Wrinkles are just antique smiles...

I thought we had more time before we had to answer the really tough questions in life.  It appears not.  And as an aside, why is it that the Sweetpea is always away for these discussions.  It is really unfair and a bit rude, since he would be the one to answer them so much better than I.

We have been away for a few weeks (as is evidenced by the lack of blogs too), and during that time, Sweetpea was acting as a locum for the local hospital.  Not arduous work, but at times he was out at night, which is when the uncomfortable questions usually occur.

Sam was musing in a concerned way as I tucked him into bed for the night.  "We are getting older, aren't we?" he asked me.  

"Yes," I replied, "at your next birthday, you will be five, and then you will go off to school."

"But if we are getting older, then that means you are getting older too?" he queried, making sure all his facts were straight.

I confirmed that this was indeed the case, that we all get older over time.

I was totally unprepared for all three children's reactions.  Sam and Paddy set each other off first - they started crying as though their hearts would break.  "I don't want you to get older," wailed Paddy.  "Then you will die and leave us alone."

Sam was sobbing uncontrollably at this point, and he set off Little Miss Snoopy, who started a determined wail of her own. Trying to comfort three wailing kids is no mean feat - I only have two arms after all. I called them all into my bed and positioned them, one on each side and one on the top, and tried to make them see reason.

I talked to them about how they will one day go off to school, and then probably University, and how, at this stage of their lives, they will probably want to be out there on their own.  And eventually, they might want to have families and children of their own, and then it won't seem as though they were all alone.  But I should have recognised the futility of my arguments from the start, for while they were asking grown-up questions, their little minds could not comprehend a time when they would not feel like four-year old boys.  A time when the answer to the question "what do you want to be when you grow up?" might not involve the answer "a superhero".

What a difficult and wonderful time of life.  It reminds me of that classic quote from Aladdin, when referring to the all-knowing genie:  "Phenomenal cosmic powers, itty, bitty living space".  All this potential, trapped in four-year old minds.

I can't wait to see what will happen next!

A pinch to grow an inch...

Sometimes the things that make the greatest impression on a mother's heart are those things that are the saddest.  The wry and funny things, those that are laughed at loud and long, are the ones that slip quickest from our memories.  Pity, that.


I had a sad one to deal with the other day.  I took the boys to kindergarten, and, as is my habit, stayed around for a few minutes longer just to make sure that they were settling in and didn't need me before I left to do the day's chores.  The boys are normally very conscious about me being with them for that time, and they take it upon themselves to show me around the kindy importantly, pointing out things I might not have noticed on one of my other humdred trips there.  With great excitement, they led me around, showing me the swings, the lovely playground, the computers.  


One large disadvantage of having the mother along, though, is the fact that normal small infractions of the rules that usually go unnoticed are suddenly remarked on and corrected.  I could see that one of my two had had enough when I asked him not to put the glass bricks on top of one another on the table, in case they fell off and were damaged.
In a fit of pique, he said to me "Please go home now, Mama!"


"Ok," I said, "I will go home now if you want me too."
I tried to act casual, like it was no big deal, but perhaps I am not as good an actress as I think I am.  I gathered my things and started walking towards the door.
Within a few heartbeats, I heard loud sobs coming from behind me as my little boy came flying to find me.
"I am so sorry, Mama," he was crying over and over, "I didn't really mean what I said."


Trying to leave the kindy after that became a mission impossible.  Every time I tried to walk towards the door, he would break out into a new fit of hysteria, and I would have to console him again and try to get him to go back to his group.  Eventually, I had to hand him over to his teacher, leaving him crying as though his heart was broken.  It was the first time I have had to leave one of them upset, and I drove home like a mad thing, to jump on the phone to find out if all was okay with my little boy yet.  Of course, he had been fine the moment I pulled out of the parking lot.


But I was made aware of just how sensitive a young child's soul can be.  Later that night, as I was putting them to bed, thinking the whole incident forgotten, he looked deeply into my eyes, just as I do to them when I want them to understand some thing really important.  Then he said to me, "I really didn't mean it, Mama.  I don't ever want you to leave me".  




And so I could go to bed that night, secure in my boy's love for me.  What a great feeling.

Ride like the wind...

Our paths through the wonders of raising children are a lot like teaching those children how to ride a bike.  I saw the parallels myself today when taking the littlies through the first joys, heartaches and ultimate triumphs of riding their first two-wheeler bikes.


