Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Tag: parenting Page 13 of 14

Innocence Lost? There Is Still Time To Act…

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On July 27, 2013

In Kamloops

(Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on July 27, 2013)

I read today that the UK has decided to block access to online pornography; unless people ask for it that is. Internet suppliers will install family-friendly filters and those who wants them off will have to ask for it, the UK Prime Minister David Cameron has decided.

Like a breath of fresh air, such radical decisions make sense. They are meant to protect children from exposure to something they don’t need to see, even more so, something that can alter their perceptions and create a new kind of addiction that is still new to us and, according to recent studies, not easy to get rid of.

Parents used to find magazines like Hustler and Playboy hidden in their teenagers’ drawers or tucked carefully under the mattress. It was one of those “Oh” moments, followed by a talk, a shrug or complete silence, depending on the level of openness. Life went on often with no serious damage. That was then.

Things are different nowadays. There is a world behind the screens that our children have access to, a world we cannot fully comprehend the size of, let alone set boundaries and control the information flux that increases every day and slowly eludes any kind of parental control.

Nowadays we put our trust in cyber nannies; they are supposed to be the impenetrable wall that protects our children from internet nudity and pornography. Right. Unless the kid goes to someone else’s house where the computers might or might not have cyber nannies, or, if the kids equipped with a gadget are able to pick up a wifi signal and… well, you get the idea.

To add insult to the injury, all questionable internet content used to be accessible only to 18-plus. Somewhat protected, you could say. That was then also. Nowadays, things are different in that department too. Typing the very words opens up a world that should not be easily available if at all…

Children are curious, that’s a fact. Come teenage years, curiosity crosses boundaries and we cannot prevent that, but we can guide our children on a better path. A safer one.

It is not prudishness that causes my outrage, but fear and sadness that our children are losing their innocence way too early. I don’t believe in hiding things that are the way they are or coming up with fake explanations; my boys know there is no question I will shy myself from answering.

We talk about everything and though I never thought I will one day have “the talk” with a straight face, well, I did. We did. And more will follow. They will always have the option of reading instead, but for now they prefer talking. Questions and honest answers deepen trust on both sides.

Wanting to play grownups, children see things should not. Way before learning what a loving respectful relationship is about, children have access to information that is erroneous and addictive in a way that has been compared to drug addiction.

What is a parent to do? Aside from bringing difficult topics to the table and setting a good example, trusting that our children will be able to resist temptation and peer pressure remains the sole mid-ocean bobbing barrel we can hold onto. But it may not be enough.

We cannot ask teenagers to be responsible for guarding themselves entirely. Temptation can get the best of them to lower the guard. It is high time we look for ways that can help protect young minds from unnecessary exposure that pushes them into unripen adulthood, stealing their innocence way too soon.

One can argue that such content is meant for adults and teenagers and children should not be privy to it. Therein lies the problem though: They are. Whether we want them or not, whether we are aware of it or not, children have access to online pornography and that’s that. The sooner we realize that, the sooner we can find a way to prevent it.

Also, let’s not forget or ignore, online pornography is often the result of sexual slavery, yet another black eye on the face of our world. Our acting on one end might bring enough awareness and courage for people on other ends to act towards stopping and preventing it, from victims to survivors to by-standers.

If all parents and educators ask for family-friendly internet filters because we realize the danger of easy access to online pornography, it will happen sooner than later. In all fairness, we are a couple of years late as it is, but there is still time to act.

Our children’s innocence is priceless, let’s allow them to keep it for as long as possible. From family to society level, we will all benefit from it.

Why I Go To The Farmer’s Market

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On July 23, 2013

In Kamloops

(Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on July 20, 2013)

20130618_190401It is cloudy today and we’re having a late start. Lazy Saturday mornings happen to everyone. They’d better. Another edition Saturday pancakes and a talk about why judgment makes you doubt yourself, then we leave for the farmer’s market. Sometimes it is all of us, this time just me and my youngest.

We stop at the bank then run to the market, literally. It’s silly fun and the giggles my youngest leaves behind won’t last for long. Time is merciless that way, a good reason to make it happen often, laughing with your children that is…

Music greets us. It makes our feet dance and our faces smile. The air smells sweet and fresh. A good day indeed.

