June, 2010

, originally uploaded by Ada I dirtyolive.

“Okay”, he says, “only SOME humans are stupid”.

I let him think and we walk a few more metres.
He’s crying.

“I wish I wasn’t a human.”

He’s mad, frustrated, hurt and confused and I know there isn’t much I can say to console him at the moment. I’m a part of the problem, actually – although I haven’t admitted this to him yet.

There is a field near our house that has remained untouched by the university (read: no bulldozers and no construction in a campus that seems to be constantly building) ever since we moved in here a few years ago. We’ve launched rockets and flown airplanes, we’ve explored the trees (both under and above) and Franklin has learned to ride his bike along the soft sides of the path that runs through it. It’s been wonderful to have such a large place to run right next to our home.

Lately, it’s been even more wonderful due to the university’s decision not to cut the grass. As the photo above shows, it was up to his chest. It was way over Eliza’s head. They loved running through it. There have been times when Dickson and I have brought the kids out there, sat down and promptly lost them. Eliza was close by (really! – although Dickson told me he fell asleep in there once…) but Franklin went off on his merry way and explored. It’s amazing what a field of long grass will offer – more than a playground or a manicured field can do times a million trillion zillion.

Last week, they mowed it all down.

Here’s the thing. Sometimes in life you see the same issue come at you in a few different ways all at once and it seems to say, “Hey, Ada! Pay Attention!” And I’m getting better at it – the paying attention. The thing I’m paying attention to is this:

Kids need open spaces. Wild open spaces.

Now, I’m not talking about how every kid needs an acreage of forest behind their house. Wild can be an urban concrete jungle or a forest in the middle of a suburban landscape. Wild can be the beach and wild can be a field of grass up to your chin. Whatever the case, it needs to not be managed – mowed, trimmed, trailed and marked off. There needs to be room to explore, be reckless and to make your own rules.

The weed free Starbucks neighbourhood park doesn’t give a child that – neither does constant supervision or demarcated trails and sidewalks. Kids need to get wild in the wild. It’s just as important as knowing where your food comes from – and I don’t mean the romanticized version Mom and Dad perpetuate when we plant food in the backyard and then eat it as a nice summer hobby. I’m talking about understanding that we are connected to our food. We kill for our meat. We use water, a hell of a lot of water, to grow our vegetables. We need to know how to survive when the rules no longer apply – not for the doomsday scenario, but for the understanding, appreciation and revelation of where we all fit in the world.

A friend of mine mentioned a book on facebook, “Last Child in the Woods” by Richard Louv. This was around the time I saw the affect that the wild long grass field had on Franklin. Then this spot, this wonderful spot with the long grass and the wild space… I helped snag this very spot for the new campus community garden. A few months ago I pointed to one of the last remaining non-building designated spots on a campus map and said, “That looks like the best spot, in my opinion”.

WTF, Mom?

I’ve read Richard Louv’s book. It’s good. I’ve just started to read it once more because the last time I went through it, I didn’t have the experience I have now – of seeing Franklin’s confidence and independence grow as he is left more and more to his own devices in Haro Woods, Mystic Vale, the beach or this grassy field. When I was reading it a few years ago, Franklin was probably about 4 years old. Supervision was pretty standard and non-negotiable. It’s different now. When you let a child wander off on their own it is a little scary but I have to remind myself of all the times I took off on my own when I was a kid. Have we taught him to make sound choices? Yes, I believe we have. Will he panic in a situation that’s unfamiliar to him? Probably. All the more reason to let him go though, right?

I want him to be able to get caught on the higher branch of a tree and figure out for himself how to get down. I also want him to stand on the edge of an unknown field, no houses in sight, and feel a mixture of fear and longing. I want him to have a special spot in the woods, inside a tree stump or along a dried up creek bank that is his secret place. I don’t want to be a part of that. I want that to be his own.

Louv is correct in that you don’t see kids finding these spaces on their own very often. You don’t see kids getting in trouble for grabbing their parent’s tools, a jar of peanut butter and a sleeping bag to make a fort in the woods. In fact, kids are looked down upon for wandering free. Our building maintenance guy once told me that in his experience, “It’s the kids who aren’t enrolled in any camps during the summer that get into trouble – because they’re bored”.

I don’t think they are bored. I think they would have a great time, they just are getting “in the way” and as they are required to stay close to home they are supervised so much that they (read: the parents) will run out of options and “activities” for them to do. What happened to the phrase my mother used to yell at us, “Get OutSIDE! – and take your little brother with you!” I can hardly wait to yell that at Franklin.

Of course, this will be after I apologize for helping to turn his wild open space into a plant colonizing, highly organized, and routinely managed community garden landscape…. sigh.

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Earlier this week, Eliza came down with a cold. It was something we had hoped we had left behind us – the colds. Since her bout with the flu last November, she has had recurring colds that turn into pneumonia about once a month. It has been a horrendous strain on her health and well-being, not to mention the consequences for the rest of us. Everything comes to a stand still. One of becomes the nurse (me) and the other becomes the single parent of a 7 year old boy. Then, due to the fact that we are in and out of clinics, doctor’s offices, x-rays and emergency rooms, I am not working… during the day. I’m working at night. The phrase, “burning the candle at both ends” rings through my head every time. I make light of it, but I am exhausted – mostly due to the worry, and the lack of sleep which makes my worry heighten to a level that is probably not necessary.

Well, the cold that appeared on Saturday and started full swing by Sunday brought both Dickson and I into battle mode once more. Hatches were battened, the draw-bridge was raised, the guards were stationed in the towers.

