Sunday, November 5, 2017

Parental Guidance: With Authority or Upon Reflection?

I happened to read a pair of books, back-to-back, that provide a remarkable contrast to one another in their efforts to contribute to a conversation or the conversation about parenting. The first was a book by a father who wrote from a religious perspective. I bristled at first at the religious elements of the book, but decided to read the book anyway. It was short enough, there was no telling how strong a religious tone it would take and I was confident that I would get something out of the book. That was indeed the case. The complementary book of the two was Sue Klebold's A Mother's Reckoning -- a distinguished, moving and powerful book that will have a lasting impact on me.

Klebold, if the name rings a bell more faintly than you feel it should, is the mother of Dylan Klebold, one of the two young men who instigated the tragedy at Columbine High School in 1999. Her book is a detailed account of her efforts to come to terms with her son's actions, and her absolute bewilderment at not knowing that her son was preparing to do what he did as his last days of high school counted down. It has been easy over the years for outsiders to accuse Klebold and her husband, suburban affluence, adolescent disillusionment and the absence of gun control as factors in the tragedy at Columbine and I would count myself among those who opted for those simplicities in interpreting (and shelving) its meaning. The reality of Columbine, so many other tragedies of that nature and, to be honest, everyone of our lives, is that there are secrets that we all keep and ought find a safe ear to share them with in order to connect with one another and be the people that we have the potential to be if those secrets remain tightly wrapped in pride.

A Mother's Reckoning, however, poses a cathartic and detailed counterargument. It is not, by any means an attempt to recast her role in the tragedy. She does a great deal of very open and wrenching soul-searching as she tries to come to terms with the moments that she wishes she could have back and her wishes that she could have influenced the course of events in anyway that she could, right down to the possibility of not marrying her husband. She loves her son, still does. She aches for the losses that she has contributed to are palpable and her efforts to sort through her relationships with her son and examination of the family she has had are brave, open efforts to shed light on something that is baffling in so many ways.

If I were to look at the entire range of my feelings, flaws and interactions with my son with the intensity and critical acuity that Klebold has looked at this moment of her life and everything that lead to it, I would be a much wiser, more informed and compassionate father. While not a parenting book in the sense that the other I book I read was, it will have a much deeper impact on me.

At this point, I am inclined to grant the other book anonymity. It is very much a by-the-numbers book about parenting. The author, a father of five, is quite confident in his approach to parenting and he boils it down to a set of points, each illustrated with a pithy chapter that features an amusing anecdote about something he did right or something another parent did that he disapproves of. The religious forays were relatively infrequent but did make me bristle at times with other aspects of his view of ideal parenting. On more than one occasion, there were suggestions that there were financial means to good parenting or the building of strong memories. On another occasion he excoriates a father he never met for golfing on the weekend and says that all fathers should quit golf. He steps back slightly from this position and he does eventually acknowledge that there are circumstances where golf is not something that fathers ought to quit and fess up that he does not know the father he skewers, but he continually favours making his points, and others, in simplistic terms.

As the religious orientation of the other parenting book emerged -- at first in passages quoted from the Bible that mix easily with adages from Garrison Keillor and other secular voices, but beyond to passages describing the Devil as a tangible figure who is celebrated at Halloween -- the shift from pithy and insightful toward fear-based and narrow-minded made me weary of the confident certitude that the author worked from. The checklist that the author -- as other authors of parenting do's and don't's -- created ultimately lacked a depth or flexibility that would come from the advice that is found in Klebold's book. Whether a book of 10, 40 or 100 "tips," such books leave substantial gaps and perhaps give a parent a sense of inadequacy because they did not do the 63rd item from a checklist or that they forgot much about a book that was actually quite forgettable to begin with.

While those checklists would find their way to the discard bins with some speed, Klebold's book, even as a mere talisman on my shelf, would be a reminder of the need for compassion, patience, sensitivity and intuitiveness that ought to guide a parent through each moment of this vocation.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

To Walk Alone

It is just 400 metres. Just.

But it is the walk to school and as much as I want my son to develop the independence he would have in walking himself to school, it ain’t 1972 (when I walked half the distance and crossed only one street rather than three) to get to school when I was in kindergarten. Another factor that may have influenced that was the challenge my mother would have faced of dressing my younger brothers to get them out the door to do the walk along with me.

He made his request to walk to school on his own and, as is often the case, a resolution of sorts emerged before the day was out. Unfortunately, it merely happened to be an opportunity to cop out rather than take the topic as far as we could. The out of school care (OOSC) program he is in, coincidentally enough, sent out an email a few hours after his request to me. In the email, they reiterated their need for the kids to be logged in when they arrive for they day. They did not, however, make it explicit that it was the parents’ responsibility. If I wanted to close down the discussion, I could say that OOSC wants or needs his mother or I to log him in and out when we drop him off and pick him up.  

I want him to have this responsibility and the trust, confidence and independence that would go with it but now it is something that requires a great deal of negotiation with his school, or the OOSC program. It is quite easy to say that times have changed but the institutions have girded themselves with such rigorous caution against liabilities. My wheels are already turning about the negotiations that I could have with either the school or OOSC to discuss him going on his own and, at OOSC, logging himself in. There is a strong possibility that older kids in the program walk themselves there and log themselves in.

For about 2 1/2 years I have walked my son to and from daycare regularly and we put our steps in throughout the week to other destinations, so covering the distance is not a factor and at every intersection my loop of "look both ways, watch the cars" has played incessantly. He actually stops and waves cars through ahead of him, so I now have to coach him up a bit on asserting his own rights at an intersection but at least he is erring on the side of caution. For the third street crossing he has a well-worn pedestrian overpass that takes the concerns of looking both ways out of the equation. At this point, though, I find it frustrating that I have to rationalize this brief walk to the extent that I do because it is unsupervised.

I am confident that the risks, if any, are minimal and that the consciousness of stranger-danger or traffic are in part a factor of our collective fears, being normalized rather than mitigated. The only other people I see when I walk him to OOSC or school are another parent who lives on the same floor on me taking her daughter, and two cyclists coming north on the sidewalk and prompting me to squish to my left as my son walks the top edge of a low cinder block wall he climbs every morning. I know this walk.

There seems to have been a trade-off between low-probability tragedy and in favour of the guaranteed loss of independence and autonomy, not to mention a higher probability risk of a child getting hit by a car given the number of parents drive their kids to school now. There is also the spectre of parent-shaming looming on this matter of letting a child venture out on their own.  It is easy to say that it is not that much time each day for a parent to drop off their kids and it is a good time for my son and I talk each day.  The city, however, is not as dangerous as we convince ourselves it is and having my son develop the skills to navigate himself through the city on foot or by transit are things that would give him the autonomy that I had when I was his age.

When I raised this with him on our walk home he had forgotten about it but I doubt that it will be for long. I will likely wait until it is light in the mornings again and venture carefully toward ramping him up toward this walk or similar walks and assure myself that he can do it and assure him that I want to give him this independence.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

The Right Run

Competitive sports have been something I have done my best to keep my son way from to this point. He is going to be six in a few weeks and I have so far avoided the drumbeat to enrol him in hockey or any of the team sports that tend to bring out the competitive instincts of parents who have their own aspirations or agenda. He has been told a few times that he is not going to be playing football regardless of how big he gets.

