A Letter to my Daughter, on the Occasion of her Ninth Birthday

The other day I was in the car and Cats in the Cradle came on the radio and I had a good cry. And when I got home that I night I went upstairs and kissed you on the forehead while you were sleeping.

When I was a kid I used to hate it when people I hadn’t seen in awhile would say to me ‘Oh, you’ve grown so much’.

There was a great big whopping period in my childhood when my only mark of distinction seemed to be how fast I was growing.

But now I look at you and I think the same thing.

“You’re growing up so much.”

I carry that cognitive dissonance in my head. My daughter, who is growing taller and smarter every day, but at the same time is also that colic-y baby that I would walk up and down the hall for hours on end. (Humming in the hope the vibrations of my chest my help lull you to sleep. Which, as near as I can tell, it never did.)

And even though you’re growing up, some part of me will always see you as that baby.

I don’t know what advice I could possibly offer a nine year old that you would take.

When I was nine we moved house and I entered into a nearly decade long period of unhappiness and 

loneliness. It was the worst time of my life.

• I look at you and I think that no matter what happens at least you’re so much further ahead then I was at the same age,
• But, for the first time, I’m starting to see the leading edge of adult problems poking through the fabric of your life, and
• Trouble with other kids at school.

Difficulty connecting with your teacher, whereas previously you were a borderline teacher’s pet.

And a problem learning how to properly express your emotions when you’re angry and upset.

Normal growing up kind of stuff, but a significant hurdle in the life of any kid.

I want to tell you that none of it matters. That the problems of today will quickly seem like nothing at all when you finally get to examine them in the rearview mirror. But I also know that when you’re dealing with them in the moment, it feels more like these problems threaten to take over your whole world.

You are vast. You carry multitudes.

You’re tough as nails and yet you’re compassionate. You’re outgoing and you’re painfully shy. You brim with a bottomless patience and you have a hair trigger fuse.

You are all these things at once, and I’m never sure which facet of your personality will carry the day.

At this age, my role as a parent is to walk a fine line. To help and shield you when and where I can, but to also step back and realize that that its okay if you fail every now and again.

I’m never sure I have the mix quite right. But I know I’ll never stop trying.

Consistency

When I first started playing Ultimate Frisbee my motivation was driven solely by the fact that I was looking for some sort of activity to help me lose a couple pounds.

Ultimate had a low threshold for entry by virtue of the fact that it didn’t require a lot of skill to play at a recreational level and I already knew someone who played.

Almost immediately I was hooked. There’s something about chasing a disc floating in the air and the instant mental arithmetic that takes place when you try to determine what its going to take to catch it.

And even in the very beginning, when I had no concept of how to play the sport, I just wanted to do it all the time.

I remember my second or third game, when the friend who had graciously made a spot for me on her team, took me aside and said I needed to start subbing off because people were starting to get angry that I was staying on the field all the time.

I literally couldn’t fathom a world where people would want to leave the field for any reason, the sport was just that fun.

I started playing in an east end multi-sport league, moved to a league which generally had better facilities, and finally to an Ultimate only league where all the ‘serious’ players ended up.

A few years ago I took up running in my off time because my opponents seemed to be getting younger while I had definitely lost a step or two.

During all this I motivated myself to play for what I’d call purely selfish reasons.

·         I wanted to\liked beating the other team.

·         I wanted to see how far I could rise in the sport. (Spoiler alert. Not far at all really, but it was still important to me to set goals)

But recently I found myself needing to use different drivers to encourage me to play my hardest.

My eldest started playing competitive hockey last year. She’s still learning the sport in a lot of ways and part of my job as a parent, beyond being a cheerleader, is to help her develop her game.

I try to help her develop her skills. (She practices taking shots on net in the driveway and I practice not wincing when I get a ball to the chest) I talk to her before (and sometimes after) a game to discuss what it is she wants to improve on. (This year it’s deking the other team)

Basically, I walk that fine line between encouragement\development and unnecessary evaluations of her game.

I caught myself on the field a couple weeks slow playing my game. It was late and I was tired and I just didn’t have a lot of energy. So I ended up choosing field positions with a low likelihood of having to work hard.

I realized that I was doing the very thing that I had instructed my daughter against doing, taking the easy play just because it’s easy and there’s less likelihood of screwing up.

In short, I was being a hypocrite.

How could I ask my daughter to work hard and be aggressive when I wasn’t able to put in the work on my own game?

So now, some 15 years later, my motivation has shifted.

I don’t play hard just to win or to show off for my kid. (Most of my games take place later at night anyway)

I play hard because I feel its important to hold myself to the same standard I set for others. I put the work in it, because I can’t ask someone else to do something that I’m not willing to do myself.

A Letter to my Son on the Occasion of his Fifth Birthday

Well damn.

I kind of got out of the habit of doing these didn’t I? In my defence it’s been a crazy couple of years. In and around your birthday we can barely find time to mark your height on the wall or take your yearly picture.

So. What’s new with you the last couple of years?

Well, last year at around this time you got that scar at the corner of your mouth. And wasn’t that a shock. Your mother called me at work and said that you’d scraped your face by falling off a log. Your mom was in surgery so it was my turn to leave work and come pick you up. I took a conference call on the way home, trying to catch up on some work before I got home. I was doing that very parental thing of weighing the variables before I’ve had an opportunity to accurately assess the situation.

Do I tell daycare that about the borderline diarrhea?

If I mask that fever for a couple hours with some meds will he okay to put in school?

He says his neck hurts…he probably just slept on it funny.

Parents all secretly think kids are making something worse then it really is, mostly because we remember when we pulled something similar when we kids ourselves.

But when I got to the school it was pretty obvious that this scrape on your cheek was a BIG deal. There were drops of blood on your shirt and pants and a pretty sizable bandage was taped to your cheek. But most of all I could read it in your body language, how tired, scared, and in pain you were. This wasn’t a case of making a mountain out of a molehill. This was a big deal.

So I took you to the emergency room. Once there I peaked under your bandage to see the extent of the damage.

Your whole cheek was torn open.

And even with your mouth closed I could see teeth.

That was sobering.