The wood spirits are our first stop. You must’ve seen them, the wooden faces and the castles Kelly carves out of cottonwood bark… He makes imagination fly high, almost a lost art in today’s rushed world where computer games abound and patience is underestimated. “You almost see the face in a piece of wood,” he tells us. I’ve heard people say that before. Art is fascinating.

Every face has a different expression and tells a different story. My youngest has one of these wood masks hanging next to his bed. He wants to learn to make them too. He often carves at home and this kind of exposure inspires him, like it should.

We talk about where to find cottonwood bark, how to age a sculpture, how to carve castles and why some of the ones Kelly sells have jasper eyes. How long does it take to carve that? My little guy is fascinated by the faces, by their long wooden beards, and by how tree bark becomes alive once more…

Market is almost closing… We go and buy eggs, strawberry and rhubarb pie. We buy a whole box of fragrant strawberries and talk about South America with the lady who sells them. We buy greens, a farm-raised chicken and honey. Herbs too.

Guilt-free coffee to from Anita, cookies for the boys and quick browsing of the potted plants; we look at colors and leaf shapes; we talk about ferns and how they’ve been around since dinosaur time. What’s the Earth going to look like in fifty years or so? How about five hundred?

Then it’s back to the wooden spirits. For just a tiny bit, my youngest says. I thought he might ask… It’s the end of the day and the magic wooden faces are carefully put away until next week wrapped in soft towels.

Next door to the wooden spirits is Meagan from Heffley Creek, she’s a soap and natural cosmetics maker. Another kind of beautiful magic that we often overlook in favor of commercially-made long-lingering fragrances. I delight in meeting a like-minded person and the old and oh so played “we speak the same language” is as real as it is needed. And we speak it, with the promise of future conversations.

We meet friends, neighbors and people we know from around town. We create routines that make our Saturday morning sunnier no matter how cloudy the sky. We pick knowledge, freshness and develop gratefulness for the place we’re in. Smiles, stories and wonders abound.

When I needed advice on how to deal with the wasp nest in the backyard fort, someone pointed to the bee guy; he knows, I was told without an ounce of doubt. He did. A conversation about the sad fate of bees ensued. People need to know more, we both agreed. Perhaps we can visit the beehives in Barnhartvale? Sure thing; it makes sense that one of my favorite road cycling routes is also a bee paradise.

I could say go to the market to get fresh food and support local farmers. That’s a big part of it. But there is something else you can get there. You get stories and smiles on any given market day. Everyone needs that, they add some more color and texture to your food. Appreciation in every bite.

The city comes alive here and so do seasons. We learn that in early spring chickens make small eggs, just as they shake the winter chills off. There’s baby lettuce, tender green onion and garlic, small bouquets of fragrant herbs and seedlings in the spring.

Berries and greens abound as summer bursts through the sky mid-June or so. Fall is when we first visited the market here in Kamloops for the first time. It’s a time of abundance and flavours. Every season is. Don’t miss it. I won’t either.

The Critical Thinking How To

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On March 2, 2013

There’s no quiet dinners in our house. The boys have yet to master not talking with their mouths full but I am guilty of overlooking the very thing when other pressing matters are at hand.

“Where do the potatoes come from?”
“British Columbia.”
“How about broccoli?”
“Same”
“Meat?”
“Same.”
“Why do we buy them like this?”
“Because it’s good to eat food that grows close to where you live; it’s fresher and you’re helping the people who live close to you. And there’s no big trucks or ships or planes hauling it in from somewhere else, so you help the planet too.”

“Why don’t you like birthday goodie bags, mom?”
“Because I don’t like the thought of one-use trinkets that end up in the garbage soon after. And I think the fun is in celebrating…”

It’s not righteousness and my arguments are definitely not fail-proof. It’s what I can live with and what I hope for my boys to learn: critical thinking. Not accepting something just because someone expects you to. Asking why.

It’s a lesson in double-edged swordsmanship.

