Damn kids are too smart

A few months back, my son and I had the whole “where do babies come from?” conversation. It was quite explicit and detailed, as he was no longer satisfied with the stock egg meets sperm answer. But it was fine, and aside from wishing to be a fly on the wall in the kindergarten playground the next day, the whole thing never really came up again.

This morning, out of the blue, my daughter asked from the back seat of the car, “So. Where do babies come from anyway?”

You see, she’d heard the question those few months back, but never the answer. Obviously, she was feeling a little ripped off.

“This is not a conversation I’m going to have in the 2 minutes it takes to drive you to daycare. We’ll discuss it tonight.”

I dropped her off thinking, Whew! Dodged a bullet there!

You see, I had no problem having the talk with her brother, who’s 6, but I was a little hesitant to get into it with her, at 4.

But as soon as I picked her up, the first words out of her mouth were, “Remember this morning, when we were driving to school…”

“Yes, yes. I remember.”

“So?”

“So, what happens is this. The mommy has a seed, and the daddy has a seed, and when the 2 seeds get together in a woman’s tummy, it makes a baby.”

“Uh…” my son piped up, “that’s not exactly how it happens, Mom. There aren’t 2 seeds. There’s an egg, and there’s sperm. REMEMBER?”

“Yes. I remember, sweetheart. But your sister is not quite at an age where she gets all that.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“It’s called giving age appropriate information. I only tell you guys what you can absorb, and what’s appropriate for you to know at your age.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s easy,” his sister said. “Mommy’s saying that because you’re a few years older than me, you can understand more than I can. Right, Mommy?”

“Uh, yeah…”

Except suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.

State of the children

From time to time, we’re forced to reflect on the way we’re raising our children, whether we’re instilling the right values, and whether we’re leading them down the right path.

This is one of those times, and over the past few weeks, I’ve really put a lot of thought into this.

I teach my children to stand up for what they believe in. They’re each unique individuals, both so smart, so capable. They know how to express themselves, ask questions, speak out.

They know that crying when they don’t get their way does nothing to further their cause. If they ask for something, and I refuse, they understand – at the ages of 4 and 6 – that they need to come up with a valid reason for why they should get what they ask for. They understand that they need to explain their thoughts and that pitching a fit or crying will never, ever get them what they want.

I have taught my children to have respect for others and their property. My children wouldn’t dream of touching something that didn’t belong to them without asking. And if they did, or they broke something that belonged to another, they would apologize and do whatever was necessary to make things right.

They understand that they have to work hard for everything they get in this life. They understand that life isn’t fair. They understand that just because one person gets something, it doesn’t mean that they deserve the same thing – even if that other person is their sibling.

But they’re smart, and they rise to a challenge. I am fully confident, even at their young ages, that they will succeed at whatever they put their minds to in this life.

At 4 and 6, they understand the value of money. They know where it comes from, how it’s earned, and responsible ways to spend it. No, they don’t yet have a grasp on how the economy works or bigger notions of debt and fiscal responsibility on a large scale, but there’s still time for that.

And of course, even knowing all this, they still want the toy in the dispenser at the front of the restaurant.

The important thing is that they understand nothing is free. People don’t deserve anything. People aren’t automatically entitled to anything. Yes, birthdays and special occasions come and go, and they get gifts. Yes, they have grandparents who spoil them. Yes, my husband will come home from one of his frequent trips loaded down with guilt gifts. But they understand that these occasions are the exception, not the rule.

And yes, they’re still young. Too young to learn these life lessons? I don’t think so. I want them to grow up understanding how the world works, and have an appreciation for how we all get along, how we’re all connected, and how everyone’s actions impact everyone else.

We don’t live in isolation. We’re not protected by our little bubbles.

And this is why I’ve started talking to my son about the student strikes currently taking place in my province. I want him to understand that it’s okay to protest, to gather together in a democratic fashion and stand up for what you believe in. That he’s lucky enough to live in a country where this behaviour is not only tolerated, but encouraged.