So while we waited for the next couple of hours I had to keep you calm (a scared little boy, clearly in a lot of pain), maintain a grip on my own emotions, and keeping your mother updated without scaring her. Your mom kept asking if she should leave work and come to the emergency room. And I said that there was no point, there was nothing she could do to make the situation go quicker. But honestly I was just worried that her being there in a heightened emotional state would freak you out and I didn’t want to make things any harder on you.

Later, after it was determined you were going to need stitches, your mom kept sending me texts insisting that I tell the doctor that plastics do your stiches and not the ‘butcher on call’.

There’s no more inspiring sight in the world then me holding up my cell phone and weakly telling the doctor ‘my wife says…’.

Thankfully, plastics ended up doing the stiches anyway, so it all worked out.

They made me leave the room while the did the stiches though. That was the worst part of the whole event. 

From when I picked you up at school to when they put the stiches in, I was beside you the whole time. I held your hand, cuddled you on my lap, and tried to distract you with my phone or an interesting story. But in doing all that, I was distracting myself as well.

Sitting in the emergency room all by myself, that’s when everything flooded over me. The guilt, the over protectedness, the love, and the fear. I have a very sharp mental image of an IV needled in your arm. How small your arm looked, and how big the IV needled seemed in comparison.

How could this have happened? How could the school have been so negligent? Why wasn’t someone watching you?

When they let me back in after the surgery you were a space case from the drugs they used to put you under. You were dopey and not very responsive. A little confused. You’d look around the room and weren’t able to focus on anything for more then a couple of seconds. It was disconcerting to see the ‘you-ness’ of you disappear and be replaced by this groggy stranger.

There’s not much else to say about it. I took you home. Your mother gushed over you. A week later you took some…questionable….school photos and that’s about it. You’ve never been shy or self-conscious of your scar. In the weeks after it happened I didn’t even hear you complain once that it hurt. In fact we had to try and make sure you didn’t smile (you smile an awful lot) because we didn’t want to rip the stitches.

But that was last year. What’s new THIS year?

Let’s see. A couple weeks ago you were the ring bearer at your cousin’s wedding. In your suspenders and bow tie you charmed just about everyone at the wedding, including your cousin Ayla who was most distraught when you stopped dancing with her in order to climb a tree and run around the olive mill.

You started hockey. I’m not sure how this one is going to pan out yet. You’re very much like your old man was at the same age. When I didn’t want to do something, I didn’t refuse to do it, I just did a bad job of it. That way no one could force me to do something I didn’t want to.

I haven’t decided if that’s your approach to hockey yet. Its new to you. And challenging. For an hour’s game or practice you’re mostly good for about 45 minutes and then your enthusiasm plummets. You have to go pee, you’ll invent a phantom pain, or you’ll just skate over to me and tell me you’re done.

But last week you skated using two legs for the first time ever and I was so excited just watching you do that. I used to take you to family skate for hours trying to get you to skate with two legs. But you doggedly insisted on planting your right leg and only pushing with your left. No matter what I did.

I’m trying to help you get over that initial hump of dealing with something that’s new. Your sister had similar growing pains with hockey at this age. Your mom and I would run back and forth across the rink, trying to encourage her to stick with her drills. While all she would do is send us dirty looks and glower angrily.

But we’ll see the season out. Every time you touch the ice you’re improving. And who knows how you’ll do by the end of the year? And if you don’t want to go back? That’s okay too.

Your big passion is art. Its only October and your teacher has sent us lots of pictures of your drawings.

You like doing school work, which is also a pleasant surprise. When I restrict your screen time you’re quite happy to work on school based learning like IXL or Sum Dog. You’ve got your letters and numbers down pat and you’ve grudgingly acknowledge that you know a couple words.

(I STRONGLY suspect that you can read a LOT of words, but don’t want to tell anybody because then you’ll be asked to learn even more words…and that’s just to much work Dad, come on.)

You’re a sweet kid, with a much gentler disposition then your sister. Although, as you get older and your personality develops I can see the steel that lurks underneath. You’ll do what you want to do on your time, thank you very much, and would you please get off my back?

You’re also a tall kid and you’re going to be a tall adult. Like, maybe me tall. And if that’s the case I just want to apologize in advance. You’ve got some painful growing pains coming your way and hand\eye coordination will be absolutely non-existent for awhile.

You’re going through a Transformers\Power Rangers\Mario Brothers\Lego phase at the moment and are currently drowning in all the toys you’ve been given as gifts from your birthday.

Anyway, that’s it for me. I’m very aware that you and your sister are getting older. And sometimes I’ll see you playing independently or watching TV and my heart will absolutely ache at the sight of you, because that’s just how much I love you.

I’m trying to be HERE, be present in the moment. To put aside my electronics and press pause on my own problems. Because we’re only going to have one chance to do this and I’m worried that in the hustle and bustle of school and sports and sticking to a schedule that I’m going to miss something important in your life and fail to recognize how rare this time really is.

So let’s keep this party going, shall we? Let's enjoy it while we can

Sporting life

You should see her move.

She plays soccer like has an invisible rubber band tethered to the ball and the other tied around her foot. With a sharp kick she sets its free, sending it careening down the field. But suddenly it’s on her toes again and she’s weaving in and out of defenders who lash out in an attempt to knock her off the ball.

And, unbelievably, this is my kid.

I’ve never been athletically gifted. In high school I ended up playing more sports then I should have because I was freakishly tall.

I made the basketball team despite my inability on the court to do…well anything. The thinking was that occasionally our all-star center would need a break and that I’d be a good replacement, because the law of averages would dictate that once or twice an errant ball would clang off the backboard and careen into my hands.

When I played soccer for a couple years as a kid the coaches learned pretty fast to stick me in net, where I was likely to cause the least amount of damage.

I was as uninterested in soccer as I was unskilled, and for years family members dined out on stories of me wool gathering in the net while the play carried on around me.

Sports weren’t my thing.

But my daughter? Oh man. You should see her mooooove.

When my wife and I first started talking about signing her up for extracurriculars I suggested we do a team sport, conveniently forgetting the lackluster performances from my own youth.

Unfortunately, in the beginning, she took after me. A lot.

While other kids joyfully waddled around like a penguin, learning to tap the ball from foot to foot, she would walk sullenly around the field, barely nudging the ball forward with her toe.

Disdaining to even be on the field with it.

