Big Steps for a Little Man

This week marks a momentous step for our little E man. On Tuesday he donned backpack and hoodie and headed with his mama to his new preschool. In keeping with a tradition set by families long before the Riouxs began theirs, daddyman took a photo at the door. This is truly a face that would win over any new teacher. Part charmer, part schemer, this kid will have their hearts. Don't try to hide it. He already has yours.

The first day was only 2.5 hours long. E walked in, hung his backpack on the hook marked with his name, slipped on his indoor shoes (okay, he had a little help from mom) and set about exploring his new space. He hit the trains first, then the cars and trucks, insisting all the while that his mommy play with him, that it was the rule. She was told, in no uncertain terms, that if she broke this rule, she would not be allowed to come back to his preshool.


Sadly there wasn't enough time for E to get his fill of play before the clean-up bells rang. This was a difficult transition for our little man, who's used to wheeling and dealing with the softies in his family to score a few more minutes of playtime and a helping hand with the putting away. Not so in preschool, where everyone is given a job and many little hands make light work. E's teacher cleverly used a game of eye-spy to get E to pitch in and afterwards he was putty in her hands for the reading of a school-aged classic, The Kissing Hand. But the magic couldn't last and soon the little bodies were wiggling off the mat, edging closer to the shelves of toys that were now closed. When the story ended, everyone lined up to wash hands and eat their snack. Not E. He defiantly told his teacher that he only ate snacks at home. She said that was a-okay, but if he wanted to play he'd have to settle for puzzles or books. All other areas were off limits. This was almost enough to bring E to tears, but thankfully mommy was there and willing to play a few puzzle games before convincing him he might feel better with a little snack in his belly. 

After snacks, the kids headed outside where the last sun of summer shone bright and warm. E played like a champion in the sandbox and the time just flew. In all too short a time, the kids were gathered for the good-bye song. E didn't want to leave. Despite the challenges of the new boundaries, the new authorities, the new rules, E was having himself a grand old time. It took a great deal of patience on his mommy's part to keep putting his boots on after he kicked them off and guide him gently home.

The last two days have presented new challenges for this family. E is adjusting to a world that won't always say yes to his demands and because of this he wants his parents to say yes more than they can, or should. Just yesterday, after waking from his nap, E told his mommy he was very sorry but the upstairs of their house was closed and they'd have to go downstairs to play. He is stretching and growing in a new way, a necessary way, but the process is slow, sometimes exhaustingly so. There's a lot of love in this little trio, though. They'll get through just fine.  

The Last Sweetness of Summer

Do you know what's a fantastic way to spend a Friday afternoon? Bowling with a 3 1/2 year-old. J and E hit the Miracle Lanes in Sidney, a 5 pin bowling alley and hot-spot for hip seniors. Turns out E fits right in with that crowd. They donned their bowling shoes and joined their friends to have some good clean fun. E loved the action. He kept track of which ball was his and waited, with varying degrees of patience, until it made its journey home to the ball rack. He had his own style, swinging the ball between his legs and letting it meander at its own leisurely pace down the lane, bumping off the gutter rails and giving the headpin a polite nudge to knock her over. 

He was a natural. Would have played on anyone's turn and frequently did.  

At home they played on quieter turf. E built cities and snapped photos for his archives.

J contemplated her young son's artistic eye and uniquely fashionable dress, dreaming of the ways in which he'll express himself when he's older. Art and self-expression have a tendency to run in the family. In less than a week, E will be starting preschool. This is a big step, for he and the Js. Twice a week, for a total of five hours, E will be at play in a roomful of his peers. Twice a week his mommy will walk him down the road with his backpack and lunchbox. She will kiss him goodbye and let him go in on his own (assuming he lets her). He will learn how to put on his own indoor shoes. He will have his own cubby. Everything he brings will be labelled with his name 

Preschool is as preparatory for the parents as it is for the kids. 

They each need to learn the steps in the dance of letting go.   

 

Infanticipating

We are drifting towards fall. You can smell it in the air, that distinct apple-smell that comes when September draws near. Light fades more quickly now. The evenings are cooler. Greens are giving way to warmer shades and pumpkins are already ripening on the vines.

