Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Tag: raising boys Page 7 of 8

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)

Lady’s Earrings. Why Not?

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On August 10, 2012

We ride. Downhill at first and then in the middle of the road. Quiet roads are made for that. You’re sliding down the middle, wind in your hair, mom says slow down but her voice is not the panicky kind but the soft “you’re fine for now, keep going”… Race your brother, do it and laugh, scream when he gets ahead of you, scream “cheater!” even though you know he did not but he just rode faster.

Stop by the playground. The spiderweb playground. Jump, run, lie down on the dry yellow grass. So dusty. The air is lazy and warm and it wraps around your ankles like sleepy snakes. But can you do this? Oh, I’ve tried this so many times since grade one, mom, and now I did it. That winning grin, like the day when you figure out walking. The magic of overcoming fear. Mom’s proud of you, you know it because of that smile that makes you feel ten inches taller.

Run to the other side. Clouds of dust follow you, crazy wild chickens. Mom, are you coming? Talk about people, life, death, why do people die and should people who suffer badly die because, mom, wouldn’t that be easier for them? Who knows? Yes, no, but loving life is embedded in every cell so even when you stop fighting your body will still try to save you. How did we get into this?

Make your way back. Mom, can you push us? No way, you’re strong. Whine, but you know mom means well, you’re secretly pleased she thinks you’re strong. Ride uphill, will he slow down and let the bike topple over like last time? But no, look Tony, your brother’s riding his first hill, he’s getting there. Oh, what a sight, a boy conquering a hill that’s long and steep enough to make one squint.

Mom, what are these called again? Lady’s earrings. Pick some, smile, here mom, for you. Next things is a crazy scream as you charge up this second hill. You know behind you mom is smiling and shaking her head… Crazy boys, don’t ever slow down, don’t ever let that energy go soft. Clover on the way, a four leaf clover is good luck, right mom? Yeah but… never mind, who’s got time to look for one. The race is on again. No, not in the middle of the street! But why not, there’s no car coming. He’s on the sidewalk mom, we each need a track… Go go go!

Home now. Drink an ocean full. Mom, what are we gonna do tomorrow?

Skipping, Smooth Side Down. And Sauvignon Blanc. Chilled

By

On July 28, 2012

The day is shiny and plump. The boys and I drive to Point Roberts. The beach there is one of a kind. Lips of round rocks pucker up on the shore with each wave and if you’re patient and staring you see seeds of dolphins planted in the garden of water spread in front of your eyes.
I sit down in the sun with a book and think of lizards. They invented basking, they must have. The boys find a fort and gather weapons for a war to happen soon. They talk, run, jump. Stop. I take photos. They crouch down.

I take photos of them and yellow flowers and think of how deliciously wild they all are. You have too many weapons, Sasha. But I need the bow, I found it. OK, then each arrow counts as a weapon. No. Yes. No! Mooom! He can’t have that. Yes I can.
Have five weapons each I suggest while hanging onto the words in my book like a spider does to its web as it flies away. No, not enough. OK, seven then. Mooom! Then stop asking for my input. Back to my book.
Moooom! Sasha hits with all his might, we can’t have a war like that.
Clearly. Well, don’t hit hard then.
And back again. No, no, no dagger allowed. Oh, bugger. No reading then. Words scamper off the page like rabbits. Boys should come with volume knobs. They’d still be loud and wild on camera though. I pick up the very machine and click away.
I stop and look. Lie down, listen to sounds and the humming of boys. They play, jump, they run. Laugh. That’s a nice war indeed.

Could I have your camera for a bit? I had noticed the man, the woman and their umbrella since we sat down here. You should have a photo of the three of you he says. Yeah, it’s the kind of picture I like. Smile. Smile? Sasha takes his time to warm up to strangers. They both do.

Glass of wine? Sauvignon blanc, chilled and smooth. The breeze invites to irreverence. Donna and Bill and I. We laugh, talk parenting, fishing dogfish off of old wharfs, the dangers of raising children thinking they are good at everything. Yeah, what’s a participant ribbon anyway? Wrong, the three of us agree. They know about children, they have two grown ones. They speak with love but with good measure. I learn. The boys ask for a sip. Nah, not this year. How come you do? That question again. You’ll get there, don’t hurry. Donna laughs, she’s heard that before.

Here’s a good skipping rock, Bill says. He calls on Tony to skip together. He explains the swaying of the wrist and how to hold the rock the right way. Smooth side down he says while his thumb is feeling the upper rougher side. Skip. Four times. Tony does two on his second try. His smile skips all the way to me. Sasha paints on rocks with ocean water. Sprinkle sand on top, done!

We sip, talk schools and how they miss the beat at times, the genius of Isaac Asimov and the miracle of the printed word. Why so great, Tony asks? Oh, but you know, the wonder of knowledge that’s where it all starts. Ideas.

