Tying Laces

Over the last few weeks or months I've noticed more and more headlines about the bad consequences for young children exposed excessively to smart phones. I might dare to suggest I've been inundated by the articles but I do not believe you can claim to be inundated by something so deftly avoided.

The theme of those articles is familiar, of course. They follow the template of the articles that have talked about the impacts of video games, heavy metal, excessive television, rock and roll and so on back through time. I give the litany not to diminish the validity of the current articles about the cell phone exposure. The one article I actually read said that kids were getting into less trouble because they were content to stay in their room texting or Snapchatting rather than getting into mischief. Actually, the barrage of headlines left me thinking that my son was not getting that much screen time. I suspect though it will escalate. A recent conversation about initiatives aimed at showing families how to eat together and converse enough to develop their children's language skills suggest that the articles are not as alarmist as I might think.

One thing I am conscious of with technology overall though is that kids are, essentially, getting nudged down the digital path at the expense of any other. There is a clamour to teach kids to code and while I'm not opposed to that I would like to see at least a bit of balance. In his 1979 book Teaching As a Conserving Activity, Neil Postman suggests school take, what he calls a thermostatic approach.  In theory it would be a scenario where educators, conscious and equipped with the barometers to see where society is trending at a certain time, act and educate in a way to strike a balance and avoid overemphasizing what society or the market is pushing for.  In this digital age, more exposure to the  analog would be welcome... (he tapped away on his keyboard.)

I'm conscious of my son's development of skills that I have taken for granted from my schooling. Cursive writing is no longer emphasized in schools and after a generation of velcro, I may be among the last to remember learning to tie shoes as a part of my primary education. In the fall of 1972 everybody in my class put in the time to work on the task.  I remember in later years one of my aunts, a primary school teacher, telling us how she had made it clear to the parents of the kids in a particularly large class that the students would need to know how to zip and tie before the start of the year. I doubt she was expecting 100% mastery before Labour Day, but enough to leave her with a manageable few.

I was still conscious of my experience in days of yore and chipped away at his reluctance to do it. There were struggles and frequent bouts of frustration punctuated by, "I can't do it." There was an hour where we got oh so close before he was truly fed up with the task and I relented. A few days ago, with his head clear of the frustration he encountered with the laces 10 days earlier, he nailed it.  He got it twice in a row, albeit rather loosely, did a single bow a few times and argued about how those single loops would count toward three successes I had requested and then got it.

Apart from saving my back and being a step toward getting him into the laced runners that he aspires to, there are other benefits.  I'm sure the fine work will be a step toward improved motor skills and there are also significant links between knot-tying and mathematics and the sciences.  It has quickly become a point of pride for my son, who asked me to watch him tie his shoes when I dropped him off in the morning and boasted to the nearest adult of his new prowess.  (She responded with the appropriate expression of surprise and approval.)

Cursive may be on my to do list a few years down the road and that, I assure you will be a long battle. Luring him into it with a stylus for a tablet is not the leverage I'll be seeking though.

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.

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.

Game Time

I am always conscious of how much time I spend with Gabriel and how good that time is.  Still, I have a gag response to the term "q--l-ty time" that inhibits me from forcing the matter or parenthesizing a moment as one of intense purposeful bonding that I could close and discard. Instead I've contented myself with being there with him for walks to and from daycare; and books, whether read on the sofa, in bed or from the side of tub. Whenever I give into his request for TV I try to sit with him to avoid using it as the electronic babysitter. Invariably, though, I will gravitate toward the kitchen to prepare supper or tidy something up rather than zone out or silently critique as Gabriel makes the mental shopping list required for him to achieve his (apparent) goal of becoming a Paw Patrol completist.

Because of his attachment to TV time and my tendency to disengage when he's in front of the TV, I have grown conscious of that void in the day where we are out of touch with each other.  There will be programming at some point that we can connect over and talk about, but the programming for a five-year-old only prompts conversation if there is a nostalgic, "This is what I watched..." introduction to the likes of Friendly Giant or Mr. Dressup.

In the face of the void that TV imposes on the day, I've tried a few times over the last year to get him interested in board games.  The gathering around the table for a board game, cards or a jigsaw puzzle each is loaded with memories of family and place that is immensely evocative. I've tried quite a few times to interest Gabriel in a game and there have been a few lapsed-attention efforts at Snakes and Ladders and a few occasions where I've gotten Trouble out of the box but could not engage him in much more that the percussive sequence of crush-pop-rattle that was the "roll" of the dice.  His mastery of jigsaw puzzles, like that of Lego is set and it is easy for him to lock in on the challenge when it is in front of him, but that can leave me on the sidelines.