But I also want him to understand the difference between negotiation and extortion, between civil disobedience and outright disrespect – for people’s time and their property. I want him to understand the difference between flat-out demands and intelligent debate.

For a long time, I marveled at the fact that I pay more to send him to a public kindergarten than students in this province pay for a year of university. And now, for the first time, I’m starting to think that’s money well-spent.

The Social Web: Are we all just wasting our time?

The other night, after the kids went to bed, I sat down on the couch intending to watch some television. It used to be that after the kids went to bed, I sat down on the couch to write a post, but lately things have gone in a different direction.

My hand reached for the remote, but instead picked up my smart phone. Oh, well, I figured. I’ll just play a few games of Draw Something.

A few games turned into a few more and after an hour passed I realized that it was too late to watch anything on television, much less start writing a post.

Oh, well, I consoled myself, at least I played a fun game with some good friends.

But that didn’t sound right either. I hadn’t actually played a game with any of my friends. In fact, in all likelihood, my friends probably weren’t even online while I was taking my turn. And this is completely discarding the fact that I considered spending time playing a game online spending time with friends.

How in the world did things get so fucked up?

Last week, I was at a conference where I had the privilege of seeing Clay Shirky deliver a keynote address. It was an inspiring talk and one of the things he pointed out was that some of the greatest things we’ve built on the Internet were done by people who were not employees of the site they contributed to – in fact, most of the most incredible things on the Internet were built by people in their spare time.

He used Wikipedia to demonstrate, as it’s the most obvious example. After some “back of the napkin math, but in the right order of magnitude” as he said, he figured it took 100 million man hours over 10 years to build Wikipedia. Sounds impressive, no?

So he compared that number to something else people do with their spare time: watch television. Once again he did the math and determined that we could build another Wikipedia in the same amount of time Americans spend watching television commercials. In one weekend.

And I whittle away my time playing Draw Something.

Now I’m not saying I should spend every spare moment creating something great and meaningful, but man, the amount of time I waste on games and dicking around the Internet, it’s insane.

I could be reading, or even watching TV. I know, I know, it’s television, but I get real pleasure out of watching great writing come alive on screen. I don’t watch nearly as much as I used to, but it is an art form, and I appreciate it as such. Plus, it’s a great way to just shrug off the ickiness from a bad day.

And of course, I could be writing. I should be writing. I have 2 distinct projects I should be working on, but I’m not. All my spare time is being sucked up by less important things. But easier things.

It’s easy to spend some time on Facebook, interact with a few people, and feel I’ve spent quality time with friends. But when’s the last time I went out for coffee, dinner or a even a drink with a friend? Hell, I barely even talk to them on the phone anymore.

It’s convenient. We all have such busy lives now, that it’s often impossible to connect at the same time. Varying bedtime routines, work schedules and general lifestyles interfere with being able to simply pick up the phone and call. So we text. Or leaves posts on each other’s wall. Or take the 5 minutes to write an email.

But is that really connecting?

Or are we just wasting our time?

Not so fast

Every year, my daughter’s daycare does 2 field trips – one to go sugaring off in the spring, and one to go either apple or pumpkin picking in the fall. Including my son’s stint at daycare, there have now been 10 trips in all. And up until this past Friday, I’d gone on every single one.

I used to love going with my son – we’d sit together on the bus and enjoy a great day out. I’m sure it was helpful for the teachers to have a few extra sets of hands and eyes around and I’m fortunate enough that my place of work allows for one Volunteer day per year.

This past fall was the first time I went with just my daughter, the boy having already started kindergarten. It was nice, but truth be told, she just wasn’t interested in having me around.

On the bus there, she wanted to sit with her teacher, and on the bus ride home she sat with her friend. My first reaction was Great! A seat to myself! A 30 minute nap! But there’s always that one kid whose parent didn’t come who’s desperate for an adult to cling to. I was a clear target.