“You can do it sweetie,” my wife shouted encouragingly. Then to me she would add softly, “Maybe we should think about something else.”

“Let’s just stick with it for a bit,” I replied, avoiding the withering gaze directed my way from the pitch. “No kid enjoys learning something for the first time.”

Every practice was an ordeal, a mixture of bribery, pleading, and strong arming just to get her into the car. We were horrible parents. We were awful parents. Didn’t we understand that she didn’t want to do this?

But the next summer we dutifully signed her up for soccer again. It was important to see this through, we told each other. It was important to give the thing a serious try before we made up our minds to abandon it.

Only this time around it was about more than just learning the basics of the sport. It was about playing games.

And it was like someone had flipped a switch in her head.

This was a competition. She thrived on competition.

Suddenly the sullen little girl who had to be coerced and bribed to put on her shin pads every week was replaced by a plucky little fighter dutifully firing the soccer ball into the back of the pop up net.

It was amazing to watch and it was as far from own experience with the sport as it was possible to get.

Soccer night instantly became my favourite night of the week. My heart would catch in my chest every time she touched the ball and then leap into my throat whenever she shot it on the net.

There was a connection there that was absolutely foreign to me. An easy grace that I’d never have come close to matching at any point in my own childhood.

My dad came to watch her play one day.

“I wonder where she gets it from,” he said, looking pointedly at me. “It certainly can’t be genetic.”

 (I’m not going to lie, I get a chill every time a parent from the other team groans when she touches the ball.)

“Oh great, the blond one has it again!”

At the start of every season I’d wait for the other kids to catch up. For my daughter to lose her advantage as the law of averages has its say.

And it hasn’t happened yet. 

I’ve never had dreams of sporting glory. Too much work. I’d much rather lose an afternoon to a book or a good movie rather than chase a ball down the field.

But I can’t adequately describe the feeling of satisfaction I get seeing her in motion. In knowing that she’s lucky enough to have found a ‘thing’ that speaks to her, that gives her confidence and helps set her up success down the road.

That composure and self-assurance can be fleeting sensations at any point in your life. And as an adult I can think of occasions, when I was growing up, when a little more confidence would have been a welcome addition to my arsenal.

At times, I’ve struggled with determining where the ‘line’ is. Am I encouraging her to be her best, to find the upper limits of her ability? Or am I pushing too hard?

Doing something well can be its own form of gratification, but how do you teach a child the value of practice and dedication, of developing your skill without ruining it in the process?

When does the pursuit of getting better at the ‘thing’ come at the expense of your enjoyment of it?

*Shrugs*

When I know the answer, I’ll tell you.

Right now, I’m just happy to watch her play. To help her see just how high up that mountain she can climb. And if one day she turns to me and says “Daddy, I don’t want to play soccer anymore,” well then that’s okay.

Because she’s given it more than a fair shake. She’s take every last ounce of joy she can get from the sport and then some. And if it ever stops being fun for her, well, then it stops being fun for me too.

Watching someone else exercise their talent, being their truest self, well, that’s a gift all on its own.

You should see her move.

An open letter to my daughter on the occasion of her six birthday

Hello Roo.

Six years old. Wow. I've been working on a project for you (that won't be ready in time for your birthday unfortunately) that's had me poking about in the family photos.

It's a cliché that kids grow up so fast, but its one rooted in truth. Looking at those old pictures the sleepless nights and the arguments over meals seem a little more hazy. I find it hard to care so much about all the little aggravations of parenting that creep up on you and instead I find myself amazed at the person you're becoming.

Its great to see how much you love school. You can't wait to get out of bed and go and see your friends every day. And its a perpetual battle between Mommy and yourself, on the days where she picks you up from school, to stay and play a little a longer.

But I honestly think you love learning almost as much. Every night you can't wait to read another book and fill in another line in your agenda. More than once I've found you with a stack of books, diligently reading them and then painstakingly entering them into your agenda. You even went as far as copying Mommy and Daddy's signature in the process. If your future as a lawyer\brain surgeon\captain of industry doesn't pan out you'll have a bang up back up career as a master forger.

My favourite part of the week though is watching you play hockey. You might not remember but you used to HATE anything to do with hockey or skating. I used to have to use every tool in my bag to get you to do another lap around the ice with me during family skate. I'd bribe you, try to trick you, or even threaten to without something (usually TV) if you didn't do another lap with me. And skating drills at hockey school? Forget it. You'd sooner do just about anything else if it meant you could miss out on those. Instead you'd trudge wearily up and down the ice, using your body language to let everybody know just how much you hated all of this.

But play a few games though and everything changed practically over night. Now I couldn't drag you off the ice at family skate for anything. You even like doing EXTRA drills at your optional skills practice. Its clear you've got a competitive spirit, which I'd like to take credit for but you know your mother so I think at best its a 50\50 split. I've watched you chase after a puck or dig at in the corners against girls a foot taller than you. You're the only 5 year old on your team but watching you work you'd never be able to tell.

You're even a better skater than me. I might be able to keep up with you in terms of pure speed. But I don't have your control or your skill, especially when it comes to skating backwards.

Watching you stride up and down the rink during a game fills my heart with joy. Because you don't look like a little girl trying to play hockey, you have the look and profile of a hockey player doing something she loves.  It may have been three years of seemingly unending sacrifice from Mommy and I, but I'm glad we did it.

We've also had some down moments this year. Your Nanna died in May. I miss her every day. More than anything else Nanna loved being a grandmother. She loved spending time with all her grandchildren, reading to them, playing with them, teaching them. Whenever Nanna and Grampa came to visit Nanna would be toting some game or activity for you to do.

I'm sad that she'll miss out on all the wonderful experiences that you have to look forward to. Every time you accomplish something, like winning the principal's award this year for empathy, I want to call her up and tell her all about it.  (Conversely, when I'm struggling with some new parenting challenge I want to do the exact same thing).

Nanna loved you very much. I can only hope that I'm able to pass on to you some of the many things that she was able to teach me.

What else? You learnt to ride your bike without training wheels! (Very exciting) And then promptly forgot a day later. So we had to work up to that again.

You graduated in swimming from Ultra 4 to Ultra 5. Just like in hockey, you're the smallest and youngest in the group but you refuse to let that hold you back.