Last night, with a stint in front of the TV finished and him asking for more TV after supper, I attempted to get him to try Trouble and we finished two games.  Best of all, this morning he asked if we could play again.  He counted his turns properly and mastered the simple task of starting his count on the next space on the board rather than the one he was in.  Rules were grasped and followed.  They were tested at times to but it comes with the territory.  There will be many games to follow.  I'm recall my capability to play double solitaire when my grandmother at the lake when I was seven and ponder introducing Gabriel to war (the card game).  More games will appear after Trouble, in their rightful sequence: Sorry, Clue, and maybe we will, in time, aspire to Life, Monopoly and the board flipping etiquette of Risk (ok, maybe not that one.)  All things to look forward to for the laughter and small lessons that will come from them and the closer connection that will come from sitting face-to-face on the floor or at the table.

At a time when he is holding his own more and more in conversation and surprises with the turns of phrase or topics that he introduces it is good to discovery that a refuge in the week where we will slow down to connect face to face.  He is in the middle (or early stages) of a growth spurt that has turned him ravenous, cranky and drowsy at times over the last 5-6 weeks and it is one of the unnecessary-necessary reminders that this will blur by fast and that the bond will be challenged by friends with the lure of video games, suppers over at friends, after school activities where he'll be home later and the kitchen is nothing more than a transit point or a node of quick fuelling as lives diverge step by incremental step. There will be stolen conversations on the road but the first successful foray introducing the game habit will promise a stillness and trove of memories that we have not been able to form yet.  It is a comfort to see his growth be complemented by the capacity to sit through a game and finish it, not to mention dust himself off for the needed rematch.

By the way, if anyone has a green peg they can spare, let me know.

Three-Wheel Metaphor

In my own case, riding a bike began the spring I was seven. A green bike glimmered in the backyard when I returned home from catechism on a Saturday morning, its banana seat and the high Harley-style handlebars of the era the clear features of that vehicle.  That year there were no strider bikes or trailer bikes and this bike offer training wheels either.  I rode and fell, rode and fell and even rode and spared myself a scrape or two by getting my feet off the pedals and to the ground before an elbow or knee met its fate with gravity. Looking back it seems like it was the whole summer but in reality it may have only been a few days and I was getting into trouble for venturing out of the backyard and into the tentative residential traffic of Courtney Road.

Forty-plus years later, Gabriel is starting earlier than I had. He has already had a spin or two on a strider bike (although I'm more proud of his ability to out-run a kid using a strider in the playground this past "winter") but the bike has never really come up on his radar yet and he hasn't pleaded for bike time yet. However, this summer will be the one that we remember for the trailer bike. On Father's Day my wife and I had out mountain bikes fixed after being abandoned to the storage room after one or two spins in 2008 or 9. The plan was to get back out there and introduce Gabriel to riding via a trailer bike that friends were handing down since their daughter had graduated to her own mountain bike.

After picking up the bikes and walking them home, I learned that the trailer had incidentally been offered to someone else. (I can't recall if we were asleep at the switch or if the bikes was offered spontaneously.) A week later, the trailer was back on its way to us and we were quite self-conscious about how it ended up back on its way to our possession. I worried that there was a confession and a request for return. The first rumour that made its way to us was that the child it was intended for did not adapt to the trailer and that it was willingly returned. The actually story was that our friends' daughter reclaimed the bike with a from-the-mouths-of-babes announcement of the original plans for the trailer bike.

All that build-up was beside the point, however. Gabriel has taken to the trailer bike with great enthusiasm and little risk of bruise or scrape thus far. He has enjoyed his rides from the trailer regularly announces from his rumble seat position that it is the greatest thing ever.

The front position, for me at least, has felt more challenging. The addition of about 60 pounds of lad and trailer make the manoevering of the bikes a bit more uncertain. Turns require more thought and calculation to ensure that things go smoothly and I don't spill the lad to the street. Inclines and stops pose their challenges too, and there is the sense of impending lurch that makes me conscious of how close we are to oncoming traffic.

