Category: 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!

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.

It was a Saturday morning in early spring. One of those spring mornings when I was happy to finally see patches of blue behind the clouds that seemed sewn onto the sky for weeks and taking a walk with my son, who was two at the time, seemed the perfect way to honour my joy.

Walking around the neighborhood meant that he would go after the tiniest insect and observe it for several long minutes and then he would watch a droplet a water balancing on the tip of a twig, round and plump.

Would another one take its place if it fell? Most likely. Dripping is a fascinating phenomenon. As adults we choose to be annoyed by it, but we were all entranced by water dripping once upon a time. A matter of perspective perhaps.

Our walk took us through puddles, under some dew-weeping branches, and around various timeless creepy crawlies such as earthworms and millipedes. Occasionally, a passerby would smile and try to locate the object of our fascination. Other people’s eyes glanced over us like we were yet another bus stop poster.

A couple of blocks later we walked by a guy who had a whole bunch of nothings on a blue tarp on the wet grass. A garage sale, my son pointed out. I’d usually stop and look around, have a chat and maybe try to find a little piece of someone else’s life to buy and add it to my own tapestry.

Not this time.

My eyes skimmed over the things spread out on that worn out tarp and they all seemed tired and old and my only thought was “He’ll never sell any of that, it’s all junk”. Malicious? You could say that again.

So we kept on walking turning another corner and a few minutes later someone’s running steps echoed behind.

“Would your son like this? Please, take it.”

The garage sale guy was holding a bright green Kermit – that beloved quirky frog from the Muppet show – and was offering it to my son.

The big smile on the guy’s face and the happy green colour of the frog dangling in his hand made me cringe. I felt ashamed. I accepted the gift and thanked him, almost not daring to look him in the eyes. I wanted to apologize but it wouldn’t have not been enough or made it right. Instead, I wanted to make it so that I will always remember. Judging is an ugly deed. Now it exists in writing and it’s a promise.

Kermit is still one of my son’s favourite stuffies. Bulging plastic eyes and all. I am staring at his wrongly sewn droopy thin arms right now and I see nothing wrong with it. He is the talisman of my humility.

Every now and then I tell my sons the story of how we came across Kermit. He is my son’s toy, but I can say, and without a trace of self-importance, that he was given to me. Because I needed to learn. I hope I did.

I have a new addiction. My evening run. Aside from my daily dose of endorphins and the crisp cool air that clears my head before my evening writing, I get occasional bonuses.

Tonight my big prize was a perfectly round full moon, a skunk digging for worms or bugs – did not dare get close enough to check on that – and bagpipe music from a neighbor’s house.

On a rainy night I get empty streets and no other noise but the raindrops pounding on leaves and asphalt. Hard not to get addicted.

Running helps me get rid of the stress I accumulated during the day and then walking makes ideas swirl in my head. I

have come to love and look forward to that half hour of being with myself and my thoughts. I love picturing the path I want to take over the next few days or so and I love the clarity of my post-jogging thoughts.

I lose track of my steps on the sidewalk while passing under sleepy blossomed trees and so deeply immersed in my thoughts. A peaceful and energizing feeling at the same time.

If you can find a time to be with yourself, whether early in the morning, mid-day or in the evening, do not hesitate to do so. Run, walk or do both, whatever challenges your body enough to get those feel-good chemicals going.

Thoughts will start dancing in your head and you’ll love it, I promise. Hearing your thoughts so loud and clear is an empowering experience you’ll want to repeat. And if you happen to bump into me I’ll be really quiet so you can hear the whispers of the sleeping blossomed trees too. They make beautiful music for your dancing thoughts…