Too funny

And an update: I didn't join my school FB group.

And we're back!

The holiday was fabulous. More than fabulous.

Some highlights:

Being alone on a beach on a still, silent misty morning, heading back to camp, and suddenly hearing a whale spout in the water behind me, the sound so close I startled.

Kayaking in glassy waters in the evening sunshine, fish jumping all around, the forest floating past, spotting a sea otter close to shore.

Kayaking over kelp.

Watching three orca fins move past our campsite, everyone screaming with delight, Téo saying over and over I can't believe it! Lukan saying over and over Splash! Splash!

Oohing and ahhing as a bald eagle flew right overhead... and an incredulous moment of silence as it swooped to take the fish P had just released back in the sea.

Delicious smoky meals.

Toasting marshmallows.

Blueberries. Oh my god, Canadian blueberries.

Playing Settlers of Catan in the forest late into the night by dim, hand-pumped torchlight.

Forest, forest and more forest. I have never seen so much forest.

Taking the kids on their first canoe ride.

Swimming in cold, clear lakes, the mountains rising above.

How easy camping with kids turned out to be.

Flying right past Mount Rainier and Mount St. Helens.

Lukan's joy at riding in a limo.

Téo's mock screams and real giggles on his first rollercoaster ride.

Diving under the warm waves in California.

Aiming water canons at everyone within reach on the Splash battle ride.

Catching up with old friends, and getting to know new ones.

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Now it's back to regular life.

And we're off!

So one thing I haven't accepted very well about being a parent is the holidays. Holidays that are no longer about I want to do, but what a kid wants to do. Or more accurately, can do without a major meltdown, in between naps and bedtime.

Maybe it would have been easier to enjoy sitting at the beach watching Téo throw rocks in the water for hours on end if we were living in Australia, where I have already had lots of more active holidays. But I'm not in my home country, and THERE ARE SO MANY PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO ON THIS SIDE OF THE WORLD!!! So, while we've had excellent company (we've always gone away with friends or family) and a great time in fabulous places, I've still felt a niggling feeling of constraint. A frustration that we weren't doing enough. Weren't seeing enough. Weren't really having an adventure.

I did get over this by the time Téo was nearly three, where we had two weeks of sitting on the beach watching him throw rocks in the water for hours on end, and not once did I feel the need to explore the French countryside. Although, the fact that it was hot and I was 8 months pregnant may have had something to do with that.

Anyway, a couple of weekends ago we went hiking, just a short hike, but still, Téo climbed a mountain. And my goodness was it good to get out and do something. And for Téo to do so well, on what is actually a bit of a scramble even for adults.

I felt like our pre-kid life was coming back. Instead of feeling frustrated at all the things we can't do because of the kids, I started to look forward to all the stuff we can do, with the kids.

And now, we have this year's summer holiday - which starts in only two more sleeps! There will be an enormous campervan! And tents! And hiking! And kayaking with (hopefully) orcas! And (hopefully not too close) bears! And then there will be a Space Needle! Followed by Sea World! And Lego Land!

I'm trying not to be too excited about these adventures - especially kayaking with orcas - in case we do end up just sitting at the beach watching Téo and Lukan throw rocks in the water for hours on end.

But even if we do, I'm still very excited about spending time with the people we are going away with, and then visiting. (And also, Lego Land. Rollercoasters!)

It's going to be fabulous.

Lost in translation

- Dog! (pointing to the dogs on his pyjamas)

- Oui Lukan, c'est un chien.

- No papa, dog. Dog. Dog. (jabbing at pyjamas)

- Oui, un chien.

- No papa, dog. Dog. Dog. (more jabbing)

- Oui, un chien.

- No papa. Dog. Woof woof!

(Apologies if you don't think this is cute or funny. Sometimes I read other people's supposedly hilarious toddler stories, and they're not funny at all. But this is funny, right? The woof woof? To explain to his papa what a dog is? Cute! And funny! Right?!)

Breakthrough

Sock, said Téo out of the blue, at the airport in Abu Dhabi on our way to Sydney in March.

Sock starts with S.

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Last year, whenever I thought about Téo going to school, I'd feel a tightness in my chest. Not because mah baybee was all grown up and going to school, but because he is going to school to do... nothing.

Nothing. NOTHING.

For his first two years at school, he will be expected to:

1. Learn to count to 10.
2. Learn the names of some colours.
3. Learn to sit still and do an activity for 15 minutes.

Two years. That's all he'll be learning. Things he's been able to do since he was 3. Nothing more until he's 7.

Only the thought that this country is a highly successful one not known for a poorly educated population kept a full blown panic attack at bay.

Because I like the Australian system better. I do think this age (and even younger) is a good age to start real teaching - now, when they are so eager to learn. Now, so any problems can be picked up early. Now, so that their experiences and interests can already be broadened.

I've found it hard going back to Sydney and seeing my niece reading since she was 4, seeing how much other stuff she's learning. I've worried and fretted that Téo is missing out on this. And admitted I'll find it hard to see Téo fall behind his Australian peers once my friends' kids his age start school.

I've ranted and felt frustrated... and then I got over myself. It's not like he'll never learn anything, it's just going to be later. And actually, it gives me a chance I otherwise would not have had - the chance to teach him to read in English (which I wouldn't have done if he were simultaneously learning to read in French at school).

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I had already made this decision by the time of the airport proclamation - which came as a bit of a surprise given how little I had done to teach Téo anything about reading. Even his recitation of the alphabet was still pretty sketchy.

But this proclamation - realisation - signalled the start of a definite interest in letters and words. And it came at a good time - his Australian cousin of the same age was doing the same thing and just starting to read, which served as good reinforcement.

