March, 2010

Charlie Parker, the great be-bop artist who came to prominence in the 1940s for his work with Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach and Bud Powell., originally uploaded by Pan-African News Wire File Photos.

Due to some extremely busy times in our house, I haven’t been able to blog much lately. Apologies are not necessary I know, but I’m a mother and the fact that I did not stop to record Eliza’s 2nd birthday seems…. wrong – as a “mommy blogger” anyway. I mean, it’s not like we forgot all about it! We didn’t invite the entire preschool over to our house or anything (ahem, first born) but we had a good day.

One would think, once you have a second child, that many of the wonders you marveled over with your first child would seem a little duller and little more “been there, done that”. Of course, every child is different and mothers marvel at the navel lint of their 4th in line 19 year old son. Nevertheless, I have to admit that the apprehension is gone. New mothers have a way of working the smallest little achievements or failures into proof of genius or handicap and therefore, proof of guaranteed success or making room for the wii in the basement.

The stakes just seemed higher.
… or was that just me?
No, it wasn’t. Even the most self-proclaimed “laid back” of my friends went nuts over their first born children.
It’s not just me.

To tell you the truth, with Eliza I find that I am noticing the subtle things that make her unique. It’s not the things that make her different from Franklin or how she compares to Dickson or myself. Rather, due to the relaxed nature of raising a second (or third or fourth) born child I am not worried about when she walks, how she structures sentences or if her reading skills will develop at the same rate as her math ability.

Is she healthy?
Yes?
Can she adjust with her peers?
Yes?
We are golden.

Nothing else matters because it is irrelevant if she likes books or counting her toes when she’s two years old. Her success will come with her ability to have faith in herself. If she likes herself, I’m not worried about anything else. That’s what I’m trying to teach her – now and until I die.

I’ve noticed her personality grow from an impressionable baby into a wonderful, developing human. She loves Jazz. I’m a closet Jazz fan so to see her body move to Miles Davis on the radio or even Elmo and Diana Krall singing “Everybody’s Song” is a bit of a treat for me.

We read “Charlie Parker Played Be-Bop” every single night. It’s not reading though; it is spoken word up there in her bedroom. There is no allowance for the bare bones pronunciation of the words. When Charlie Parker play’s be-bop, when we barbecue that last leg-bone, when you never leave your cat alone… you have to feel it.

Feeeel it.

Eliza is child who has opinions. She doesn’t throw temper tantrums too often but she has a definite way of wanting to be seen, heard and handled. She chooses her own clothes, her own breakfast and her own books to read. Any other compromise is met with decisive disapproval. This backbone is something with which I must admit to not having much experience. I’m proud of it… but I’m not used to it.

So, while Franklin teaches her the ways of the Force and how to spot a chalk drawing of Admiral Ackbar from across a coffee shop, she is teaching him how to tell his mother that she’s just plain wrong.

Mutiny is definitely afoot.
- but if the insurrection is played out to the music of “A Night in Tunisia”, I’ll be okay.

Blue Whale size, originally uploaded by flickkerphotos.

Last weekend, the morning before I got sick with the flu, the morning Dickson’s mother came for a visit, the morning that we were set to begin our celebration of Eliza’s 2nd birthday – quietly, peacefully and with little fuss – I came closer to a blue whale then I ever dreamed I would be. Franklin, Bernice and I visited The Blue Whale Project in the city – the last public viewing of the skeleton before it is displayed at UBC.

Then I got sick. All weekend, while forcing myself out of bed to help make the small preparations needed for the birthday and try to be as hospitable as I could considering my state, I could think of nothing else but blue whales.

I was swimming with them, I was eating them, I was inside them, I was putting them together and I was taking them apart. I was teaching classes on blue whales – imparting knowledge I hadn’t remembered since I was a kid, fascinated by the largest animal ever to live. I was swallowed by a blue whale and I was living inside it’s mouth, hanging photographs on the baleen and curling up on the tongue.

Eliza had a wonderfully calm birthday with close family around her. Photos to follow. Wondrously sappy blog post to follow. Impossible questions about her future and the nature of siblings to follow.