All of this occurring while every move and tweak in the seat behind me is transmitted to me by the aluminum tether that binds us. It is a little nerve wracking to feel that shift in weight behind me and not know what the lad is doing to cause it. I was never sure how well he was balanced behind me. As each wobble came through me, I tried to compensate with my weight and experience to keep things steady. There were times when his curiosity prompted him to look away rather than keep his eyes focused ahead. There were others when he was standing on his pedals or had his elbows on the handlebars instead of his hands. Each of these challenged me to steady myself and assert the calm and balance to get us through and keep us straight and safe.

When he was doing something that made things unsteady -- as he tried to find his balance and shore up his wavering attention span -- as we proceeded forward I gave into the urge to admonish him for the imbalance I was feeling. I wasn't always sure what it was he was doing and there were times when I yelled without know what he was actually up to. By the end of the first ride, I realized that it was best to keep steady and provide the balance and example he needed while he sorted himself out and learned what he needed so that he could strike out on his own without me able to worry about him from my seat with the incomplete view.

That about sums it up, doesn't it?

As Ever, On the Cusp of Transition

I should treasure this day for the more fleeting moments of childhood that adorn calendars on the theme of innocence or some such attribute of early youth. The sight of him stopping to smell a neighbour's flowers as the thunderclouds loom and darken. His fascination with the spores of a dandelion as he sends them into flight. The translucent down on his upper arms as I put sunscreen on his arms. These are all things that we try to convince ourselves that we saw and treasured, but there is the risk that we have a template of our child's growth and experiences that we assume conforms to a catalogue or a parenting magazine rather than be mindful and conscious of them as the occur out of the corner of our eye.  Today I can assure myself that I did indeed take note of them, and magnified those moments.

There was much today that made me note that those innocent explorations and discoveries will pass. The cool years, much like those thunderheads, seem to loom. With Gabriel at 4 1/2, I may be getting ahead of myself but it is hard to gauge how precocious each generation of kids is actually becoming. That aside, I'm conscious of how my earliest memories take me back to age 5 and also noticing the ways that Gabriel is asserting himself more and expressing his wishes.  I get the sense of the quest that will shape the next decade of his life as he seeks friends and acquaintances to fill the ineffable void that only a sibling can fill. There are also the times when he wants to play with his mother or I and we fill the time as well as we can - ever, in my case, conscious of playing in a way that gives him the lead and lets him set the rules and the standards of mastery.

Today, on a Saturday morning, the challenge was to get him to listen and as a result of that challenge it took him about three hours to get out of his pyjamas and dressed for the day. The carrot was that I'd play with him when he was ready for the day. Despite that, the hours drifted by and he only got dressed when he was ready to go out late in the morning while I mentally checked off the moments that we were setting aside in exchange for a stand-off that may have ultimately been about redefining independence or influence over one's day.

As for Gabriel, he has made his expectations of me clearer and clearer. Whenever he makes an extended visit to the toilet he expects two books to be read to him, even if their length leaves his dangling legs asleep and piercing him with pins and needles before the second "happily ever after" is checked off. This morning I was in the middle of something far less important and he called out "I've been waiting," in his effort to nudge me to set things aside and read Charlie Brown while perched on the side of the bathtub.

For all the sense of transition that the day posed, it is a normal one where the poignant glimpses are too brief and too easily overlooked.  Instead, the negotiation between two wills becomes the highlight - the dramatic highlight stripped of any of the gentle sense of passage or childhood that came with those more photogenic moments. As he sits for a calm moment with his first-ever bowl of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream cooling his stomach, and I brace myself for the task of assessing the ROHSI (return on housespace investment) of the toys he doesn't think he's outgrown, I want to take a moment to attach the same appreciation of the moment as I have to seeing him become more expert with the camera. He's not growing up in every way at every moment, just a few ways at a time.

The Lad Unplugs for Summer

For the second time in the last four days, my little showman and chatter-upper extraordinaire has sought solitude. He has made a clear effort to excuse himself and get some quiet time to decompress or just chill.

On Sunday, he sat by himself in the Star Wars camp chair that he has in his room and tonight he flopped into bed, each time plowing through book after book for a while to find some quiet time. He has done it before and it has always been good to know that he has identified books and time with them as a refuge. It was the end of the day and there was some comfort in what he surveyed in each book, even though he is not up to reading on his won yet.

There is the sense that things are a little off of late.  Apart from being a little hard to induce into listening to dear old mom and dad, he confessed yesterday to feeling tired and angry because he did not have the chance to nap during daycare yesterday. Naps, however, have not been part of his routine since January. He also said he was a little angry a while back because his hair was too long and he wanted to have it shorter - an aggravation that he might regret us accommodating if we give him a cut as aggressive as he wishes.

