Four days ago, I got my kids all gussied up and ready for Hallowe'en; I did it excitedly and happily, with the memories of last year still warming me. Last year was the first Hallowe'en that I recall ever enjoying. No kidding. I never really like Hallowe'en when I was a kid. I could never come up with a cool costume. I didn't have any siblings or neighbourhood friends to trick or treat with. I've never liked candy. Hallowe'en just never fit me the way it seemed to slip so easily onto my friends.
So it was with great surprise that I so enjoyed the holiday last year. Maïa was decked out in her elephant costume and Sol in her dragon pyjamas, and we headed out into the cold, with the idea that we'd go to a handful of houses and come back home. Maïa was so into the whole process — and who wouldn't be? strangers giving you goodies? cool! We went up two and a half (long) blocks and tnt'ed the way back, too.
And the whole time, there were kids everywhere, running up and down the sidewalks in all manner of costumes. Parents lagging behind, some alone, some in small groups, chatting with each other. Everyone smiling at each other and commenting on how cute our kids were. We got to meet our neighbours and say hello, happy Hallowe'en. They opened their doors to us, pouring out the warm glow of their home beyond the door, pouring out their generosity in the form of mini candy bars and tiny bags of chips and smiles and laughter.
This Hallowe'en morning, when I was bringing Maïa to daycare with Solanne in toe, people walking down the busy sidewalk, who would normally just step aside and not make eye-contact, looked at my girls in their costumes and smiled. Some commented. And when we arrived at the daycare, I was excited to see what each child was wearing, and I chatted with parents and we rolled our eyes together as we noted all the girls in princess costumes and all the boys in super hero attire.
I began to realise, for the first time, how important shared rituals and holidays are. This little holiday, where we get our children dressed up in their favourite costumes, brings us all together. Suddenly, instead of rushing out of the daycare, we parents take a few minutes to chat, and we perceive our similarities (oh, she changed her mind about the costume at the last minute, too!) instead of our obvious differences. Strangers take the time to smile, to stop, to talk. Their memories of their own Hallowe'ens past or of their own children similarly dressed that day, draw them nearer to us, even for a moment.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Maïa's birth story
Maïa's birthday is coming up in six days, not that she's counting. And I've been thinking a lot about her birth. Last year, I wrote Solanne's birth story, and some readers expressed an interest in Maïa's story. So here it is.
At the end of October that year, I came down with some sort of flu. It was awful. It was bad enough being eight-and-a-bit months pregnant, but being stuffed up and feverish was really gross. Then, on the night of October 30th, my fever was getting to me, and I was hoping it would break. I had a difficult night's sleep. At 2 am on Halloween morning, I was lying awake in bed, with the covers off, thinking, I should move the duvet away from between my legs; imagine if my water broke! So I moved it, and a moment later, you guessed it, my water broke. I ran to the bathroom. I knew this was it. I called out to Derek. He walked over to the bathroom, groggily, and asked me what was wrong. I said, I think it's time. That sure woke him up! His eyes flew open in utter shock and disbelief. Really? Now?
If it had been up to him, we would have been on the road to the hospital. But I calmed him down and told him that we should page Lily, our midwife. So we did. And since I wasn't having any contractions yet, I was told to try to go back to sleep, it could be a long few hours (or days!) ahead. So we headed back to bed. I slept a little, but mostly I was excited... and nervous. It seemed pretty early, at 37 weeks. And here I thought the baby would be late, so I had another third of the semester to teach at the university. Luckily, it was just one class.
In the morning, Derek headed over to my office (a block away from our home) to post a note saying I couldn't make my office hours. One of my midwives came by to check in on me. It was actually her birthday! She said Halloween is a great time to have a birthday. I secretly hoped that our little one would wait til the next day.
While there were still no contractions, I busied myself with the rest of the marking I had to do. I planned out the rest of my classes and sent my schedule to my TA, who would be teaching the next four classes. We made a few phone calls to settle everything up and also to tell our friends and family that soon it would be time. Still no contractions. Then, at around 2 pm, they began. Looking back, they were difficult from the onset, and they just got worse. I couldn't walk through them; I could just lie on our bed and breathe. The contractions weren't close enough together to warrant going to the hospital or calling the midwife yet again. So we tried getting me into the bath. We were in an old house, so the bath was one of those old ones on feet; it was narrow and very deep. Bad idea. It was hard to get me in, and once I was in, I hated it, so I had to get back out...
Then around 8 pm, I couldn't take it anymore, so we called my mom and she came by to drive us to the hospital. She would be in the waiting room the entire time, knitting away. She finished a little sweater that night!
Lily had prepared the room for us: the jacuzzi was filled with hot water, the room was quiet and darkened. There were no nurses checking in on me or asking me questions. Just Lily keeping an eye on things. She understood instinctively, without my telling her, that I did not want anyone touching me or talking to me. I just wanted to know that she was there and that Derek was there. Lily would come by every now and then to take my pressure and temp (because I had been running a fever). At one point, one of her veteran colleagues came by for a consult. Everything looked good...
But all I remember was the pain. It was such an intense experience that I think I was slightly hallucinating. I recall these images in my head of a blue metal box, which represented my contractions. It would expand with each pain, and then grow smaller. But through each contraction, it grew slightly larger. Soon (hours later??), it transformed into Mr Brockelhurst, from Jane Eyre. It was big and imposing and frightening. I told Derek about it, and I thought that he must consider me insane. But he didn't say so; he just gently cheered me through each contraction, letting me deal with the pain the way I knew best. He didn't touch me, but he let me put my hand on his. He didn't talk when he knew I didn't want him to. We were so in synch.
I had wanted to try labour without any pain medication, but when at around 2 am (I think) I was told that I was at 3 cm — still. I looked over at Derek, and I knew he wouldn't think any less or more of me, no matter the decision I made. So I decided to go with the epidural. There was no anestheseologist on the floor at the time, so he had to be paged. We waited about 45 minutes. By the time he was on the way, Lily checked again, and I was miraculously at 9 cm. I knew I could do this. So I called it off. I don't know how much time elapsed, but it seemed pretty quick when I felt my body constrict. Lily came by and asked me if I felt like pushing. I realised that's what I had been doing. So she checked me again, to make sure I was fully dialated so as not to hurt myself, and that's when all hell broke loose.
Uh, Cristina, you might want to wait. Let's try not pushing.
