Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better and so does kindness

Month: May 2011

Wednesday Mornings, Itty Bitty Spiders and Random Hugs

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On May 19, 2011

In Life Stories, Motherhood

I am walking home with Sasha from Tony’s school. It is 9am and the morning is a big sparkling diamond. “Let’s walk home this way, Mom.” Sasha points to a street with a tree that looks like a red shredded umbrella with pink flowers all over. He loves that tree. He loves flowers and leaves and twigs. Every day I get them as gifts.

When we don’t have to hurry Sasha discovers an entire world of wonders. We walk up the street, pass the red umbrella tree and stop in front of a carpet of big leaves. They have dew on them, perfect little clear spheres of liquid life. Sasha is mesmerized by them, and I am mesmerized by him. I wish he’ll never lose that sense of wonder. He doesn’t touch the dew, too precious.

A few seconds later he makes the cutest little sound while crouching to see something under a leaf. “Mom, this is the tiniest I’ve ever seen.” It most likely is. A spider. So very small. Yet still, it has its own web. So delicate. Sasha’s eyes are big and round and happy. No gift in the world can replace this.

Time to wonder. Time to be silent and happy. Time to have Mom and that diamond of a morning all to himself.

His little hand slips into mine and we walk uphill. We talk about spider webs and questions are bubbling up so quick he’s almost short of breath. I pick him up. His arms wrap around my neck and his head rests on my shoulder. A big smile inundates his face. “You just picked me up randomly, Mom, I love that.” He’s learned quite a few big words from books and stories on tape lately, randomly is one of them.
There is nothing in the world to replace this. Time to hug my growing baby. Time to feel his head on my shoulder and his breath on my neck like the warm flutter of an invisible butterfly. A random butterfly hug that fills my eyes with tiny spheres of liquid happiness.
The sun envies the warmth of our hug. I would too.

Raise ’em, Trust ’em

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On May 16, 2011

Tony is at a Scouts’ camp this weekend. By himself, for the first time. There are some parents there, mostly dads, to supervise, of course, and there are leaders. No mom or dad though. He is excited, I am too. And if he’s worried at all, he doesn’t show and if I am at all, I don’t show it either. I know it’s good for him to go. And I know he’ll have adventures and live to tell the story.

I do believe that children can do a lot more than we give them credit for. And the weekend edition of the local newspaper touched on the very topic on its front page. Kids today don’t do the things their parents did, they don’t get to have the adventures that make the best memories. We’re suffocating them with worrying over everything. I see children my boys’ age not daring to cross a back lane until the parent says it’s OK to do so. I see kids older than my oldest who are walked into the classroom by one of their parents every morning. I see people’s eyes grow large when Sasha mentions carving with a pocket knife – a dull one, but a knife nonetheless. I see kids scared of strangers because they were told that, until proven otherwise, any stranger could be a bad guy. No playing with sticks, no playing with snowballs, no climbing trees, no running too fast, no exploring too far. But shouldn’t fun be safe, though, most parents would say? The problem is we make fun so extremely safe that it becomes little more than a safety protocol. Back lanes are quiet and aside from a few lucky ones, kids don’t run back and forth between houses to play together after school. Over scheduling – keep them busy and they’ll be safe, some say – and fear of everything bad that could possibly happen create isolation and rob children of a childhood that should include at least one episode of “Wow, that was close!” How else will they learn?

I won’t let my boys run in the middle of the road just for kicks and I will remind them to wear their helmets when going for a bike ride. But I won’t flinch either when they’ll say how slippery the top branch of that tall tree was. And you bet I’ll smile a secret smile when they’ll say how awesome and free they felt when they rode their bikes fast and helmet-less that one time and the wind was ruffling their hair with its long wild air fingers. Because I know how good it felt when I rode fast and helmet-less when I was 10. Reckless? Sure. But they’ll know, just like I did too, that doing that all the time would be plain stupid. Kids know, I really think they do. A wise mom once said to me “When my kids wanted to go cliff-jumping, I never said they shouldn’t. Instead, I showed them how to do it safe.”

Tony is back from the camp. He’s tired, dirty and wet but his face has that unique outdoors glow, and he tells us about his weekend. They lit fires on the beach, they jousted, they fought too, with other kids, they fell asleep by midnight and woke up with the sun. A bear cub and his big mama had to be chased away by the grown-ups, there were older kids having parties late at night, there was swearing and some bad words too that he’ll never repeat because he knows that sheltering mom from such details is part of being a big kid. Even as he sits down across the kitchen table talking about adventures and danger and all the fun he had, I swear he’s an inch taller.
And then he talks about freedom. He loved the taste of it, he says. Walking around knowing he’s on his own. This is just the beginning. We both know it, but no one says it out loud. Nestled in my lap, with my arms wrapped around him, Sasha listens to the stories. His turn is a few years ahead. There is no rush, there never will be.
 

Off the Beaten Path the On Mother’s Day

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On May 9, 2011

In Kamloops

We’re on our way to Deering Island Park, another stop on the banks of the river that stole my heart last summer. It’s a way away from where we live and it’s downhill, which is enjoyable for now but I fear some mumbling and grumbling on our way back.