To this point, he has been relatively active with gymnastics and swimming thus far and we may be at a crossroads with the gymnastics. His most recent round of gymnastics is in the late afternoons which has seen his class relegated to a corner of the gym that affords the older and more competitive kids access to much of the equipment that was the highlight during previous sessions.

Running continues to appeal and there have been more and more opportunities for him to sign up for races. He wants to race me whenever we are walking somewhere and his enthusiasm for it remains unbridled. Today, he had a 2K race and on a bracing, subzero morning he toed the line with about 30 other kids. Before the race, I cautioned him to go out slowly, take his time and save his energy for the second half of the race.

In the 1K race he had last month, he finished in just under 6 minutes, but I was not sure what to expect with double the distance. For an experienced runner, grasping the challenges with pacing, with saving a little energy, whether to compete with the people around or simply with yourself are all hard things to take into account.

As the kids start to cross the finish line and the minutes ticked away, I wondered how he was doing out there with the extra distance and whatever concerns I had eased when he crossed the line in tandem with a new friend and did a high five as the other boy's mother and I looked on. They fell into step together and spent the race getting acquainted with one another and by the time they crossed the line, they were a team. We parted ways probably too quickly, but I was not immediately aware how well Gabriel bonded with this other boy. As he talked about how he told his running partner about himself and his family and learned the same from him, I thought about how I bonded with fellow runners during my favorite races and how, whether we spoke a great deal or not, we shared the run in several ways and got to know each other and cheer each other on as we pursued our goals.

I am fully aware that as Gabriel gets older, sports will pose dilemmas as we weigh the difference between competing and participating. It is still too early for that and there is the simple matter of him finding sports that he is passionate about. If running happens to be the sport, then he has had a good head start and gymnastics will be helpful in developing the balance and physical awareness required for other sports. I am conscious of the blight of the participant medal and hope that he learns the lessons that come with competing but I hope that those lessons are learned in areas or endeavours where he is striving to do his best and find the personal achievement or growth that he seeks rather than in sports where he is less interested. 

In the meantime, I will cross my fingers that he runs into his new teammate the next time he lines up for a race.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

The Walk Home Evolves

From https://www.emuparadise.me/
Before getting into this post, a quick anecdote from a few days ago.

Our heat has been off in our condo as the boiler is being replaced. With the temperatures closer to freezing than we would like there is a little more bundling up.  A few nights back we asked our son if he wanted pyjamas with feet or without feet.


"Yes!", he replied.

We asked again and again -- I could inflate this to 7 repetitions of the question -- and each time he replied, "Yes."

Finally I said, "You know, if you can't answer an A or B question, we might have to hold you back a year."

His response, which I admit I clearly had coming: "You already did!!"

He's 5 now.  Going on 15 in November.

Despite the lad being in school now and rounding out his truncated days in kindergarten ("Oh, when I was a boy...") with sessions at Out of School Care (OOSC), I still have the opportunity to walk him home.

The changes may have been gradual but they are significant and noticeable at this point.  Our walks on the pedestrian overpass that straddles 14th Street are far more amusing now as he essentially turns it into his version of the old video game Frogger.  He pauses strategically before racing over each lane of traffic to avoid getting exploded.  I'm slower to catch on but he assured me on Monday that even though I got exploded I still had two lives left.  (Obviously he is getting exposed to video games somewhere.)  Today he added a variation to the game by telling me that the northbound cars were marshmallows and the southbound bombs. Or was that the southbound were marshmallows.  The strategy has changed and he is less likely to adopt the full on sprint across the overpass to smash himself into the chainlink fence on the other side of the bridge.  He has not, however, developed a clear scoring system.

The conversation has opened up a little more. He still tends to give accounts of the people who contributed to the scrapes and cuts on his knees. This month, however, the stories have been of real conflict over sharing or not sharing and I have taken the opportunity to share with him my simmering observation that one of the hardest things to decide is whether it is better to be patient and tolerate a situation or to impose your will on someone and make them concede to you.  At his age the second scenario may result in a fight, though there may be a chance that will or personality can assert some influence as well.  I told him my tendency has been to be patient, though I have wondered from time to time if that was the best strategy.  Despite my doubts, I told him that I preferred that he be patient and try to talk things through -- the third way that I have yet to get full command of.

A chance encounter with his uncle on our way home today also gave me the opportunity to talk about walking.  His uncle is involved in a conference on walkability here in Calgary this week and after we had a brief chat about the conference, my son and I continued home talking about how much we walk.  I did not bother to trouble him with kids who have to be bussed to school and just reminded him of entire weekends we have gone without using the car.  I pointed out the advantages for his health and safety when there are fewer cars or more time spent walking.  Today, though, I could have added that it is a good opportunity to clear your head at the end of the day.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Again, Again

Music will likely be one of the things that Gabriel and I will always bond over. I know I ought to chase that comic voice bubble out of the frame as I suspect there is a every likelihood the two of us will butt heads in the years ahead as our tastes diverge or his indifference to his guitar gains a critical mass, but when adolescence passes we should be able to pick up the conversation again from when or wherever we leave off. Unlike the Kinsellas in Field of Dreams, we will be more likely to sit down near the stereo or with our guitars than pick up baseball gloves.

Tonight was one of those nights where a song and a musician provided a span of the bridge that will take us through that still-distant stretch of adolescence to whatever conversation there will be when we sit down to share music on the other side.

After nearly a year of listening to an emerging pop-folk master named Paul Johnson, who commercially plies is craftsmanship under the guise of Canyon City, Gabriel was asking to hear, "The one that starts, 'I woke before the sun rose...'" during his bath and asked for it again as I turned him in for the night.  As we went on to listen to said song, titled "Needles and Pins," eleven to twelve times in a row until his breathing finally eased into the rhythm that portended sleep we talked and talked - the lad not merely stalling sleep, but asking questions that would not come from anywhere else.

"What is grace?" and, in response to my attempt to capture it for a 5-year-old, "What is a virtue?"

We lay in the dark exchanging favorite passages of the song. He, the chorus, with its fairy tale mention of plastic crowns and the certainty about where home is; me the more adult world evocations about "wear(ing) a tie to go to work and tell(ing)... lies like everything's okay" and "los(ing) some keys in the dust." With each repetition of the song in the dark, Gabriel's questions continued about the song, the individual words that emerged and caught his ear more easily with each listening and I'm sure there were unasked questions planted there to bloom later about music, craft, poetry and love that he will ask when he has the words in the weeks and years ahead.

I have every confidence that Mr. Johnson/Canyon City will have a wonderful career ahead of him as songs such as "Needles and Pins" continue to find their path to ears and hearts in the days ahead.  If it has not happened already, he will nightly have audience members who will tell him that he wrote their song, whether it is the one they make love to, danced for the first time as husband and wife or any other milestone in life of someone following their romantic path to one-and-onlys that he describes so aptly in song and song again.  In about ten years or so, there will also be a 60-year-old man with his 15-year-old son -- the lad possibly doing a great job of portraying adolescent indifference to anything the old man springs on him or indulging in some patience with me for the night -- and, with a wink, I'll simply say that I used his first album to lull that lad asleep not so long ago.