Fall means a return to school for some. For E, it means the start of school and the beginning of a whole new adventure. For the first time in known history, J is not returning to school this fall, not to work and not to study. She is 31 weeks pregnant today and will spend her September counting down, contemplating names and picking out nursery colours. She may even get around to painting. J's work in the gardens across the peninsula will slow a little, but at home he will give himself over to the work he loves: writing.

This past week has been a time of reflection and anticipation for the Rioux Famille. They have been a tight little trio, but in 9 short weeks, less than two handfuls, they will become four. They do not know if they are ready. Surely J is ready to lighten her load. She'd like to be able to see her toes again without having to lean forward. She's also well aware of how fast the weeks will fly, how her time as the mother of one is really very fleeting. She is slowing herself down, in more ways than one. She is trying to learn to just be.

One Is Silver, But The Other Gold

This has been a week of sudden, sad news. On a national scale, Canadians lost a man who was more than a leader; he was a source of optimism and hope. Closer to home, J learned that two old friends from a time before she was one of the Rioux Famille had suffered recent losses, each too private to mention here. These passings have given her pause to appreciate what, more specifically who, she has around her.

When she was in third grade, J learned a song that she will one day teach to E. It's simple and meant to be sung in a round, ideally with voices that haven't yet reached puberty. The lyrics go like this:  

Make new friends, 
But keep the old
One is silver 
And the other gold

The meaning is transparent, but the message is one worth remembering. We open our hearts to so many people throughout our lives. We connect, and so we grow. As we get older, it becomes harder to sustain those ties. Some make better efforts than others, it's true, and some can only handle having so many cups to fill. This may be true of J, yet it is also true that she carries the memory of those friendships, those very important people who helped shape her, and loves them still. Even those who hurt her. Especially those whom she hurt.
Today, now, J is pausing to feel thankful for the family who never fail to show her their love. To the Uncles and Grandmas who send gifts in the mail and give her little boy new characters to introduce to his menagerie, new books to ease him to sleep at night. To the Cousins and Aunts around the corner who are always up for a cup of tea, even at unshaven hours of the morning. To the Parents who made her want to become one herself and who continue to teach her all the many ways there are to love. To the Friends who have never let her down, whose generosity and support she will never be able to repay and who will never expect her to.
To J, the love of her life, the only word to say is mook.

I love you all.

Doctor, Doctor

E has had few trips to the doctor in his three years on this earth, but those he has had have been memorable and -- at least for the Js -- frightening. When he was 11 days old, when the Js were still waking on the hour to check his breathing at night, E developed a white coating on his clean cat mouth, a sure sign of thrush. The Js panicked at the sight of this mogey tongue and whisked him to the walk-in clinic. The well meaning doctor on duty prescribed an antifungal medicine that induced projectile vomiting but, in the end, got the job done. At their next midwife appointment the Js learned they could have chosen a simple and much gentler dose of gentian violet. Next time, they promised, hoping there would not be a next time.

Then a week before E's first birthday he took a dreadful tumble down the stairs at his grandparents' house. A gate had not yet been fastened and a make-shift block failed to keep the eager explorer from edge. J was within sight but not within reach and will never forget the feeling of panic and the aftershocks of guilt that lasted...well, years. She sobbed as much as he did, even though no bones were broken. Nothing was bruised. They took yet another trip to the walk-in clinic where J read pamphlets about head injuries and the signs to watch for. The good doctor took as much care with the shaken mother as she did with the toddler, who'd already forgotten about his fall.

Earlier this week, the Js noticed their boy scratching at a bite on his forearm, just below the crook of his elbow. Mosquitoes, they figured. Possibly fleas. It's the season. But when the bite transformed into a distinct and threatening bullseye pattern, fears of Lyme disease raised their ugly heads. J had heard on the radio about a break-out on the mainland and he was quick to match the mark on E's arm to a frightful array of photos on various websites. Get it checked out, he urged, and the next day they did. Poor E spent over an hour in that very same clinic, with that very same patient doctor, and in the end he was sent for blood tests and given a prescription for a heavy dose of antibiotics.