Not to worry, we cross that bridge when we get there, I tell the boys. They ride their bikes and I run alongside.

It’s cloudy and crisp, I like it.

The boys keep getting off their bikes to pick dandelions and spring bells. “These are for you, Mom.” For me. It’s Mother’s Day, of course.

We follow the road and after crossing a couple of busy streets we’re in the countryside. Some of the houses are in rough shape, former farm houses, but they are beautiful and charming. Others are mansions with a block-long driveway and if I say they don’t belong here you might say I’m judgmental.

So go ahead, say it, because I’ll still say they are too posh for the location anyway. The place really looks like no other in Vancouver. Sasha assumes people here speak a different language and ride horses instead of driving and until proven otherwise I choose to go with his excellent assumption.

There are horse paddocks all over and it smells like it too. The sides of the road have dandelion freckles, little suns that brighten our day. Some are picked and they end in my hands. The road, all dusty and cracked here and there but in a countryside kind of way, is winding its back for us all the way to the river.

We reach the river banks. The water is murky, a big stream of dirty chocolate with stray logs playing peek-a-boo.

There are white clouds curled up like kittens around large blue ones all over the horizon. The boys climb the rocks lining the banks and start playing a game they’ve never played before.

One is Heracles, also known as Hercules (Tony) and the other one king Eurystheus (Sasha). Twelve labours are being assigned and carried on with diligence and pride. The game stops at times if there are mom-worthy flowers to be picked, or when the little king has realizes suddenly that  “Mom, king Eurystheus can do his own deeds if Hercules doesn’t want to.” Go figure!

We start making our way home with them mostly walking their bikes and me holding my wild flower offerings and helping with little king Eurystheus’s bike while he’s jumping ahead. No mumbling or grumbling. We walk, talk and laugh, cheeks are red and foreheads sweaty but the boys seem to love it as much as I do.

“We made it, Mom,” Tony announces as we reach the top of the hill. He looks at me with the largest smile ever.

He knows what I had just realized: it’s not the breakfast-in-bed-on-a-fancy-tray kind of gift that makes me happy on Mother’s Day, but this, seeing my boys growing up to be thoughtful enough to stop and pick flowers off the side of the road over and over again, and then be strong enough to ride uphill and not give up until they reach the point where they can proudly say “We made it!”, no matter how steep the hill or how long the way up. Mother’s Day was a happy one!

Kiddie Marathons and Vanilla Ice Cream Cones

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On May 2, 2011

In Kamloops

It’s 8 am and I wake up after a few hours of sleep. My eyes and brain pretend to be photophobic but I don’t have time for such pleas and bright morning sun should never be dismissed as too bright. The boys are as rambunctious as can be.

They move from laughter to crying and screaming so fast it makes my head spin. I make breakfast and that calms everybody down for a bit. But then I understand: today is the day of the BMO Vancouver marathon. Tony, my oldest, will be there running.

A first race, and these last 1.6 km will add up to the other 40 he ran in the last six weeks. A full marathon completed in increments. He’s nervous, hence the agitation. I’d be too. I am, before each race, and I tell him so. Hugs and laughs help.

We drive there and realize very soon that finding a parking spot on the moon may be easier. A tight parking space between two cars is a welcome sight.  A bit far but there no other choice. We hold hands and run. We’re far enough to not make it in time but fast and determined enough to get there at the right time anyway.

“This is good warm-up, Mom, it’s good,” Tony says, wrapping my face in a look that weaves thank you and I love you in a way that will never be forgotten.

“My lungs are burning, I can’t run anymore.” Sasha is not a quitter but his previous asthma episodes might be responsible for his shorter endurance. For now. I pick him up and we keep running. We make it! Good lesson for the boys.

Tony joins in and he runs as fast as he can. I cannot be prouder. I take photos of him at the finish line. Later he tells me of a cramp and thirst, saying that he ignored both and kept running. My boy is growing, and he’s doing it right.

We go get the promised ice cream. From McDonald’s no less. A first. “Just this once, Mom, I got this coupon in my race package.” Straw-coloured cones with slightly tilted cold and soft vanilla sweetness. We sit on the side of the sidewalk facing the drive through and watch the cars driving by after picking up the food fix.

We talk about all the things a mama could talk to her boys on a sunny Sunday morning after a morning run. The sky is blue with an eagle pinned to it. Everything points to perfection except for the occasional nauseating whiffs of fast food fries. But that’s just a reminder of the crooked imperfections that make life perfect. Someone once told me that.

On our way to the car we pass by an old red El Camino truck parked in a sea of white dust. It belongs there. Sasha runs all around the truck like a little desert mouse.

We drive home with Tony wearing his blue and golden medal. Yet he doesn’t seem to consider that the most memorable thing of this morning.
“Are you proud of me, Mama?”
“I am. Always.”
He looks at me. I look at him. Life is good. The eagle is soaring high and so am I.

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