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The best 13-year-old we know

Say you’re looking at the weather forecast for your 13th birthday, your second pandemic birthday, and it says 100% chance of rain. You can’t see your friends, you’ve taken the day off from online school, and your dad’s having to do taxes. You’re a teen, and 13 feels big, like a whole new chapter. You could look at the day and feel sad, like it’s unfair and everything you want is out of reach. Or:

You could wake up to black and gold birthday decorations strung all through your cozy kitchen, then tuck into the homemade blueberry pancakes with fresh whipped cream your dad made for you and your sister. You could race upstairs to tell your sleepy mom just how delicious the breakfast was. She could join you downstairs to open your first gift – a table-top ping pong table – and you could launch into the first of many games that offer easy distraction from the clouds looming outside the window.

It’s going well inside, but you have to walk the dog. Ugh, right? Not if you’re you, Oliver. You throw on your raincoat and you and your mom drive to Hampton Park, and as usual, you have a great time, talking about everything and nothing. You agree that walking Blue is the best part of the day – there's the hill we always take her to so she can zoom up and down a thousand times, the other adorable dogs (you especially love Bernese Mountain dogs and Aussies), the logs and trees to jump on and climb.

When you get back, your mom has to do a few things and so for a while, you’re alone (Georgia’s still in school, poor dad’s still doing taxes). When she comes back to see you, your voice is just a little bit quieter. She can only just detect it – the first indication that you're thinking that maybe this day isn’t going to be all that you hoped for. But you don’t say anything about it, and it’s gone the minute you open another present – a dri-fit shirt that inspires you to do a workout that tires you out and gives you energy in exactly the right doses.

The next hours are filled with your excited thanks at other little presents (and one big one – inline rollerblades) and exclamations of gratitude at how much your family is trying to give you an awesome day. You play Zoom bingo with GG, Grumpa, Meme and Pepe (you win!); your great friends Marie-Clare, Rene, Josh, and Annabelle pop by with sweet treats and a fantastic card; you eat gourmet mushrooms on toast and banoffee pie from Brassica; and you curl up with your whole family to watch Talledega Nights with Will Farrell.

The day didn't burst with excitement and adventure. It was dark. It was cold. And yet, it was wondrous, because you are you and you made it so. At 13, you know how much gratitude matters – how much it can change a moment for you, and for others. You know how to make people feel incredibly special. You know how to look out at rain and just … put on a sweater. Put a jacket on top. Go out into it, preferably with a dog.

You are the most amazing person, Oliver. We love you so, so much. Welcome to the teen years!

Grilled cheese girl

George, you turned 10 this week, and it was pretty wonderful, despite the fact that we were celebrating in the middle of a pandemic. You and your friends dressed up and attended High Tea via Zoom, complete with a bingo game and scrumptious scones your dad dropped off for everyone. For a while dad and I helped to host, but quite quickly it became clear that you did not need us. You deftly moved the conversation along and made sure everyone felt included, and then you ran off with my computer as soon as the games were over to spend another couple of hours dancing and laughing with your friends — sans parents. It was thrilling and bittersweet all at once, because you are growing up, and we will always miss the incredible little girl you were. But, my goodness it feels good to see you so poised and confident as you do get older — may you always retain your sense of self. It gets harder as a tween and teen but if anyone can do it, with wobbles here and there of course, it's you.

Because there's no such thing as too much bingo, we followed up your party with another Zoom bingo round with your grandparents in Halifax (GG and Grumpa tried to join but there were tech issues). You haven't seen your Meme and Pepe in over a year and it was good to be with them again, even virtually (Pepe won!).

Your ninth year was in many ways a tough one because you had a mere month of it before the Covid-19 pandemic struck. At first it was bizarre and novel, since it seemed as though what it would mean for us was a couple of weeks tacked on to March Break — not the worst fate in the world for a kid! But then it stuck. It moved across the world to Canada, and to help fewer people get sick and die we all locked down and stayed in our houses. School transitioned online and no one was prepared for that, so as much as your teachers tried, it would have almost been better to have no school at all and just done experiments and math and reading ourselves. It was especially sucky because you had the best teachers — Ms. Slaughter and Ms. Dawson — and you missed them terribly. You are a born extrovert and you love learning in a tactile way, and the closed-down world affected you quite badly. You were upset often and just not yourself. But then the summer came and that was a lovely respite. We were able to get a cottage with GG and Grumpa for a few days, and then another one where your dear friend Mila and her family came to visit us. It felt almost normal.