 E was a real trooper at the lab the next day. He sat on his daddy's lap as the nurse explained what would happen. "But how will you take my blood?" E asked and when the nurse showed him the needle he pulled in his arm. "I've changed my mind," he said. His daddy promised he'd sit with him and tell the story of The Gravedigger, the monster truck who lost a wheel going over a big jump and kept on going. He promised a treat of E's choosing when it was all over, ice cream, cookies, anything his little heart desired. E agreed and sat still and brave as the needle went in, watching with steady eyes. He said "Ow" only once, when the needle was starting to ache, but he didn't cry and he didn't pull away. Afterwards he got a Snoopy bandaid, but he told his mommy it was a "Snow-pea". Such a brave little sausage.

In 2 weeks time, after the antiobiotics have run their course, the Js will have to take their little man back to the lab for another blood test. They may or may not know at that point whether they're dealing with Lyme or just a nasty scare. Either way, the Rioux famille is getting a taste of what it means to stare a serious illness in the face.

Deadman Island

Every summer needs an adventure. That's why when a good friend offered up her cabin on Denman Island for would-be travellers, J knew she had to seize the chance. She'd been working weekends all summer, missing out on trips to the Pot Holes, train rides and BBQs. She knew the days of sunshine and late bedtimes were numbered, so she strapped on E's sandals, scooped up a fellow mom and her tow-headed three-year-old (O), bundled everyone into the van and hit the road for a spontaneous three-day getaway.

Anyone who has survived a three hour roadtrip with a pair of preschoolers knows the true meanings of torture and triumph. O kept asking if they were on "Deadman" Island yet. E kept insisting on roadside pee-breaks. The promise of a ferry boat ride and some well-timed stories kept the meltdowns at bay. Handing E the digital camera and letting him take as many blurry traffic shots as his little heart desired was a stroke of genius. 

By 4 o'clock, the weary travellers had arrived at their destination.

After a glorious picnic supper, the two supermoms and their surefooted sidekicks headed to the playground to burn off the last of their energy. The boys climbed up ladders like gymnast monkeys and slid down slides like rainwater. They argued over who was faster, older, bigger, smarter.

They raised their voices and their fists, but then, just as quickly, they were friends.

That night they all slept in a loft bunk under sarongs and woke to the sound of birdsong. The beaches beckoned, so they packed their pails and spades and drove out to Fillongley Park. They found a raft and a fort, which they decorated with sandollars and oyster shells. The wind was just right for kite flying, if only they had kites to fly. That night, J read stories to the boys while O's mom baked a chocolate cake for tomorrow's breakfast (it was also her birthday -- 29 for the first time).

The trip was not without its rough patches. A wasp stung J's calf just as they were departing. E fell off a log and scraped his knee. That night he complained that the shower made it hurt worse than before. There were many time-outs on the couch and hands were raised when words failed. There were tears, but there was also comfort. It was a trip worth taking, one that may define the summer. There are treasures to be found in the unlikeliest of places and that goes for memories too.

Griffin & Sabine

When the Js were new to each other, when spring turned to summer in Winnipeg and they moved from their separate beds to the coziness of a hammock just wide enough for two, they would often read to one another. An odd assortment of books, some old favourites and some new discoveries. Nick Bantock's Griffin & Sabine was one of the latter.  For those of you who've never picked up a copy, head straight to your nearest used book store. You'll find one, to be sure, and you won't want to leave it behind. These books are not just beautiful to look at, they will lift you up and carry you away. The first (and there are three in the original series) is a collection of postcards, each a unique mixed-media collage that you might wish you had framed and hanging in your stairwell, between two artists who have never met. Somehow, strangely, they come to fall in love and the rest of the trilogy expands upon their journey to find one another.

