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I stared at her for a second, a little dumbfounded. How does this happen? I mean, really, how? One minute they‘re blowing spit bubbles and rolling sideways across the living room floor, and the next they‘re inquiring about the science of clouds and light. Ella just turned three. We had her birthday party at Kinsman Park under a big, old maple tree. It was a rainy day, but for the duration of the party, the clouds held back. We hung balloons in the trees and ate perhaps too many cupcakes. And living with Ella is still very much like living with a foreign exchange student. “I . . . put . . . on my . . . princess dress . . . pink!” she‘ll announce. Since turning three, she has developed quite the vocabulary. ‘Actually‘ is the word of the day around here and finds its way into every third sentence, while ‘of course‘ is used in place of yes for everything from toy cleanup to ice cream. So anyways, I told her about how clouds move across the sun. I made a fist with my hand to show the sun and with my other hand, I imitated a happy little cloud moving across and blocking out the light. This is something I love about Ella –her simple little conversations. The other day, on our way to drop her off for a play date, Ella announced that she didn‘t want to share her toy telephone with the other little girl named Zoe. “OK,” I said. “It‘s your phone, so if you don‘t want to share, you don‘t have to.” Then she said she didn‘t want to share her puppy, either. And because, in a parenting class I took once, they said that kids need to learn to own before they can share, I said, “Puppy is your special dog, so he‘s not for sharing, right?” “No. Puppy is not for sharing. Puppy is mine,” she repeated. Then we went on to have a lovely little conversation about what is and isn‘t for sharing: Is your lunch for sharing? No. Are movies for sharing? Yes – which she carried on with to herself for the rest of the drive while I sang along to my Patty Griffin CD. Last night she asked me to read the Alphabeasts book, which is the alphabet illustrated with intricate paintings of animals in various bizarre scenarios. When we got to ‘P is for Pig, tucked in for the night,‘ and she saw the pig lying in his bed with fancy chocolates spread out on his quilt, she looked at the chocolates and said, “I wish we could have those when I‘m in bed when I‘m a pig.” Now Iryn, on the other hand, who just turned six, her conversations are not simple at all, but rather dark and complicated. Like the other day, while we were all getting into the car to go out somewhere – we were late and rushed, and as we all climbed in and were fumbling for seatbelts, she asked: “Mama, is there war in Scotland?” “Nope. No war in Scotland,” I answered. And then, zoom! We were off. Sometimes – no, often – we‘ll be going about our business happily – I‘ll be making snacks or washing dishes and Iryn will be colouring, or doing something less contemplative, like playing with the loud, obnoxious, talking atlas toy, and then, out of the blue, she‘ll say, “Mama, I don‘t want you to die.” And dissolve into a heap of tears. It‘s so difficult and draining to have to snap out of doing the dishes and whatever surface thought I was lost in – like whether I should get black or caramel hair highlights, or both – and to have to engage in a conversation about life and death and fear and all those enormous things. But I do. Because you sort of have to. Kids come to wake us up. This much I know. To snap us out of ourselves. Because, left to our own devices – well, OK, left to mine – I‘d really rather not think so much about death and I would probably choose to go lethargically and numbly about my way, only to wake up at the age of 80 and wonder where my life went. I can‘t help but think that I need them – I need these little people desperately – to keep waking me up, to keep opening my eyes to things like – yes, the fact that nothing lasts forever, so – hello! –pay attention and, for crying out loud, look up for a minute or two to notice the way the light has changed in the room, the way the clouds are moving across the sky out the kitchen window. - Kim McMechan is Kelowna mother of two and a life coach specializing in supporting women and artists. She writes while the sun comes up at the window in the mornings. Her column appears every other Sunday in eVent. Contact her at www.livelusciously.com. Top of Page |
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September 7, 2010, 5:47 am |