We did indoor Sky Diving as a family. You had a permanent grin stapled to your face as the instructor guided you around the room.

I took you to your first ever Comic Convention. You got a drawing of She-ra and carried it around with you all day.

AND Mommy and Daddy took you out of school for the day to see the new Star Wars movie. You were more cautious than excited, but maybe when you're older you'll be able to look back on it as a once in a life time opportunity.

Its been a very crazy year for all of us. Lots of ups and downs. But I look at you, and I see the fierce little warrior who won't back down for anything or anyone and I'm proud. Because you are going to end up being one of those rare people who makes life bow to your will, and not the other way around. Although, having said that, it wouldn't kill you to maybe bend on some things ONCE in awhile. Seriously, having a disagreement with you requires a carefully planned pre argument strategy and some serious thinking. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

Creative expression

A letter to my son on the occasion of his first birthday

Hello Jojo. (Or Joey, or Nate Bate, or any one of a dozen nicknames given to you by a sister who can’t keep her hands off you)

I never thought I’d have a son. Given the high number of girls that run through both sides of the family I thought for sure when we decided to find out your gender in advance of your birth the answer was going to be ‘it’s a girl of course’.

Your mother and I had to take a moment to recover our wits when the ultrasound tech told us it was a boy. (Your mom had gotten the ultrasound first while I was in the waiting room and apparently a wandering tech from another room had popped their head in, looked at the screen and pronounced you a girl before wandering off to give more misleading advice to other excited parents. So when I finally joined your mother to watch the end of the ultrasound she was fully prepared to for the declaration of girl and was just as gobsmacked as I was when the word was given)

It didn’t take very long for the differences between you and your sister to become apparent. Whereas Roo was always pushing herself, always upset at her perceived limitations (why can’t I walk yet!?) you have a much more relaxed attitude about life. Roo was up and running around the house by eleven months, always reaching into shelves and pulling things onto the floor before moving on to the next target and gleefully continuing her reign of terror.

You’re going to have to forgive me if I make a few comparisons with your sister in a letter that’s meant for you. It’s just that Roo is the only basis of comparison I have for anything related to child rearing and I’m constantly surprised at how different your two personalities are.

I’d have thought that given identical parental origins and a similar upbringing that, at this young age at least, the differences between your two personalities would be akin to variations on a theme, instead I find that you two are playing completely different songs and sometimes my mind threatens to melt into a puddle of goo reconciling the two melodies.

Whereas Roo fought me on everything I find you much more laid back. I can put you down in a pile of sweaters or with a single toy or even a pair of my sunglasses and you’ll run your fingers over it, feeling and prodding it for what seems like forever - before inevitable shoving it in your mouth. Which is great because that means I can stick you in one spot and then run around frantically, usually cleaning or trying to get everyone ready to go outside.

I’ve come to the conclusion that everything below knee level in the house tastes delicious. That is the only reason I can come up with for your unstoppable predilection to shoving even the most foul tasting object into your maw. Shoes and dirty clothes are like teethers to you. We’ve had to become extra vigilant when insuring that the lid to the toilet seat is down because you apparently look at toilets as your personal tasting bowl and your sister is still learning to remember to flush.

(I’ve washed your mouth out with soap because of that unfortunate experience twice now and both times you sat there and grinned at me with barely contained delight even though soap bubbles were cascading over your lips.)

Smiling. Good God, but do you like to smile. Big soppy grins when I walk through the door after work, or when I’ve caught you doing something that maybe you shouldn’t be. Shrieks of laughter when I toss you into the air, endless giggles as you crawl across the floor in pursuit of the cat or fleeing the ‘tender’ embrace of your sister. You only have a dozen teeth but every time you smile I can count each and every one of them because that grin of yours is so big you could get lost in it.

Sleep. Again. So different than your sister. Roo would fight sleep, cry for hours on end. Refuse to lie down unless someone was in the room with her, holding her hands between the bars of the crib. You, on the other hand, finish your bottle with a burp, grab hold of your stuffed Gator, roll over onto your stomach and I’m pretty sure you’re asleep before I leave the room. Now you balance that out by sometimes waking up at 2am and screaming bloody murder for two hours, but that seems to be tapering off these days. Thankfully.

Cars and strollers. Again, you’re like The Dude of the Wheels. We can make a three hour trip to the cottage and you’ll stay awake the whole time. Blissfully taking the scenery in. The first time we did the trip I kept waiting for you to throw a rod and start screaming - but it never happened.  Your sister would protest even the shortest car ride or walk where she was strapped into a car seat or stroller, but as long as you’ve got a toy to play with you couldn’t care less.

I used to say you were obsessed with sports. Whenever I flipped the TV on you seemed to gravitate towards anything hockey or baseball related. Although now I’m pretty sure you’re just following the colours and motions. But I’m not ready to pack away the theory just yet. I’ve seen the way you hone in on your sister’s hockey stick or how any ball instantly becomes your favorite toy.

Having even one child can feel like an insurmountable challenge. Having two (or more) adds a degree of difficulty that even parenting veterans probably aren’t prepared for.

But I am fully aware of how lucky I am that a sweet and happy little fellow like yourself is making my job that much easier.

 

A letter to my daughter on the occasion of her fourth birthday

Claire

Four years old. I can hardly believe it. Cliches aside, it seems like last week I was either changing your diapers, or getting up with you in the middle of the night or helping you dress yourself.

Nowdays if I even suggest an alternative out for you to wear for the day I know that I’m setting myself up for a battle royale. You’ve got a temper and you’re stubborn as hell Roo, but look at your parents and take comfort in knowing that you come by it honestly.

The last two months have been more challenging than most. Your new brother Nathan is taking up a lot of our attention and it seems like all the hard fought real estate your mother and I have conquered over the past four years is in danger of slipping away. (Going to bed at a decent time? Forget about it.)

