Author: Daniela Ginta Page 70 of 99

Our floors are sandy again. About time I’d say. Some sand in my hair as well. If I don’t remember to empty the pockets they’ll too spill on the floor. And if I do remember, chances are someone will not so it’s all the same. Sigh? Nah, that’d be a wasted breath…

Normal floors, hardwood or otherwise, are somewhat overrated in the world of river rats, you see. My ideal house would have floors made of driftwood, that’s where sand feels at home… And us too.

It was a good afternoon today. We headed to the sand banks on the north shore after school. They’re endless. The sand sparkles with the cheekiness of a gold-bearing sediment. As if. There’s driftwood half-buried in wind-smoothed sand and if you’re willing to keep walking you’ll find old bones and shells too.

Just keep walking…

“Mom, look, it’s perfect for a king!”

All of a sudden Sasha is the king; just like that; lack of nobility by birth notwithstanding, Sasha feels royal and I cannot blame him. The place inflates you to royalty as you walk barefoot through the golden sand.

He draws lines in the sand. “Follow the line, or else you’ll get lost.”  We follow; lost is no fun, although if one is to get lost, this would be a rather sweet adventure.

Winding our way on a sand bank where it’s just us. We find enough driftwood for a simple contraption and carry it back to the base camp to build the small fort where the kind shall sleep. Us pages will guard the walls, as per his instructions.

He is so taken with the kingdom he runs, it’s delightful. I notice his feet are covered in sparkles and then check mine. Golden. I’m secretly hoping it’ll never rub off. It looks pretty, that’s all.

“Mom, is the water good for swimming?”

We try it. My ankles hurt from the chill after a few minutes. “Not yet babe, soon though…”

The river is shamelessly copying the blue of the sky, clouds included. It’s quiet here, except for the occasional geese that fly over honking. But you can’t fault anyone and anything here.

We shoot our bows, and the arrows glide on the sandy surfaces. No target really, we shoot and watch them fly low like uncomplicated thin and quiet birds. Pick them up; again. And repeat.

More exploring?

The king regales us with a game he invents on the spot. Stick in the middle, try and hit it with a golf ball, then try and get the ball before others do. We plunge in the sand like the very arrows we shot not long ago, stir the golden specks and make tiny puffy clouds of dust.

I look at Sasha rolling in the sand, laughing round and perfectly shaped belly laughs as I plunge to get the ball from him. The game he invented, his pure joy, makes me think of the many kids who have invented games throughout time. Nothing scheduled or timed or reinforced by adults, just their minds finding games and causing laughs; many. Some of the rules may be silly and may be changing as needed to benefit the pint-sized player, but the sheer happiness is my shelter here.

When it’s time to go (simply because we have to get a hold of the king’s brother Tony) he stalls. Ever seen royal stalling? It’s one of a kind.

“I lost my special royal weapon.”

We look, there’s no weapon. Keep searching. Then he gets trapped in the midst of an arrow forest. Tough one. We save him and get him to say goodbye to the beach for now. I wouldn’t go either but acting mature is one of those things that humans do at times…

Tomorrow morning I will make raspberry pancakes, squeeze a bike ride in there somewhere and then, as per the little king’s suggestion, we shall spend the rest of the day at the beach. If it rains, it rains. Can’t change that, can we now?

I am sitting at my dining table, facing the window. It’s snowing. It is March 12. This late snow that comes every year though; a farewell? How could I know.

A good day for cowboy coffee. Take slow sips, smell it mostly; on days like this every sip is a world apart. Memories of times past, sunny mornings not long ago, words, whispers, promises…

Today is different though. I’m angry. I know there is a way out but for now I am here, failing to see the end of it. The last few weeks have been trying. Life as it happened but mostly Sasha’s on and off asthma, itchiness, moodiness caused by it, his waking up many times a night, stuffed nose, nose bleeds.

This was not part of the deal. He has cat-triggered asthma, I know that. So we stay away from cats because they cause severe itchiness and asthma. But that’s where it should end.

It doesn’t. Dust does it too now. Will pollen? The insolence of it all is infuriating. I keep telling myself that it could be a lot worse.

