That roughly shaped circle we call life

Our entire lives, we are surrounded by beginnings and endings. Firsts and lasts. We organise our lives around a calendar that counts out 365 days, starting in January and ambling through the months until the end of December; we begin our work weeks, groggy-eyed and tired on Monday and count down the days—and sometimes hours and minutes—until the end of the week; we sentimentally mark down our children's first words, the day they took their first steps, the first time they rode a bike; we ache as we recall, vaguely, the last time they nursed or fell asleep in our arms.

But the big beginning and ending of our own lives, we never get to experience first hand, or at least recall and know. The beginning, our births, are recalled and told to us by our mothers, if we are lucky enough. Our end, however, is a reality that we, here in this space and time, like to forget about. We don't discuss it. We don't discuss death in general. And the less we talk about it, the more it seems to scare us.

My children have grown up with death around them. Not in the scary, haunted house and ghost story kind of way, but in the truth and reality of it. They know their Grampa Roberto only through photos and anecdotes, and they know he's dead. They also know their Uncle Jeff, who lived far away and whom they will never meet, not because of distance in space, but because of distance in death. These are very real people to Maïa and Solanne because they have another grampa and other uncles, and these people are beloved and close; Grampa Roberto and Uncle Jeff aren't far off concepts like ancestors whom no one living today has ever met. These are people who are connected through love and memories, albeit borrowed from me.

And so this spring, when we went out looking for the little semi-wild kittens at Nana & Grampa's and found one dying, we told our kids that this little one was going to die. But that its two sibblings were okay. They were suitably sad, we talked about it, and they moved on. Solanne still recalls that little kitten. She talks about how it was too sick to live and how it just died. I'm glad that we didn't lie to them or try to hide it. And I don't think that I've taken away their innocence.

I also don't think that they dismiss life because they know about death. In fact, I think they have a healthier respect and love for living things precisely because they know about death. They try their very best not to step on insects on purpose because death is not something they want to inflict on them; other kids don't quite get it, so squishing a bug is fine, funny even.

I recently saw an interview with Rachel Weisz; she was talking about her newest movie, in which she plays a dying woman. Her interviewer, George Stroumboulopoulos, asked her about death and commented on how we don't really talk about it. The conversation veered to talking to kids about death; would Rachel consider talking frankly to her children about it? No, she said, because children in our culture generally don't know about death, and they might be considered odd if the talked about it a lot.

I find this an interesting point of view, respectable, I guess, but I think that Ms Weisz is missing the point, missing the point that most people miss: kids can handle a whole lot more of the real world than we think. And by "real world" I mean the stuff that touches us profoundly, that makes us human. Stuff like birth and death, heart break and celebration, anger at injustice. Why do we shield our children from these truths?

I don't mean that children can handle violence, especially gratuitous violence; in fact, violence on television and in video games make light of death. It's not real, so children (and so many adults) don't know how to handle death in their lives. I don't mean that children should be made to witness the horrors of war or famine; one day they will be ready for that, and I dare hope that they will be equipped to feel it keenly and to work for justice. For now, they're still processing what it means that a kitten is too small and weak to make it in this tough world. I will not intentionally expose my children to sorrow, but I will not hide it from them when it is linked in a tangible way to their own existence. I truly hope and deeply believe that this does not, and will not, make them odd. It makes them more fully human.

My front yard

Our first summer here was spent largely touring the city when we weren't doing home renos. Last summer, we attempted to play in the backyard with the kids but found it lacking in toys, other children, and all around fun, so we opted to go to the park—a lot. This summer, we have discovered our front yard and the sidewalk just beyond it.

While we normally wouldn't have access to the back or front yards because we live on the second floor of a triplex (normally, their use is reserved for first-floor folks), our downstairs neighbours are very generous and have always welcomed our presence, especially our children's presence, in the yards. So we bring out whatever outdoor activities Mai and Sol have decided they want: balls, bubbles, sidewalk chalk, bikes, scooters... This involves much less energy than going to the park every evening. And we have experienced a pleasant surprise: other children come by to play.

Tsione is exuberant and chatty and Nadine is bright and beautiful; both are eight years old. They were the first to drop by and get acquainted with our girls. Nadine's older sister, Justine (who is 11) sometimes comes by when she hasn't anything else to do. Little Daniella, a wiry seven-year-old, shows up most days, too. Jane, a friend of Maïa's from daycare who lives across the street drags her kind parents to our place to join in the fun. Even Paullene, who is also from Maïa's daycare and lived across the street until about a month ago, has been known to drop by, with her poor dad, John, who is exasperated and is at a loss for what to do with such an energetic 5-year-old until his wife comes home at 10 pm from her long shift at the restaurant; John drives the few kilometers from their new home for informal playdates.