There is the beginning phase, where every moment is encompassed in just keeping them alive.  The Sweetpea and I, holding onto fistfuls of jacket at the scruffs of the boys necks as they teetered on their bikes along the path, were able to guide the bikes and keep them upright by holding onto the handlebars with what, at times appeared to be only our teeth, or possibly even just one foot. Every swerve we were able to counter, and when all fell apart, as it invariably does, were were able to let the bike plunder on to its inevitable crash while the little rider in question dangled in his jacket from our clenched fists, like a kitten from its mother's jaws; scared, but unharmed. 


As their confidence grew, we were able to take our hands off the handle bars for increasingly longer times, relinquishing the control we had fought so hard to keep just a few moments earlier.  This required trust, a belief that the boys could be responsible for managing on their own, yet still with our presence close enough to them to swoop in and grab them up if they seemed like they were losing control.  Their repeated cry to us at this time was "Please don't let me go," and in fact, most of the more spectacular crashes at this time were caused by the boys looking behind them to see if we were indeed still holding onto them.  We always were.


But then comes a time when, as a parent, you are just running alongside the bike.  Not needed, really, but essential for moral support.  "You are doing it - you are riding by yourself!"  And the power and self-confidence that comes through knowing that they can ride as fast as they like, but if they come off, mom or dad are right there to catch them, makes them almost invincible.


And then the saddest, most heart-wrenching and proudest moment comes all too soon.  "Don't hold me any more, Mama, I can do it by myself." Like winged creatures, they are off, joining the throngs of others riding the paths, and you are left with your heart in your mouth, praying that you have given them enough skills to make their way through the world, to avoid the pitfalls, to pay heed to the slower riders, the younger, the more accomplished.  



And mostly, you are praying, with all that is in you, that they will know how to find their way back to you again.

The Bare Necessities...

Okay, so it was one of those conversations.  We were all lying on the bed, the boys had just had their bath and were snuggling up under the covers naked before getting into their pajamas for bed.  We were enjoying the silence when Paddy piped up.

"Daddy, what are these?"

We all look to see what he is referring to.  There is an awkward silence as the Sweetpea and I mentally tried to coerce each other into replying. 

"They feel like little balls," he adds conversationally into the silence.

"They are called testicles," the Sweetpea eventually says, obviously opting for the medical terminology.

"Mine are small," adds Paddy, "but yours are humongous, Daddy."

Much uncomfortable laughter ensues. A silence falls and I start praying that it spells the end of the conversation. No such luck.

"Can I see your little balls, Mama?" was the next question.  No way was I going to go there.

"Mummies don't have balls, darling," I say.

"Well what do they have, then?"

Little Miss Snoopy is by now shouting "Thanny, thanny," but the boys don't catch her drift.

The Sweetpea takes control of the situation with yet another medical explanation. "Blah...blah...uterus,  a house where the babies grow in their mummies' tummies, blah...blah...ovaries...." he drones on.

The boys listen with interest, but I fear, not much understanding.

 

A short while later, Sam says confidentially to Paddy: "Cool - we've got tentacles!"

School daze...

We are suddenly at that stage in life when we need to choose a school for the boys.  I know I shouldn't say suddenly, as we have had four years to get here in the first place.  It just seems to have gone too quickly, and I am afraid I have dropped the ball on this one.  There is still time, I suppose, between now and next year March, but I feel dreadfully unprepared for what is, I feel at the moment, one of the most momentous decisions of my life.


We went to visit a school last week as part of the outings for the term at kindy.  They combined the school visit with participation in their school movement programme, a wonderful opportunity for the kids to see the "big" kids doing their exercises that have been designed to help with crossing the mid-line and promote concentration in class.  It was fantastic to see them all running and jumping, landing in circles and walking on the balance beam, with the principal smiling indulgently and on hand to answer any questions that the prospective parents had to ask.  I was impressed with my two (I always am, I am their mom, after all), but mostly for their wholehearted enthusiasm and ability to throw themselves into the activities without the self-consciousness that I am sure I had at their age.  I would have been the one holding back, standing where I could not be noticed, thinking "if I can only make it through without making an absolute idiot of myself I will be fine."  They had none of that hesitancy or self-doubt.  Not sure how that happened, but I fervently hope that air of competence and confidence stays!
 
At the end of the hour-long programme, they gathered the children around (about fifty in total) and talked through the reasons for the exercises, the improved muscle tone, better concentration, etc.  "Right, boys and girls," the principal rounded off the  little chat, "are there any questions you would like to ask?"






Not surprisingly, it was one of mine who raised his hand. 
"Is there a chance we could rather play at the park?" he asked loudly.


Oh well, I suppose we can scratch that school off the list now...

God made some heads perfect, the rest He had to cover with hair...

