough to use it around him. Time went on, the checklists turned up empty and we tried to figure out other interpretations.

Apgar? He might have heard the nurses or doctor complete their assessment of him while his mother and I were far too distracted to notice such a calculation being uttered.

Avant garde? That would have been just the tonic for this artsy Dad who would rather pressure him into art school that accounting, engineering or law.

All blue car? No. We didn't even get an impatient shake of the head that we, his parents, were already not gettting it and were out of touch.

All blue cars? Okay, never mind.

I wondered if it was some remnant from a previous life, a soul that had revisited this world clinging to that random fragment of language. A talisman to carry it back to consciousness and to shape the next road that he would follow.

After a while, my wife and I pieced together a pattern. It occurred at moments of celebration or excitement or simple bliss that he wanted to share or punctuate. Abbegard (my spelling) was a highlight of the day, a sign that things were good, great.

Other words formed and over time his single word disappeared. It was pushed aside by a more rational or shared connection to what we see and share each day and eventually it was gone.

As we watched the movie and tried to explain to Gabriel what happened in the Memory Dump and tell him that it was happening to him, I told him about his word and its demise from his vocabulary. He tried repeating Abbegard a few times. He was half-hearted and it was evident that the resurrection was brief, already ending.  His word had no chance to return to him.

And so I will write. To preserve those aspects of me, my wife, him and being with him that will not be as indelible as I hope when I am in the moment that I flood with their power. I look to the poignancy, the failure, the renewal and joy that live and morph into one another with such casual, passing power at any moment.