Not pushing? She showed me how to breathe through a contraction without pushing. Derek breathed with me. His eyes kept me focused.
I'm not sure what she said then, but I know she ran out of the room to get someone. A resident came in with an ultrasound machine. She introduced herself and quickly examined me. She's breech! That's all I remember.
And then people, people, people. Each one doing something different. Lights on. Noise everywhere. A nurse took Derek away from me to get him changed. Another nurse introduced herself and stood by my side, prepping me. When a contraction came, I forgot how to breathe, so I started pushing. I didn't know this before, but it seems that the need to push in such a situation is not something one can control. The body does it on its own; one can help it along, but there's little to do to stop it. So when the nurse was upset with me for pushing, I started to cry. I couldn't stop, and I told her so. She eased up a bit, and told me that I could hurt myself if I didn't stop. Like that helped... but she did breathe with me, which did help.
More noise. Lights. Machines. Being wheeled out. Into the even-brighter hall. Into the O.R. More noise and lights and machines and people. My midwife was suddenly by my side. But I kept checking the door for Derek. What was taking him so long?? It seemed that the door opened dozens of times, but it was never him.
And then they rolled me over to put in the spinal. I remember the doctor telling me it would hurt, but I don't remember the pain of it. All I remember is the sweet bliss of quiet. My body was suddenly still. I could finally make sense of it all. The pain was gone. Poof.
I was suddenly cracking jokes and able to enjoy the fact that my little baby would soon, finally!, be in my arms. And then Derek appeared. (It turns out that he had changed into his lovely green outfit in record time, but they wouldn't let him in.) He was wearing a surgical mask and cap; all I could see were his gorgeous eyes, and I knew we could get through this.
They put up a sheet at chest level so I couldn't see anything (thank God!). And there was some very serious tugging going on. Our little one was stuck in there, bum first. They got her out and exclaimed, it's a girl!
What joy. Finally. She was here. I heard her cry, and then I cried to hear it. They wrapped her up and gave her to Derek. I would have to wait a while to hold my baby. The spinal had made me numb from the neck down. And, to boot, they were going to have to take her to the special care unit. She had an eye infection that would need antibiotics; nothing serious, but it had to be taken care of. So off they went, the pediatrician and new Daddy, with my baby.
The whole experience is a bitter sweet one, and one that took me a while to work through. I had so wanted, and very much expected, to have a "normal" delivery. And I was almost there when I had to have this emergency c-section. And I couldn't hold my baby right away. And she wasn't completely well. And the special care unit was a very long corridor away from my room. And they gave her a bottle to drink when I wanted to breastfeed exclusively. And my maternity ward nurse got mad at me when I stayed with my daughter for an hour because, in her words, it would make my recovery take longer. My recovery be damned: my baby needed me so she could get better. She was so tiny, and so alone, in that little bassinet with that IV in her tiny little hand. And the little block taped to her hand so that she wouldn't bend it and take the IV out. And the heart monitor.
In retrospect, we got through it because we had to, but I realise now that it was a very upsetting series of events. Don't get me wrong; I am thankful everyday that I had to opportunity to delivery my baby in a safe, clean, modern hospital. That my baby is alive. That I am alive. But I think that the whole thing made my first few weeks and months as a mother more difficult than they were with Solanne, and not just because I was a first-time mother. A woman's experience of birth, even if it involves emergency measures, should be more positive. And she should be followed up my a counsellor, someone to talk through the events. And she shouldn't be yelled at by her nurse. And she (or her partner!) should not be bullied into bottle-feeding because the baby is hungry (when in fact, she isn't).
In the end, I have come out of this experience a much stronger person. I think it was the most physically and emotionally trying time in my life, bar none. And now I can talk to others about it and be an advocate, in my own little way, for new parents. But best of all, and this isn't meant to sound trite or easy, I have my Maïa.
Happy Birthday, in advance, Maïa.
At the end of October that year, I came down with some sort of flu. It was awful. It was bad enough being eight-and-a-bit months pregnant, but being stuffed up and feverish was really gross. Then, on the night of October 30th, my fever was getting to me, and I was hoping it would break. I had a difficult night's sleep. At 2 am on Halloween morning, I was lying awake in bed, with the covers off, thinking, I should move the duvet away from between my legs; imagine if my water broke! So I moved it, and a moment later, you guessed it, my water broke. I ran to the bathroom. I knew this was it. I called out to Derek. He walked over to the bathroom, groggily, and asked me what was wrong. I said, I think it's time. That sure woke him up! His eyes flew open in utter shock and disbelief. Really? Now?
If it had been up to him, we would have been on the road to the hospital. But I calmed him down and told him that we should page Lily, our midwife. So we did. And since I wasn't having any contractions yet, I was told to try to go back to sleep, it could be a long few hours (or days!) ahead. So we headed back to bed. I slept a little, but mostly I was excited... and nervous. It seemed pretty early, at 37 weeks. And here I thought the baby would be late, so I had another third of the semester to teach at the university. Luckily, it was just one class.
In the morning, Derek headed over to my office (a block away from our home) to post a note saying I couldn't make my office hours. One of my midwives came by to check in on me. It was actually her birthday! She said Halloween is a great time to have a birthday. I secretly hoped that our little one would wait til the next day.
While there were still no contractions, I busied myself with the rest of the marking I had to do. I planned out the rest of my classes and sent my schedule to my TA, who would be teaching the next four classes. We made a few phone calls to settle everything up and also to tell our friends and family that soon it would be time. Still no contractions. Then, at around 2 pm, they began. Looking back, they were difficult from the onset, and they just got worse. I couldn't walk through them; I could just lie on our bed and breathe. The contractions weren't close enough together to warrant going to the hospital or calling the midwife yet again. So we tried getting me into the bath. We were in an old house, so the bath was one of those old ones on feet; it was narrow and very deep. Bad idea. It was hard to get me in, and once I was in, I hated it, so I had to get back out...
Then around 8 pm, I couldn't take it anymore, so we called my mom and she came by to drive us to the hospital. She would be in the waiting room the entire time, knitting away. She finished a little sweater that night!
Lily had prepared the room for us: the jacuzzi was filled with hot water, the room was quiet and darkened. There were no nurses checking in on me or asking me questions. Just Lily keeping an eye on things. She understood instinctively, without my telling her, that I did not want anyone touching me or talking to me. I just wanted to know that she was there and that Derek was there. Lily would come by every now and then to take my pressure and temp (because I had been running a fever). At one point, one of her veteran colleagues came by for a consult. Everything looked good...