And the kids use our chalk and toys, and they play with our girls. Tsione likes to play Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Hair. Nadine often brings by her long-suffering hamster and has him "dance" for Solanne, mostly because Sol finds it hysterically funny. They all take turns on the scooters, as well as on the various bikes, skateboards, rollerblades, and other such toys the other kids bring along.

Our place is the natural gathering since our kids have to stay close to us, and also because ours is the only patch of grass on the block that isn't fenced in and doesn't mind a little beating up. And our reward for sharing our toys and space with these kids? We have the coolest front walk on the whole street.

Ta-da

I'm published.

Family reunion

Every year, give or take a few summers, my mom's siblings and their kids (and their kids) get together for a little reunion. This may not sound like much, but since my mom is one of seven kids, and each of them has two or three kids of their own, and most of us "kids" are parents now... well, it gets pretty busy. And we've never had a complete set. Whoever is in Ottawa or nearby tries to make it. But there are others who are in BC or Alberta or the states or Toronto (that far off place!), so they save their pennies for weddings (which is where we all get to meet in one spot, generally).

Anyhow, my mom used to host these events in her back yard (which, at the time, was my back yard, too). Since my mom sold the house, my cousin Scott and his gracious wife, Darlene, have taken up the duties (they are saints: they have six children, including 20-month old twins).

So this weekend, we headed out to Farhaven... I mean Barrhaven, to the big house with the big yard and the big pool. While the weather wasn't fantastic (about 20C and cloudy and rainy), we were lucky enough that there were only a few short-lived showers. Few of us got wet—except for those brave few who went into the pool. The brave few included a bunch of kids and me, the only "adult."

Here are two pics that my cousin Debralee snapped with her snazy new camera. I would post more, but I didn't bring my camera (which uses film, so I wouldn't have the pics ready for another month or so anyway).

Derek, me, my mom, Solanne, and Maïa



My gorgeous kids

Philosopher child

A scene of father getting daughter ready for bed:

Derek: Maïa, hurry up.

Maïa: (dawdling)

Derek: Come on Maïa. Run like the wind!

Maïa: But what if the wind is slow...

Soon, all too soon, we won't be able to argue with her.

Tales of a former only-child struggling to raise siblings

For the past couple of weeks, I have had to face, in an immediate and real way, an issue that has been under the surface ever since Derek and I decided to have a second child: no two people, even if they are siblings, are the same.

This statement seems self-evident, but most of us (each of us?) make this assumption on a daily basis, especially when it comes to children. We think that because one child, usually the older one, behaves a certain way or is interested in certain things, the other child(ren) must also behave in such a manner.

When Maïa was about 9 months old and as happy as a little baby can be, Derek and I decided it was time to start "trying." When I asked Derek if he wanted a boy the second time around, he answered that he wanted another girl. He so enjoyed Maïa that he wanted another one like her. Of course, we knew that this child would be different, but we assumed she'd be more like her big sister if she were a she.

When I became pregnant, I noticed immediately that things with this child were different. In fact, my pregnancy was so different, I thought at first that I was going to have a boy. This baby moved more, responded to my voice more; she was just different.

And when she came out, we noticed that, indeed, her behaviour was different. She was a bit bigger than her sister had been, but not by much; she was jaundiced like Maïa had been; she was bald. And yet. And yet, she acted so very differently. She was awake and alert most of the time. She ate like a horse. She got big, fast. She was... just different.

And there are any number of ways I can describe how different they are, but if you know them at all, you will have noticed them.

So it is with great surprise that I receive comments from one of Solanne's daycare educators: "She's not like Maïa. Maïa never used to do that. Maïa was so well behaved." As if Solanne has to be Maïa. Or as if because she's different from Maïa she's somehow lesser. I prefer to focus on her strengths, which, luckily, her other educator does in spades; I think she's quite taken with Sol.

Is this a fore-taste of what is to come? Will everyone compare Solanne to Maïa, if only because Maïa came first? Will her teachers remark that Solanne is not achieving in the same areas as her sister? Will they expect her to be the same? Will they chastise her for being her own person? (Meanwhile, Maïa will escape this fate since she doesn't have to worry about being her own person: she'll have no one to be compared to.)

While I don't want to type-cast either of them (this one is the smart one; that one's the pretty one...), I don't want them to think that they have to be the same people because they happen to share the same parents. And I don't want them to feel that they are deficient in any way because their strengths lie elsewhere.

So, I sigh, take a deep breath and realise that it really is challenging to raise siblings when you were an only child (more or less).