You can see the appeal to the Js as a new couple. Those books inspired an exchange of love tokens and letters, handcrafted bookmarks, pressed flowers, pages in scrapbooks, bouquets in mason jars adorned with toy bumblebees left at doorstops, posies planted in a pair of shoes waiting to be picked up after work, that lasted all summer. Perhaps they even encouraged J to buy a Greyhound ticket and travel across the country to be with his sweetheart. He hasn't looked back since. More than five years later, J signed them up for an art class that promised to teach how to make collages just like the postcards shared between Griffin and Sabine. For a whole month, the Js cut and pasted, painted and sketched, splattered and stamped. Here are a few of their creations:

 

The Js will leave it up to you to figure out which of these cards was made by Josh and which are Jackie's.

Raspberriness

Berry picking is to childhood as drinking mother's milk is to infancy. If only you could do it year-round. E has been fortunate enough to have berry bushes growing in his backyard since he was on solid foods, since he was old enough to toddle on his own two legs and navigate the thorny parts. When the Js lived on Prior, he picked strawberries as small and sweet as his thumbs. Since their move to Sidney, E has become a master raspberry collector. The birds can't compete with his nimble fingers and the berries rarely make it back to the house. This time of year they melt right on the tongue.  

Soon there will be blueberries and, within a month, the blackberries will be calling. Those that aren't eaten off the bush will be put in pots and boiled into jam. You might even see a homemade jar under your tree this Christmas. When you pop the lid and lick your fingers, visions of summertime will dance in your heads. And for those of you who live too far for the Js to share their berry bounty, perhaps this will be incentive for you to book a flight and pay a visit.

Taco Trains



There are few pleasures in life like riding a train and few people understand that better than the good people who run the Saanich Historical Artifacts Society. They've had the trains steaming along the tracks this summer, winding through lush green copses, under bridges and over trestles. This weekend J and E were first in line to catch the miniature express. They rode it four times. By the end of the day, E's head was nodding and not even the engine's whistle could keep him awake. After his rest, he and the Js dined on tacos, a first for the little man. As a little girl, J was told she could make a wish on a food she tried for the first time. What would E wish for after a day of such fulfilment? Probably to do it all again. And so they shall.





 

 

Summerlicious

Summer is the season for little boys. Strap on sandals, don your bathers and hit the beach, hit the lake, hit the river. Go where it's sandy and wet. Flop down. Dive in. Dip your toes. Dig. Get dirt under your nails. Bury your legs. Plant your face in the sand and wear a pirate's five o'clock shadow. Run until your legs collapse beneath you. Do a somersault. Lie on your back and look at the clouds. Dream. Pretend you're a dinosaur or sabertooth tiger. Pretend you're the neighbourhood cat. Growl. Hiss. Spit. Purr. Be a crab on all fours travelling sideways. Find the real crabs hidden under barnacled beach rocks. Point out the fighters. Pick up them up. Don't cry if they pinch. Check for bee-hives or lighthouses. Watch the gulls ride the wind, dropping clam shells. Listen for the crack. Watch them feed. Run inside for your own snack. Something cold. Drink with a straw.

Fight sleep when the day winds down.

    Repeat.

Thumb's Up

The Riouxs would like to offer a sneak preview of their newest addition. He (or she) goes by the name of Spiker, courtesy of big brother E. From what they can tell, Spiker's hobbies include turning somersaults and thumb-sucking. Favourite holidays include Halloween, when he/she's scheduled to make his/her grand appearance.



Oh and one other thing. Spiker is a glass half-full kind of person. Just check out the posi-vibes in this shot below. How's that for a pleased-to-meet-you?

Scrabbled Eggs

 On Sunday mornings, the Riouxs believe in putting their feet up. There's no need to rush. Pajamas can be left on. Breakfast can be leisurely. Scrabble can be played and the rules are strictly optional. 

   

E is a master at naming his letters. His favourites are X and Z, the high scorers. Between bites of toast, he baffles his parents with newfangled arrangements that have yet to make an appearance in the Oxford English Dictionary. It's true what they say; language is always expanding.

J is becoming a master at the soft boiled egg, though he'd never admit it. The only secret to getting it right is forgetting how much it matters if you don't. J puts the kettle on for tea, remembering when she used to pour two cups of Fantastico to get their morning started. That was before the move to Sidney, where options for freshly roasted coffee are as weak as Folgers. J takes his tea black, but she likes hers with Almond milk and honey. Some things don't change.

These are golden mornings.