But all I remember was the pain. It was such an intense experience that I think I was slightly hallucinating. I recall these images in my head of a blue metal box, which represented my contractions. It would expand with each pain, and then grow smaller. But through each contraction, it grew slightly larger. Soon (hours later??), it transformed into Mr Brockelhurst, from Jane Eyre. It was big and imposing and frightening. I told Derek about it, and I thought that he must consider me insane. But he didn't say so; he just gently cheered me through each contraction, letting me deal with the pain the way I knew best. He didn't touch me, but he let me put my hand on his. He didn't talk when he knew I didn't want him to. We were so in synch.
I had wanted to try labour without any pain medication, but when at around 2 am (I think) I was told that I was at 3 cm — still. I looked over at Derek, and I knew he wouldn't think any less or more of me, no matter the decision I made. So I decided to go with the epidural. There was no anestheseologist on the floor at the time, so he had to be paged. We waited about 45 minutes. By the time he was on the way, Lily checked again, and I was miraculously at 9 cm. I knew I could do this. So I called it off. I don't know how much time elapsed, but it seemed pretty quick when I felt my body constrict. Lily came by and asked me if I felt like pushing. I realised that's what I had been doing. So she checked me again, to make sure I was fully dialated so as not to hurt myself, and that's when all hell broke loose.
Uh, Cristina, you might want to wait. Let's try not pushing.
Not pushing? She showed me how to breathe through a contraction without pushing. Derek breathed with me. His eyes kept me focused.
I'm not sure what she said then, but I know she ran out of the room to get someone. A resident came in with an ultrasound machine. She introduced herself and quickly examined me. She's breech! That's all I remember.
And then people, people, people. Each one doing something different. Lights on. Noise everywhere. A nurse took Derek away from me to get him changed. Another nurse introduced herself and stood by my side, prepping me. When a contraction came, I forgot how to breathe, so I started pushing. I didn't know this before, but it seems that the need to push in such a situation is not something one can control. The body does it on its own; one can help it along, but there's little to do to stop it. So when the nurse was upset with me for pushing, I started to cry. I couldn't stop, and I told her so. She eased up a bit, and told me that I could hurt myself if I didn't stop. Like that helped... but she did breathe with me, which did help.
More noise. Lights. Machines. Being wheeled out. Into the even-brighter hall. Into the O.R. More noise and lights and machines and people. My midwife was suddenly by my side. But I kept checking the door for Derek. What was taking him so long?? It seemed that the door opened dozens of times, but it was never him.
And then they rolled me over to put in the spinal. I remember the doctor telling me it would hurt, but I don't remember the pain of it. All I remember is the sweet bliss of quiet. My body was suddenly still. I could finally make sense of it all. The pain was gone. Poof.
I was suddenly cracking jokes and able to enjoy the fact that my little baby would soon, finally!, be in my arms. And then Derek appeared. (It turns out that he had changed into his lovely green outfit in record time, but they wouldn't let him in.) He was wearing a surgical mask and cap; all I could see were his gorgeous eyes, and I knew we could get through this.
They put up a sheet at chest level so I couldn't see anything (thank God!). And there was some very serious tugging going on. Our little one was stuck in there, bum first. They got her out and exclaimed, it's a girl!
What joy. Finally. She was here. I heard her cry, and then I cried to hear it. They wrapped her up and gave her to Derek. I would have to wait a while to hold my baby. The spinal had made me numb from the neck down. And, to boot, they were going to have to take her to the special care unit. She had an eye infection that would need antibiotics; nothing serious, but it had to be taken care of. So off they went, the pediatrician and new Daddy, with my baby.
The whole experience is a bitter sweet one, and one that took me a while to work through. I had so wanted, and very much expected, to have a "normal" delivery. And I was almost there when I had to have this emergency c-section. And I couldn't hold my baby right away. And she wasn't completely well. And the special care unit was a very long corridor away from my room. And they gave her a bottle to drink when I wanted to breastfeed exclusively. And my maternity ward nurse got mad at me when I stayed with my daughter for an hour because, in her words, it would make my recovery take longer. My recovery be damned: my baby needed me so she could get better. She was so tiny, and so alone, in that little bassinet with that IV in her tiny little hand. And the little block taped to her hand so that she wouldn't bend it and take the IV out. And the heart monitor.
In retrospect, we got through it because we had to, but I realise now that it was a very upsetting series of events. Don't get me wrong; I am thankful everyday that I had to opportunity to delivery my baby in a safe, clean, modern hospital. That my baby is alive. That I am alive. But I think that the whole thing made my first few weeks and months as a mother more difficult than they were with Solanne, and not just because I was a first-time mother. A woman's experience of birth, even if it involves emergency measures, should be more positive. And she should be followed up my a counsellor, someone to talk through the events. And she shouldn't be yelled at by her nurse. And she (or her partner!) should not be bullied into bottle-feeding because the baby is hungry (when in fact, she isn't).
In the end, I have come out of this experience a much stronger person. I think it was the most physically and emotionally trying time in my life, bar none. And now I can talk to others about it and be an advocate, in my own little way, for new parents. But best of all, and this isn't meant to sound trite or easy, I have my Maïa.
Happy Birthday, in advance, Maïa.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Arts and crafts
Visit our newly minted arts and crafts page. I'll be posting mostly Maïa's creations as she brings them home or makes them. I'll be getting Sol's stuff up there, too. She's starting to make "O's"! How exciting! (well, they're more like wobbly spirals, but still!) I'll also be posting what I've been up to and also what Derek has created. You might be surprised...
Stay tuned! And if you forget to add it to your Favorites, don't fret: there's a link in the right-hand sidebar called "stuff we've made." Click on it to get to our art.
Stay tuned! And if you forget to add it to your Favorites, don't fret: there's a link in the right-hand sidebar called "stuff we've made." Click on it to get to our art.
Keeping a straight face
Sometimes kids have behaviours that must, unquestionably, be corrected. I try to keep to the rule that whatever doesn't hurt them or others is fair enough game. But "hurt" can be interpreted in a number of manners. So when Maïa began to use her markers on more than just paper products, I realised that her artistic endeavours, however ernest, had to be curtailed. She was writing on tables, on hands, on toys — all at daycare, no less. Thanks to the folks at Crayola, it was easy enough to clean up the mess with water and paper towels, but with every incident, the teachers were becoming more annoyed and less understanding.