I bought a heap of work books in Sydney, with the intention that we would start our lessons once he started school.

But Téo had other ideas. After I explained to him that I would teach him to read, he wanted lessons straight away. Some of this was a ploy to have my attention, I am sure, but still, he was definitely interested.

A couple of weeks ago, we started. C S T O A. The five most commonly used letters in English.

The first three times, he was nearly there, but not quite. He could say the sound each letter made, but not really put the sounds together to make a word unless I said the sounds first. And even once he'd sounded out then said a word, he didn't seem to recognise it the next time he saw it. He'd guess, or try to fit the words to what he wanted them to be. He stayed on the cusp of getting it.

Yesterday he came to my office again. Mummy, can I have a weading lesson?

He wasn't interested in the preliminary stuff, the practising of individual letter sounds. Go straight to the big words mummy.

The first page, he sounded out the letters perfectly and then said the words, without me doing anything. The second page, he read. He read!

a cat sat at a cot.

I clearly remember the moment I realised I could read, 35 years ago in Kindergarten. Little man, I hope you remember your moment too.

Reality reading

Most of you know I like to read. Love to read. A lot. A lot a lot.

There was a time, not that long ago, when I went through books like I went through peanut butter. I had an excellent librarian, and I bought lots of my own. Sometimes it was even a problem - I wouldn't be able to get on with life until I had finished the book I was reading. Or I'd feel a bit panicked if I didn't have anything new to start. Books, books, books, I couldn't ever have enough books.

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My dad didn't like fiction so much - in books, TV, or movies. I couldn't really understand it. Books were such a wonderful escape! And a way to see things from a different point of view! And the language, it could be so beautiful! And the characters, you could get so drawn into them!

But no, he preferred historical accounts, or informative articles about reality.

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When I was in Sydney, my brother said he was becoming like dad - less and less tolerant of fiction, and more interested in non-fiction.

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A couple of weeks ago, a friend asked what I'd read lately.

Nothing.

Which is true, I haven't read a book for ages.

But actually, I have read a lot. A lot a lot. It's just that I find myself embarrassed to say what.

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If I think about it, I haven't read a good book - a really really good book - in a very long time. I'm always finding fault with the premise, or the plot, or the writing itself, or else I don't feel anything for the characters or their situation.

Like my brother. Like my dad.

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Blogs.

That's what I've been reading. The stories that other people write - well-written, thoughtful, provocative real stories from their real lives - reach into me and affect me far more than books. These open my eyes to other situations, other possibilities. These make me feel the full sum of what it is to be human - the positions we get ourselves into, the consequences of the choices we make, the random, tragic shit that can happen. These make me think about my own choices, my own life. These make me laugh out loud, cry, shake my head in disbelief, feel humble.

Fiction seems contrived in comparison. It's not real enough.

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I find it really really hard to admit to what I've been reading though. Because even though they are real, blogs somehow seem less real, less worthy than a book.

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I once worked with someone who, whenever there was a general conversation about something, would join in giving examples from a show she'd seen on TV. Not from her own experience, like everyone else was doing. I always thought this was very sad, this regurgitating of a made up story as if it were a real life experience.

I guess I fear being judged in the same way, if I talk about a blog post I read?

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So I tend to say nothing, even though I haven't thought so much about so many different things for a long time.

Untitled

Last week, C and I had a talk.

The whole not trying, but also not not trying, was no longer working for me. I needed clarity. With only three conceptions in the six years and 2 months since we stopped using contraception, it's fairly clear that we don't make a baby unless we really really try to. So do we want another one, or do we not? Because time is running out if we do - we'd already agreed we didn't want more than 3 years between Lukan and any younger sibling. That leaves only five more chances.

Five more chances. I almost can't breathe writing that, it's so definite. So definitely unlikely.

C is clear. Any baby that comes is very welcome, but I don't want to try.

I am less clear. Or maybe, just more reluctantly clear.

I want a girl. I really really want a baby girl.

And that is not right. If we have another child, it is to have another child. With Téo and Lukan, we wanted a child. We wished for a healthy child. I cannot let myself wish for a girl. Because what if we make a boy? I do not want to look at my child and think, I did not wish for you. And what if we make an unhealthy girl? I do not want to look at my child and think, I wished for the wrong thing.

If we try to make another baby, I know I will be hoping with all my heart for a girl. I will actively do everything I can for a girl, even if it's all bogus (I've looked it up on Google, people). Knowing this is wrong, I cannot allow myself to try.

It's more than an intellectual exercise, though. A couple of months ago, a sudden bout of nausea made me wonder if I was pregnant - and what I felt was a jolt of absolute terror. I didn't want to go through pregnancy again. I didn't want to go through that first year again.

I'm happy with the two children I have. They are perfect. They are enough.

So, that night last week, I agreed I should get my tubes tied. It's time to admit I am done with baby-making.

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Even though I know it's the right decision, I'm still reluctant. I'm grieving for Kaia, my imagined third child, my daughter.

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This week, my period was late. My period is never late. I couldn't quite believe what this suggested - it would almost be the immaculate conception if I was in fact pregnant. But one day passed, then another, then another, then another. I became quietly hopeful.

I was hopeful I was pregnant. I was hopeful it was a stayer. I wouldn't let my mind go any further, but I knew I would be hopeful the baby would be OK, would be born alive, would not die of SIDS. One hope at a time, but not one of them about its gender.

I'm not pregnant.

I'm not gutted. I'm not relieved. I'm accepting better that there will be no third child. I'm happy I wanted a baby more than a girl. I'm still grieving for Kaia. I'm so looking forward to all we can do with older children, so soon now. I'm clucky when I see a newborn. There's contradictions everywhere. But strangely, right now, I feel at peace.

Whatever will be, will be.