Things got better after that, even though you've just come off another few weeks of online school because Covid cases went up again. You have another great teacher, Ms. Shawna, and she's doing the best she can for you and your friends — going above and beyond and caring for you so much. We have our puppy, Blue, who's been so crucial to all of us this year, providing so much joy in the midst of a lot of grey, a lot of time indoors, and a lot of missing those we love.

For some reason, when I think about you coping in the pandemic, I remember one day in the fall when it was time for lunch. I was stuck on my computer and I just didn't have time to make anything for you, and you said, "No problem, I'm going to make a grilled cheese with Mila!" So you and Mila chatted away as you cooked and before long, I heard the happiest sounds from the kitchen: "I did it! I flipped it and it's golden brown! Gold, I tell you!" So we all came and admired your triumph and you were so rightfully proud. Until the pandemic is finally over, we are going to look for every grilled cheese moment we can find. There will be lots. 

The first picture below is you, me, and Blue on the last night of you being nine. It was a very good snuggle. I love you so much.

These days (end of 2019)

Hi guys,

It has been way, way, way too long since I wrote last. So much has been happening. Oliver, you're still playing your heart out in hockey. You're up for any practice or game, you listen attentively to the coach and have no problem accepting constructive criticism. Your shot is only getting more deadly, and you're a generous player, too. You have a couple of hardworking friends on the team, and you are so admirable in terms of trying to give each other shots on goal. That's what hockey – this kind of hockey at least, where you think about your teammates at the same time as trying to shine yourself – will do for you as you get older. It's helping you to learn to be gracious and to respect others around you, and to find out how rewarding this can be. You had a coach last year who instilled this kind of values-grounded approach to the game, and it's stuck with you. That same coach is still getting you out to practices even though you're not on his team, which is a lovely thing to do and part of the reason you're still having so much fun playing. There were strong bonds formed on that hockey team last year and it's something you'll always remember I think.

You're also still the biggest sweetheart with me. Your dad has been away quite a lot this fall, and you just step up and help me, whether by doing more around the house or just massaging my shoulders at the end of a long day. I don't have to ask you to do these things; you just seem to know that they would be appreciated. And you make me laugh. Because I can sort of speak French still, I am the French-homework parent (dad is the math guy) and you and I try to read the magazine Les Debrouillards together sometimes at night. You adopt the most ridiculous accent, like a pseudo-French inspector in the movies, and I cannot stop giggling. It is awful. I try to stop you and you assume a normal (very good) accent for a bit, but then a tempting word will come up and you will do your thing and I will lose it again. It isn't what we're supposed to be doing! I should be authoritative! Strict! But I can't. We often bash each other a bit, too, gentle punches on the arm or flicks to the head or ear, when we're doing French together. Then they get a little bit harder, until we have to draw back and be somewhat sane. I love doing French homework with you so much, even if it is a failure by proper standards.

Georgie, you remain the most joyful, lighthearted, dramatic, hilarious kid. Your recent obsession has been painting canvasses based on examples of things you see on the Internet, so fairly derivative and also very prolific and bloody-minded. You see, you are hellbent on selling these canvasses for $3, $5, and $10 at the community craft sale coming up soon. You count the money you will make before you have made it. You can paint a good two or three items in the span of a couple of hours. Then you quickly declare what you're going to charge for it. Often you will decide that it will be $10, even if – in your haste – you have smudged things or say, opted to not paint parts of the canvas white because hey, the canvas is white so why? Why duplicate that effort when you could instead move on to the next near-facsimile of that image on whatever site you've located? I am constantly having to walk you back to figures of $3–5 and you are usually aghast that I could suggest such a thing. "But the materials, mom! You have to factor in the materials!" Um. Your dad and I buy the materials. Let us hope that you will become a rich woman, lady! You definitely have the drive.

Also, G, you got your ears pierced this weekend. It was HUGE, especially as you sure didn't do it alone. Here's who you had cheering for you: your dad, Oliver, GG, your great friend Mila and her brother (Oliver's friend) Gianni and their mom, Jacqui, and me! You were shocked that it didn't hurt. You got amethyst studs, your birthstone. That evening, we went for dinner with Mila and her family and you were so delighted. You showed me your diary entry: "I GOT MY EARS PIERCED! I AM HAVING THE GREATEST DAY!" But you are always like this about anything you find fun: you just adore it and proclaim your joy to everyone around you. You are the most enthusiastic kid and you radiate positive energy. The next day we found out that your cousin Sabine had her ears pierced the very same day as you! It was crazy, and you two yammered on about this, and much else, for two hours on Saturday morning using Facetime.