Meaning, I called in to work and said I’d only be in to work that evening but I would check my messages through out the day.
Meaning, Dickson was on night duty/lunch duty/grocery duty/Franklin activity duty.

We were worried.

We had only just completed the allergy testing for her. We’ve seen a specialist in pediatric respiratory infections and he send Eliza for allergy testing (dairy, grass and cats) as well as a Cystic Fibrosis sweat test. The sweat test has not occurred yet. We have been waiting for a call to go in to the hospital but nothing’s happened. It’s not a good feeling, to know that this is even just a remote possibility. My logical mind says it’s crazy to even think she might have CF (no genetics on either side of the family) but my illogical mind keeps telling me that I need to be prepared in case it’s actually true.

But it can’t be true.
Only because I don’t want it to be true.

Sweat test aside, the allergy test? It’s not a few little pricks or scratches. No one’s taking a dab of milk and stroking it across her arm or back. Nope. I had to hold her little arm down while a very adept woman in a lab coat stuck a butterfly needle into her and then continue hold her as she writhes in pain while the blood flowed into an EXTREMELY LARGE vial. Apparently, allergy blood tests requires a lot of fucking blood. I was two seconds away from telling the woman she had enough and I wanted her to take the needle out. I suppose my illogical brain was going to tell her that. My logical brain was pointing out the ridiculous cat picture on the wall and telling Eliza that she was being very brave.

My logical daughter, on the other hand, was not taking her eyes off that vial of blood (wtf, Mom?).

Well… allergy testing, Cystic Fibrosis, pneumonia, x-rays and antibiotics aside, we have come out the other side of this cold with a report that it was just a common cold.

Amazing.
I’m completely gob-smacked.

I was anticipating going through the whole thing over again. I had the pediatrician’s number at the ready so that he could see what she was like when it occurred (she was well when we had our initial appointment). I knew the best walk-in clinics to go to and even had my friend ready to drive me to the emergency in case Dickson was not in town.

Nothing.
She has a snotty nose.
She’s normal.

I’m still kind-of waiting for the other shoe to drop, of course.
I’m being militant about bedtimes and nap times. Franklin is missing out a birthday party this weekend because I will not jeopardize her nap in order to take the bus to drop him off and pick him up. He understands. By now, he understands. We have so many “Get Well, Eliza” pictures that he’s old hat at this routine. We compromise for our siblings. “It goes both ways, Mom” he says.

Normal.
Just a snotty nose.
I’ve never been so happy to see snot just be snot.

It could be the result of a few things. Only time will tell if it’s the dairy we’ve completely removed from her diet, the improved weather or even the fact that she’s grown a bit older and a bit stronger.

Whatever, man.
That snot is beautiful.

Go !!!!!!!!!!!!!!, originally uploaded by lorpailleur_62.

I’ve been reading a lot these days. I haven’t had a large need for sleep due to nothing too horrible or stressful but as a result, I’ve found myself reading almost a book a week – something I certainly had no trouble accomplishing, and more, while childless but something I certainly didn’t think would be in my cards again until retirement!
It’s been nice. I tend to read before heading up to bed and then there are times when I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and read a few chapters. I used to read on the way to work after dropping Franklin and Eliza off at daycare and school as well as on my way home after work but I’ve recently realized what kind of amazing scenery I miss with my head stuck in a book.

I also tend to step in roadkill.

Interestingly, I’ve been reading quite a bit of fiction. I think it’s an escape, in a way. Of course, now that I write that… that’s pretty much the definition of fiction, isn’t it. Regardless, since I’m a non-fiction, fact-finding, research driven kind of gal so I can’t seem to completely leave my comfort zone altogether. As a result, I have found myself reading about little boys.

Wow. That sounded creepy.

Regardless of that creep factor, I’ve been pretty fascinated with the topic. I think this is because Franklin has become so independent lately. Also, since I’ve never been a little boy, the entire process is a bit of a mystery. I can’t really search down in the recesses of my brain for memories of playground fights and triumphant red ant massacres. I’ve certainly had my share of these things but it’s different.

Yes, I admit it.
Boys are different from girls.
In a whole whack of ways that I now can only remotely understand but very much respect.

If you had asked me ten years ago if I would ever say that I would have laughed in your face.
With age, comes wisdom.

The thing I’ve really begun to realize, from reading books like J.M. Coetzee’s Boyhood and Roddy Doyle’s Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha is that being a boy can be chaotic and intensely structured all at the same time.

Of course, from reading these two novels, I can’t even begin to presume that I understand the world but at least I know enough to know that it’s a train I need to step away from – something I cannot control. In fact, my tolerance for rambunctiousness seems to have risen quite a bit since reading these memoirs.

Truth be told though, I don’t really think that I can recommend anything to you from my reading. I think my experience is personal. I think I have to have a nudge every now and again to understand that Franklin is fully capable of navigating the waters of childhood. I can guide him in that I can answer questions and most especially, I can show a good example – but I can’t solve his problems. I can’t control the play ground fights or the tests of strength – emotionally and physically. However, after reading a few well written books from the viewpoint of a little boy, I can sit back and marvel at the process of childhood and the opportunity I will get by standing by and watching Franklin experience it all.

I think this is a hard lesson for many parents these days. We are pushed to control so much of our children’s lives. The media keeps giving us grisly reminders of what happens if we lose sight of them and ramifications of bullying is hammered into our brains every 3 months with another suicide. To be able to step back and let our children get a sense of themselves on their own almost goes against every aspect of society.

It’s hard – and, in my opinion, even more of a reason to let go.