I keep telling myself that other people have it worse. Some strange guilt complex though people suffering is not my doing. The strange, often trying balance between gratefulness and guilt…

So I play nice, for the boys’ sake. I act like a grown-up who knows how to deal with it, but inside I am quite little and clueless. Throwing rocks into a big pool of dirty water and getting all muddy.

I ask for nothing but health, I always have. For the boys first of all. This is not it though. I feel cheated and that angers me. By no one’s fault, by no one’s doing. Life as it happens? Who knows?

Sasha comes at night in my bed when he’s bothered by his problems. I usually take him back to his. We do that dance many times a night. Back and forth. Tuck in, hug, kiss, please sleep baby… But lately I don’t want to take him back to his bed every time. I want to hold his little body and make it all good. Make him better. Make him healthy.

But he is, he is. Healthy and beautiful and happy. It’s just this thing, it might go away. Hope, pray, hope. And hug. Hug them tight; both of them. Laugh with them, don’t show them my fear and never tell them it cannot be. Tell them about what matters the most: today. And show it.

There is only one way out of here: the way out of anger. Anything else would mean robbing them of that conviction that we never give up. Hope, pray, hug. Today…

It stopped snowing. Coffee is done; the tumble of memories is dozing at the bottom of the cup and all there is to come is nestled in a place that I know the way to. I do.

Acceptance is the only way to go. I am not there yet.

Grateful for everything else…The only way to see through.

It’s Saturday, 11am and the sun is shining a bright storm through the windows. We are having pancakes, raspberry ones. I am not sure if it’s the sweetness of the maple syrup, the warmth steamy flavor of the pancakes or the simple joy of any rush-less Saturday (yes, I know rush-less is not a word but it paints one as it is), or all of them combined, but there’s always good conversations sprouting like crazy little plants all around the table.

“Mom, what is art?”

Tony’s face bears a funny smiles. But of course you know what it is. OK, he admits, but what if someone takes a pair of broken earphones and glues them to something else, is that art?

Well, no, I do not think so. Though art is a subjective thing, we all agree.

“What’s subjective, mom?” Sasha is always part of the discussions.

I explain the best I can.

Some art is universally recognized as beautiful art, and there’s no debate, other kinds are fully debatable.

How about candy wrappers stuck to objects, say an old snowshoe, Tony pushes. Oh come on! But no, he insists, someone came to their classroom and demonstrated this kind of art.

Hmmm. I want them to develop critical thinking, to also have respect for what people do, but to be able to speak their mind and not just agree with something or “roll with it” because it’s trendy or because everyone else says so.

“But why headphones mom? They looked like broken headphones and nothing else.”

At this point one could argue that my children or any other children (and adults too for that matter) do not have a well-developed eye for art therefore they cannot see past the obvious; broken headphones in this case. Or that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Fair enough. But incomplete.

I told them what I think, and that is by no means right or wrong; simply my opinion. I believe that when someone is inspired to create something, (whatever the medium is), and that someone creates something not to make money or to appear original, but because there is no other way of exiting that whirlwind of inspiration, that’s when art happens and it speaks to us.

Hence my own little rule: I’ll call it art when one’s goal is not to create an impression for the sake of it, but rather respond to bouts of inspiration.

The boys pointed to the walls.

“Is that art?”

Well, it’s our art.

Our house contains art and mementos. Art created by us: paintings, drawings, photographs; and then, the mementos that I created along the years in what seemed like a futile way of trying to stop time, but has since developed into reminders of times past; reason to be grateful, and incentive to cherish the days to come.

I’m not some conceited wannabe artist who believes that only my art is good enough. But I want our house to be a celebration of my boys’ growing up, a reminder of how they see the world, a tug at my heart to never fully grow up.

In fact, the house is also full of rocks, shells and pressed wild flowers. Reminders of sunny days, of cloudy days; soul hugs to keep us warm.

Back to the candy wrappers and broken headphones: I know that trash art exists and some pieces are striking. Some, if not all, are also trying to raise awareness about how much garbage there is although I am not sure if they succeed or not. That’s beside the point though.

