Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better and so does kindness

Tag: children Page 5 of 6

Goo For Rainy Days

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On November 15, 2013

In Life Stories

Every couple of weeks I go to Sasha’s class for a science experiment. We make volcanoes, lava lamps, layered sugary rainbows and all things that make science kid-friendly and fun. Lots of it.

Today was goo day. Or slime, if we go by the initial state.

Twenty or so pairs of eyes, wide and curious, watched me mix solutions and held their breaths during the mixing. Slimy polymers ensued and the resemblance with real but oversized green snot made the kids giggle and say eww loudly more times than I can count and everyone wanted to have a turn handling it. Slime can be that inviting.

The children lined up for a chance to hold the droopy goo. And the goo delivered. It drooped, stretched, and spread all over the plastic container. Some got on the floor. Also, I got to scrape it off some twenty or so pairs of fidgety little hands.

Many little voices tweeted the only request that made sense “Can you please write on a piece of paper how to make this at home?” I promised I will.

The substitute teacher (a stern one, Sasha said, though not mean, he clarified,) could not help but smile during the goo rush. Apparently he did not smile all day.

Friday afternoons are usually mellow. They don’t have to be. Ours was a raucous, noisy gooey one. Tempted? You should be. Here you go. Enjoy!

We had an encore at home. Red was the only color we could find, so the goo is an unfortunate pink. But you’ll be spared the visuals. Photos upon request only.

PS: It is past 9 o’clock and the boys are asking for 15 more minutes of goo play. It’s been hours already. Convinced? Let me know how it goes.

 

Heart Strings And Daisies

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On November 14, 2013

In Life Stories, Motherhood

This morning has been no better or worse than others. In fact, slightly worse because an overnight rain soaked my shoes, which I had forgotten on the porch, yet again. First world problems as I call them.

The boys are cheery and gabby and we manage to leave the house on time with no altercations and no delays that make us run and jump over sidewalks like a group of sun-scared bats on the way to the first deep dark cave (no negative reference to school or maybe just a small one?…)

So we walk. There’s chatter and silliness and loud “No, no, I’ll say it. Mom, listen to this…” and some of last night’s toilet jokes on replay. Some are that good, according to 11-year-olds and under.

Hold hands, small hugging palms hiding in mine and if I hold stronger than I should is because I know the jumpy nature of such holds. They go poof before you realize it. So hold on while they last.

A sparrow hops from between some cigarette butts on one side of a chicken-wire fence to wet sand on the other. She’s round and fluffy and the hopping is exquisite. Elegant and light and we’re spellbound.

Toilet jokes are forgotten. We stare. She stares back. Hops. Stares. A hand squeeze but this time it is not me. It’s the small hand making me heed the bird and its exquisite tiny feet. “Mom, isn’t she cute?”

I am struck again by how we attach ourselves to memories of no particular day or place. Muck, sand, a brownish bird and five more minutes until school starts. All wrapped up in a forgetfulness-proof mental package that will never be stamped with the awkward “when was that again?”

The day rolls into a big fat cinnamon-tinted cocoon of a sunset with a glued-on ghost-white moon and when night comes I know of the one thing I learned about today. “No special day” memories, or no-planning-to-acquire-memories-but-did-it-anyway kind of day.

Heart stringsAnd I know of two things that will never leave my prized possessions box (not that I have one, but I will think of one) and those are: a string of no particular glamour that Sasha has loved and played with since the dollopy days of toddlerhood and he still holds dear, and a pressed little daisy which Tony gave me one day at a park that has long disappeared off the Vancouver map. It was drizzly and cold and ten years ago and a late daisy made it from his tiny fingers into my heart and journal. Just like today, we were half-way into winter, which is why heart strings feel warmer than ever.

DaisyToday I learned that heart strings are not negotiable. They just are. They appear out of nowhere and they will stick forever. It takes one to learn to spot one when it happens.