One particular episode left us utterly speechless. And not in the this-is-so-terrible-I-can't-even-speak-now manner. Rather, in the this-is-too-funny-to-try-to-comment manner. I could try to describe it, but a picture is worth a thousand words, as they say:
Within moments, at least five other girls in the class were similarly adorned. It's hard to discipline your kid when she's so creative and she's the ring leader...
One particular episode left us utterly speechless. And not in the this-is-so-terrible-I-can't-even-speak-now manner. Rather, in the this-is-too-funny-to-try-to-comment manner. I could try to describe it, but a picture is worth a thousand words, as they say:
Within moments, at least five other girls in the class were similarly adorned. It's hard to discipline your kid when she's so creative and she's the ring leader...
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Maïa's Baz Lurhman moment
In her very best deadpan voice, sounding very much like "Everybody's Free," Maïa said:
Some sweaters have buttons;
Some sweaters do not.
Some sweaters have zippers;
Some sweaters do not.
Some sweaters have velcro;
Some sweaters do not.
Thanks for the deep insight Maïa. Sometimes the simplest truths escape us in the hubbub of everyday life.
Some sweaters have buttons;
Some sweaters do not.
Some sweaters have zippers;
Some sweaters do not.
Some sweaters have velcro;
Some sweaters do not.
Thanks for the deep insight Maïa. Sometimes the simplest truths escape us in the hubbub of everyday life.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Our SUV
No, we haven't replaced our trusty old Civic. The SUV I'm talking about is our handy-dandy Chariot. It has taken us many a place over the course of the 18 months we have had it. When we had Solanne, all we had was an old tandem stroller that wouldn't turn (it was approximately 27 feet long). Given that it could accomodate an infant, it served its purpose for the first few months of Solanne's life. But I was tired of trying to maneuver the Monster.
We also wanted a bike trailer, so after much research, we opted for a trailer that converts to a double stroller.
I tell anyone who will listen that this Chariot of ours is the best baby/child-related buy we have ever made. Bar none. Yes, it was rather pricey. But I know it won't break down on us the way our Evenflo stroller did in the middle of its second winter. We're pretty hard on our strollers. We rarely take the car when we can walk, and that includes in the middle of winter on snowy and icey sidewalks and streets. We wanted something that would take us "off-road," that would take the stress of our Ottawa-Montreal weather, and that would be comfy for our kids. I've never been let down.
Last weekend was a gloriously warm and sunny one. Not quite Indian summer weather, but close enough to satisfy this summer lover. We packed up the kids, the Chariot, a picnic lunch, and we headed out to the Arboretum. This is why we have our SUV.
In true Montreal fashion, the signs and the map didn't match up...
Monday, October 09, 2006
Another anniversary
It's been nearly one year since I began this blog.
When Maïa was about a year old, I had created a website; I had learned html code, a good friend of mine offered to host my site for free, and I thought it would be fun for others keep up with our family via the web. I had had the habit of sending out mass emails every few months to update everyone on our lives, and I found that a bit invasive (though I like receiving such emails from others). I figured it would be more fun if there was a place everyone could go to voluntarily. But soon, it fell out of use for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it takes time to write up all that code! And I was pregnant and not feeling so energetic...
When we left our hometown of Ottawa, almost 15 months ago now, I felt disconnected from everyone. I imagined that our friends and family there would want to know what our girls were doing and how they were growing. A website was too much effort, but a blog would be easy, accessible, and free.
Originally, the blog was to be a parking lot for anecdotes about my girls — a kind of arms-length approach to reporting news on our family. The first entry was even in the third person. I felt uncomfortable, like I was writing about the stray cats I see wandering around our neighbourhood. I feel a little more connected to my children than that. So I found my first-person voice.
And quickly, the blog evolved into a kind of sounding board for my experiences as a mother, my life of parenting two little girls. The foreign-ness of it. The deep intimacy of it. The blog has become more about me and less about them. And, I hope, it resonates with other parents out there. Like Susan who wrote that her little Samantha does similar things, and hey, how do you deal with that? And I hope that it helps my friends out there who are still free (uh, I mean childless!) to understand me better or even to get a glimpse into that weird club of Parents. And I hope that in the process I can amuse a few or cause some to reflect on their own experiences as children of parents...
Whether you've been with me since day one or are joining me today, thanks for stopping in.
Cristina
When Maïa was about a year old, I had created a website; I had learned html code, a good friend of mine offered to host my site for free, and I thought it would be fun for others keep up with our family via the web. I had had the habit of sending out mass emails every few months to update everyone on our lives, and I found that a bit invasive (though I like receiving such emails from others). I figured it would be more fun if there was a place everyone could go to voluntarily. But soon, it fell out of use for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it takes time to write up all that code! And I was pregnant and not feeling so energetic...
When we left our hometown of Ottawa, almost 15 months ago now, I felt disconnected from everyone. I imagined that our friends and family there would want to know what our girls were doing and how they were growing. A website was too much effort, but a blog would be easy, accessible, and free.
Originally, the blog was to be a parking lot for anecdotes about my girls — a kind of arms-length approach to reporting news on our family. The first entry was even in the third person. I felt uncomfortable, like I was writing about the stray cats I see wandering around our neighbourhood. I feel a little more connected to my children than that. So I found my first-person voice.
And quickly, the blog evolved into a kind of sounding board for my experiences as a mother, my life of parenting two little girls. The foreign-ness of it. The deep intimacy of it. The blog has become more about me and less about them. And, I hope, it resonates with other parents out there. Like Susan who wrote that her little Samantha does similar things, and hey, how do you deal with that? And I hope that it helps my friends out there who are still free (uh, I mean childless!) to understand me better or even to get a glimpse into that weird club of Parents. And I hope that in the process I can amuse a few or cause some to reflect on their own experiences as children of parents...
Whether you've been with me since day one or are joining me today, thanks for stopping in.
Cristina
Sunday, October 08, 2006
A comment on comments
Dear reader,
I have noticed as of late that you have not been posting any comments. And I know that you're out there, reading this blog. And often enough, I know that you think, That's funny, or, That's stupid, or, There's a silly typo here, or, Hey, that happened to my kid and my story is better... Whatever you're thinking, I would like to hear it.