And even at the apple orchard, she showed little interest in spending time with me. I shouldn’t have been surprised – she’s a social butterfly, that one. My son, the quiet one, was always happy to hang back and hang out with mom, but the girl? Forget about it. There’s dancing to be done! Apples to be picked! Friends to play with!

So when the sugaring off trip rolled around this spring, I didn’t sign up to go. I just changed departments at work and the timing wasn’t really right to be taking a day off. And I reminded myself of how invisible I was on the last trip. Throw in the fact that they went during Passover, and it was a no-brainer.

I didn’t go.

Of course, on the day, I felt miserable. My mind kept wandering to what might be going on at the sugar shack. I remembered the way she danced around the large recreation hall last time, big smiles on her face as she absorbed the music into her very bones.

But then I remembered who she was, and how she is, and realized that I can’t repeat the same experiences I had with my son with her. I’ve got to appreciate her for who she is, and who she is is one very independent little girl.

If anyone had told me 2.5 years ago that one day she’d have a life that didn’t include me at every single turn, I’d have thought them crazy, but now, some weekends, I can go for hours at a time without seeing her – even when we’re in the same house!

So that day, sitting at my desk in my office, I made a promise to myself that I’d let go. That I’d pick her up from school, ask her how the trip went without one lament of how I wish I’d gone. I would respect her need to venture out into the world on her own, and I’d have to satisfy myself with her recounting her experiences of the day without having lived them myself.

And I did. I picked her up, gave her a huge hug and asked her about her trip. She smiled, told me how great it was, looked me in the eye and said -

“But Mommy, next time, will you come with me?”

[photo by Eva Blue]

In which I feel beautiful

So a couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine sends me an email which basically says, “Hey, Julie, I’ve got to go to a photo shoot in Chicago and I’ve got some ideas I want to mess around with… mind if I experiment with you?”

“What kind of ideas?” I asked.

She then went on to explain that she planned on fashioning a red ball gown out of some dollar store plastic tablecloths, some twine and some blue crepe streamers. She figured if she threw in some make up, shoes and a set of false eyelashes, she’d be good to go.

What I heard: “Hey, Julie, let’s do a photo shoot for Jenny’s Traveling Red Dress series.”

What follows are a selection of shots from that day. I thought I was helping a friend. Turns out, she gave me the greatest gift possible. For one whole day, I felt positively beautiful.

Thank you, Eva.

[all photos taken by the marvelous and talented Eva Blue]

Bittersweet

Remember that guy from high school? You know the one I’m talking about – he was popular and good-looking, yet still remarkably down-to-earth? He always had a smile on his face and laughter in his voice?

He’s that guy that every girl had a crush on, and even though you didn’t have a chance in hell with him, he still treated you like the most beautiful girl on the planet, making you think that maybe, in a different place, at a different time, you might actually have had a chance?

And his guy friends. Remember how he was with his guy friends? He got along with everybody. So much so that when you think back, it feels equally comfortable pairing his name with half a dozen other guys as best friends. Because he was best friends with all those guys.

He wasn’t just one of the guys, he was the guy.

The one that always comes up in conversation, years after high school, with everyone asking, “Hey, have you heard from him lately? Do you know what he’s up to?”

Of course you know him. We all know that guy. Because every high school had that guy. It’s one of the few things that made high school bearable; knowing you might pass him in the hallway, or share a class at 6th period.

I remember that guy.

All my friends remember that guy, too.

He died 20 years ago.

In a car crash.

The details are too horrible to go into, but suffice it to say that the story of his life is so much bigger than the story of his death. Because face it, we all know someone who died way too young also, don’t we? It’s another one of those common factors we share – the friend who died, tragically, accidentally, at the very point in our lives when we thought we were immortal?

But how often does it happen that both those guys turn out to be the same person?

It’s almost too much to bear.

It is too much to bear.

For years, not a day went by that I didn’t think about him. Every day his face appeared before my eyes, his bright smile making my heart sing and shatter into pieces all at the same time.