Thanks Paul.

Monday, September 4, 2017

On Kindergarten Eve

As I write this post, I am contemplating the browser tab for the Google search, "inspecting for lice" and wondering whether I should bookmark it or just leave it open.  I had to do a search last night after a flurry of text messages and a phone call from friends we camped with over the weekend, and it made for a little baptism for mother and father heading into the heart of September.  The flashlight inspection last night, the lack of even a single scratch of the scalp and a good hair wash tonight provide some reassurance that we are all clear.

We hope.

The lad heads on the next stage of the journey tomorrow. Kindergarten is a little more than 13 hours away and I pause to look in all directions.  He will be headed to an old sandstone building still older than the one I started school in in days of yore.  It is not the red clapboard single room school of one stereotype but the creak of the wood floors, the wide-yet-cluttered hallways and tall windows give a sense that this is a school that gives some comforting associations with the word.  With the school being only 400 metres away, there is the chance to see him build some independence in the weeks and months ahead as well.

Today, it was a challenge to give the sense of significance that was appropriate for the occasion of starting school. An afternoon at a trampoline centre, an early bath and a bit of a speech from the old guy (that's me!) was part of the effort to make something of the day, but it is more of a transition for mom and dad than it is for him. New friends, new expectations and perhaps the threat of a little less play than has been the case, but it may be hard for him to identify significant differences between elementary school and day care. There will be lots of new kids and a lot of bigger ones too, but other than that there will be little to overwhelm the boy who so calmly transitioned into day care 30 pounds and 18 inches ago.

There are some questions about how we prepared him, but I try to tell myself that would be the case with any parent. He has an undeniable knack for math and sciences, a mild indifference to art, drawing, and... ahem... printing.  I look ahead to the partnership with his teachers in the years ahead to help us set goals for him and I anticipate the challenges we will all face with some degree of excitement.  I can picture him sitting down at the kitchen table - not necessarily tomorrow night - working on the things that he is struggling with where I can bring something to his growth, but I will dread -- just as I did during junior high school -- the Science Fairs that loom.

Apart from the scholastic aptitudes that are yet to be measured more precisely, there is the boy that we are sending off into the world.  He is an affectionate boy who can be a goofball and enjoys the role of the clown.  There are moments when he can withdraw when he is not getting his way, but there is a chance that he is more sensitive to the needs of others when he is in a big room. From day one we have been conscious of his size.  I recall seeing other newborns when he was just two or three weeks old and gaping at my wife with the question, "Was he ever that small?" We are more than a little anxious about how the expectations and perceptions of him are altered because of his size and while we may have done him an advantage academically by waiting an extra year before sending him on to kindergarten, there may be greater expectations of him as he towers over the other kids in his class.

Ultimately though, he is a prodigious hugger and (if they allow that in school) I think he is the kind of kid that can help bring together a room of kids.  We that thought and the insistence that we want, above all, for him to be a good, kind sensitive boy and man, we send him into the world.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

(Almost) Inner-City Parenting

Unlike the pattern described recently in a Vox article in parenting in the inner-city, my wife and I moved from the 'burbs to the inner-city before becoming parents.  There might be quibbling about the definition of inner-city in the part of Calgary where we have lived for the last nine years.  Calgary has its onion layers of growth and development and we moved 16km closer to downtown, from the layer that afforded the view of the northwestern city limits to a neighbourhood where the original houses are over 100 years old.

At the time of the move, we actually increased the square footage we occupied, moving from a newish 1000-square-foot townhouse to a 1400 square-foot apartment-style condominium. Parenthood was not on the horizon when we moved, but we immediately came to appreciate the walkability of the neighbourhood.  As I said, it was not significant at the time, but rather than facing the prospects of bussing our son past an empty lot declaring itself (as it has for nine years) the future site of a school, we are now within 1.2 kilometres of three elementary schools. Our son's is just 500 metres away. Beyond that there are three playgrounds, two pools and the daycare that he has attended for the last 2 1/2 years. The level of car traffic being makes me reluctant to let him head out on his bicycle on his own but with time, he will be able to navigate his way onto the bike paths safely.  Ultimately, though, we are in a location where he will have relative independence to move about on his own without being reliant on his mother and I to get to school by car.

When Gabriel came along, there was no impulse to pull up stakes and head to the burbs for the extra space and a patch of grass that we could declare exclusively ours.  The infrastructure in our neighbourhood is abundant.  If there was an issue with the space in the condominium, we would adapt to it and we would cross our fingers that this would be what he grew up knowing.  We have ready access not only to the schools, daycare, parks and pools, but the transit system within a 7-minute walk.  Transit easily gets us to music class, downtown, museums, the zoo, movie theatres and other facilities that are all keys parts of free time that I spend with my son (without relying on the car.)

There are other parts of Calgary, namely the still-developing East Village, that have the potential to give families the opportunity to stay right in the downtown area.  Schools are currently a little harder to come by in the East Village, but the amenities there are quite attractive. With museums, the library and playgrounds all nearby, the main issues are proximity to schools and whether or not developers are willing to provide the space families need or if they favour the profitability of smaller units.

In our case, the space we have is more than enough.  If we happened to have ended up having two children, we may have had some tougher decisions to make, especially if we ended up with a boy and a girl, but at this point, the 1400 square feet we have is more than enough. The blog 5 Kids 1 Condo makes the case that a bit of hacking (both in terms of trimming away the unessential and finding a few deft short cuts) would further maximize the way we use our space.  Our mindset throughout, however, has been to use the amenities around us as much as possible rather than insulating ourselves in a detached home and investing a lot of time and energy in duplicating what is readily at hand.

The lessons that we have learned and the habits we have developed are all different from what would be the case in the 'burbs.  Our son has probably socialized more on the nearby playgrounds and his time walking or travelling by transit has exposed him to a wider variety of people from walks of life he would not encounter if he was chauffeured about the city from a distant locus of similar houses with a vista of matching garage doors extending down a street.

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Owning Up

Our Saturday morning rituals truncated for the summer, we have foregone the music lessons until the fall, but we still squeeze in our lunch pizzas with my cronies and yesterday, one of the less regular attendees in the circle asked Gabriel if he had a piggy bank and after a confirming nod, handed over a toonie.

Prior to that, my inquiry about whether Gabriel was ready to get on the train was met with some excitement, even if it did not entail a stop for a snack at Starbucks. The view of the city from the train still holds its command over Gabriel, and of course, there is a bit of local colour or grit on the train that he does not encounter from a backseat of the car.

When we arrived on the platform and he punched our ticket for the ride, Gabriel gravitated toward a boy who was a year older but happened to be playing with an Optimus Prime Transformer toy and wearing a baseball cap, just like Gabriel - check, check.  The two of them fell into easy conversation and when that happens as spontaneously as it does, about ten minutes passed before they got around to exchanging names.  When we boarded the train, they sat together.  The boy's father had little in common with me other than the boys and the proximity of their ages.  He was dressed in colours that seemed dark and muted by neglect or disregard. He had a large tattoo that covered most of his left bicep and for the moment preoccupied himself with his cellphone, something I am not above but wasn't doing this time around as Gabriel was inviting me to explain my affection for the long-gone Montreal Expos as we walked to the station.

