Where do they learn these things?

Although I don't have a formal learning time at home, I do spend some time each day teaching Colin new things. Sometimes we learn to count by counting the number of toy cars in his box or how many strawberries on his plate. He has magnetic letters on the fridge through which he has learned his alphabet. We sing songs to learn music or to learn body parts. We talk about how things are big and small, and what colours they are. He has a natural curiosity in him, and always asks "what's this?" for something that is new to him. We pick up toys or household machines and figure out how they work. The other day a singing bear stopped working, and I came into the room to find the bear undressed, turned over, the velcro padding and a zipper undone, the battery lid slid off and the batteries taken out. Colin promptly looked up to me and said "needs new batteries!" (sidenote: we had never taken apart this bear - he just managed to figure out how to get to the route of the problem!)

So today on a long car ride home from a morning trip out, calling started to meow like a cat. I jumped at what I thought would be a great learning opportunity. We have talked about cat's meowing at home before, because we have a pet cat. But animal sounds isn't something I'd covered.

Mommy: What animal says "meow", Colin?
Colin: A cat!
Mommy: And do you know what a dog says?
Colin: Woof!
(Mommy is totally surprised and decides to take this further)
Mommy: And what does a cow say?
Colin: Cow says moo.
Mommy: What does a pig say?
Colin: Pig says oink oink oink. (Apparently pigs are chatty creatures)
Mommy: What does a horse say?
Colin: Neigh.
Mommy: And a duck?
Colin: Duck says quack.

I won't bore you with all the animals we went through (you know what they all say!), but I was blown away that somewhere along the way, with no specific learning time, Colin managed to pick all this up. Yet another reminder how quick kids are, and even if you don't think they're learning anything, they are absorbing the environment around them like little sponges.

(Sidenote: The other day James, trying to be funny, turned to Colin and said "Est-ce que to me comprends quand je parle en francais?" [Translation: "Do you understand me when I speak French?"] Without blinking an eye, Colin replied: "Nope." In time, Colin, in time.)

To Each Artist His (or Her) Own

I was born an artist. I have been an actor, a musician, a poet, a novelist, a sketcher, a playwright, a director, a filmmaker, a photographer, a graphic designer, a dancer...I don't think any artist ever pursues just one art. We have a need to express ourselves through these mediums; we have messages and beauty we want to share with the world. Those of you who are fellow artists innately understand what I mean.

So for those of you who are artists, or those of you who appreciate art, here is a story for you. It's a little on the long side, so make sure you've got a few minutes before starting it, but I found it truly charming. Here's to following dreams, and finding the artist in each of us.

"Diva of the Desert"

In the scorched wasteland of Death Valley, California, lies one of the most unusual theaters in America: the Amargosa Opera House. The quirk is that no opera is ever performed there - only ballet. And there is only one performer: a prima ballerina named Marta Becket, who at 79 years of age still performs her solo show in the desert, as she has for the last 38 years.

In 1967 Becket, a dancer and artist from New York, was on a camping trip in the desert with her husband. When they had a flat tire on their trailer, a local park ranger told them they could get it fixed in Death Valley Junction. The town had been built in the 1920s by the Pacific Coast Borax Company to house its mine workers...Aside from the old company offices, there was a 23-room hotel with a lavishly painted lobby, still open for business, and something that really caught [Marta's] eye: a rundown community center known as Corkhill Hall.

Peeking through a hold in Corkhill's door, she saw a small stage with tattered cotton curtains. Trash was strewn between the wooden benches that faced the stage. Marta said later, "Peering through the tiny hole, I had the distinct feeling that I was looking at the other half of myself. The building seemed to be saying, 'take me...do something with me...I offer you life.'"

Marta...rented the hall for $45 a month. Six months later, on February 10, 1968, she gave her first performance. There were 12 people in the audience, all of them locals curious to see what the peculiar lady from New York was up to. Occasionally, curious tourists would wander in. Sometimes no on was there at all. Marta always performed no matter what. One night she had just begun her performance to an empty house when four people came in. They sat quietly, applauded politely at the curtain call, and left. Becket thought nothing of it until a few months later, when an article about her appeared in National Geographic magazine. After that, audiences grew. Locals kept coming back; at first they came to gawk and laugh, but left strangely moved by the sight of this intense woman following her muse wherever it led her.

Although age has forced her to cut back the number of performances she gives each week (she only performs on weekends now) she still begins promptly at 8:15pm.

"I am grateful," she says, "to have found the place where I can fulfill my dreams and share them with the passing scene...for as long as I can."

My son the sculptor

Okay - this is totally a bragging-mom entry. It starts this way:

"My son is so smart..."

Yesterday Colin and I were building with the megablocks. I would build something (castle, house, helicopter, etc) and then he would randomly add blocks to the creation until he pronounced it finished (usually once all the blocks were used up). After a taking a photo, we would dismantle the item and start again. At one point, I made a giraffe. The giraffe went for a ride in the train and ate some food, and then was dismantled. About 15 minutes later, while building a castle, I hadn't noticed that Colin was building on his own. After a few minutes, there was a little tap on my shoulder. Colin proudly held out his creation, announcing "giraffe!"

I was amazed. He had searched through the blocks to find the ones I had used for the giraffe, and done a fairly decent job at re-building the one I had done! okay, so it's missing legs and the neck grows into it's mouth - but for a two-year-old's first attempt - I'd say he's pretty amazing!

Here are the photos (hopefully you can tell which one is mine!)