Skip some more. Donna tries her luck too and her enjoyment of this place is charming. Sasha brings me seaweed in a cup. For you, mom. I snack on it, it freaks them out still, but they’ve seen it enough times to get used to it. Salty and chewy, I like it. Tony’s rock skipped three times. Bill finds a good rock. Use it proudly. Tony walks and skips royally. It makes a boy taller, this skipping thing. You gotta hold the rock just so… He knows. Sasha finds a crab shell, rocks. He stuffs his pants and then holds onto them amused. They fall down otherwise, mom, I have too many rocks.

Donna and Bill put the umbrella away. Time to go. It’s almost eight. We will see each other again, we will. There’s so much to talk about. The sun has curled up in our car the whole afternoon and it bursts out when we open the doors. We drive home listening to “How to train your dragon.” Chuckle. Mom, isn’t Toothless funny? Yeah… I wish for toothless days that would leave my boys’ laughter crisp and whole. At home I make French toast with fruit and chocolate milk. Mouths full, laughing over spilled milk. Irreverence. Tickling has been proclaimed a sin tonight. Skip then. Sigh. Hug and good night.

Half A Cup Of Tea

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On July 2, 2012

“Can I have a bit, mom?”

“Sure.”

I pour some of my green tea in a small cup, half of it or so. It’s a small cup. Colorful circles on it, tiny handle just big enough for his still small fingers to fit through. I got them from a garage sale, overpaid. I knew they were small when I got them, I knew that. Their hands would still curl around the handle the right way, I thought. He sips and the playful spark in his eyes makes it across the table and dances on my face. Wait…

“I feel so grownup when I drink green tea, mom. It has caffeine, right?”

“Yes, it does, not much…” I don’t mean to take it away from him. His eyes sparkle. I think of myself having black tea with my mom, I remember the kitchen stools, off-white and good to sit on. The red and white cupboard with a place for all my mom’s special things, the smell of summer mornings and winter nights, my mom’s voice. I remember feeling the outside of the cup, smooth and warm. My mom’s voice. All the untold stories. The house is gone now, the kitchen in a place I don’t own. I didn’t know to say it. It’s so good to have tea with you…

He holds the cup in his hands and looks inside. A world of wonder, a world of growing up. He is. I want him to stay like this, but the sparkle in his eyes asks me to let him go. I will. How? Stay…

“Sasha, do you want to taste?”

 

When you’re six it’s not the same. It tastes a bit bitter and taste-less. The tip of his tongue comes out to chastise us for offering the unsweet drink and his eyes twinkle the “is he trying to fool me?” look. But no, I want to say, your big brother wanted you to taste that feeling. It’s a big one. When you’re six, tea doesn’t taste like anything.

“Can I have some hot chocolate instead, mom?..”

“Yes, babe.”

Tony smiles. I smile. Stay a while… He will, for now. He can taste the tea. The kitchen chairs sleep under us like camels. Maple colored camels taking us to places we will smell in our dreams. Places we’ll hide in our hearts and peek at and never let go. Places we’ll cry about every now and then and we’ll lay out in the scorching sun to dry like colorful carpets. Roll them up, keep going. The joy in the journey, I tell the boys all the time. It is, it is. No regrets.

“Can I have some coffee with you soon?”

“Soon, my love…” Soon is far, the witch inside of me wants to keep them mine and small. Selfish. I let them go, not yet… He steals a sip from my cup and runs to play with his brother. Pitter patter. Pitter patter. The sound of their feet. The song of their bare feet all over my heart. Echoes…

Of Boys. Mine

By

On May 3, 2012

I walk through today’s spring and my mind curls around thoughts of my boys. I need shelter.

Today is a day when I have to remind myself of the magic of boys. You see, everyday life with my boys is like squeezing handfuls of stars.

There’s sparkles all over, there’s laughter and screams and there’s fighting. Manners begone, some days cannot carry such load, it’s like walking on a tight rope with a basket of apples on your head.

Could you, would you?

Boys don’t.

The know-it-all ones call it high energy. Whatever. Piling in thick fat heaps is this desire to give them what I think matters most.The courage to be real and speak their words, the courage to live their truth. How is that done?

I want them tall and strong, yet humble and loving. I want them to be quiet when tears are being cried, to listen.

I want them to open their arms and understand. I want them to ask for what’s theirs and know how to draw that line in the sand that will keep them baddies away. I want them to trust and be bold. I want them to love loneliness as much as they love people.

“Mom, can someone walk through fire and come out unburned?”… No, fire burns.

No, wait, you can. People do it. How do they?

I want my boys to be self-sufficient, I want them to know to say “enough” and “no.”

I look back at all the times I gave them the anti-meaning of both. Guilt seeps through the cracks of my heart. When and how does one learn to be a parent?

We parent ourselves through the birth of our children. We become children with them once again while wearing big people shoes. Noisy, clumsy. Sometimes we need hugs and reassurance as much as they do.

No one can know more about the child cradled in your arms than you do. Your child. Yet inadequacy takes over ever so often.