Heart strings are never planned for, so don’t start trying. That’s the magic of it all. They happen with no warning and often you realize what happened way after they’re gone. But they’ll be there when you least expect it. Magic.

Bats, Ghosts and Pumpkins and Twice the Fringe. Costumes Ready.

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On October 30, 2013

In Life Stories, Motherhood

GhostsIt’s the night before. You have postponed the sewing. The craziness of the day that should not be more than a day is consuming… Halloween, tomorrow. Costumes, masks, too much of this and that, stores engorged with hats and lace and inadequacy. Sigh. Tomorrow night will be owned by ghouls and shredded tempers and you can’t settle for it. Shudder. But the boys, they want the sweetness of it. Is there any?…

Time to sew. Tomorrow the costume parade and Halloween wickedness will unfold.

“Do you like Halloween, mama?” Not really. But I like it for you, if you like it. “We do, the costumes, but no creepy faces.” Costumes it is.

CowboyLet’s sit on the sofa; needle and thread, fringe waiting. Little boy reads from a book with little boys and big canoes and bears piling up in the canoe, eating the fish, splashing the boy, what silly-mannered furry sacks. Little boy reads, you sew fringe on the cowboy costume; one leg, then the other. Small pants still, knees left on hills of sun and rocks that had to be observed from up close, left on grass during tumbles with big boy. Pants with knees have no stories.

“Mama, they need to be dirty, can you?” You go outside, rub dirt from under the mint shrub, make them look tired and rugged. Small pants, fringe on both legs.  The tips of your fingers sting from the stubborn needle you had to push in.

Little boys reads “Spooky Old Tree” and laughs.

“Three little bears…

without a light,

without a stick,

without a rope.

And all with the shivers!”

Big boy comes by. Trying the coat on; a stitch here, one there, tuck the sleeves in, don’t cover the metal buttons, they should stay like that. How about coat tails? “Can you, mama?”

Big boy sinks in the orange blanket, pumpkin-colored sofa. Can I sit with you? Chat, read, wonder…

Gentleman“Is my gentleman suit ready? Can I try it on? Oh, it’s perfect!” Big boy, dark brown eyes and a smile reaching straight into your heart. Gratefulness, thoughts of goodness. You bask in it. Boy rhymes with joy and it’s a poem you’ve been writing for years, every day. Today it rhymes. No tears.

Little boy makes little friendly ghosts to hang around the house, and bats that are friendly, and silly pumpkins. “Wanna color with me?” Big boy shrugs; no. Mama says yes, don’t grow up too fast, your brother is holding the door open for you. Stay a kid, go color, cut, stick to the wall. He does.

Night tumbles into the room, draws yawns and hangs sleepy thoughts on tomorrow’s trees. Time for bed, silly boys. Costumes sit in piles on the orange blanket. Fringes, coats, tall hats and polished boots. 

“Not mine, I am a cowboy. They have to be rugged.” The boots, of course.

The kitchen smells of cookies, the crumbliest of all, soft and chewy, sweet-steamed dollops that fall apart when you hold them up. The boys want them so. Handfuls of crumbles, milk dripping on the table, that’s all there is to it. Sweet crumbles.

Halloween is still not your favorite. But the boys love dressing up, friendly little ghosts twirl with the lightest of touch and you think of the little hands that made them. They wanted to make peace with the spookiness of tomorrow. To make it right.

Face. SmileOn the porch there is a jack-o-lantern with thick orange cheeks and a wiggly tooth. Smiling.

“Do you like it, mama?”

 

So You Can Breathe. Be Grateful

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On October 2, 2013

In Life Stories

Reminder...As I write this a fire truck makes its hasty way in the distance. I know it is hasty because the sirens are wailing, cutting long and sharp shards of worry in the night. I know, because they came to our doorstep a couple of days ago and painted the pavement a temporary flickering red.

There’s no beast wilder than fear for your child’s life. It tears you to pieces in a matter of seconds and you have almost nothing to fight back with but your bare soul, already shredded by thoughts you don’t want to decipher, pretending you don’t understand them. Like walking on a tight rope with nothingness underneath, you have to look at the rope to keep going, not at the seemingly empty space below.