LOVE YOU GUYS SO SO SO SO MUCH.

Mom

 

It's not you, it's me

It’s a dish I’ve prepared countless times and one that’s usually met with approval: Linguine Vongole. I used to lie to the kids and tell them the clams in it were chicken, but now they don’t eat meat so this time I have to come clean. “What are these, mom?” asks Georgia. “Clams,” I answer in as neutral a tone as I can find. “Oh,” she says, as if this is no big news, nothing troubling.

Some minutes in, Oliver, Craig, and I are nearly done our meals. Georgia, not so much. Fervent twisting of linguine on fork, but shoot, that linguine just keeps falling off. Better try again. It’s so slippery, holy moly. We urge her to stop fiddling. She begins to cry. Not for herself, but for me. “I just feel so bad for you!” she sobs. “I just can’t!” And she runs from the table. She knows how much I love to cook, how much I love it when she and O love what I cook, and she is afraid that I am horribly wounded.

This time, because I knew the clams would be a stretch, there is lentil soup as a backup. My lentil soup. Not our favourite store-bought Amy’s, which contains some secret ingredient that I, too, am addicted to. G recovers herself and sits down again in her chair. She stares down at the meal in front of her, and fairly immediately the neon thought bubble begins to flash over her head: “Not Amy’s Lentil Soup. Not Amy’s! Mom’s! Aargh! Nooooo!!” She cries, and this time not for me. The next, and only, two bites are tortuous. Life is quite difficult at this moment.

Later, as we all watch Blue Planet, I admit that I didn’t think the Vongole was all that hot this time. Craig and O protest, but a great, beaming smile lights up Georgia’s face. “You didn’t like it, mom?” “Not that much. The clams weren't great.” “Me neither!” Such relief; she is not a big meanie, and I have survived. Now we can relax and truly appreciate the giant squid eating each other, and the sharks with terrible rolling eyeballs ravaging a whale that has fallen to the bottom of the ocean. All is well.

December 11, 2017

Hi lovelies,

This past summer we stayed in a cute house in Prince Edward County and had a few guests up: first it was  Auntie Kate and Remedios, then it was Adrienne, Craig, Clark, Beck, and Abbey. We had lots of fun despite the fact that this was the year of major flooding in parts of Ontario, so the beaches in the area were much diminished.

When we first arrived, we discovered two mouse poops right on a dining room chair. Because we are who we are, this became not a gross thing but rather a chance to imagine the mice feasting at the table when the humans were out. We thought those two mouse poops might make the start of a good story. So here goes.

[UPDATE: It's been three months now since I started this story and I can't figure out what to do next. I am a terrible perfectionist and have made it a mission to fight back against it, so I am posting this publicly to remind myself that this is a block, not the end.]

***

Henry and Juliet were sad. It was the first morning of living in their new house. They missed their old home, which had been bigger, fancier, and close to all their friends. There, they had each had their own bedroom, the doors to which could be closed when they wanted to be alone. Now, they had to share the same room—and without even bunk beds to make it fun.

A good few hours of sulking did nothing to lift their spirits. Finally, they decided to explore every inch of the house because at least it was something to do. As they made their way through the rooms, they realized that while the house was small, it was full of nooks and crannies. There were hiding spots and a surprising number of cupboards and closets. One door led them down stairs to a basement piled almost to the ceiling with boxes and crates left behind by the previous owner of the house, an elderly man they had met only once.

Before long it was lunchtime and Henry and Juliet, whose moods were already much improved by their tour of the house, were thrilled when their mother agreed to let them sit underneath the dining room table to eat (the top of the table was loaded with stuff from their old home, so there really was no way for her to say no). The siblings laid out beach towels and pillows and were munching on grilled cheese sandwiches and dill pickles when Juliet spotted something strange: two small brown pellets on the upholstered seat of the chair closest to her. She realized immediately what they were.

"Mouse poops! Henry, come see!"

Henry stopped chewing and crawled over to look. "You're right—but stop hollering about it, Juliet! We might have mice but we won't for long if mom finds out."

Henry was right: they had to figure out how to keep it a secret.