Tonight as he lay in bed looking through a Dr. Seuss anthology and asking that the music in the living room be turned off, his supper barely touched it was a reminder that summer has thrown him for a loop. In my own instance, recall the discombobulation that comes with the long days that spike one level of energy with the extended daylight and erodes the sleep that is just as important for the regulation that it brings. He struggles with it, but the quiet time with the books is a sign that he has a strategy for dealing with it.

The strategy and his willingness to acknowledge when he is angry are blessings that I cannot cite from my own childhood. Perhaps my parents would be more capable of citing this than I could in retrospection. Still, his willingness to drop out for a while and cut off the stimulation is, for an extrovert, a knack that I am quite happy to see.

As he came out of that quiet time to proceed with the rituals of bed time there was a burst of energy and foolishness, but it faded to calm as he went through the brushing of teeth and tongue, his vitamins and the two bedtime books I read him.  Summer will probably sustain the alternation between suppertime listlessness and childish chaos for a few weeks but I am thrilled to see that he can cope with it from time to time.

Now, if I can just get him to reshelve his books.

Books For the Inner Child

With some kids lit or entertainment there is the unique pleasure of the wry wink to the adults. Something about rabbits being good at multiplication in Zootopia, a sight gag that pays homage to the Godfather trilogy or a wry, sly pun that lets the reader know that the author knows who actually has to read the book. Perhaps one of those elements lies dormant in a child's memory or imagination like a buried treasure awaiting maturity for revelation.

I have, however, come across children's books that leave me wondering if a child needs the message or moral of a story.  Maybe it is a little early for a child to think seriously about the place you will actually go as Dr. Seuss described them and as my Philosophy of Education professor read to the class at the end of our year with him. He was, with Oh, The Places You Will Go, an early adopter, one who had identified adults' needs for that particular message and shared that with my classmates and I in 1990 without any trace of irony or the weariness that might have followed 10 or 15 years later when it was, like many aptly-written stories or lines, unfairly rendered cliche.

With the exception of the countless variations on stories of fire trucks at work and similar tales, there are stories with clear messages in them that are both a pleasure to pass down as they are to share. Whether it is the criticism of tyranny in Seuss' Yertle the Turtle (to name only one of his) to the more recent description of the boundless and growing unconditional love Nick Bland describes in The Runaway Hug or the timelessness of friendship in Marianne Dubuc's buried treasure of The Lion and the Bird, those theme-rich children's stories thrill me when they come down from the shelf.

There are other stories that make me wonder if a child actually needs to hear them. Or, to be more specific, whether my four-year-old needs to hear them yet. The first story that comes to mind is The Little Prince, which -- length aside -- might simply prompt a child to say, "Well, of course" at each of the passages from the book the adults hold onto like talismans or mantras to navigates them through the baffling rationalizations and foibles adults find themselves prone to.

Beyond that classic, there are other stories that I have come across that baldly express to adults something that we need to hear. Koji Yamada's What Do You Do With An Idea is the compact and beautiful complement to the numerous weighty tomes on creativity that have emerged like April dandelions in the last few years. It foregoes the theory, the psychological research, priming exercises and reflective practices that so many adult-oriented creativity books contain in favour of an extended poem about the life span of an idea. Yamada points out all the stages along the way from the nascent discovery of a thought to changing the world in a matter that one can memorize over time. This is not to say that a child would not get it - just that they are more likely to think, "Well, of course."

In his book The Uses of Enchantment, Bruno Bettelheim talks about the distinction between the conscious, subconscious and the preconscious, saying that it is intrusive to make our preconscious thoughts conscious. Stories can help us ensure those preconscious aspects of our character or our interpretation of the world are reinforced and perhaps ensure a child that it is okay to believe certain things that might be drawn into doubt at times that would make even a four-year-old ask, (as he has), "What is this world coming to?!"

For adults, getting lost and reassured in a lesson on creativity, the whimsy of a desert-stranded pilot's reflections or hallucinations on adulthood and mortality or a mantra that assures you of what makes a family a family seem better suited for adults in need of the courage or evidence to believe in certain possibilities at a time where the safest place in the world is in a bedtime fortress of pillows and blankets burrowing into an illustrated truth delivered from a wise, succinct storyteller.