Don’t lose hope, they say and you try hard not to. But just like driving in thick fast-plopping rain with tired, broken wipers, you can barely see ahead and you keep driving because you can’t stop. But how keep going, since you cannot see much. Hoping you will not lose control, hoping you can make it is all you have; that’s how.

It’s like that. Having a sick child that struggles for his every breath, taking but shallow labored ones as if there is a shortage of air around him, it’s a ride so draining that nothing comes close to it.

Sasha’s recent asthma attack marked me in many ways. I am grateful to have him back, I am grateful to see him laugh, raspy voice and all, but most of all, I am aware that seeing him breathe keeps my breathing steady.

Spending the night in the hospital, monitoring screens with lines and numbers and feeling my heart sink every time numbers dropped too low because Sasha’s tired body could not breathe the oxygen in, it all drove home the simple truth we proclaim often but forget almost every time: Live every day, live it fully as if it’s your last.

We are fragile and strong at the same time, we ask for help and pray that living nightmares end and ask others to pray for us too, we break down in tears when it is all over because now we are taught to fear more than before and the taste of fear takes longer to dissipate. Yet a gift is a gift, and so was Sasha’s ability to hold his breathing steady after hours of struggle. It’s when you can forget the pain to make room for gratefulness.

You have at least one reason to be grateful at this very moment. I hope that you do. You can breathe, no struggle, no gasping, no panic. Be grateful. The world becomes a better place when we remember the often forgotten yet vital things. Gifts. Like breathing… If you can, say a prayer for those who can’t. It will reach them. I know it will because a couple of days ago we had many coming our way…

The Pursuit of Kindness

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On March 3, 2013

We bought the pink shirts a while ago. I still don’t fully understand how a T-shirt will prevent or stop bullying but I bought the T-shirts so that the boys won’t stand out as non-wearers.

It made me think of that Seinfeld episode when Kramer gets bullied for not wearing the pink ribbon that everyone was wearing during an AIDS march. “Who, who doesn’t wanna wear the ribbon?…” Remember that one? A well placed sarcasm if I’ve ever seen one.

That Thursday morning was a noisy one. Sasha had yet another night of interrupted sleep and he was in a bad mood when he woke up. By the time we flew out the door, moods were bruised and we did not remember to take the pink T-shirts.

So I drove back to get the T-shirts. Tony that he’ll pass since he might face being laughed at if mom shows up with the forgotten item. The irony of that happening on anti-bullying day was striking.

Sasha wore his, Tony didn’t. Later when I picked them up he told me how a kid walked by him and swore at him. Some nasty words; aside from my sadness that he knows them, it’s even sadder to know that he was addressed as such.

What about going to the principal with it? Nah, he says. The worst of what a kid would face should someone inform the teachers or principal would be “You are not allowed to…” or “Don’t do it again…” Right. Like that would curb it.

I could not necessarily call it bullying. It’s a mean put-down remark, it’s swearing, it’s bad. But then Tony told me the kid is known to swear at people. Other kids do it too sometimes. They’re being told not to do it, if someone hears them, that is.

But then again, Tony tells me of adult supervisors who appear bitter and punitive for reason that elude him. They yell and get mad at kids for not playing their notes well during music class, for not wiping their feet when they come back. Often threats are used too. We’re all human you could say. We all make mistakes.

Where do we draw the line then? How do teach the kids what’s acceptable and what’s not? Who is responsible for setting and example and how should they do it? Help children be kind not out of fear of punishment but because they are aware they could hurt someone’s feelings, that sounds good and noble but that could only happen if we do it first.

Pink T-shirts or not, children should know that being kind is not a one day event. They should be able to trust the adults in their lives to help them deal with swearing or aggression of any kind. Yet in some of my darkest moments I fear that that’s simply not the case.