Something you don’t agree with today may become the argument for tomorrow’s deed. And that is but the nature of the beast: Learning to keep the mind open at all times and think for yourself. Reject or accept not out of pride or to make an impression, but because it makes sense.

There is no perfect way of carrying oneself through life; it’s what you can live with.

The question is how do I teach my children that? It’s not always a comfortable ride, that much I know. Yet if there is one thing I want them to have in life, this would be it.

Trend following among young ones is not a new topic. Young age is no longer the time to affirm one’s true beliefs. We’ve all been there: Tasting the fear of standing out as we express our true thoughts; the fear of being left in the one-man camp, chewing on those beliefs and wondering if it’s worth it after all.

But there’s an extra twist lately. Media and rabid marketing create tough-to-avoid temptations and one could say that it is not entirely the fear of being left out that makes our young ones follow blindly. It’s that it sounds too good to miss.

Children fall into following trends before knowing what hit them. They are born asking why and ideally they should never lose that. Us adults should never lose that because all that’s left once the ‘why’s are gone is complacency. Hardly an incentive for cultivating critical thinking in our young ones or encouraging them to ask questions.

Any opportunity for discussions with our children should be greeted with open arms. Be it the walk from school – and that might be filled with complaints about the day – or the talks around the dinner table.

I don’t mean poking them until they talk but letting them speak their mind; whatever thoughts they have on a subject because you are the only presence in their lives that accepts them entirely for what they are. No fear of standing out and being ridiculed (hopefully.)

They learn from sharing as much as they learn from listening to us. And from watching us. The choices we make speak volumes. When we stand behind our choices with arguments we came up with ourselves, we teach our children an important lesson: Do it if it makes sense, choose it if it makes sense, but don’t just accept something because it’s there, because someone thought of putting it there.

I have never believed in denying something without an explanation. I don’t have much respect for the “because I said so.” It may be that I don’t think much of sheer obedience. I believe that behind any interdiction there has to be an explanation.

For example, I never cared for junk food or bad food altogether. The boys know that and they know why. We talk about what makes a food worthy of eating and why. They used to grin silly and tell me how junk food is oh, so yummy and one day they’ll buy lots. I never said they shouldn’t. I told them why I don’t.

I rejoiced when the grin was no longer there. I had nothing to do with its disappearance though. Occasionally they ask for junk food, you see, but they want the acceptable version. The compromise between tasty and somewhat healthy.

Then one day they finally asked the question: “How come that junk food is made to taste yummy?” Because people need to be made to buy it.

It applies to many things, not just food. Why are they made to look or taste or feel a certain way? Because it takes convincing people to go after them and overlook asking the very question in the process. Because when people think critically, they make choices and that has the potential to change the world. In a good way.

There’s no sole opinion that’s always right. It’s a fallacy to even think that by thinking we’ll find the ultimate truth, always. But if we teach our children to think and ask questions, they’ll honor who they are and ultimately do better for themselves and the world around.

Originally published as a shorter version as “Critical thinking a skill taught by example” in the Kamloops Daily News on March 2, 2013.

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)

Boundaries – A Beginner’s Quest

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On November 21, 2012

The walks home from school with my boys are a treat. We live a good distance from the school so there’s time to talk, be silent, stomp feet if the situation calls for it, laugh our hearts out, play tag or have a snowball fight.

Today is different. My oldest son’s sulkiness sniffs at my shoes like an angry cat.

I know he is upset before he even looks into my eyes.

“How was school?” I ask.

“Good, let’s go!” he says.

No amount of squinting will help me see into his heart right now. Rolled up like a hedgehog, he has a good set of prickles out, telling me that looking for soft spots would be a fool’s errand, and a bit of a warning I might get hurt while looking too closely.

I want him to talk about what’s wrong.

Somehow I think I have the answers because the hardest thing to see is my boy’s struggle and fight invisible battles inside and me not being able to help.

Trying to hold my tongue is like holding a mouse by its tail. When you’re not swift enough it’ll jump and bite your fingers, mice are agile like that. I ask again.

“Lots of homework?”

“No. Mom, I am fine. Let’s walk.”