You see, dear reader, I feel like I'm writing into the ether. Some of you might be shy because you think your comments are dumb. To you I say (in my best teacher voice), There are no stupid comments, only stupid readers who don't comment. Or you might be thinking that you don't know me personally and so you shouldn't post. To you I say, I comment on strangers' blogs and they seem to enjoy it, and I know that I would enjoy hearing from you, too, anonymous reader. Or you might be thinking that you're the only one who comments. And to you I say, I know!! Try to get the others to comment too!
And dear reader, I am talking to YOU. Not to the other reader, but to you. To brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law and cousins and cousins-in-law, parents (in-laws and natural), aunts and uncles, dear friends, near friends, new friends, far friends, husband, former colleagues, friends-of-friends, random readers who have stumbled across my blog...
Why? I have a few reasons in mind: one, so that I know that you're actually out there. Two, to get feedback on my writing. Three, to create a kind of virtual community. Four, 'cause I like you guys. Five, it's fun.
So do it. Now. To this very entry. Try this on as an idea: write a comment explaining why you don't usually comment on this blog. Ha. I dare ya.
I have noticed as of late that you have not been posting any comments. And I know that you're out there, reading this blog. And often enough, I know that you think, That's funny, or, That's stupid, or, There's a silly typo here, or, Hey, that happened to my kid and my story is better... Whatever you're thinking, I would like to hear it.
You see, dear reader, I feel like I'm writing into the ether. Some of you might be shy because you think your comments are dumb. To you I say (in my best teacher voice), There are no stupid comments, only stupid readers who don't comment. Or you might be thinking that you don't know me personally and so you shouldn't post. To you I say, I comment on strangers' blogs and they seem to enjoy it, and I know that I would enjoy hearing from you, too, anonymous reader. Or you might be thinking that you're the only one who comments. And to you I say, I know!! Try to get the others to comment too!
And dear reader, I am talking to YOU. Not to the other reader, but to you. To brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law and cousins and cousins-in-law, parents (in-laws and natural), aunts and uncles, dear friends, near friends, new friends, far friends, husband, former colleagues, friends-of-friends, random readers who have stumbled across my blog...
Why? I have a few reasons in mind: one, so that I know that you're actually out there. Two, to get feedback on my writing. Three, to create a kind of virtual community. Four, 'cause I like you guys. Five, it's fun.
So do it. Now. To this very entry. Try this on as an idea: write a comment explaining why you don't usually comment on this blog. Ha. I dare ya.
The running game
Ever since Solanne could interact with anyone, I have always thought, Gee, how it must suck to be the little sister. You know, the little sister always has to do what the big sister says — at best, the little sister can say no, but she will fear retribution because the big sister will then just ignore her. The big sister gets to make up the games; the little sister usually follows and never gets to make any of it up. The big sister usually gets first pick because she's on the ball; the little sister gets seconds. The big sister decides when it's time to be done a game; the little sister just has to live with the fact that it's done.
In our house, there is one particular game that gets played a lot. Maïa invented it and she calls it the Running Game. Here's some background to the game:
Maïa is partial to Cinderella. Okay, she's obsessed. She has read the Disney version that used to be mine and seen the Disney movie. She knows the differences between the two (turns out, in one version, the prince picks up the slipper and in another, it's the grand duke). She loves to wear any dress that falls below her knees, and it's a special bonus if it's actually blue, because it reminds her of Cinderella's ballgown. She falls into some sort of religious ecstasy when we read the book and turn to the page where the fairy-godmother transforms Cinderella's dress into a gown.
--
Sidebar: Derek and I were quite diligent in keeping our home princess-free. We never watched the Disney movies or talked about princesses etc, all for reasons too complicated to discuss here. Anyhow, after less than a month in daycare, when she had just turned three, the princesses came into our lives for good (and evil?).
--
We have dress-up clothes (none of that overpriced-Disney-fall-apart-after-three-uses stuff; real cast-offs from long ago). There is one yellow mini dress that my mother used to wear some time in the seventies that now makes a lovely ball gown for a preschooler. Maïa loves it, and she calls it her Cinderella dress. And she has these pink corduroy slippers that she has always called her glass slippers. Of course, they get paired with the yellow dress (which is, by the way, according to Maïa, a blue dress).
Maïa is the princess, and Solanne is the prince. Whether or not she actually knows this is still a mystery to us, but she wants to play with Maïa, so she follows the instructions as best she can. Solanne doesn't require a costume for this game, but Maïa usually vocalises the fact that Solanne is wearing a suit. Anyhow, over the course of a morning a few weeks ago, Maïa developed this very sophisticated scenario. It begins in the kitchen, which is at the back of the house. She starts to run toward the front of the house (there is a long hallway that goes from front to back, and it's over 50 feet long). Before she's out of the kitchen, she loses one of her slippers. She does this without slowing down; it's an incredibly complicated move that she has perfected. Solanne is then instructed to "Get the slipper!" Solanne swoops in and grabs the slipper as Maïa makes her escape to the office (at the front of the house). Solanne is expected to follow and then place the slipper on Maïa's foot. Then they run back to the kitchen and start over again.
Maïa never tires of the game, and at first, neither did Solanne. But she's starting to tell Maïa that she's tired of the game, or, gasp, doesn't even want to play in the first place. And then I see that it's not so easy being the big sister. You design these intricate and amazingly fun games to play with your little sister, and she just ditches you so she can play peek out of the livingroom closet. Who wants to play those baby games when you can have magic and royalty?
In our house, there is one particular game that gets played a lot. Maïa invented it and she calls it the Running Game. Here's some background to the game:
Maïa is partial to Cinderella. Okay, she's obsessed. She has read the Disney version that used to be mine and seen the Disney movie. She knows the differences between the two (turns out, in one version, the prince picks up the slipper and in another, it's the grand duke). She loves to wear any dress that falls below her knees, and it's a special bonus if it's actually blue, because it reminds her of Cinderella's ballgown. She falls into some sort of religious ecstasy when we read the book and turn to the page where the fairy-godmother transforms Cinderella's dress into a gown.
--
Sidebar: Derek and I were quite diligent in keeping our home princess-free. We never watched the Disney movies or talked about princesses etc, all for reasons too complicated to discuss here. Anyhow, after less than a month in daycare, when she had just turned three, the princesses came into our lives for good (and evil?).