Kids are living the same rushed lives we are, they are bitter and angry at times, they forget to be kind. Most, if not all, do not know any better until later on, if then. But what excuse do adults have? If they choose to work with children they should set an example. No excuse and no exception.

Kindness is not the same with weakness just like discipline is not the same with meanness. As a parent, I can say that when I behave in a mean way the last thing my boys learn or feel is to be kind to each other. Would they trust me to solve any aggression that might occur between them if I handle myself poorly? I hope not.

I think no matter how many T-shirts we pile on children, pink or not, they will only learn to be kind to others when they see it happening. The whole teaching by example thing. It applies, it really does.

Your thoughts on this? Thank you for sharing should you decide to do so.

 

The Importance of Being (Occasionally) Messy

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On February 13, 2013

It was early March, two years ago. After days of incessant West coast drizzle, the sun came out and we followed. One of our favorite spots in the big city was the unassuming Fraser River banks. The shores were exposed that day. An open invitation to explore if I ever saw one.

The boys were dressed for chilly weather. As they were playing layers came off. Hats, coats, sweaters.

“It’s so warm, mom.”
It was. Next, they explored the swampy area further down. An unforgotten adventure of the summer before.

Their voices trailing behind like jolly puppies, they went deeper into the muddy reeds. I could see and hear them.
“Mom, it’s squishy!”
“It’s so hard to step on this without sinking!”

Giggles followed their words. More excited screams piled on top of the giggles until the exploring stopped. The oh-oh laughter.
“Mom, we’re trapped! We’re sinking!”

There was no imminent danger so I suggested they get themselves out of the muddy pickle they got themselves into.

So they did. A few minutes later they plopped themselves by my side and explained how they did it: They pulled their feet out of the boots and then pulled the boots out of the mud. By sliding them sideways, they explained, because pulling up did nothing.
Fair enough. Physics sounds appealing at the banks. We talked about the forces that kept their boots stuck and why sliding them made them unstuck. How fun!

Of course, pulling feet out of boots meant they walked in their socks all the way back. Muddy got redefined. They each carried a smile so large I thought their faces would stay like that forever.

“Mom, can we take our socks off?” As always, kicking it up a notch seemed logical.
I smiled, which to them meant yes. They walked barefoot, squishing mud with their feet and churning it in between their toes for the rest of the day. And laughing.

They filled their socks with mud and pretended to have discovered dinosaur eggs. Not a tingle of discontent. They got to be up to their necks in mud and it should be stated that no figure of speech could belittle the deed. I have photos to prove it.

My youngest lost a sock that day. “The river took it, mom. But you know what? I have another pair just like that at home.” Right he was. Not that it mattered much. They were getting small anyway and a bit thin here and there. Fun was priceless.

Another place in the big city that gets severely muddied up at low tide, we called it The Secret Place, was the scene of many a squishy walk.

Lost on wide endless muddy shores, time became a bug that you squeeze between your fingers to make it disappear. It was like that.

We stomped our feet in the mud, washed in the rivulet tributary to the big waters just to get muddy again, snacked on ripe salmonberry, held our breath as the cheeky cattails sprayed us with dust, and at the end of the day, every little messy detail of that day found its was into my journal.

The best messy story there ever was.

We’ve found a decent number of destinations for messy fun around Kamloops too and we’ll find more as we go.

But we’re not strangers to indoors messy fun either. Often while I cook dinner the boys make potions that teach them about how turmeric floats and rice sinks, about how oil always stays on top and if you add a few drops of lemon juice to baking soda you’ll have a volcano. And make a darling mess.

Whether you have little ones, or grown kids, or no kids at all, do indulge, I dare you. It’s the best way to learn (for them and you) and it’ll put a smile on your face.

Cleaning up together is a must and if you have to get it as a solemn promise beforehand, please do. A win-win situation.

Here’s a shortcut to some of the best messy fun there is: Mix half a cup of water with a cup of cornstarch and feel it with your hands. I won’t spoil it for you. It’ll make you chuckle, guaranteed. Laugh if you must. It feels that good.