Bottom line: If trash is the medium we choose to deliver an artful message through, it better not be the express way done as a demonstration to school kids, because they miss the point and when they do, we adults miss an opportunity to inspire them. Instead of being surprised, they shrug, laugh and move on.

Pancakes, warm and syrupy, straight talking, rain or shine while joking and talking about all things that made an impression on us, I can only hope that we will keep this perfect Saturday ritual alive for many years to come.

I hope for debates, good solid arguments, critical thinking, silliness and the ever present “Mom, I’m full. Thank you for the pancakes…” And to you, my boys. For Saturdays.

“He’s sitting next to me on the sofa, mom. I don’t want him to. Tell him to get off.”
“I can sit here if I want you.”
“NO!”

What usually happens next is predictable. Some kicks, punches, some name calling to spice it up and it’s all downhill from there.

I used to be naïve enough to look for reasons. I figured the kinder them would be hidden inside there somewhere, and if coaxed properly will come out.

But it’s like this: If the boys sleep well and enough, if there’s no nasty colds to get over and if their moods are sunny, conflicts are rare and easy to manage. But life is not perfect and neither are we.

Every now and then moods are swampy, at least one nose is runny and thus annoying, people at school are mean, and… well, you get the idea. It’s called mayhem. The boys act mean to each other, they push, shove, punish each other, and in the process they punish me.

The reverse is also true: Bad days can make the calmest parent lash out. Zen mothers are a rare breed and I am not one of them. I’m learning though.

Acting mean comes out first, I often tell the boys. Like a bad reflex that should’ve disappeared by now.

I used to reach for excuses rather than solutions. You blame others for the inability to act beyond meanness. So you need a mirror of some sort and I believe children are the best mirror there is.

They see, learn and apply. Nice things and ugly things alike.
Every human being acts mean at some point. Life’s big shoes step on all our ten toes and being gracious about it is not part of the plot.

But here’s the kicker: Every time, without an exception, when I mentioned the murkiness of my day, the boys or others have tried to help.

It was a liberating feeling: I was no longer the upside down bug kicking its legs in the air in a mad attempt to regain its dignity.

It works for the boys too, except that they often don’t know how to explain their troubles. They are still learning the ways of the world. If they have a bad day, they give each other heck.

They know just like most people do, that acting mean hurts people. Occasionally they acknowledge the deed and apologize.

But often they don’t. The way I see it, they have to be helped to reach that point sincerely. The last thing they need is being lectured about right and wrong. They know it’s wrong. They don’t understand why they are suddenly the perpetrators of wrongness.

So nowadays I do my best to skip the lecture. I tell them if an action is mean. They know meanness hurts. Boundaries are to be learned no matter what. But, I tell them again and again, acting mean does not make one mean.

Feeling rotten inside tells us exactly that and keeps up from doing it all the time.

I learned to ask them (and myself too) whether meanness solved the problem or brighten the situation at all. The answer is usually “no” except for the smarty pants answer “He did it to me, I did it to him,” which I am still working on finding an equally smarty-pants retort for.

Playing the voice of reason between the boys has taught me to find my own. Seeing them do the things I do and am not proud of, the things I say that I should not say, the aforementioned mirror that is, has made me aware of one thing: Admitting to a rainy day inspires people to hand you an umbrella or share theirs.

A few years ago I read a book called “Principles of non-violent communication” by Marshall Rosenberg. The boys were young and angelic and fights between them did not exist.

I read the book and smugly thought it was a good one for those who needed it and that was not me.

Fast forward a few years; I have humbly remembered the book and the two things that managed to stick despite my smugness: Using “I” instead of “You” in a conflict always makes room for negotiation instead of resentment, and secondly, using words like “never” and “always” in a conflict creates more conflict.

Simple as they seem, these two things don’t just roll of the tip one one’s tongue. It takes practice. Like learning to ride a bike: You stumble, lose your balance, fall and try again. But once you learn how to do it, it’s there for life.

(Originally published as “How to survive swampy moods” in the Kamloops Daily News on Saturday February 23, 2013)