--
We have dress-up clothes (none of that overpriced-Disney-fall-apart-after-three-uses stuff; real cast-offs from long ago). There is one yellow mini dress that my mother used to wear some time in the seventies that now makes a lovely ball gown for a preschooler. Maïa loves it, and she calls it her Cinderella dress. And she has these pink corduroy slippers that she has always called her glass slippers. Of course, they get paired with the yellow dress (which is, by the way, according to Maïa, a blue dress).
Maïa is the princess, and Solanne is the prince. Whether or not she actually knows this is still a mystery to us, but she wants to play with Maïa, so she follows the instructions as best she can. Solanne doesn't require a costume for this game, but Maïa usually vocalises the fact that Solanne is wearing a suit. Anyhow, over the course of a morning a few weeks ago, Maïa developed this very sophisticated scenario. It begins in the kitchen, which is at the back of the house. She starts to run toward the front of the house (there is a long hallway that goes from front to back, and it's over 50 feet long). Before she's out of the kitchen, she loses one of her slippers. She does this without slowing down; it's an incredibly complicated move that she has perfected. Solanne is then instructed to "Get the slipper!" Solanne swoops in and grabs the slipper as Maïa makes her escape to the office (at the front of the house). Solanne is expected to follow and then place the slipper on Maïa's foot. Then they run back to the kitchen and start over again.
Maïa never tires of the game, and at first, neither did Solanne. But she's starting to tell Maïa that she's tired of the game, or, gasp, doesn't even want to play in the first place. And then I see that it's not so easy being the big sister. You design these intricate and amazingly fun games to play with your little sister, and she just ditches you so she can play peek out of the livingroom closet. Who wants to play those baby games when you can have magic and royalty?
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Anniversary
On a sometime rainy, sometime beautiful day five years and one day ago, Derek and I were married. We celebrated our fifth anniversary last night by leaving the kids with their Nana at Great-Gramma and Great-Grampa's house. Thanks to the three of them for taking on a sleepover with a toddler and a preschooler (and Momma forgot to pack the suce!).
In French, the word anniversaire is used both for birthdays and anniversaries. I rather like the connotation that anniversaries are the same as (or at least very similar to) birthdays: on that Thanksgiving weekend five years ago, something new was born. I hadn't really understood what it was or that it was being born or even how fragile the entity was. But I knew that something of great magnitude was happening. I guess that's why we threw that big party.
With a lot of work and a good measure of fun, Derek and I have nurtured the "us" that was born that day. We made these fantastic promises to see each other through all kinds of tragedies and celebrations. Little did we know what we would have in store in the first (and short) five years. Two children, two bouts of depression, grad school, two moves (one to a new city), a near-death experience for one of our parents and the subsequent long recovery, at least ten different jobs between the two of us, Mexico, Egypt, Cuba, Nova Scotia, saying hello to new friends and slowly letting go of some old ones, learning-learning-learning in ways we hadn't even conceived possible, laughing, crying, sighing. And here we are, five years in, and I can safely say that I am completely head-over-heels in love with my husband and best friend. I'll also easily admit that I haven't necessarily been in love with him every day in the past five years — though I have loved him every day — but over the course of the summer and with some effort to make time for just the two of us I have had the opportunity to fall in love all over again.
Ah, the faces of innocence. Beautiful.
In French, the word anniversaire is used both for birthdays and anniversaries. I rather like the connotation that anniversaries are the same as (or at least very similar to) birthdays: on that Thanksgiving weekend five years ago, something new was born. I hadn't really understood what it was or that it was being born or even how fragile the entity was. But I knew that something of great magnitude was happening. I guess that's why we threw that big party.
With a lot of work and a good measure of fun, Derek and I have nurtured the "us" that was born that day. We made these fantastic promises to see each other through all kinds of tragedies and celebrations. Little did we know what we would have in store in the first (and short) five years. Two children, two bouts of depression, grad school, two moves (one to a new city), a near-death experience for one of our parents and the subsequent long recovery, at least ten different jobs between the two of us, Mexico, Egypt, Cuba, Nova Scotia, saying hello to new friends and slowly letting go of some old ones, learning-learning-learning in ways we hadn't even conceived possible, laughing, crying, sighing. And here we are, five years in, and I can safely say that I am completely head-over-heels in love with my husband and best friend. I'll also easily admit that I haven't necessarily been in love with him every day in the past five years — though I have loved him every day — but over the course of the summer and with some effort to make time for just the two of us I have had the opportunity to fall in love all over again.
Ah, the faces of innocence. Beautiful.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
More Maïa swimming adventures
Well, I can certainly say that Maïa is not the fastest swimmer in her group. She is not the most agile. She is, however, the most graceful — most times. She just seems to float along gently, either holding onto the noodle or her instructor. Her little legs flutter about in a motion that reminds me of the movement of a seahorse's fins. I remember being in that aquarium in New Orleans with Derek, when I was three months pregnant with Maïa, and being utterly fascinated by the tiny creatures whose fins looked thinner than onion-leaf paper and fluttered slowly and elegantly. And somehow those little fins managed to propel them about. That's what Maïa's little legs look like in the water from my vantage point in the mezzanine overlooking our local Y pool.
Man, is she ever cute.
Man, is she ever cute.
Monday, September 25, 2006
In retrospect...
Life with children is so often in-the-moment that it is hard to get some perspective on it all. I imagine it's because the children themselves live so much in the here and now. Their pasts seem to be so obscure to them, and their futures are utterly unimaginable, past suppertime.
Living in the moment can be a great blessing. Especially for someone like me, someone who constantly obsesses about what's going to happen next, what our plans are for next week, next month, next century... if we live that long ('cause you never know, you know). I have a zillion maps in my head, all charting out our paths, with different courses, all depending on what happens next...
So living now is good for me. Only, I end up falling into another trap. When Maïa screams at her sister or hits her, I (vaguely) imagine her doing it forever, as though as a thirty-year-old she would lash out in such a way. I often find it impossible to take a moment and think that perhaps things will change. That perhaps we will, at some point, not have a nearly-four-year-old and a nearly-two-year-old. That in fact, we will one day have a ten-year-old and an eight-year-old... and tons of other combinations that I won't bore you with. Indeed, one day, if we keep on reminding her that it's not okay to do X, she will know it (whether or not she continues to do it is another matter altogether). I am learning, however. So I try to see the funny things...
