Purple cows

I hope my kids colour their cows purple.

I was at our Early Years Centre the other day and a four year old girl proudly displayed her beautifully coloured picture of a cow - bright purple. Her mother took the paper and looked over it, then commented kindly: "You silly, silly girl. Cows are supposed to be brown! Next time you'll have to make sure you colour it brown."

And you know what? Next time she probably will colour it brown, just like cows are in real life.

Is it important for her to know cows are brown? Sure - if she looked out on a field and thought the cows were actually purple, there might be a problem. But personally I think art is a time for unlimited creativity. What if someone told Jackson Pollock that painting is for portraits? Or John Cage that you can only play the 88 notes on the piano? What if the Wright brothers were told that wheels are only for the ground and not to help launch themselves into the air?

As I watch Colin and other children grow, I'm starting to believe that most people's creativity peaks around the age of 4 or 5 years. Up until this age, children are free from inhibitions and the rules imposed from outside forces. They see absolutely nothing wrong with colouring a cow purple - in fact, they probably don't even consciously decide whether or not it's an appropriate colour choice. Some burning flame of creativity chose a crayon and simply created.

Too often I hear of stories where children and youth are discouraged from thinking outside the box. Too often teachers simply want a regurgitation of what they put into their pupils minds.

James tells a story of reading "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" in high school. He posed the question in class "What if McMurphy really was crazy?" "No, he wasn't," the teacher replied. "But what if he was?" James persisted, perhaps on the brink of opening up an entirely different conversation about the book. "No, he wasn't. That's the point - he wasn't crazy." "But what-" "You're wrong," the teacher insisted and shut the door on the possibility. Now the author may very well have never intended the character to be perceived of as crazy - but what if he was? Let me tell you - a paper on "why McMurphy wasn't crazy and what is incarceration in the mental hospital says about society at the time" might get an A from the teacher, but would probably not have an original thought in it. But a paper on the idea that McMurphy really had mental issues and how the other characters aided in his demise - now that is something new and might even be read by more than one high school English teacher!

I'm an artist, and so I obviously have tendencies to nurture the artistic aspects in my children. But creativity is about so much more than purple cows. It's about free, independent thought, thinking outside the box, and societal revolution! In my books, purple cows breed the new, unheard of inventions and ideas of tomorrow.

Pass the green crayon, please.

Blubbering

I don't know when I become so emotional, but my best guess is to tie it to becoming a mother. I never used to cry. I think if I cried when I got hurt as a kid my mother would rush me to the ER. And emotionally I was a tomboy and for some reason never wanted to cry around other people when it came to feelings.

But I've just come from watching the final season premiere of ER, a show which I've seen most of over the 15 years it's been airing. I can still remember the series premiering in September 1994. I was entering high school, and my mom let me know that I could stay up late on Thursday nights to watch it, just her and I. It was "our thing". We hung in there for the first 5 years together before we started to fade from it. University brought commuting, jobs, filmmaking and a hundred other commitments, all of which edged out the show. Over the years I've come in and out, catching at least some of each season, and staying fairly on top of the characters.

And today as I watched the premiere of the 15th season, I was a total wreck. One of the lead characters lost his life; thank goodness no one was around to witness the tears streaming down my face.

As I'm sitting watching the screen, I'm telling myself inside that it's a little ridiculous. First of all, it's not real. Second of all, it's not real! Third, I'm a filmmaker myself and know all the tricks in the trade on how to manipulate a viewer's emotions. Oh yeah, and did I mention it's not real?

Didn't matter. I'm up there blubbering like a fool, with no kleenex box in site, trying to catch each word because I've got the volume at "1" because the kids are napping. Each scene milked my emotions for all they were worth, adding element upon element until there was no hope for my recovery.

You know, it wasn't even really the show itself that was making me cry, because he wasn't even a favourite character. It wasn't really the idea of death, because I haven't experienced the loss of someone really close to me, and I have a firm belief of seeing those who pass on after this life. What I think it really was, was the idea of not being able to see someone I love, someone who loves me, someone whose daily existence in my life is so important that I would feel the acute emptiness of the days without that person. I would miss their influence in my life and who I was because of him or her. All those people I see day in and day out, with whom I have seemingly mundane interactions like cooking a meal or going for a walk. The thought that one minute all that is taken from me is what really made me a sucker for that episode today.