We walk. Silently. My youngest holds my hand, somewhat tighter than usual. A sweet reminder of his needing me. Small and warm, his hand cradles into mine.

We walk. His brother walks faster. Whatever happened at school today may or may not be forgotten tomorrow. That’s not the point.

“May I go ahead mom?”

“Sure, but take the back lane, it’ll be just us three.”

“I’ll go ahead.”

Every now and then a leaf twirls and falls into a puddle. The end? Hardly. A passage to
a different stage. Learning to let go.

My son has set boundaries I vow to respect. He’s starting early. I have barely discovered the magic of not letting people step over mine.

I am learning from them, my boys. This is the line, they say. You may be allowed to go past some times but not always.

We’ve had this conversation before about boundaries. I tell them how I always imagine the right way to be. If I’m angry, I need space. And time. If I’m sad I need the same.

Or I might need those who can be there without sticking long questioning fingers into my soul to judge me.

I call on them because I trust them to be there for me. Not how they want to be but how I need them.
Boundaries.

My boys are growing. They need me there. To understand. To know where their boundaries are and know that I’ve been entrusted with respecting them. For what’s ahead.

The wind picks up and the mountains look darker. It might snow.

“Can we make cookies tonight?” Sure. Neither is too old to ask or to be cheated out of sweetness.

Over dinner we talk and laugh and make silly jokes. Irreverence and cookies for dessert.

I still don’t know why my oldest’s mood was crumpled earlier but that seems behind him now. If it’s not he must’ve found a way to put it aside, at least for now.

A lesson about boundaries in itself.

(Originally published in the Kamloops Daily News on November 20, 2012 under the title “Personal boundaries are about respect”)

Clouds and Caves on Top of the Mountain. Flint Piles. And Home Again

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On November 3, 2012

I’ve never seen a grouse before. Neither have the boys. I was expecting them to be bigger but this one is no bigger than an average size chicken. Not a fast bird but gone by the time I get my camera out. Drumming its way through bushes, it gets out of sight as we’re starting our hike to the Savona caves. There are pictographs there and well, there are caves. Boys and caves go very well together, but you know that.

There’s patches of snow here and there and dew, late morning magic water. After a few hundred meters on a thin ribbon of a path through autumn-bitten woods, we bump into steepness. The very definition of it. Let’s agree on a 60 degree incline for the first half of the ascent, to be increased later. I stop for photos and Tony sticks around. Sasha takes off, he’s set on seeing the caves and nothing can slow him down. He gets excited over rocks “Mom, is this jade?… we’re walking on jade!” I foresee pocketfuls of rocks and pebbles. Theirs and mine. We do that, you see. I am known to have dragged twisted dirftwood home, and also big rocks. Back when Sasha was two or so… one sunny day at Tower Beach in Vancouver, the equation looked like this: beautiful rocky beach, one remarkable rock, round and impossible to leave behind, child in sling, and 360 steps or so to the car. Well, the equation was solved… I still have the rock.

We keep going up. The cave is a just a black speck that we see through trees and low clouds. “Do you mean we have to go all the way up there?” Tony sounds worried. Or puzzled. Not sure. It is steep, it seems daunting, but impossible is not the word I want to use today. Sasha keeps hopping uphill and his voice wraps around trees and rocks. It’s just us four, the sun and the mountain with open caves like eyes overlooking the forested valley. If fairies and pixies existed, this would be the place.

The hike becomes a scramble up the mountain. Sasha leads the way, holding on to big boulders and roots and low-lying branches. Undeterred. We’re a few steps behind. I worry about steepness, wrong steps and the mom brain thinks ropes and such. Yes, to tie them onto me, so they don’t slip and fall. But that encourages carelessness, it does. They learn to not calculate steps because they’ll think you’ll always be there to catch them…are you? How then? What if? You hold your breath, they’ll be fine…

We reach the cave after crawling up a slippery slope. Camera on my back, eyes on the boys and wishing that my voice would not give away my worry. There’s exhilaration and fear. There’s a lot of mountain to roll down off should one take the wrong step. Tony looks at me and smiles. “This was worth it, mom.” I know he means it. The pictographs are special. “Who made them, mom? And why? And why here? The cave is not even that big.” A good shelter but so far up. I don’t have all the answers but that’s part of the magic. I feel privileged to be here. It’s easy to feel like an intruder but awe prevents that.