But at that point, in my hunger and nausea and aching head, I was consumed by the blue whales.

Bubble Wrap, originally uploaded by Andy C – Brighton.

Okay, time to get back to the blog. There were some sicknesses, a death and a period of… what can I call it? Teenage emo ennui – after which, I was cured, if not for the time spent in cafe world and farmville wasting my precious hours then the spring weather and the 60 dozen emails piling up in my inbox about things like garden work, grid projects, newspaper interviews and vacation plans.

Get up, Ada.
Brush it off and get busy.
The world doesn’t revolve around you.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t.
I know. It shocked me as well.

Anyway.
I was coming here to talk to you about a topic I’ve had written for awhile. Yet, I have woefully blathered on about nonsense for a good 10 or so lines here. GET TO THE POINT, DAME ADA.

Hyper Parenting.
At my work, it is a topic we discuss often – the parents who are a little too involved in their children’s lives. The children who are supposed to be independent but who still depend on their parents for advice at every single turn.

Parents.
Damn us, parents.

But you know what? I don’t’ think it is entirely our fault.

I see the parents everyone is talking about. I know what doc zone is trying to say. I get it. Really. But isn’t this more of a societal problem? If parents are told to step back then why, as a partner of the World’s Most Laid Back Perspective Focused Man in Canada, do I feel constantly pushed into the game? If we are going to spank the parents, should we not be correcting the educators as well?

It’s not just me and my deep-seeded competitiveness.
Really.

Franklin is in Aikido. He is 7 years old. He is working toward his yellow belt and so what are the requirements? It’s not merely to pay attention in class or practice his Tantodori at home. Instead it is to come to two classes a week – perhaps even three (the third class is the one for “fun”). It took concerted effort to explain to the Sensai that we felt this was too much. Three classes?!?

Gymnastics.
There are parents by the sidelines who regularly shout out “helpful tips” to their kids as they are jumping on the trampoline or doing a cartwheel but there are a large majority of us who screw off to the coffee shops and have a cuppa in blissful silence. Dickson brings his headphones and likes to watch kids clumsily leap into the foam pit to the sounds of Rural Alberta Advantage. I read J.M. Coetzee and occasionally look up to see some kid poking their finger in Franklin’s ear or Franklin showing other kids the correct procedure on how to wield a light saber if one is Jedi Master Mace Windu. Yet, the gymnastics leaders? They are measuring up who is the Next Olympic Hopeful. Which one is promising? Which one should they spend their time on? Which are the ones with “natural talent”. Which one gets the award at the end? Dickson and I are left scratching our heads. We only wanted to put Franklin in gymnastics to get him comfortable with his body. Also, he has fun.

Fun.
Concept of pure genius, that is.

I called last week to inquire about an art summer camp for Franklin. Painting, learning about Pollock, mucking about with clay – you know, kid stuff. Kid stuff? I’m such an idiot. After hammering out the dates and for some odd reason, discussing the pros and cons of having week long versus two week long camps (to really “delve into the theory”) the administrator asks me the following:

“So at what level of artistic talent would you place your son in?”

WTF?
And I said that – except instead of “Fuck” I said, “Are you crazy?”
My son is 7 years old. He’s perfect because he’s my son but to try and judge a seven year old kid on their artistic “talent” for a SUMMER CAMP is ludicrous. Am I the only one who feels this way?

Ahhh, I’m bitter. I don’t like repeatedly being told that parents need to step back when all our life we are being told to get more involved, to get our kids prepared, to give them the “advantage”. The teachers, the coaches, the administrators of summer camps… the list gets longer and longer the older Franklin gets.

This summer we are skipping the art camp. We are doing the science camps but that’ll be it. The rest of the time will be spent playing with fire, throwing sticks, getting lost in the woods and taking apart broken appliances because you know, you only get to be a kid once and I’m tired of people trying to measure my children’s sucess.

Success means you are a happy in your own skin and we are determined to keep it as simple as that.