The family in the community

Isn't this a beautiful image of how families and communities could be? This excerpt is pulled from a book I'm reading about life in Judea around 30 AD. The characters are about to embark on a two-week walk to Jerusalem for the Feast of the Tabernacles, along with numerous other families of their town:

"Once they started on the march, there would be no effort to keep individual families together. The group was like one large family anyway. The children would gather into rough age groups to play and be together. Whichever family was closest to a given group would keep an eye on them. Most of the men would move out to the head of the column, watching for problems and setting the pace. The women would likewise gather in groups to visit as they walked. The caravan was really much like a rolling village, with family groups taking precedence only at meal times and at night."

I hope that, come the good weather, we'll be able to meet many more people in our neighbourhood and spark a little bit of this spirit in our own community.

Hibernation

I am growing weary of the winter. The snowflakes still fall and gracefully blanket the ground; the sun still rises into the clear blue sky that signifies a deep chill in the air; none of the beauty of the season is lost, and yet I grow tired of it all.

I am a hibernating creature. For whatever physical reason, I feel the cold in my body deeper than most. When I step outside, I am bundled in layer upon layer upon layer. (I am often mocked for my obvious lack of Canadian blood. I tell them I have Australian blood running through me.) No matter my positive outlook or clothing preparation, it's only a matter of minutes before every bone in my body is chilled to the point of giving up my attempts to enjoy this beautiful season. Not even my love of hockey, skating and sledding can conquer my body's natural reaction. For the most part, I spend these months inside. Which grows tortuous for one like me who needs to regularly commune with the natural world outside.

I usually sit at my kitchen table to write these entries, which means I'm gazing out our back window. This makes a lovely frame onto a winter vista. It also feels like staring out a prison window, the bars of the frame casting a shadow onto my table. Each day I look out and feel the weight of being inside bear down.

"I'm dreaming of a green spring, just like the ones I used to know-
With the treetops budding, and children playing
And birds flying to and fro
I'm dreaming of green spring, with every blog entry I write
May the days be warm and bright, and may my toes not get frostbite."

Actually, I'm dreaming of my new fence, a beautiful green lawn, Colin spending his energy running about in the fresh air, Caleb sitting out on a blanket and me stretched out with my book. I'm dreaming about planting my first garden (!) and sipping lemonade and grilling hamburgers and vegetables and corn and fish on the barbecue. I'm dreaming about getting to know my neighbours and having my friends and their children over to play and eat in the backyard. I can almost feel the sun beating down on my skin, that warm hug that envelops you with its rays.

But for now, I hibernate. It's not all that bad. Usually hibernation involves food also, and so I take comfort in some delightful snacks - my two greatest weaknesses being chocolate cookies with milk, and fruit salad. I know come summer I'll dream again of white winters, rosy cheeks and frosted noses, hot chocolate and softly falling snow. Ah, why can't we ever be completely satisfied with what we have?!

Mommy Time-Outs

Today my friends (fellow work at home mothers) and I were talking about the need for time to ourselves. I am blessed to have my own mother come by once a week to take Colin for a few hours in the evening, so that I can have a break. James handles Caleb and I am able to do all those things I wish I could do during the week but can't. Sometimes I go out, sometimes I stay in (locked in my bedroom or in taking a bath); I run errands, or do the accounting, or scrapbook, or escape to a coffee shop to read a few chapters of a book.

My friends were saying how rare it is they get time away. Granted with a newborn, it's a little harder, but I still believe it's important. I don't believe I can be effective as a wife and mother if I'm not taking care of myself. It's an important chain, where one link must be strong enough to support those underneath it - and that first link is me.

So to all mothers reading this blog - be sure to take time for yourself. Ask your husband to have a "Daddy-kids night". Buddy up with another work-at-home mom and take each others' kids once a week, even for an hour. Call up your family for a little extra help - it's a sign of strength, not weakness - they will probably love a chance to hang out with nieces and nephews.

And don't forget - while a date night with your husband is important to have, this one is just for you!

Cooking in the Kitchen

I think I've missed my other calling in life. I have recently found that I love to cook. I dabbled in this hobby growing up, usually because cooking a meal once a week was a chore in our household. I think back then I probably made a lot of spaghetti, or maybe threw some frozen meat in the oven and added a can of vegetables.

Now, I'm reveling in it. Each week I take a half hour or so and browse through different recipes, choosing some favourites, adding something new, and crafting a balanced, healthy, adventurous and yummy menu for the week. I love the challenge of having something different each day, mixing up vegetarian meals with meat, traditional English dinners with exotic stir-fries, French or Spanish or Mexican or Indian or Asian cuisines.

I love to take time to cook. I often leave myself an hour to prepare dinner, so that I can do it leisurely. (I have become quite adept at tuning out the noise of a family during this time. This is James' time to be parent to both kids).

Aromas fill the house as things cook up on the stove. My fingers browse through the spice rack, pulling out this or that to add into the pot. Little bowls fill with ingredients, freshly chopped or sliced or peeled. One pot boils as the skillet hisses and the oven warms up. A symphony of colour begins to build around me. Plates are carefully (and sometimes skillfully) created to be served up to waiting mouths.

I find true pleasure in preparing to feed my family physically. It is enchanting to see their smiles of joy when I've cooked their favourite foods, or to hear their decisions on a new meal idea. I revel in the successes (Empanadas) and laugh at the failures (Pad-Thai). I have found I'm even coming to the point where I can create my own meals - most meeting with success.

I know in a few years it will be an important learning experience for my children to help me cook and prepare meals, but for now I'll use this time as my own little daily escape.