But out of all the barely controlled chaos that comes with a new arrival to the family YOU have emerged as the best big sister ever. You’re always there to try and soothe Nathan when he’s upset and you’re always the first one to try and do something to help when Mommy and Daddy are overloaded. I know that in months before Nathan arrived we were nervous about what a new baby would do to the family dynamic. We didn’t want you to feel left out or overlooked  so we worked hard to make sure you were a part of everything to do with the preparation. We needn’t have wasted the energy sweating. If anything you love Nathan TOO much. (Rule one of babies Roo, if they’re sleeping you don’t need to wake them up)

But you’ve been a real trooper when it comes to sharing your toys, I think watching you give up your cherished Poo Bear to a teary younger brother is perhaps the greatest display of affection you could do at this age. I’m sure you’ll be less generous as Nathan gets bigger and starts staking his own claim on toys, but nevertheless its nice to see you sharing.

In the past year you’ve taken up skating and you’re getting progressively better at it. I’m trying to walk the tightrope of encouraging you to push your limits and having fun. I think right now it’s more of a chore for you than it is fun but we’re getting closer to perfecting the ratio. But watching you zip around the ice on your skates now its hard to believe that last year at this time you couldn’t even stand up. I even bought a pair of skates myself so I could go skating with you on the weekend.  I’m absolutely terrible at it, I can’t stop but rather glide to a halt or make an abrupt turn to shed all my momentum. Thankfully I’m still faster than you, although I’m sure that will change. Next year I’m hoping we can get you into hockey. (Fingers crossed)

We did soccer with you this summer. It was a bit of a bust as the class was pretty evenly split between younger and older kids and most of the younger kids spent their time clutching their parents or wandering around the field, which meant there wasn’t all that much time for soccer. You did play a couple of mini games at the end, so it wasn’t a total washout. I think we’re going to try again this summer and hopefully a year’s worth of growing means you’ll get to play more games.

You’ve become an AMAZING swimmer. Last summer you had to be coaxed to jump in the water now, if we’re not careful, you’ll jump right off the dock without anyone to catch you. You passed your first level in swimming and you’re a hair’s breadth away from getting your second badge. (We just have to get you keep your head down when you dive into the pool from the side)

You love arts and crafts, especially stickers and paint.

You know all your letters and flipping through your books but you can’t read yet. Learning your letters has been tricky because you didn’t much enjoy doing it. So oftentimes you’d say you didn’t know what the letters were in the hopes that it meant you didn’t have to sit still and learn with us.

Your mom and I have decided that we’re going to spend more time with you over the next couple of months helping you read. You’ve got a couple words under your belt, but for the most part you’re content to look at the pictures and have mommy and I read to you.

You’re a fierce, stubborn, loving, multifaceted little girl who teaches me something new every day. Every time I think I get a handle on who you are you reveal some other part of yourself that makes me realize, even at age 4, just how complex and nuanced you really are.

Now that you’re older I can look back at some of the highlights over the past four years and get a little maudlin about some of the highlights or firsts that can’t be repeated. Your mother likes to joke about ‘Cats in the Cradle’ but there’s a grain of truth there. There will never be enough time, enough moments and enough laughter for me to share with you. They seem to come and go so quickly and sometimes you don’t realize how special something is until it passes. But I promise I will do my best to treasure every moment as it arrives…even when you fight me tooth and nail on something.

Love

Daddy

Hyperemesis gravidarum

Hyperemesis gravidarum is a condition characterized by severe nausea, vomiting, weight loss, and electrolyte disturbance. Mild cases are treated with dietary changes, rest and antacids. More severe cases often require a stay in the hospital so that the mother can receive fluid and nutrition through an intravenous line. DO NOT take any medications to solve this problem without first consulting your health care provider.

Milestones

A letter to my daughter, on the occasion of her third birthday.

Hello Roo, its Daddy again.

You’re another year older and I’m packing another year’s worth of close calls, narrow escapes and lucky breaks. Well, that and an expanding number of white hairs that your grandfather is oh so happy to point out when he comes to visit.

It was a difficult year but thankfully I think we did a pretty good job shielding you from the worst of it.

I usually cringe when I see people writing self-deprecating posts on Facebook (hey, is that still a thing whenever you’re reading this?) about how terrible 2012 was and how glad they are that it’s over. That kind of public display of negativity always feels suspiciously like someone trolling for comments. No, I prefer to do all that on a blog instead, much classier that way. But truth be told, when the ball dropped on New Year’s Eve your Mom and I said ‘Thank God that’s over’ and never looked back.

We lost your great-granddad and your sister this year. Losing them once was hard, but it was like losing them all over again when you started to forget. When you stopped rubbing your mom’s belly and saying ‘baby in here’ it was hard. And when you started looking at pictures of you with your great-grandad and saying ‘who’s that?’ it churned up lots of emotions.

I want to take a minute to tell you how proud I was of you in how you handled your great-grandad being in the hospital. You were two, which is way too young to understand what was happening. But I know it was hard for me to see my grandfather wasting away in a hospital bed, getting thinner and weaker with every visit and being hooked up to an expanding array of medical equipment. It was a very visceral image. But it never even slowed you down. You chattered away, offered pretend medicine to make him feel better always had lots of hugs and kisses. I’m sure it made him feel better and I know it helped me out a lot.

Your g-grandfather was one of the greatest men I ever had the pleasure of knowing. He had to deal with a lot of his own tragedy and hardship throughout his life but he was always kind and generous to a fault. He was a gentle giant and the man responsible for at least three generation’s worth of ‘Van Loon head’s.’ Whenever I find myself angry or inclined to take the low road I try to remember him and live by his example. I don’t succeed as often as I like, but it helps nonetheless.

What else? Ah. Let us discuss your growing and worrisome addiction to grilled cheese. You would eat grilled cheese for breakfast, lunch and dinner if I let you. And really, that’s on me. I have my own weakness for grilled cheese so I made conscious effort to try and slip it into your diet. Well, I succeeded but now the student has surpassed the teacher and now I spend every night driving you home from day care trying to knock you off the grilled cheese track and get you excited about other foods. To no avail.

You don’t have a ‘thing’ yet. And I keep looking for one or trying to expose you to one. Numbers you’re all on top of. Letters. Not so much. You’re down with the letters ‘c’, because that’s what your name starts with, and the letter ‘o’, because, well, it’s the letter ‘o’ and it’s easy to spot. Driving has become a challenge because every time you see the letter ‘c’ on a billboard or a car you’ll screech at the top of your lungs until someone in the car also finds that same damn letter. (ONLY SOME OF US ARE DRIVING AND CAN’T CRANE OUR NECKS LOOKING FOR ONE LETTER AND CAUSING US TO CRASH TO OUR DOOOOoooOOM). Anyway, sports are also not your thing, unless you count cheering for me on the sidelines when I play Ultimate - ‘Go Daddy Go!’. You’re learning to throw a Frisbee yourself, but right now all you’ve managed is the two hand smash into Daddy’s shins. Daddy loves you very much.