As the train headed downtown, Gabriel and the boy continued their conversation and as it unfolded, the boy felt the need to raise the point that the police had taken his Dad's car for no apparent reason. The father in measured, resigned tones indicated that the car was taken because he had a suspended license. There was not a moment of disrespect for authority or the suggestion that he was hard-done-by or deserved or needed a break or express anything to indicate that anyone else was to blame.  My respect for the man was moved to the level he deserved and for the moment I discarded the narrative I was writing about a weekend father putting the time in.  He was setting a great example for his son and for myself.  It is easy to forget the importance of setting an example, especially when it comes to responsibility.

So the next time there is an opportunity to avoid taking myself down a notch in my son's estimation of me, I will remind myself of this man and father who acknowledged reality rather than trying to revise it to suit me in the short term.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

The Curse of Imitation

It happened.  It may have actually happened in countless other ways that I have been able to discount with varying degrees of denial.  My sighs of exasperation are not quite that dramatic; he probably picked it up at daycare from a kid who picked it up from his or her folks.  The eye roll? Okay, that might have been me, but I usually turn away and lift my head to the heavens.  Still safe.  The running? Yeah, that's me.  The resistance to sleep? Nature, not nurture, so I shrug off that genetic hand-off with some resignation.

But this one, I could not deny. The Dude was playing with friends at his grandparents' neighbours two Sundays back.  I was there as well, providing some vigilance to relieve the neighbour the burden of tending to my son in addition to her own two sons. We were chatting about kids, summer travel plans and such when Gabriel let out an impatient yell that immediately clanged on my conscience.  That was me, clearly something he picked up from me and my go-to move when patience has worn thin or frankly I'm too lazy for a mindful, calmer approach.  I immediately (and calmly and gently, I can add) called him over.  I was not preoccupied with appearances and what this younger mother might think. 

Gabriel sat on my knee thoughtfully and was prepared to listen.  There was something about his surrender or openness at that moment that reminded me of a heart-to-heart we had a few weeks before. We sat on the sofa and in the course of the conversation I assured him that I would always be looking out for him and that making sure he was happy and safe.  In response he replied, "I never knew that," and there was a sense that it was a genre of father-son conversation that we would be able to have regularly and that there was an honest give and take.

This time around though, I spoke straight up about how he was picking up a bad habit from me - the yell.  I told him that it was something I learned and that I was trying to unlearn it and that I needed him to unlearn it before it became a habit.  I have been conscious of my tendency for a long time and when I catch myself, I can manage to alter my tone or volume after a tumultuous start to make a change that only a sensitive ear like that of a novelist or a child can pick up on.  On this occasion, though, with him on my knee and quiet with a sense of the moment, but it his guilt or mine.  Perhaps in his case, there was the realization that the yelling thing did not render any benefits.  For that moment, I had the feeling that I was getting through to him and making a pact that the two of us could hold each other to.  

I did not give him much opportunity to speak on this occasion and I did not ask him to apologize to his friends.  If anything I should have apologized to them, but there was enough self-flagellation for the moment without puzzling two pre-schoolers with this bout of self-awareness.

For the past ten days I've managed to rein in the volume and find that extra bit of patience when I'm being tested.  There was even a little revelation from Alice Munro's The View From Castle Rock where she talked about a relationship between parent and son that underlined the fact that being overprotective of your child (guilty as charged) ultimately prompts the kid to test your limits rather than his own and come to some discovery of self-regulation as limits are tested independently.  (If that revelation has reached all of her readers, she deserves another Nobel to go with her one for Literature.)

So, I've dialled back the over-protective, over-corrective impulses. When he scampered off recklessly from a crosswalk (and me) on Monday and landed in a heap after tripping on his feet, I just hoisted him up and comforted him until the tears ended. I held on and let the storm pass and we were both assured that he would live. Tonight, with his feet brown with dirt from an afternoon on the playground and him in no mood for a bath or shower (on consecutive days?!?!) I found the compromise of a ticklish footwash in the sink as he sat on the vanity counter. The novelty amused him and got the job done without undue battle over territory.

The yell, hopefully, will see its decline and disappearance. I'll be the tough nut to crack since it is a go-to in times of stress. It may not be the most reasonable expectation, it is a goal - especially when the dialogue has been already so valuable and illuminating with Gabriel when he's barely 5 1/2.

Onward.

Friday, June 9, 2017

Early Rites of Passage

Yesterday afternoon, my wife and I sat in a room with about 30 other parents to dab discreetly at our eyes and take pictures of Gabriel as he took his turn to cross a stage and receive a certificate. By my estimate there will be at least three more occasions of this, including the reading of The Places You Will Go - as we get through the K-12 years at far too brisk a pace.  In the future, it will be his full name - perhaps with both middles thrown in to reflect the formality and significance of the occasion - and the tears will flow a little longer.  He has graduated from daycare.  Today, however, he was back in day care and he'll continue going through much of the summer until that point in August where the goodbye will be less formal and more intimate (and teary) than they were yesterday.

Earlier this week Gabriel also learned that that he, perhaps by no more than the thickness of a sock, has outgrown the height restriction of a shopping centre playground. There may be an attempt to sneak him in, but I won't be attempting that one. He may be more interested in the access he will gain on certain rides at the local amusement park to ease his anguish about his growth.

I am torn over the formality of the graduation yesterday. It was an opportunity to mark his imminent departure from daycare even though it is still about 2 1/2 months away and I am glad that the educators at the daycare had the opportunity to say goodbye in the manner that they did yesterday. It is probably all too easy to rush through this particular goodbye to the women who have had such a significant impact on Gabriel.  I still foresee an informal good bye that will be quite heartfelt.

My issue is that there may be too many ceremonies and celebrations of this sort and that each rite of passage will get over formalized.  A more mindful and conscious acknowledgement of those passages will be valued as well and I suspect there may be a risk of either celebrating small accomplishments on scale that risks blowing them out of proportion or bringing a formality to the occasion that does not seem appropriate.  Yesterday's ceremony was sweet.  The kids all sang a song about growing up and being ready for "big kids' school" so there was a sense of culmination about the event.

The more mindful recognition of those rites would be more appealing to me. There are countless other little achievements that a child goes through as they mark their growth and advancing independence and I would prefer that people be conscious enough of those steps to mark them in their own personal way that aligns with their values and interests. We will have plenty of those little moments and it may just be that the improvised moments that mark those rites will be more valuable and memorable than the formal occasions.

In my own case, waaaaay back in March 1975 I had my first communion on my own.  My father, was heading off to sea with the Navy just before I was supposed to have my communion with my catechism class.  Instead of marking it on a sun-kissed Sunday morning, I believe it was on a Thursday night during Holy Week.  I don't recall if the priest made any special announcement to the congregation that night, but I do recall a woman who qualified as elderly to a certain 8-year-old (me!) giving me either a dime or a quarter after mass to congratulate me for it.  I had the sense that she had always seen me in church and that the coin came as an unprompted acknowledgement of my communion rather than something prompted by words from the pulpit.  After mass, my parents took me to a department store to get my first watch.