It's not real. I know that. I also know that good stories and good writing are borrowed from our lives. What makes us connect with film and television is that we've been there, and we intimately know those emotions. And so I allowed myself a good cry, allowed myself to share it here, and now I think I'll go hammer some more pickets into my fence.

Every day things

This morning after breakfast while I lingered at the table indulging in a few friends' blogs, Colin crept up and longingly asked:

"Mommy, can I sit on your lap, just for a minute?"

My heart melted as I pulled him up, acutely aware these moments will fast disappear in the coming years.

Once on my lap he laid his head on my shoulder, gave me a quick hug, and then impishly reached for my glass of orange juice and drained it to the last drop.

Then as a peace offering, he serenaded me with "I've been workin' on the railroad".

I love my boys.

Colin keeps on learnin'

I am completely amazed at not only how much children need to learn, but how quickly they learn it also! Here's a summary of where Colin is at right now, at 2 3/4 years:

1. He can count to 20
2. He knows his left and his right.
3. He can tell you how many of something there is without needing to count it (ie: on a walk yesterday: "Look, there's three pumpkins" and "where are the two girls and one boy going?")
4. He can transfer knowledge to another context (ie: When he came home from nursery school he came across his basketball, brought it to me and said "Basketball starts with a "ba ba ba" sound!" Earlier that day he had coloured a cutout of a basketball when he learned the sound at school)
5. He knows (and will tell you) that ladybugs eat aphids, but that birds will not eat ladybugs because they taste gross.
6. His vocabulary is astonishing. He uses a whole range of synonyms for the word "gross" (including, but not limited to: disgusting, yucky, chalky, terrible, awful.) He speaks in full, proper sentences, and often strings thoughts together using "and," because," "if...then." He understands verb tenses, also. He expresses his emotions like "excited" and "sad" and tells us he's not feeling well and needs to either go to the doctor, or in the ambulance to the hospital.
7. His memory of songs is always expanding. His catalogue now includes a whole host of Michael Jackson songs (thank you, James) including "Stranger in Moscow".
8. His memory alone is amazing. He never forgets anything. If you are talking about something when he goes to sleep at night, he wakes up in the morning and continues the conversation as though you had only pressed "pause". He will recall something months later a fact he only heard once. He reminds me of things I forget all the time, which used to be a little embarrassing, but which I am growing used to now.
9. He still loves to read, devouring on average 8 books a day. He commits the story to memory instantly and will retell it throughout the day. He can also answer questions about the story, and applies what he reads to what he sees in the world around him.
10. This is a phrase he used on me this morning that made me double over in laughter inside: "Tell you what, Mommy: if Caleb goes to sleep in his stroller, then we can all walk over to Every Kids Park, if you want. Isn't that a great idea? Yep, it sure is."

(Because of my seeming inability to get myself together to scrapbook, I'm hoping these entries will serve as a good alternative for my boys down the road when they ask me at what age they accomplished certain things. Hence the daily diaries on our lives!)

Vote

My parents never discussed their personal political views as I grew up, but they taught me that to be informed and to vote is an important aspect of being a part of society. They didn't want to push their own views on me, but rather let me find my own way, listening to debates and sorting through political platforms.

I vote in every election. I read up on the party leaders and my local candidates. I try to attend our local all-candidates meeting and debate. I sort out my own feelings on the different issues and categorize them into priorities. I've always known that I should participate, but today I read an article that articulated perfectly why it's so important.

Women constitute 51% of Canadian voters. I bet I could say most of them are mothers, or have the mothering instinct in them. That means if we all got out to vote, we would have total control of who is elected to govern our country. We could have our voice heard, and lead this country where it needs to go.

Here are some excerpts from the article that inspired me today:

"Why Moms Need to Vote"

Since becoming a parent, I've tapped into something more primal, more global, more far-reaching and intuitive than a political loyalty. Yes, I (usually) identify with a particular party, but I'll back any politician, any bill or measure that I believe to be in the best interest of children. My kids. Iraqi kids. Sudanese kids. Your kids...