You can add food colors too. One drop, spread it around. More? Why not. Make a rainbow? Here it comes!

Children need messy fun. The thing is, if their hands don’t get messy than their minds are not learning. So allow them. Better yet, join in. Leave the “cleaning up” thoughts behind until all the fun is done with.

After you’re done cleaning up, I promise you’ll find chuckles and good memories snuggled up against your soul. They’ll help you remember about being a kid and perhaps make part of you remain one forever.

Originally published in the Kamloops Daily News as “The Importance of Getting Messy.” (Saturday, February 9, 2013)

The Reading Thing And All Things Related

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On January 24, 2013

It was a year or so ago that Sasha’s kindergarten teacher asked that we have a chat. She was concerned that Sasha’s early reading and writing skills were not as advanced as his classmates’.

“I am concerned,” she said, as plainly as possible.
“I am not,” I replied. I meant that.

Whether it was mama bear instinct or serenity based on some innate knowledge that only mothers can have, I kept a straight face while being told that my son will soon start to feel embarrassed because he will not be among those who know how to.

That he had no reason to feel embarrassed about anything is an understatement. His interest in Egyptian gods back then, plus his admiration for Steve Irwin, inspired him to draw beautiful colorful renditions of the said gods and also fill many pages of his notebooks with drawings of creatures, both real and imaginary. We read books – nature books, chapter books and picture books, although to be fair, he has always been more taken with the long reads. His vocabulary contained words that would take me by surprise.

I could not understand why at the age of five and a half he was expected to write, as in write down most of a word based on the sound of it as the word was dictated by the teacher. He was expected to read simple words and slowly make his way up the reading skill scale, I was told. Like many kids his age, he could not care less and he was not interested or ready to do so. I let him take the lead and do it when he’s ready. He became ready.

So here we are, a year later, plopped on the sofa every afternoon, opening tiny books with tiny stories about jolly pirate captains that drop their hats in the water and don’t mind, and dinosaurs that eat dragonflies and cockroaches. Accurate stuff, wouldn’t you say? Sasha reads, I listen, and there’s no “you’re amazing” uttered every third word but my proud looking at him matches his sparkling eyes. His pride shows too.

We celebrated his first reading of a tiny book with my eyes growing big and surprised. “You’re reading! Isn’t that nice?” Their room has a huge red bookshelf that holds an army of books. Every week or so we bring a couple from the library. Think of all the books you’ll be reading, I told him. But there’s no hurry up and do it now that you know how. I love our cuddling reading times, just like he loves my reading with different voices and sounds. And yes, the cuddling.

What I wanted him to know most of all is that reading is supposed to be his big breakthrough and no one else’s. He is equally loved and accepted and appreciated for everything that he is. The fact that he is prying open the writing and reading doors and looking at the world through different colored lenses should make him look forward to new adventures to come.

Not that he did not have any until now. His world has been enriched by exploring the world in his own way, by daring to do so, by listening to stories being read to him, by asking many questions, by getting down and dirty every step of the way. The human mind is always pushing forward when the time is right.

Being told or suggested to that they need to do it because everyone does it is not only unfair to children, but also deleterious to the way they perceive reading. Back when I wrote the first post on the topic I argued that it could lead to feeling inadequate and that is the wrong feeling at such an early age when enthusiasm and curiosity and confidence work so well together. Let’s call it creativity for short.

Curiosity must remain the perpetually hungry, perpetually wild beast that will make our children explore further and find richer feeding grounds as it grow. If we don’t spook it with silly milestones that are not set by anything else but the pressure to engage them in the rat race sooner that is.

Ultimately, monumental achievements such as reading and writing should happen because nothing else would be enough anymore. Joy should be part of it. Just like stepping stones, you know. You can’t move further away unless you step on a certain stone at a certain time. But of course, I am merely speaking for my children. I am not a teacher after all…

 

 

 

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