With Gabriel, I value those similarly informal moments and acknowledgements of his growth: the way the baristas light up when he leads me into Starbucks on Saturday mornings to make our order is one example, though it may not necessarily be a rite. This week though, at the mall as he left the playground for the last time - unless he tries to sneak in on a quiet day - the attendant gave him an ink stamp on the wrist and said, "You may be too big for the playground, but you're never too big for stamps.  Okay?"

Monday, June 5, 2017

Childhood and The Zone

Two weeks ago, my son had his first serious opportunity to play the guitar.  After years of standing in front of me and beating on my strings, he has had his turn to embrace an instrument of his own and find his way through the deep roads of the fretboard, the strings, bridge and pick.  There is much ahead in his journey to even determine if he wants to play the guitar but for now he has one of his own to lean over or hug as it rests on his right thigh.

Chords remain a work in progress.  The fingers and the spatial arrangement have not visited each other frequently enough for him to feel adept at putting together a chord and his hands still have a bit of growing to do before we get into a discussion of bar chords or the challenge of reaching the furthest strings.  For the time being he has beaten on his guitar along with everyone else, a contribution of vibe or passion to the more structured strumming and chord progressions the rest of us follow.  While we were proceeding through Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" his head was tilted back, his eyes were closed and his pick-hand was well over his head - a tribute to Pete Townshend before he even discovered the man's technique of idiosyncrasies.  He seemed to be in complete rapture and lost in the moment.  As I beamed at him, his eyes opened and he dissolved into a state of self-consciousness.

"What?", he asked, his rapture dissolved and chased by a newly discovered timidity.

I assured him that all was well and did my best to assure him that -- as far as I was concerned -- that moment of lost bliss was just what the guitar was about.  Since that moment, however, I have wondered about what it would take to introduce him to the concept of the zone or peak performance. I recall my own efforts to get into the zone when I was learning to ride the bicycle. My first was a gleaming green with a long banana seat and high handlebars like you'd associate with a chopper. There were no training wheels in the effort.  This was strictly old school and the effort to find my balance was a lengthy one.  History would probably say that the learning was briefer than I recall but I rode up and down a stretch of yard that ran next to the house, wobbling along until I completely fell over until, bang, I had it.  For some reason I fell upon the word "Cordoba" (after the Chrysler) and ran that word through my head repeatedly until gravity pulled me off the bike and dislodged my mantra.  I would resume again and again, the word stuck in my head until I was balanced and able to bring myself to a controlled stop rather than a fall.  I do not recall if I did a full lap of the yard or if I just felt that I, after going all of 10 metres without falling over, just assumed I had the bike thing all sorted out.  It was, however, a stretch where I was in the zone as I tried to master the bike.

The guitar was much later for me and while self-taught, there was a bit more self-critique and a lot more inner dialogue than I would have had if I started as early as my son.  At this point, he is not too concerned about precision or proficiency - he just wants to bang on the guitar and enjoy the social aspects of sitting amongst "the men" to indulge in the time they share.

I want to find a way to make him familiar with that peak experience.  Regular experience of it will provide him with the compass to his passions and his purpose.  It will also clarify his definition of himself and the things he does well or may be meant to do.  It does not have to come from playing the guitar or music.  I just want him to be familiar with it and have the conversation with him about what it is, how he got there and what it might mean.  I suspect that it will wait, but in the meantime, I'll file moments like this one to tell him about these experiences and ask him to reflect on how he felt during those moments.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Coaching

For Calgarians, soccer season is an eight week interval between the last icy gasp of winter and the start of summer holidays. This year, rather than subjecting us to the discomforts of standing against a brisk wind making us wish we had another layer of down, a blast of snow seized the first week of my son's U6 season outright rather than leaving any questions about how cold it might get before it was determined that the kids were better off with their normal, sedentary evening routines.

For week two, we congregated at the local community centre where nets are aligned in pairs across the soccer field and went through the routine of scanning the team app that we signed up for to determine who else was on our children's team and who the coach was. My son knew that he was on the same team as one of his closest friends from daycare and further to that I knew that among his teammates was the five-year-old most likely to do a 10-metre knee slide across the field with his shirt pulled over his head and beckon the crowd's complete adoration. I'm not kidding - it is the kind of thing that sticks in your head. Last year, this kid was the only one wearing cleats, and he showed up every week in an authentic Real Madrid kit complete with Ronaldo's or somebody's name and number. 

I scanned the roster on my phone and found the name of a "non-player" and as the queries about who was coaching mounted, a lean sixties-ish guy with a silver beard acknowledged his name and added that he thought he had made it clear that he said he wasn't available this year. Fortunately enough, he decided to come out to watch his grandson play and he would pitch in.  He turned to me and asked, "You know anything about soccer?"

"I've kicked a ball." I didn't bother to add that the last time I kicked a ball, about ten days earlier, my efforts redefined the word "errant" and left me humbly chasing my shot up the road to throw the ball back over the fence it sailed over. I played organized soccer up until I was 15 and I had played pick-up off and on. As for coaching, I knew that I would have to take turn at some point but I thought I oiled wait another year or so. I was going to definitely miss one week and that was enough for me to rationalize putting it off another year. I was not sure if I could muster the extroversion to elicit the excitement among the kids to play or get the focus for drills that I would expect myself to aim for despite it still being the time of, "Same team, same team!" and "When's snack time?"

I was ready to coach and pitch, though feeling a bit of stage fright about trying to drill them on things for the half hour of practice that preceded a loosely officiated game. Twelve hours after the fact, it has just dawned on me that .I could start them off with some stretching and that vaguely remembered game with the numbers or something. I don't even like stretching.

Instead of taking the pressure role of leading the kids in their early paces, I seized the opportunity to lay out the cones that separated the field into units for each of the four teams. I grew hesitant with each step as I acknowledged that nobody else was laying out cones for any of the other teams. A voice in my head chided me for not jumping in and taking the lead even though the current volunteer as coach was not too reluctant to accept the task that was thrust upon him.

"You go in net with these guys. Okay?"

I immediately started to wonder about how competitive I was going to be and with each save I wondered if I was going to hear the hue and cry of parents who would complain the game wasn't fair and that I ought to let the kids-only opposition score enough to keep it fair. I was a hockey goalie growing up and those same instincts took over quite quickly. Still, I made a point of letting a goal in early to put the other team ahead before knuckling down and stopping shots aggressively. I thought I was getting a sense of how our team was doing, but they did not score as much as I had thought. There was one little pocket rocket, with plastic shin pads the glimmered with a metallic blue sheen, who had pretty good speed and a good sense of footwork with the ball and he got some decent breakaways on me and scored a few. On a separate occasion, I pulled Gabriel aside to point out a crestfallen opponent who was taken aback by a push Gabriel delivered. As the ball hit the twine behind me, the coach gently chided, "You! Penalty for parenting."