It all started when we drove past some men chopping down a tree.  For some time we had been talking about how the trees lose their leaves in winter, and the boys had thought it was sad (Miss Snoopy too, but she calls it "shame-ies".  Really showing our heritage there!).  I was trying to explain that it is not sad, that the trees need time to rest for the winter so that when the spring comes, they can put out their new leaves and look beautiful and green again.  But the chopping down of a tree was another matter totally.  

"What will happen to the tree when it gets cut down?" asked the boys.  "Will it grow again?"

Having recently had a fish die on us, it was relatively easy to go there again.  "No," I explained, "the tree dies, just like the fish did."

"But what happens to it?" they persisted.  

"I think that its body, all the bits that we can see, go to become compost for the earth and other things can grow from it," I said.  "But we like to believe that the other part of it, the bit that is spirit, goes back to God who created it and becomes a part of Him again."

They were silent after this and I imagined that we had fully addressed a difficult philosophical point.

Later in the week, when I had put them all to bed, Sam was really upset, and, unlike at other times, when he howls his frustrations to the world, he chose to cry quietly in his bed until I heard him.  I crawled under the covers with him and held him close, and he stopped sobbing.  "Tell me the story of when we were little?" he asked me in a snuffly little voice.

Whispering, because I didn't want to wake the other two, I told him his favourite story:

"When you  boys were very small, you had such soft, downy hair on your head that every time you lay on my lap, I would pat you little heads for hours and hours.  I loved the feeling of your silky little heads under my hands. After a while, because of all the patting, all your hair wore off and you didn't have even the smallest hair on your head.  But then your hair grew back, thicker than before."  We talked and cuddled for a while more and he fell asleep.

The next night, the Sweetpea came in late after I had put everyone to bed.  I did not see it, but the light was glinting off his now-balding head, and obviously the boys took note.  

"Have you been patting Daddy too much?" asked Sam, referring to the Sweetpea's bald spot.  I laughed and said no, I hadn't.

Then Paddy piped up in a sad little voice:  "Daddy's hair must have all gone back to God," he said dramatically. 

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A time to give thanks...

Mother's day is a great time for reflection - from all sides.  For me, lying in bed with my three littlies nestled up against my body, I realised that life is indeed different nowadays.  I wondered what it would have been like for me to be lying there alone - what factors of my life would be radically different without those precious littlies?  What if I had never had children, or couldn't?  My heart quails at the very thought!  But I am sure that the following things would have been vastly different on Mother's day:

I would probably have slept in.  At least until nine, and then got up to go to the loo.  Alone, and without an audience of spectators, all encouraging and excited to see what would happen.  Without knowing it, perhaps lonely and sad.

The reality:  me sitting pretty on the throne while having three expectant faces surrounding me asking "What are you doing?" and wanting to see the results.

I would have scrounged for breakfast somewhere.   I might have had a piece of toast, which I would have eaten by myself.  Every part of it.

The reality:  I lay in bed, with three little ones looking expectantly at every mouthful of the special mango and yogurt cocktail that they had made together with their dad in order to surprise me.  Did I actually eat any of said cocktail?  I believe that it was scoffed up to the last drop by my hungry brood.  And the joy on those small faces as I made a huge fuss about how tasty it was - priceless!

I might have drawn myself a long, luxurious bath and spent a few hours lying in it, only topping up the hot when it got too cold.  I might have read a magazine. The whole of it.  Without it getting wet or thrown in the bath.

The reality:  as soon as they see me relaxing in the bath, it is like a super fast strip to get into the bath too.  Then it is a mess of bubbles, cars, water all over the floor, wet hair, soap in eyes, soggy bread rolls in the bath, towels pulled in on top of us, wet bath mats and slippery floors.  Bliss!  What could be better than that?  No magazine came close.

I would not have thought twice about buying something I needed/didn't need and spoiling myself just that little bit. Invariably expensive, and decadently impulsive.

The reality:  Little presents made from small rounds of wood, straws and buttons, all glued lovingly to make a present for mama; artworks made from leftover telephone notepaper and sweetie wrappers; little clay boats decorated with feathers and sticks.  Wow - if I thought I was spoiled before - just look at me now!  Nothing could prepare me for the way in which I would treasure these priceless artefacts of their childhoods.

And then a day spent relaxing, reading books, and not doing anything else much of interest.  

The reality:  Getting a "mother's day cake" baked for me - which involved me running to the shops to amass the ingredients, mixing them all together and holding the mixer for eager little hands, putting the resultant over-beaten cake mix into the oven, and trying to fend off the hands, spoons and tongues while trying to ice the result.  

All in all, the most perfect day I could imagine.  And not one book or minute of relaxation in the whole of it.  Who would have it any other way?