You are swimming up a storm though so maybe that’s your thing. You’re a couple weeks away from getting your first swim badge. And at the cottage this summer you were utterly fearless in the lake. At the beginning of the week you didn’t even want to get in the water, by Friday you were in there trying to paddle around with a life jacket. Every morning before breakfast you’d try to wheedle and beg or demand that we all go down to the beach so you could play in the water.

Musically I’ve been playing you a lot of Caspar Babypants. ‘Run Baby Run’ is your favourite. Babypants is actually the lead singer of a band that Daddy likes, so this way I get to pretend that The Presidents of the United States of America are still making music and you get age appropriate tunage. Its win-win. And frankly, I’ve had it up to hear with kids songs actually sung by kids. I get a weird creep VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED vibe every time I hear that stuff. You don’t seem to have a burning desire to listen to music, so it’s always a bit of a surprise whenever you sing along with the tune (I didn’t even know you were listening!). 

You’ve definitely got the Faulkner TV gene. If it was up to you it would be all CAILLOU all the time. With maybe a little DORA and JAKE AND THE NEVERLAND PIRATES to break up the monotony. So I implemented a little token scheme (two a day) that’s slowed down your TV watching considerably. And hats off to you, when your tokens are gone you stop asking to watch TV. I know if it was me at your age I’d be keeping up an endless stream of ‘please can I watch more TV, please can I watch more’.

Oh, BARBIE is bull by the way. No more BARBIE on Daddy’s watch. Just watching one of those BARBIE movies was enough to send me over the bend. I’ve never seen a kids film that glorifies women in traditional roles more than that movie. And I’m pretty sure all of them end with some kind of wedding. Disney movies are kind of hit and miss on that front as well. There are lots of great Disney movies and then a handful where the only thing the female protagonist wants is to get married to the handsome prince. The newer the movie the more balanced the message is. But some of the older films are downright throwbacks.

And I’m bummed to see that I am becoming The Man. Not in the good ‘slip me some skin’ kinda of way either. No, I’m the totalitarian, ‘eatyourveggiesbecausesoonitwillbebathtimeandgetbackinyourchairyoungladyunlessyoudon’twantdessertandI’msorryyoudon’tlikethesoupbecausethat’sallthatwe’reofferingandohmygodI’vebecomemyparents’ kind of Man.

The Man wants you follow the rules. The Man gets you to do things that are good for you, not just fun for you. The Man sets limits and restrictions and is deaf to your pleas to that the cat likes it when you football tackle him. The Man is everything you swore you wouldn’t become.

99.9 per cent of the angry things that I shouted at my parents about when I was a teenager have sadly not come to pass. I have decided not to let you stay up all night eating ice cream and watching TV. (And trust me, I WANT to let you do that.) Instead you will play outside dagnabbit or do something educational and you will like it.

Your grandparents get to be the kind of parents I always wanted them to be when I was a boy, providing a seemingly endless supply of toys and candy and games without any rules or restrictions.

I’ve had to learn how to you say no to you without that word ever passing my lips. Because the second you hear me say no we’re in for a fight. And over three years you’ve developed quite the arsenal of tools when it comes to getting what you want.

When you yell and scream I want to yell and scream right back. When it comes to conflict resolution I’m all fight, no flight. But I can’t bring that mindset to arguments with you because I am The Man. And sometimes The Man’s job is to calmly sit there and take toddler sized buckets of anger until you wear yourself out. Because emotions can be tricky buggers at any age and boy do I get that.

And then, through your sniffles, you’ll hug me and kiss me and tell me that you love me, that you’re sorry and that you miss me and inside my heart will be melting into a puddle of goo. At which point I feel like anything but The Man.

You’ve reached the stage where you can make decisions all on your own. And your decisions are entirely based on ‘what do I want in this particular moment in time’ and not ‘how much will this particular act of destruction cost Mommy and Daddy’ or, ‘The future, what’s that?’ My job is steer you away from the dangerous options, let you do the silly or harmless things and make judgment calls on a whole host of decisions that could go either way.

It’s the hoariest of clichés, I don’t let you do some things not because I’m a tyrannical dictator, but because I’m trying to balance your personal freedom against your personal wellbeing.

I think 2013 is going to be an interesting year for all of us.

Love,

Daddy.

A letter to my daughter on the occasion of her birth.

Hello Helen,

I was wondering how it would feel to write to you. Would it be morbid? Or creepy? Or vain? I don’t really have an answer. I’m just rattling off words here. You were supposed to be born this week. And up until yesterday I thought I was holding it together reasonably well. Then your aunt Jennifer called to tell us she was pregnant, which is great news…but her timing could probably have been a little better.

To tell you the truth, I think most people have forgotten about what happened. Or that’s how it feels anyway. I guess it’s just one of those things that I think people can see as plain as day, because I carry it around with me all the time.

Do you know I can’t eat flavoured pretzels anymore? They were a part of a condolence basket that some people in your mother’s office sent to the house. I was eating some and all of a sudden I knew that if I ever had flavoured pretzels again I would only think of losing you.

I hate that story. But it sticks to me and I can’t forget it.

You have a song. (I have a song for everyone. It’s not something I do intentionally; it’s just a thing that seems to happen.)

Your mother’s song is So Sober by The Trews. Yours is Words & Fire by Sam Roberts. I’m keeping it Canadian I guess. I heard it when I started jogging after you passed away. I started crying in the middle of some unpaved road in the middle of Haliburton and I knew then that it would be your song. It pops up on my iPod from time to time and I’ll stare morosely at the wall for a bit, or if I’m alone I might tear up some.

For some reason I take a small modicum of comfort from the fact that a song reminds me of you, but absolutely none when I have the same recollection to a piece of food.

I’ll be happy to see the backside of 2012.