Snack time followed and I was off the hook and managed to escape the wrath of parents who thought I was playing too hard or too well. Instead, the little pocket rocket came up to me and said, "I score three goals on you." He was cute and I liked the way he played, so I gave him a fist bump instead of replying, "Two. You scored TWO, kid." With that, I was off the hook for this week, but I suspect it will be time to dust off a stretching exercise and a few games to get them enjoying some drills.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Adding Each Thread

      My apologies for opening with a mind-blower but, I fear being wrong about love.
It is not a matter of misjudging the entire element (love) and its power. I trust it and recall frequently the occasions when my French-speaking grandmother, in halting English, would gather our attention to assert word with the reminder that it is above all things and that it will be an answer, a solution and your bedrock as well.
     With my grandmother as a reference the nuances or calibrations of love's expression dog me and leave doubts. There are my insistent doubts about my over-protective impulses. Even though my son, signalled to me, with a head-long dive off the sofa when he was barely able to hold himself in a seated position, that there would be a trip to the emergency room to set a broken bone in my future. Despite that, I still let a vigilant, perhaps paranoid, bark slip whenever he is straying into probably minor risks. The vigilance does not express that love as well as other ways available, at least not in the immediate term.  Beyond that there are, again, the nuances of the long-term consequences of that preemptive attention. It is probably better to let him get into trouble and learn his lessons the hard way - as long as they aren't hard lessons.
     Apart from the vigilance, I have come to realize not to presume adequacy in expressing myself to my son. There may be self-imposed limits that are hard-wired into me without my recognition. Conscious of the largesse that has come his way as the only child, grandchild, and nephew, I am wary of gifts and want to ensure that he truly appreciates what he receives as an expression of a friend's or relative's fondness for him and the value they give to the time they spend with him. Yesterday, a dear, older friend whom Gabriel and I regularly lunch with on Saturdays gave a smallish package in a large yellow envelope and was advised that it was something for him to share with his parents rather than open immediately.  On the way home, I thought it was best to modify Gabriel's expectations so I told him that the gift was our friend's way of expressing his affection and his appreciation for the time we spent together. When we arrived home, Gabriel asked if he could remove the package from my bag and open it.  Rather than being the keepsake or heirloom that I feared might turn Gabriel off or need some time to earn its value in his eyes, I turned out to be a package of four large chocolate chip cookies. Right in G's wheelhouse.
   Despite my amusement and relief that the gift was something tangible for a five-year-old, I am remain conscious of the value of our time together and prefer to give him that and share a variety of experiences with him that broaden the connections between us. One aspect of my fear about being wrong about love is the assumption that one connection or association would be enough for us. Whether it is the bedtime reading, the station-to-station sprints that are a part of our journeys, the drowsy chats about music as consciousness gives way (finally) to sleep, the work we do together or more, I still wonder what the next thing will be to connect us and create another link in the bond between us. I believe that relying on only one or a handful or the tried and true amongst those connections makes too much of an assumption about the adequacy of a connection. I do not want to presume one of those connections is a high tensile connection and learn much, much later that it was gossamer thin and inadequate for the task of preparing Gabriel for the rest of his life and assuring him that I have his back.
     The sheer abandon with which he delivers hugs and kisses and "I love you's" to those around him, me included, is reassuring but I do not want to settle for the possibility of creating a single tether between us, when a web can connect us and reassure me of a link to him as time passes and the bonds of certain books, for instance, are outgrown. The thing I am conscious of as he grows is the need to express my love of him and my value of him in a manner that grows and evolves as he matures and finds new ways to express his desires, his feelings and himself in a range of ways that are as articulate and varied as he needs.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

As Memory Begins

I have been conscious of the curtain on my past prior to age five, a stage of my life that is murky and staged among the relics of fading Kodachrome images and even black and whites, the most vivid being of me bathing in a tin washtub at my grandparents' in Quebec.  Even the first year of school in 1972, at age 5 1/2, is vague, but the period around the start has long marked the distinction between remembered and unknown.  There are vague memories - one of toddling lost in an airport or train station - but that among others may be from the realm of dreams rather than remembered experience.

With Gabriel now at that cusp - where memories he will be retained into adulthood - I have become more conscious that the time we spend together is actually getting stored away in his thoughts to leave more lasting memories. These current moments are not going to be buried in his subconscious to lay dormant to well up during his dreams and leaving ineffable traces on his consciousness.

At this point I can confidently say that he will know me for the sprints that we have from point to point and that he always wins when we are walking somewhere.  He will know, by rote, my paranoia about traffic at intersections and through parking lots and my insistence that we hold hands. (I have no idea when I will relent and trust him to walk alertly at my side.)

These clear memories are taking root as our bond becomes more tangible and a point of reference for him throughout his growth in the years ahead. If he takes up running more seriously, he will definitely remember my coaching moments about not looking back when he runs, and instead to listen for the clamour of gaining footsteps and heavy breathing to know if a competitive threat the approaches, or to watch for looming shadows if the light and route affords him that.

Last night, the recall was being wired with several sprints on the sidewalks to the train station and then from our stop onto home and I was filled with this contentment that I was not just getting him home but making memories as well.

When we got home Gabriel may have been picking up on my reflection as well.  He wandered into the office that was his bedroom after he was born and mused about it being his room.  I played the role of docent and told him where his crib used to be, though I forgot to tell him where he was rocked every night.  I did disclose to him, however, the occasion when I proudly hoisted him high out of his crib and rattled his head off the spinning ceiling fan.  I still remember the look of shock and shattered trust as the startling pain impacted him repeatedly and it was good to have that moment to fill in the past a bit and let him know that Dad is humbly fallible.  (I might have even given some context to one of those subconscious memories that are lurking about.)

The comforting realization is that apart from the routines that are familiar to him, there will be more likelihood that one-off events will now stick with him without repetition.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

Dad Still Has Work To Do... and a Chance

Monday mornings. Need I say more? For all the times that I might get a chuckle on this blog from a moment or an anecdote about Gabriel's personality, growing painsexperiences or various rates of progress, it is time for me to be transparent and fess up as well.

I had to leave home early for a meeting and Gabriel asked me if I could build some Lego. It was 6:30 am and maybe it was on me for scheduling a meeting so early but when Gabriel gave an exasperated sigh, I rose to the bait. I cited the attitude in the sigh, fed up with his early wake-ups and his refusal to do much constructive (eat breakfast or get dressed) when he did.

I immediately regretted and chided myself for not letting him get past his sigh and accept the disappointment of me not being available to spend the morning with him.  That may not have been possible but it would have been a lot better for me to let the sigh go and see if he could work his way past it.  Instead I showed him a lousy way of dealing with disappointment and instead of having the patience to show him a calm to model, I blew it.  It is going to take me that many more calms and detached occasions to absorb his frustrations and see him through to the other side and his own calm and perspective about his emotions and how to manage them.

You never know when the big moments are, but it is easy to acknowledge that patterns or constellations that snowball.  There is this sense of frustration and failure and when he rolls his eyes or empties his lungs with that sigh of exasperation, I have this anxiety that it is all slipping away -- that these moments are going to be the highlights he looks back upon most often; these will be the occasions that he struggles to unpack because he needs to work that much harder to make sense of them and find a positive sense of himself despite the other moments. I worry that he will look to define himself or find satisfaction in possessions and objects rather than strong relationships and good deeds. I worry that my efforts will set the stage for a tumultuous adolescence and more battles, little communication and sending Gabriel on a quest for a more tolerable male adult to hang out with.