Luckily, I had some pretty incredible memories to hold on to. I’ll never forget U2′s Unforgettable Fire tour in 1985, when a whole bunch of us snuck onto the floor of the Montreal Forum, hiding under other people’s seats when security came around. I eventually got kicked off the floor and found myself alone – until I bumped into him. He took my hand and brought me up to the reds, where we watched the rest of the show, side by side. Bono draped himself in the Irish flag for Bad and I stood next to the most handsome man in the world.

The other standout for me was a night, like any other, where a whole bunch of us gathered at one of our houses for an evening in. Those nights always consisted of some form of teenage debauchery and make up some of the best memories of my youth. This was at the height of my crush on him, and I’ll never forget how we cuddled on the couch, all night long, without saying a word.

I hadn’t been close with him for years by the time he died. But he was one of those people where that just didn’t matter. I could pick up the phone at any time and call him, or when I saw him, you knew there would be a meaningful exchange and deep, heartfelt hug.

Except there wasn’t.

The last time I saw him was in Plattsburgh. I spotted him from across the mall, and he saw me, too. But I didn’t go up to him. He was with an ex-boyfriend of mine and to say things had ended badly with that boyfriend would be an understatement. So I didn’t say hello.

How was I to know it would be the last time I’d see him?

My last chance to see that smile?

I’d like to think that one of us, or both of us, at least acknowledged the other, but I honestly can’t remember. That memory is so wrapped up in the ex that everything else is hazy. I just remember that he was there.

And then he was gone.

One night, a few years after the accident, I had a dream. I dreamt I was in the metro station, waiting for the train to come. I was sitting down on one of the skeezy benches, and he walked over and sat down next to me.

In my dream, I started to cry. He smiled at me and we talked. We talked and talked and talked for what felt like hours. I don’t remember the details that clearly anymore – I’m not sure if I ever did – I don’t even know if we touched in the dream. But when it was over, and I woke up, it felt like we had said goodbye.

After that, I thought about him less and less often. I’d come across a picture, or a car, or hear a song that reminded me of him and it would all come rushing back. But the instances were few and far between.

Last Saturday night, I went to a 20 year memorial evening that was put together by his sister. I went with one of my oldest and dearest friends and together we sat with other friends, some of whom I hadn’t seen since high school.

It was a wonderful evening of reconnecting and sharing and generally just being happy to enjoy each other’s company again. And I think he would have been so happy to know that, 20 years later, people were still gathering together in his name. That somehow, he was the impetus for us all to stay connected. Of course, there were moments when we remembered why we were there and he wasn’t, either privately or collectively, and those moments were hard.

But I’m glad I went. Because it had been too long since I had remembered. I realize now that I can’t even conjure up the sound of his voice anymore, so to surround myself with others who loved him, who had spent time with him, who were members of his family was special; somehow sacred.

I miss you, Dean.

I will always miss you.

[Photo credit: R. Roth]

My daughter, the artist

My daughter painted this at daycare. My daughter. My 4-year-old daughter.

I just want to make sure that sinks in.

Every year they hold a fundraiser at daycare that involves the children recreating a painting of their choice, which is then sold to their parents for $20 at a very festive vernissage. I love it, because while I might resent having to pay for my own kid’s work, I think the fact that they spend 2 months working on a masterpiece kicks ass. Every single year my kids brought home something beautiful; something they were really proud of.

“Is $20 a lot for the painting?” my son asked. (He’s been very into the cost of things lately.)

“Not for a future masterpiece,” I assured him.

We walked around and looked at all the paintings from the other children. They were all beautiful. The inspiration ranged from Van Gogh to Clarence Gagnon, my daughter’s artist of choice. A few other children had selected the same painting that she did, Nature morte aux Grenades. Comparing them, I noticed that hers was the only one that had people in it.

“Who are those people?” I asked.

She smiled brightly and pointed, from left to right -

“That’s you, that’s my brother, and that’s me.”

“Where’s Daddy?” my son asked.

“Inside the house. Having a nap.”