Derek and I went out for dinner at some friends' place. We had our regular sitter come over and look after the girls. It was the first time that she was responsible for putting both children to bed all on her own. We thought it would be all right...
When we got home, our fifteen-year-old sitter Megan told us about Maïa convincing her that we let her sleep with Solanne in her crib. There was much moving around (and jumping, I assume) in the little crib. Finally, after trying to settle them both into the crib without success, Megan took Maïa out. There was another story about bringing certain toys to bed (none are allowed save Clicky). And another story about taking a suce (she hasn't had one since she was 18 months). And another about a drink of water from a cup, which had to be left by her bedside in case she needed it because she was coughing and Mummy and Daddy always give her water when she's coughing because it makes the tickle go away... And, in the light of day, there were the toys and books strewn about the floor of the bedroom, the lost suce, the spilled water, the messed up crib, and the very, very, very tired children. I was not happy.
Yet in retrospect, it's pretty funny. I have to chuckle when I think of it. A little perspective goes a long way.
Living in the moment can be a great blessing. Especially for someone like me, someone who constantly obsesses about what's going to happen next, what our plans are for next week, next month, next century... if we live that long ('cause you never know, you know). I have a zillion maps in my head, all charting out our paths, with different courses, all depending on what happens next...
So living now is good for me. Only, I end up falling into another trap. When Maïa screams at her sister or hits her, I (vaguely) imagine her doing it forever, as though as a thirty-year-old she would lash out in such a way. I often find it impossible to take a moment and think that perhaps things will change. That perhaps we will, at some point, not have a nearly-four-year-old and a nearly-two-year-old. That in fact, we will one day have a ten-year-old and an eight-year-old... and tons of other combinations that I won't bore you with. Indeed, one day, if we keep on reminding her that it's not okay to do X, she will know it (whether or not she continues to do it is another matter altogether). I am learning, however. So I try to see the funny things...
Derek and I went out for dinner at some friends' place. We had our regular sitter come over and look after the girls. It was the first time that she was responsible for putting both children to bed all on her own. We thought it would be all right...
When we got home, our fifteen-year-old sitter Megan told us about Maïa convincing her that we let her sleep with Solanne in her crib. There was much moving around (and jumping, I assume) in the little crib. Finally, after trying to settle them both into the crib without success, Megan took Maïa out. There was another story about bringing certain toys to bed (none are allowed save Clicky). And another story about taking a suce (she hasn't had one since she was 18 months). And another about a drink of water from a cup, which had to be left by her bedside in case she needed it because she was coughing and Mummy and Daddy always give her water when she's coughing because it makes the tickle go away... And, in the light of day, there were the toys and books strewn about the floor of the bedroom, the lost suce, the spilled water, the messed up crib, and the very, very, very tired children. I was not happy.
Yet in retrospect, it's pretty funny. I have to chuckle when I think of it. A little perspective goes a long way.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Once upon a rainy Labour Day
This is how we spent our last day before back-to-school and back-to-daycare and back-to-work:
painting
movie time
lunch break: home-made sushi and miso "shoop"
some reading
talking to Grandma
and a little pre-bedtime tickling
...even Ta and Clicky get in on the tickling action
painting
movie time
lunch break: home-made sushi and miso "shoop"
some reading
talking to Grandma
and a little pre-bedtime tickling
...even Ta and Clicky get in on the tickling action
Just because it's funny...
Solanne is well into language-acquisition: she's been making short sentences for about a month and a half now, she repeats almost everything we say, and she is interested in new sounds. But there are still glitches in the system: she hasn't got all the consonents and vowel sounds down, yet. So things come out a little strangely.
Yesterday, Derek was reading to the girls; it was a book about foxes. Well, Sol's "au" sound (which is required to say fox) is a little off and sounds more like "uh," and she doesn't always manage to say the final "s" in every word... With a little deduction, you can understand why I laughed every time she said it. Derek warned me that I would have to stop, otherwise she would keep saying it. And I guess it's only funny a couple of times, and then it gets old and perhaps misunderstood when you go out.
Which brings me to another story. When Maïa was about the same age, she, too, had some difficulty with some words. Frog often came out without an "r" and with the "o" sounding more like an "a." "L"s were difficult, so clock was also amusing. But within context, most people didn't think twice about what our child was saying... until, that is one day when we were happily shopping in the housewares section at the Bay. Maïa got very excited when she saw something novel, and she liked to let us know, at the loudest decibel she could. So the frog clock was... well, a little embarrassing.
Yesterday, Derek was reading to the girls; it was a book about foxes. Well, Sol's "au" sound (which is required to say fox) is a little off and sounds more like "uh," and she doesn't always manage to say the final "s" in every word... With a little deduction, you can understand why I laughed every time she said it. Derek warned me that I would have to stop, otherwise she would keep saying it. And I guess it's only funny a couple of times, and then it gets old and perhaps misunderstood when you go out.
Which brings me to another story. When Maïa was about the same age, she, too, had some difficulty with some words. Frog often came out without an "r" and with the "o" sounding more like an "a." "L"s were difficult, so clock was also amusing. But within context, most people didn't think twice about what our child was saying... until, that is one day when we were happily shopping in the housewares section at the Bay. Maïa got very excited when she saw something novel, and she liked to let us know, at the loudest decibel she could. So the frog clock was... well, a little embarrassing.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
These eyes
To me, these eyes are magic. I look into them and see so much beauty. But more than what I see in them is the magic that I get to see through them everyday. To a child who is happy, the world is new, it is surprising, and it is magic. Here are a few things that Solanne has taught me to see:
The tiny dust motes that float around in the sunlight that streams in through the window look like stars.
A violin is a small guitar.
Baby Cookie Monster looks like Baby Elmo (even if he's blue).
There are flowers, birds, and cats everywhere in our neighbourhood.
There are a surprising number of O's and A's in the world.
"Blue" is not so much a colour as a feeling; if there's something that makes her feel happy, it's blue.
I am beautiful.
The sky is something we can touch, if only someone big enough would hold us up.