Easy to blow it or blow it out of proportion, I just have to figure out which I'm doing.  Not that it would be impossible for me to do both at the same time or to create a vicious circle between those two things.  When I'm not bouncing back and forth between making a mess of things or panicking about screwing up the job, I'm trying to overload a moment with a maxim or life lesson. [sigh]

Today was an up and down day. Gabriel was tricky to get into gear and out the door in time for the commute to music class but once he was out the door, he fully committed to the word, "Boogie," and stayed in gear as we powered up the hill from our place to the train station. The bonding over our Saturday morning island between the train and the bus brought the day or the week back to the state that I would love for it to be at.  As I write this, I dread the occasion when Gabriel turns that routine down at, you know, that age. I tell myself that it will happen, more in an effort to brace myself for the possibility than a specific case of pessimism.  (I will cop to a broader, more general case of pessimism.)

The rest of the morning unfolded relatively well. Music class ended with him in a state of lethargy or restlessness and I'm trying to determine if it is boredom with a class that is going too slowly. Two days earlier, my wife and I were puzzling over what to do about music classes for Gabe, who at 18 months surprised me by identifying different arrangements and orchestrations of the same song, but now has lost interest in his Kodaly classes. An hour later, he was arranging coins on Nadine's iPad cover and telling us what notes the coins were.

Okay.

He has expressed boredom with the other part of the Saturday routine, pizza with friends of mine that he has been dragged to since the bucket phase, and I was content to set that aside for the day and get on top of a few chores that I had on the to-do list.  He was good with that and when the urge to get to the loo prompted a detour, we found ourselves sitting down for burgers for lunch. I was conscious of the battles I was losing -- his preference for condiments over the meal and his sudden unfounded affinity for salt on everything -- when an elderly man say next to us.  He indulged in Gabriel for a moment but settled in for his lunch and a brief reading of Jeremiah from his well-worn and post-itted (is that a word?) Bible.  After he finished reading he packed to go and stood between the tables to tell me how I was doing.

Basically, he said he had worked with a lot of parents who didn't know what they were doing and kids who were lost because of their parenting and added that Gabriel and I were great together. To be frank, I cowered at the compliment and wanted to defer it in every way possible.  I write this not in an effort to get a few more variations on, "No, no you're fine," but to give an insight into the discomfort I felt at such a compliment at the end of the week I've had. I turned to Gabriel to more or less tell him he didn't have to agree with that and he gave me a confident nod and a thumbs up. He is incredibly generous and far more forgiving than I am. Hopefully, he'll give me a better chance at this than I give myself.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

Preludes to The Talk

"You're the one that's telling him."

"Yeah, yeah."

Each time that exchange occurs with my wife, I shrug it off, confident that it will be a while yet and that I'll stick with the basics, be as honest as possible and give him the age-appropriate information he needs without building up some myths about storks or such. Whenever the talk comes to mind, I recall the children's book on the topic I received, highlighted by a successful sperm dressed in a tuxedo and top hat and a vague cartoonish illustration of man and woman in bed under a blanket the keep me in the dark.  I wonder if the top hat takes the questions of speed and motility off the table in favour of fusing the presentability or chivalry of the man with the one in a million odds that the successful sperm overcomes but those are the challenges for a writer of children's non-fiction.  (I still might want to track down that book, though.)

There have been regular signs that The Talk is growing nigh.  There was an expression of his desire to marry his cousin that needed to be addressed and then there are discoveries that leave my son in wonder at the changes that are already occurring in his body.  The reality is that there will probably be a series of smaller talks rather than a Joycean information dump with long meandering thoughts stringing out across my consciousness as I tiptoe through the pubescent minefield and deke around my discomforts and facts with the incompetence and transparent bluster of a press secretary.

Two nights ago, however, my son slipped away from the table and returned with his Star Wars book, one that features long accounts of the original trilogy of movies.  He plopped the book on the table and asked us, "Do you know what my favorite part of Star Wars is?"

We shrugged in helplessness at the myriad answers that we could choose from and then he pointed his finger at the book, "Princess Leia's costume."

I never took to Princess Leia.  The whole buns on the side of the head thing lost me in 1977 and by the time the slave costume came to be in 1983 I had moved on.  For my son, however, after a steady diet of anthropomorphic trucks, OCD animals, empathic sheep, mischievous dinosaurs and talking trains -- to mention a few of the characters he has encountered in film and book -- Leia has been an oasis of femininity.  The appeal of the slave outfit to a five-year-old, though, raises a red flag or nine.

"She doesn't want to be wearing that."

"Why?"

"She's Jabba's slave."

"What's a slave?"

(Thankfully, there's no dog collar on her in his book.)

"A slave is forced to do something they don't want to.  If she doesn't do what Jabba wants, he would throw her in the pit with the... with the monster."

"The Rancor."

"Yes." (He does know more about Star Wars than me.  And he knows that he does.)

I continue, "She's not dressed like that because she wants to be.  You have to ask if she wants to be dressed that way."

The questions stopped at that point and there could have been a lot more I could say about how to treat women or regard them but that will have to be for a day that seems to be coming a lot sooner than I had anticipated.  I did not go on a long harangue on the treatment of women and the need to look beyond the exposed skin, and hopefully I can keep that one in my back pocket for a lot longer. My realization is that there will not be one talk that will tidy up the topic and let me walking away clapping the chalkdust from my hands. It will be an ongoing dialogue that will never close or end.

Monday, February 6, 2017

For Small Work or Small Workers?

One of the things I enjoy about condominium living is the low upkeep.  No lawn mowing, no raking leaves or any of the yard work that I am quite content to steer my time away from.  At the same time, though, there is a whole raft of responsibilities and chores that The Lad manages to avoid as well.  He is starting to get more attentive about putting his dishes in the sink and dishwasher as required but the bigger chores seem to have been evaded so far.

Fortunately, he has no reluctance to help and if there is lifting to be done or work at his grandparents he is prompt to pitch in.  Today was a rare occasion when he had some work to do outside. After a decent-sized dump of snow, our parking stall required some attention before the end of the day and I started digging up the snow in the stall.  The one next to ours was vacant as well, so I took on the extra space and set about pushing the powder aside and blasting at the icier pack that was at the edges of the stall and threatened to leave our car and a distinct slant when it finally parked.  I took a break from that for a moment to assure a neighbour that the shovel I was using was the common one and beat a path so she could get her tiny Toyota Echo out of its stall and into the cookie dough of Calgary's streets.

When my wife came home at the end of the day with the Gabriel waving enthusiastically from the back seat, I knew I would have an assistant even though most of my work was done (and about to be covered by the parked car.)  Gabriel was eager to get some shovelling in and headed inside to get the smaller common shovel, which is, oddly enough, just his size.  He threw himself into his work on the vacant neighbouring stall as we cleared that out and with gas to burn after that, I turned our attention to the stall that the Echo had vacated a few moments earlier.  As dusk approached and fell, the clear skies brought a brilliance to the occasion that made the work and day feel much warmer than they were.  As we continued, I asked him to check with other people in the parking lot if they needed the shovels or needed some shovelling done, conscious of hogging the tools of ignorance to ourselves while other residents fought their way out.