There’s clouds tangled in trees, powdered with midday sunshine. There’s piles of flint and I know the boys won’t leave without a few samples.There’s room in the backpack. Holding onto roots and rock corners, sliding on muddy slopes, the four of us make our way down the mountain. It’s misty and chilly now. Water drops sleeping on leaves and thin blackened twigs. The grouse’s home. We’re guests. Somewhat uninvited. Cold moist air chases us out of the magic woods. Pictographs are left behind, for others to find and wonder.

The boys are tired and quiet. “Mom, I love you for this hike.” Sasha’s voice is hugging me softly and dearly. I guess my two boys will always be nestled in a secret soul sling I’m carrying along. A good load. We take the long drive home through Logan Lake. The mountains around Kamloops are painted in orange sunshine. So uniform it looks like someone was busy painting all afternoon. They look warm. Home. It is. Good to know.

 

To Never Really Grow Up. Verb, Infinitive

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On June 13, 2012

We watched yet another version of Peter Pan over the last two nights. The boys and I. Now we’ll move into reruns and there’s nothing better than snuggling up to a Peter Pan movie, yet again, pretending you don’t know what’s gonna happen next. This particular version had everything. Serious life stuff, mockery, teary material that made at least one of us feel that knot in the throat, gripping action, laughter. The boys holding onto the blanket we’re all wrapped up in when Hook pulls the trigger on a couple of pirates who dare say otherwise – but who loves Hook anyway even though we’re so fascinated with him. I peek at the boys. They are there, all there. They forget they have eyelids and their breathing is an itty bitty mouse sneaking to get the cheese from the cat’s paws. The movie takes them to Neverland. Just like my words will take them to sit by the fire next to Nikabrik and Caspian once we go upstairs to read the next chapter from “Prince Caspian.” They get sucked in these funnels of “where I wanna be” and that’s that. Plop!

Brush, get ready for bed. They ask for more reading Just this one page, mom… and I do. They ask for tickles Can you tickle us? Please please… and I do. I worry they won’t settle for sleep. But then it dawns on me: It’s all that unused laughter. Going to bed with it is a sin, I’m sure it’s written somewhere. Just like growing up is a major offense, the Pan is right.  It’s a matter of time until they declare it one. They should. The penny drops, it does. I realized the growing up offense when I went through their closet today. Tony’s stuff goes to Sasha, Sasha’s stuff goes to… well, it doesn’t, it moves out. Pants are too short all of a sudden and shirts leave the belly button out. Can’t do. I don’t like the socks with buttons on the bottoms, mom, they feel funny… Like or no like, he does not need them. There is this battle inside, you see. Part of me wants them to stay, to stay like this, like today, and play and be rambunctious and loud and silly and spew all the toilet jokes one could, and then another part of me wants to see them grow into worthy men. Good men with streaks of childishness who will still be able to get lost in unplanned games and silliness and talk about farts and spilled guts and just as swiftly look into my eyes and say the sweetest things a mom hopes to hear but will never ask for. Good men who will never stray from being boys. Will they?

I’ve been with them every step of the way, I have. From that moment you just know and no one can describe its texture, to hiding them sweetly and snugly in a sling until they took off running, from tending to stuffed noses and hurt feelings, to making it work no matter what, to being the mama bear that growls loud and knows all that was never spelled in any books, it turns out the very lessons I am trying to teach them are in fact taught to me every day. By them. By them, being, that is. Life is fluid, life means changes, life evolves and we do so with it. Hang on, some waves are bound to toss you high. Hang on to what? How? Well, never mind. You have to figure it out, if not on your way up then on your way down. Either way, the word “fluid” will color your world. Their growing up is the brush they paint  with. I’m changing the water when it gets too dirty. It’s my job, you see, since my boys are too preoccupied with painting. Sometimes we let it get really yucky though, the water, and we paint together. Often. Because they don’t want me to grow up either. I oblige. Peter Pan rules. Call it hooked then?

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