We have a cat in our floor.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Solannese
Just in case you run into Solanne without her handy interpreters (Derek, Maïa, and me), here are a few key words and phrases you will hear her say but might not understand:
o' dee: I'll do it
papopo-yê: s'il-te-plaît lait (please, milk)
wee bo: read the book
upee do: stairs (up and down)
papo: poussette (stroller)
wa-too-fee-fo-fie-si: one, two, three, four, five, six
wa hay: wash hands
co eye: close eyes
opee eye: open eyes
go beebee: gros bébé (big baby)
a wa'see: I want to see
pie: please
kink'oo: thank you
messy: merci
soussee: sourcils (eyebrows)
yooyoo: lulus (pigtails)
awee: put it away
sussa: suce (pacifier)
cha: chien (dog)
ta: cat
bu': bird
ow sye: outside
i' sye: inside
cou cou: cours, cours (run, run)
bico: bicycle
kiki: Clickey
dayee: daddy
gayee: grandma
gago: grampa
o' dee: I'll do it
papopo-yê: s'il-te-plaît lait (please, milk)
wee bo: read the book
upee do: stairs (up and down)
papo: poussette (stroller)
wa-too-fee-fo-fie-si: one, two, three, four, five, six
wa hay: wash hands
co eye: close eyes
opee eye: open eyes
go beebee: gros bébé (big baby)
a wa'see: I want to see
pie: please
kink'oo: thank you
messy: merci
soussee: sourcils (eyebrows)
yooyoo: lulus (pigtails)
awee: put it away
sussa: suce (pacifier)
cha: chien (dog)
ta: cat
bu': bird
ow sye: outside
i' sye: inside
cou cou: cours, cours (run, run)
bico: bicycle
kiki: Clickey
dayee: daddy
gayee: grandma
gago: grampa
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Milestone: pipi
Today, Solanne asked to go potty and she actually produced some pipi! For the past month or so, she has been interested in the potty again — well, she's been interested in the toilet (perhaps the potty is below her). It all started when she began walking around outdoors in a bathing suit, sans diaper. She would notice when she wet herself. Soon enough, she would proudly announce, "pipi!" before she actually wet. She even started noticing with her diaper on.
A few other signs that she is ready have manifested themselves: she has started wanting to dress herself (she wants to do everything herself), she wants to sit on the toilet, and she knows when she has a dirty bum. I think we may be on the road to a diaper-free era in our household. I know it's a slow road, but it's the beginning...
To those non-parents out there reading this entry, my interest in potty training or potty learning, as is more politically correct, may seem to be bordering on obsessive. There are milestones in our children's lives that as parents we celebrate more than others. Some folks are more touched by their children's first steps or their first teeth. Others may look forward to first words or the first taste of "solid" foods. But most of us, I believe, look forward to the end of diapers. No more stinky bums, no more expenses (either of the disposibles or of the cost of hot water and detergent to wash cotton nappies), no more diaper rash, no more giant bag of diapers, cloths/wipes, creams, and hand sanitizer to carry around. Ah, the freedom.
A few other signs that she is ready have manifested themselves: she has started wanting to dress herself (she wants to do everything herself), she wants to sit on the toilet, and she knows when she has a dirty bum. I think we may be on the road to a diaper-free era in our household. I know it's a slow road, but it's the beginning...
To those non-parents out there reading this entry, my interest in potty training or potty learning, as is more politically correct, may seem to be bordering on obsessive. There are milestones in our children's lives that as parents we celebrate more than others. Some folks are more touched by their children's first steps or their first teeth. Others may look forward to first words or the first taste of "solid" foods. But most of us, I believe, look forward to the end of diapers. No more stinky bums, no more expenses (either of the disposibles or of the cost of hot water and detergent to wash cotton nappies), no more diaper rash, no more giant bag of diapers, cloths/wipes, creams, and hand sanitizer to carry around. Ah, the freedom.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Random things they do...
Nana and Grampa live in the country, so there are a lot of flies around and a few manage to get into the house. Nana hunts them down with her fly-swatter. Solanne is very interested in such activity, and after staying at her grandparents' house for nearly two weeks, she has become the official "fly-spotter" of the family: "Nana!!! fie! fie! Nana-fie!!"
———
Maïa: Do you smell that smell that is happening?
———
Both of them run around Nana and Grampa's huge back yard, playing with the cats. The bolla-bats (remember those??) have become a toy called "cat-ball" and the skipping ropes are also great cat toys. The kitties keep the children busy, on average, at least one or two hours per day.
———
The two of them have been known to empty the kiddie pool with their water cans: they often head in the area of Nana's vines, which has never looked so well loved.
———
Aunty Naomi has given them some plastic beads she obtained from a pride parade she ran into in NYC. The beads have been divied up between them, and both girls enjoy stuffing their respective hauls into their respective rain boots.
———
Solanne now refers to herself as "Sa."
———
Solanne has already begun using such personal pronouns as "me" and "mine" and "my." I guess being a second child will bring that about more quickly...
———
Maïa: Do you smell that smell that is happening?
———
Both of them run around Nana and Grampa's huge back yard, playing with the cats. The bolla-bats (remember those??) have become a toy called "cat-ball" and the skipping ropes are also great cat toys. The kitties keep the children busy, on average, at least one or two hours per day.
———
The two of them have been known to empty the kiddie pool with their water cans: they often head in the area of Nana's vines, which has never looked so well loved.
———
Aunty Naomi has given them some plastic beads she obtained from a pride parade she ran into in NYC. The beads have been divied up between them, and both girls enjoy stuffing their respective hauls into their respective rain boots.
———
Solanne now refers to herself as "Sa."
———
Solanne has already begun using such personal pronouns as "me" and "mine" and "my." I guess being a second child will bring that about more quickly...
Maïa's theology
Maïa is a very thoughtful little girl who does a lot of wondering. Intermittently, she becomes interested in God, in heaven, and in the great universe. We're working through who God is and what happens when one dies — not the easiest of topics for anyone to grapple with. Here are some snatches of conversations we've had over the past couple of months:
Maïa: God is not a he or a she. God is it.
Derek: Well, Maïa, it's true that God isn't a he or a she, but we call God he and sometimes even she.
Maïa: No. God is IT.
———
Maïa: When I die, I will become a skull in heaven.
———
Derek: That's a cemetery, Maïa. That's where we put the bodies of people when they die.
Maïa: That's heaven, Daddy.
Maïa: God is not a he or a she. God is it.
Derek: Well, Maïa, it's true that God isn't a he or a she, but we call God he and sometimes even she.
Maïa: No. God is IT.
———
Maïa: When I die, I will become a skull in heaven.
———
Derek: That's a cemetery, Maïa. That's where we put the bodies of people when they die.
Maïa: That's heaven, Daddy.
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