The problem is not our failure to vote. It's also our hesitation (frequently inspired - it's true - by exhaustion) to stand up, speak out, and rock the boat even as we're rocking the cradle. It's our failure to recognize, celebrate, and effectively seize the vast power inherent in the mothering role...

We all have dreams, and here is mine: that one day, all mothers will use their political power and voice not in the way that the media and our husbands, pastors, fathers, and political leaders direct us to, but rather as we're led by our personal wisdom, our deepest intuition, our maternal instinct...

I dream of a day when the image of a woman with a child in tow is the first one that comes to mind when people hear the word "activist." I envision a country in which voters' primary concerns revolve not around oil and money, but around the issues facing families and children, issues like health care, education, paid family leave, and flexible workplaces....I picture a day when the driving force behind politics in my country is not power or money, but maternal love.

If my experience raising three children has taught me one thing, it's this: There is no more powerful political act than mothering. There is no greater reason than my children for me to become politically involved, and there is no more important work to put my efforts to than those things that will make this world a better, safer place for my kids. And your kids, too.

First steps

Yesterday Caleb took his first steps. I thought he might be an early walker. He has been so eager to catch up with Colin. He actually walked holding onto our hands or furniture before he started crawling. As we all sat playing in our playroom last night, Caleb stood holding onto one of his favourite toys (see photo), dancing up a storm to the sounds it makes. Then, seeing me sitting across the room, he simply let go and walked over to me, about six or seven steps. Completely balanced, slow, deliberate steps! It took me by surprise. He loves to motor around holding himself up on furniture, and I just figured his first steps would be a few between furniture pieces. But this event took place simply because he saw something he wanted (me) and came over to get it.

As we bubbled over Caleb and his accomplishment, Colin (true to older brother form) exclaimed: "I can walk too!" then proceeded to crawl around the room on all fours.

4am

4am is a time of day I am seeing quite often. With a baby who rarely sleeps more than two or three hours in a row, I often find myself squinting at the clock through bleary-eyes to register the time and figure out what my next move is (let him cry a little, get a bottle, breastfeed, rock him, medicine, etc).

4am is also a very bad time of day to have to converse with another adult.

I am really starting to hate 4am.

James and I try to alternate nights getting up with Caleb, so that we can each have some semblance of sanity during the days. We seem to engage on a never-ending battle of who is more tired, whose day is more taxing, who needs the rest more, who can best (and most quickly) get Caleb back to sleep. Generally we go it alone on these nights, but once or twice a week after listening to the other person get out of bed every hour, and hearing Caleb's cries mount to long bouts of screaming, we drag ourselves out to intercede in rescue operations.

At 4am, all those little things that irk you about another person become huge giants. And all your "best" characteristics come roaring out also. The comments are snide, the digs are deep, and there arguments are senseless. The battle to rack up points for your side is not only redundant, but can descend into downright meanness. Apparently, the censor in your brain does not wake up at 4am with you, and words come tumbling out, pushed to the edge by raw emotion.

I hate 4am. Terri-Ann at 4am is not who I want to be. It is not a person I want anyone to meet, let alone my patient and enduring husband. He is the one I love most in the entire world, and too often becomes the brunt of all my negative energy storing up inside.

I want to end these 4am meetings with him. I'd love to spend every moment of every day with him, but really, a 4am rendezvous is not all that necessary. Perhaps we should kill the idea of rescue operations - it might actually be more healthy just to leave the other one to his or her own devices .

But then I realize that that isn't really what I want. What I really want is to overcome those 4am moments, not avoid them. I am not becoming a better me by evading the hard times. I want to reach down deep inside of me and be grateful when my husband pulls himself from the warmth of our bed to come to my aid. I want to remember that he is not commenting on my mothering skills after 6 hours of my inability to soothe my baby. I want to come to his side willingly when he is exhausted from work and church and family responsibilities and send him back to bed without spite. I want to be worked on by God's love so that I can reflect that love in my life, not just while the sun shines, but at 4am also.

I am not perfect. I am not perfect. I am not perfect. I cannot be perfect. Others are not and cannot be perfect. Stop expecting perfection!

And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye? Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye. (Matthew 7:3-5)