To first lose your great-grandfather and then you, it’s been more than I can take at times. I tend to react to bad news by barricading myself in a room and just being alone. (Its glorious) Unfortunately I don’t get to that anymore so I’ve had to find other outlets for my grief. I’ve been trying to pick up writing again. I was laying down a page or so every couple of days before we got the news and I’m trying to get back in the swing of things again. I’ve been exercising more. Being physically exhausted means I don’t have to feel so goddamn much.

And for a while there I thought I’d throw myself into work. I applied for my boss’ job and for a couple months I thought the position was mine for the taking. Getting the job was a really handy escape; I had lots of idea of what we could do differently. Unfortunately the position was filled by someone else and once again I felt like I had the rug pulled out from under me.

I put a lot of myself into trying to land that job, and without it I feel devoid of purpose. I badly need something to work towards, a reason for going through all this. Something just for me. Will it be writing? I sure hope so.

Because I think having a purpose would go a long way to filling up the emptiness that’s inside me. (I rewrote the previous sentences half a dozen times trying to come up with a way of expressing that sentiment without sounding so goddamn emo.) I just want something to strive towards, something to work for. And to be honest I don’t know what that is. I know the answer won’t just appear to me out of thin air, but I don’t even know the first step towards figuring it all out.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you right now.

Love,

Dad

Portishead - Roads

Amanda Palmer - The Killing Type

Words and Fire

Getting out bed for the past three weeks has been a challenge. I wake up and in those first brief moments, when my brain is flopping around trying to find its bearings, everything is okay. But of course reality slides in pretty quickly and the ache in my chest always reappears.


Miserable doesn’t begin to cover it.

I spent two days in the hospital with my wife delivering a child we knew was going to be dead at its birth. It was the worst experience I have ever gone through. It was like some kind of awful mirror universe parody of the birth of our first child. There was none of the giddiness or excitement, none of the anticipation and joy. It was just a hideous mockery of that first event. Every aspect of those two days was steeped in dread and misery, every milestone clouded by the awful truth of what awaited us.

I’d seen pictures of babies born as early as ours was and I thought that I was as emotionally prepared as I could be for something like this. But when you hold something that small and tiny in your hands I don’t think it’s really possible to be prepared for the emotions and thoughts that flood through you.

Worst of all, the hits just kept on coming. Every time I thought I’d gotten control of my emotions, locked down what I was feeling, something else would happen and I’d be reduced to a mess all over again. The body grew cold, we took pictures, they took her away. Every step was just more salt poured in the wounds.

It was a girl. We named her, Helen Christina. A name from each of our own. A way of giving her a piece of ourselves.

I cried like a baby. Uncontrollably. Which was incredibly uncomfortable experience, almost shameful, for me because I don’t like outward displays of emotion. Reserved and controlled is pretty much my bailiwick.

I’d never come from an overly macho household. My parents were fairly open and accepting of any emotional response. But I’ve never seen my father cry. Not once. Despite the knocks and bumps that all of us take in life I’ve seen my father keep it together each and every time.

Maybe behind closed doors he lets it all out, just like the rest of us, but if anyone else was present he was always tough and in control. I envy his strength.

When we got home we were done. Emotionally, physically, mentally. By any measurement of the human condition you care to examine, we were just gone.

In a sense our two year old has been a blessing and a curse. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. Oh, she can tell something is different, but she still wants to go to the park, or play in her wading pool. And, she still needs to eat, have her teeth brushed and take a bath every night. Which means we still need to behave like fully functioning adults and provide all those things for her. Her very presence forces us to keep on keeping on.

But it also means there’s no time, to grieve, to cope, to process.

We’re putting everything we have into our daughter and nothing into ourselves. We just carry our hurt around with us like luggage and every so often something will poke at it, a reference on a TV show or a song, and pop, the clasp springs open and all our emotions come rushing out.

Sam Roberts-Words & Fire

Coping.

A Letter.

A week ago today the bottom fell out of my world. We were called into our doctor’s office to talk about the results of some of the blood work your mother had done a couple weeks previous. We were told that there was an abnormal reading, that the test showed a positive result for spina bifidia and that we would have to go and get an emergency ultrasound in order to determine if everything was all right.

Everything was not all right.

Doctor Dave assured us that everything was going to be fine. “False positives happen all the time,” he said, “with a reading this high it has to be a mistake.” We had an hour or so to kill before our ultrasound appointment so we went and got some lunch. It was a pretty somber affair. Going to lunch just gave us something to stop our minds from constructing nightmare scenarios. Your mother and I talked to each other, tried to buoy each other’s spirits, tried to take the edge off the black cloud that had crept over us both.

I hate the place where we went to get the ultrasound. I’ve sat in on a couple ultrasounds now and this place always makes me wait outside like a naughty child while they do the imaging. They call me in after the whole thing is over and run me through the highlights. Of course, that’s great if everything is routine but it gnaws away at your chest when you’re waiting the outcome of what could be terrible news. I much prefer the other ultrasound place on College Street that lets me see what’s happening every step of the way.

They kept your mother in the examination room for an hour and a half, about three times longer than they expected to. At the end they didn’t bother to ask me to come in, they just sent your mother out and said to call our doctor in an hour or so for the results.

I knew then that the news was going to be bad.

I went back to the office to try and distract myself with work but I wasn’t very successful. I met up with your mother again shortly after to check on the results and all I could do was listen to her half of the conversation over the telephone and slowly watch her fall apart. It was our very worst fear come to life.

No one should have to listen to the anguish of a parent getting such terrible news. No one should have to listen to well-meaning doctors try and put the best possible spin on the situation. No one should be a prisoner of their own mind as it turns over endless scenarios in your skull, relentlessly prosecutes you for a million unrelated sins and refuses to let yourself just shut down and ignore the whole thing altogether.

I am sad that I will never get to know you the way I know your big sister. All the milestones and achievements and happiness that she has brought into our life will be denied to you and me and that breaks my heart. And as bad as things are now I know that there are still darker times ahead. I have to keep reminding myself that as unhappy as I am at this moment it’s important that I be there for your mother. She is the one who is bearing the brunt of all this. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain she is feeling.

I don’t want you to think that just because there is so much sadness attached to what is happening now that I love you any less. There is a place for you in my heart and even though I’ll only know you for a very short time I promise to treasure every second of it.

You will never be forgotten. You will always be loved.