We were good and free to carry on with our work.  There was even a moment when Gabriel enthusiastically shouted out, "Teamwork," with as deep a voice as a five-year-old can muster.  As darkness fell, he was undaunted and was eager to keep digging away wherever we could even though we had four stalls done at this point of the evening.  After a while, he complained that he had a pain in his back and I suggested that it was muscles that he was not accustomed to using.  He accepted my explanation despite a precocious skepticism about much that I say and continued on.  The offer of supper did not even ease his efforts.  He had a full head of steam and was in no mood to stop.

In the end, I hope there is a sense of connection with the people that he shovelled stalls for, even if the work goes unnoticed.  He spoke about the exercise he was getting, but I hoped that my message about helping the neighbours slipped past his skepticism as easily as the suggestion about the pain in his back being a sign of good work.  I'll wait and see.  In the meantime, I'm left to wonder if it is a coincidence that the second shovel is just his size.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

The Dawdle: Lessons for Dad from the Walks to Daycare

We have had the good fortune of a great, supportive daycare for the last few years. A few days ago we found ourselves quizzing Gabriel on continents he learned and can add that his math is coming along too.  The care and attention he has received was a key factor prompting us to hold him back a year. One major advantage of that daycare, however, has been the location.  Daycare is a scant 500 metres away and apart from allowing me to pick him up and drop him off, it has meant walks to and from daycare to bookend our Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays.

At the start of the day, there is the hustle to determine if he wants to walk with me or get a drive with his mother and to get him out the door.  On the night before, it may actually be a strategic move on our part to ask, "Who's walking you to school?", instead of the more neutral, drive-with-Mom-is-a-possibility use of "taking." (As I write this, I wonder if there is the slightest component of a quiz or a call for an expected response in our question rather than allowing him to flex some independent decision-making.) Getting him fed, dressed and out the door ends with him wanting to sprint down our apartment hallway to start our day.

The walks are consistent. I am always in more of a rush to get going and ensure that I'm at the office in time for the start of my day.  At the end of the day, there is less urgency on my part but the speed of his walk is dictated by his mood and energy level at the end of the day.  There are days when he wants to play king of the mountain on each pile of snow.  On others, he pays homage to the same tree (stump now, actually) that got knocked down in a hailstorm in June 2015. Some days he is exhausted and inconsolable. We race each other or run holding hands for the sake of speed without the competition. I am unrestrained in my paranoia about the traffic that is around and striving to ensure that he is vigilant about the cars.  We examine the skies on the predawn walks to acknowledge the huge moon or the colour on the horizon that promises a beautiful day makes us heed the coming of night.  We pause to take in the towers of downtown.

My mood is a factor on those walks as well.  In reality, I am writing this post to work through and trade in my own rush to get home for the presence to take in that dawdle more appreciatively.  My desire to cover those 500 metres quickly can take the opportunity out of the walk because of my poor perception of time. We do race from time to time on the walk home so I ought to take it when it comes.

If he wants to take a different route and walk through a path of large boulders to test his balance, his will wins out, as it should. When I am in a rush, I wish I could pressure him to pick up the pace or take a more direct route, but ultimately this part of the day, unbound by the walls and fence of the daycare is a moment that is his own. Apart from the simple exercise of the walk, there is a measure of independence that he can exercise by stopping the way he does and dictating a change in route if one appeals to him. Ironically, despite the independence that we might associate with the car -- it is mere mobility that a car provides -- it may actually be during this walk that he can develop autonomy with each step he does or doesn't take.  Whether I am holding his hand or a few dozen metres away beckoning him to catch up or cautioning him to watch the car there is an independence that he can exercise with each (watched) step he takes.  The talks about the day become familiar as he talks about a friend he had a hard time with.  I try to tell him to ask how his friends are rather than distancing himself and wait for the time when he can tell me he did and that it worked.

It will be years before I know if these walks amount to anything resembling an independence or autonomy that car-bound kids lack. In reality it will be a theory tested by evidence that I select quite carefully. Next September, when he starts -- as he already puts it, "real school" -- the walk will actually be a little shorter and we will start to grapple with the question of when to let him walk entirely on his own.  I started that walk one my own right away.  It was a 200 metre walk (thank you Google Maps) and I only had one residential street to cross.  Gabriel's will be a little longer and cross a major thoroughfare where moving violations occur with regular, cacophonous frequency.  As I did in the 1970's, I am confident that Gabriel will, when we allow him, be able to navigate that route with the good sense that I did.  For now, though, we will dawdle.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

The Same Boy

The question is already asked: "Where did the time go?"  Gabriel is only five now but the time has done what it intends to do.  I never quite get in the moment as often as I could or ought and I'm looking ahead, wondering what a particular bout of rebellion or rambunctiousness will amplify to when he is older and bigger and I am forever pondering the butterfly effect of a moment that got away: I'm impatient for a moment or inattentive and there is that erosion of the connection that sends him down a path that reflects so badly on me.  Robin Williams used to raise that self-doubt by contrasting two futures: one where is child is accepting a Nobel Prize and at the other extreme asking, "Do you want fries with that?"

There is probably no advantage in looking back rather than behind.  The ideal is to be in the moment and absorbing the opportunity as it is.  There are the easier moments that are still and captured. Looking at his awed, rapt face as it is bathed in the blue glow of the screen in a darkened theatre and he is transported and transfixed one of those few times (to date) that he has had the experience of a movie.  The uncertain but committed buy-in to the excitement of the first New Year's Eve he stayed up for.  There was the sense that this was a Big Deal, and he threw himself into it, but he was in no way certain why.  The tentativeness as he rushed to the video of the countdown was subtle, undeniable but amusing.

The routines are harder to get that stillness and contentment within.

A few days back, Friday, he and I were together for the day and there was little that I could interest him in doing out of the house.  All he really wanted to do was put together Lego and, to my surprise, he was not quite engaged enough in that to finish it all the way through.  He would recruit me for long stretches of the construction and it was more likely out of his disinterest in the task than a desire to include me in something other than sorting through the pieces for him.  He was not interested in any of the outings I've normally gotten him to leave home for and the lone exception, a trip to the playground was clearly scheduled for, "The middle of the afternoon."  No earlier.

When we finally got outside and headed to the playground, he dawdled and played in the snow, stopping regularly to kick and stomp at it wherever it captured his imagination more than the destination did.  After a few hours of cabin fever around the Lego, the delays in the walk taxed me a little.  After stretching the distance between us a few times and never prompting him to catch up, I managed, somehow, to flash back to the same walk years earlier -- I somehow make that sounds like decades, when it is just 2-3 years -- when he did the same thing, but was only able to call it, "No." He is the same boy.  I waited and watched as he Godzillaed a few mounds of snow to dust and moved on to the next.  When he finally caught up, I rested a hand on my head and reminded myself that he's the same boy. At the same time I suspected that this particular fascination with the snow would get buried in maturity and expressed differently, if at all, as he gets older.

At the playground there were reminders again. We were alone but he was untroubled by the solitude or the cold and he took to the same routines as in previous years.  The swing captivated him but he graduated out of the bucket and into the big swing.  I pushed him for 30-45 minutes as he struggled to pump himself into motion.  Godzilla was not able to crush the snow down sufficiently to give him the room his feet needed to pump.

In that rhythm, standing behind him and taking his guidance on how many hands to use and how hard to push, I ceased to look ahead or back and I just settled into the task of pushing him just right each time as the snow seeping into my shoes.