What children do or don’t do does not align with what’s expected of them. Then what?

When do we start pushing them towards the barren of places of “you must fit the mold” afraid they’ll lose the start? Is it fair to push them if the time is not right yet? Not ripe yet…

I’m ready to fight this one. Raw instincts fight back. When do we tell them to let go of themselves so they float like the rest of them? Why? Swim with your head in the water so you’ll go the distance. Don’t look up or to the side, you might see things, you’ll fall behind. You can’t. I won’t say it.

Lagging when there’s no room for laggers is a serious offense they say. Head in the water, catch up, no more playing games and wondering at things.

Still, I won’t say it. Should kids be allowed to lag and look at all things wondrous and magic? It is in the eyes of the beholder, you’ll say. That’s exactly the point. How are we to know what touches one’s heart and makes the mind expand.

Here’s to them not getting lost along the way. Lost from themselves, from magic, from being boys.

Here’s to them knowing when they’re ready to jump and having the courage to do so.

Here’s to them knowing when they cannot turn around and walk away, here’s to them knowing when they should walk away. To them knowing they have choices.

Here’s to me being there for them. And here’s to them knowing that. “Mom, can we play that game where I’m trying to get away and you try to stop me? No, not like that. Yeah, like that… Now you have to let go…” Trust. Knowing when they’re ready. Knowing they will be.

The secret, our secret, as I came to realize is that when my boys fill the air with laughter and tumbles their voices sound clearer.

I can hear them loud and clear when I laugh and tumble with them. Even when they whisper. I whisper back. They hear me.

My boys. Never lost. Just boys.

The Kind Of Snake I’d Like to Be When I’m Not a Mammoth

By

On October 6, 2011

In Armchair Mayor Column

It’s after school. We’re driving to the big library downtown. In the back, the boys are reading (Tony) and munching on the rest of his lunch sandwich (Sasha). It is one of those picture perfect end-of-September afternoons. The air is still crisp yet at this hour one could say that it was softened into submission by the sun.

We park by the big round building with the appearance of a coliseum that has “Please come in” written all over it. If you haven’t seen this landmark building in Vancouver (and if of course you’re not on the other side of the planet at the moment, not that that would be necessarily be a hindrance, stranger things have happened) you have to make your way there. It’s a good place to be.

There is a piazza, you see, covered and abounding with coffee shops and eateries, and not the fast, pack-an-artery/have-a-sugar-crash-shortly type. People are reading, staring, eating, chillin’… We walk in and go straight to the kids’ section. Sasha’s interest these days revolves around reptiles and prehistoric life. Tony wanders and finds treasures to feed his newly discovered Harry Potter passion.

We then go on an escalator joyride (is where you go up and down just because and then you do it again, despite people staring at you). A by-passer throws me a “You know that can get you all nauseous?”. Nah, I shrug, thinking he should’ve seen the Budapest subway escalator plunging all the way to the centre of the Earth and back up again.

An armful of books later we wade through the river of people and drive back across the bridge to the laid-back life on the other side. Traffic wraps around us like caramel. The boys look through an oversized book of snakes they got from the library.
“If you were a snake what kind of snake would you be, Mom?” There’s not an ounce of jest in Sasha’s voice. He means it. Well, a yellow one, I say. “I’d be a black and red one,” he says. Tony picks black, red, yellow and blue. We talk about camouflage and poisonous snakes. They’re good with being poisonous as snakes. I settle for a mellow corn snake. I think of snakes driving a car and the idea slithers into my head for a future project, pun intended, of course.

“Can we stop at the beach?” Can’t pass by the beach without stopping, and today’s dry sand and sunny skies make it an obligation. We go to the beach. We eat dates and play Cro-Magnon. I’m a mammoth. Tony’s a saber-tooth tiger but he takes too long to succumb to the hands of Cro-Magnon Sasha and the little Cro-Magnon has a fit.

There’s fighting, laughing and crying hanging like little bats onto the boys, there’s tears and screaming, and then, there’s me. Just sitting in the golden-glowing sand of Jericho beach at dusk and thinking that hungry kids and Cro-Magnon games just don’t mix well. We head home to have dinner and bedtime finds us reading more about… well, Cro-Magnons. We look through the snake book because there is this black snake I am told I have to see. Tomorrow I’ll look for the yellow one.

Later on after bedtime hugs and kisses Tony whispers “You’re so precious, Mom.” I am ready to say “Oh, no, you see, I am not perfect…” but I bite my tongue. He did not say that I am perfect, he really did not mean it that way. The way I see it, perfect means fault-free. Well, I’m far from that.

Precious means real and it means loved. Faults and all. I hug him tight and then my teary eyes and I tippy toe out the door. The house is quiet and dark. It’s my quiet writing time, so I make tea and write and I can almost hear my heart sigh a sleepy happy sigh as it cuddles up with two sleepy boys. If I were to paint it using just one color, I would not use perfect but precious. Just like sunlight, the latter has the whole spectrum.

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