Dad.

Writer

I’ve decided to start writing again.

I pop my head up periodically to make that statement and then slink away quietly after a couple weeks of spinning my wheels.

I have the best of intentions but my follow through sucks. There’s an extensive laundry list of why my plan never sticks. I usually blame it on life getting busy and time being short, but really those are just handy excuses to explain my fear of failure.

I let myself put writing aside because after four years of studying all day and working all night I wanted to have a little fun. Then not writing because the status quo and I found other things to fill the time I used to devote to writing. Later on, when I tried to go back I started to second guess myself and fretted that I didn’t have the chops to be a writer. I was so rusty that when I compared my work to that of my colleagues and my friends I was painfully aware of its short comings.

I was held back by doubt.

I told myself that writing would always be there for me when I had the time to devote to it. Nearly ten years later I realize just how effectively I’ve been lying to myself, convincing my vanity that the fault for my lack of output lay in circumstances beyond my control, when really I should have been taking a closer look at myself.

After co-opting a fellow lapsed writer and printing off a copy of HEINLEIN’S RULES FOR WRITING, by way of Robert Sawyer, I’ve made a promise to myself write again.

But I’m going to let myself be a terrible writer first.

I’m going to clear the cobwebs out of my brain and let out a couple of the ideas that are rattling around inside of my thinking meats. And I’m going to finish them. Then, I’m going to forgive myself for writing them so badly.

After which I’m going to pick up my pen (laptop) and try again. I may find that I’m a poor writer, although I’m hoping to at least be able to achieve the dubious status of mediocre.

But the point is I’m going to follow through. And if I suck and fail, well, at least I’ll be able to say I tried. I’m not quite sure how that’s better than deluding myself into thinking I’m a great writer with poor time management skills but it is.

This is something I really want, and I finally realized that fact in time to put the work into it.

A Letter to My Daughter on the Occasion of her Second Birthday

You have a personality now?! When did that happen?

Now granted, you’ve always had a personality, but it seems like every day you add a new range of expression and emotions. After a couple day’s at Nanna and Grandpa’s house you came back armed with a whole slew of new words. Before you used to be Claire the Baby, who did what she wanted and didn’t take shit from anyone. Now you’re Claire the Person, who does what she wants and still won’t take shit from anyone. The only difference is now you’re learning so quickly about what gets you results is that it’s hard to keep one step ahead of you, walking that tricky parental line that’s supposed to be about taking what you need and making it think it’s actually what you want.

Where do I start? There are so many milestones or moments of the past year that I’d love to immortalize, but every time I try to nail one down in my mind it slips away and sort of blurs into a larger, poorly defined memory that I simply call ‘Roo’.
There’s no mistaking that you’re a Mommy’s Girl. Daddy is definitely the runner up prize right now, even less if there happens to be a pet or a visiting family member in the room. You wipe off my kisses, spurn my hugs and angrily demand your mother take care of any and all tasks that involve you. Which is great when she’s in charge of reading stories before bedtime and somewhat less so she gets stuck with the shitty diapers.

I’ve read the books and I know it’s just a phase. And, I try really hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother me when you push me away, but it’s like a little kick or punch to the heart every time. I can see your teenage years now, armed with a whole arsenal of words that hurt the emotional wiliness to use them. That’s going to suck. (It also makes me wish I’d treated my own parents better during some of the more emotional times. But understanding is easier when you’ve got twenty years’ worth of hindsight on the subject).

Your hair is always a mess. Always. The back of your head looks like an angry birds nest all the time. No matter how often we come it out or try some magical hair product on it, it always looks like you’ve spend the last twenty minutes sitting outside in galeforce winds. Your mother used to say it was just because you a newborn and slept on your back, now I don’t think even she has any idea what’s going.

Speaking of which, your mother keeps insisting on cutting your bangs so your hair isn’t in your eyes. I’d prefer to just push your hair back in a clip, but since you can’t stand to have one in your hair cutting it back is just easier. Only your mom apparently can’t cut a straight line to save her life. Of the two times she’s trimmed your bangs this year I had to come in after the fact and fix it up. Not because I’m so kind aesthetical genius, but rather you get so excited whenever your mother is around that I think its hard for you to keep still.

Your memory is amazing. Many months after the fact you remember important details that even grownups would be hard pressed to remember. You recall the names of your great aunt’s lama (Migo and Nefi), the time you fell out of your high chair (bumpa head) and the name of the little girl who went to stopped going to daycare with you nearly a year ago. And yet you’re stunned that ever night is tooth brushing night, like it’s something you’ve never seen before. Talk about selective memory.

You are utterly fearless. Even now as you grow up and the idea of your actions having consequences start to seep in. You’re not afraid of the dark, after 5 minutes you completely lose any sense of stranger danger around new people (double edged sword that one, we’ll have to work on that) you love meeting new kids, new animals, playing around in new situations, jumping in a pool, or a boat or swimming in the lake. When I flip you around on my shoulders or slide with you across the wooden floor you’re always game for another round. “Again!” has been your favourite word for a long time now and is likely to be this way for quite some time to come.

We got to go out West in May to visit family and it was probably the worst family vacation we’ll ever have. At the very least I think it will set the standard for some time to come. We think you got sick in the hospital when you went with Mommy to see your cousin Ayla be born. The end result was a diarrhea and stomach bug that laid you (and everyone you came in contact with) out for a couple weeks. All we wanted to do was stay in bed and feel miserable but instead we had to attend family events and generally try to just tough it out. There were a couple bad nights there where you soiled everything you came in contact with and we had to use Great-Grandma’s washing machine at 3 in the morning to clean things up. As a group we were one sorry bunch. The only saving grace was that you were so worn out that you slept almost the entire flight from B.C. back to Ontario.

As always, I love you like the dickens. You’re just old enough now that all the sharp points of the hallucinogenic fever dream of your first crazy year are starting to get smoothed out. It’s less about looking after you these days and more about getting to know who you are. I’m really looking forward to talking and conversing and learning with you in the years ahead. (Not math though, never math, that’s your mother’s forte.) I’m excited to get to know you. And as we enter your terrible twos I’m proud as hell to know that you’re not going to go through life being anyone’s stepping stool.

Love,
Dad

The Trews - Tired Of Waiting