You see, it had happened before, at their grandmother's cottage. Henry and Juliet had been delighted to find mouse droppings in a kitchen cupboard, and had made sure to be quiet as spies as they left delicious snacks all over the cottage for the mouse in hopes of making it come out of hiding. But one dreadful day, their grandmother found a mountain of crumbs in a corner of the children's bedroom and suspected that something was up. Henry and Juliet had been forced to confess, and within an hour, mouse traps dotted every corner of the cottage.

It had been a most unfortunate end to what had otherwise been a wonderful summer.

This time, they'd have to be much more careful, thought Juliet. At least there were lots of hiding spots in which to conceal snacks for the mouse. They'd need their Nature Observatory journal to record any bites out of crackers, and with any luck they could draw the mouse out to tame it. Maybe there would be a whole family! Maybe the whole bunch of them could come sleep in Juliet and Henry's new room, on a little bed made out of cotton-balls!

Juliet's daydreams were interrupted by their mother's voice calling from the kitchen.

"Juliet, Henry? Are you finished your lunch?"

They didn't answer.

"Kids?" They heard her footsteps drawing nearer. Henry quickly rose from where he was sitting and scooped up the mouse droppings, shoving them into his pocket.

"Ew!" said Juliet.

"Ow!" squeaked another voice.

Henry and Juliet looked at each other with eyes like saucers, then looked back to the chair. There, peeking out from a tiny tear in the corner of the fabric covering the chair's seat, was a very small and grumpy mouse.

"You pinched my tail into a crack when you did that," he said, "And for that matter, what kind of kid goes around scooping up poop?"

Neither Henry or Juliet could answer, because they simply could not find their voices. All they could do was stare at the talking mouse.

"Well?" said the mouse.

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

December 8, 2017

2017 was The Year of Hockey for Oliver and The Year of Cartwheels for Georgia. O, gymnastics has never been your thing but this week was Georgia's last class of the season and you gamely came with me to be a "parent participant," which practically speaking meant you got to goof around with G. Here you are being the "chair" for her. Videos to come, once I figure out how to get them in here.

 

December 4, 2017

Hi again lovelies,

On Saturday Georgia and I went over to GG and Grumpa's and ate dinner in their fabulous dining room, which is centred around a teak table from Indonesia and accented by treasures from their travels around the globe. One of the best things about the room is a painting of a man and woman in a bathroom that my dad picked up years ago at an art fair in San Francisco.

As you can see, the painting's couple is very much in a moment, and for years, we have all wondered what that moment could be. We can see the man's face, and it seems like he's imploring her to do something, and doesn't it look like he's laughing? Is it possible that she might be, too, or starting to? Maybe?

Because we were trying desperately on Saturday night to get a word in edgewise (you are such a chatterbox) and have a minute or two of adult talk, GG assigned you the task of studying the painting and you decided to write out your interpretation of what was happening between the man and the woman. It didn't take you long, and what a lovely thought.

 

December 2017

Well, the last time I did a Christmas festival here was 2014, and that’s just ridiculous! You’re nine (Oliver) and six, almost seven, Georgia, and you remain the best kids that we ever could have dreamed of. So one day, when you've forgiven your stodgy parents for refusing to buy you phones or iPods or other screen-y things this Christmas, you will perhaps look at this blog and see love falling all over the place, making its way from my fingertips to this black keyboard, and maybe you can imagine me late at night feeling exhausted but also replaying all the many moments of the day when you made me laugh, when you asked me in a movie theatre if you could sit on my lap (Georgia) when I had to plead with you (Oliver) to come back from outside to kiss me before you headed into your friend’s car to go to a hockey tournament an hour away (so far!), which you did, and then you hugged me for good measure and for many perfect seconds before telling me not to worry about the drive on the stupid stretch of highway, which of course I did worry about.

Today you will score the first goal in your team’s tournament, O, and it will be your first goal of the season. Your dad will send me a picture of your ruddy, beautiful face with your very silly friend beside you, and you will be wearing a construction hat because you earned the hardest working player honour. And I will look at the picture on my phone and melt, and send a whole bunch of emojis for you: hands clapping, thumbs up, hearts in every formation, lightning bolts, and more.

And I will miss being there, but I will also rush to pick you up, Georgia, from aftercare so we can go home to wear our matching “diamond” necklaces to a movie at the cinema with your great friends Annabelle and Josh, and I will catch up with their beautiful mom, Marie-Claire, for too short a time (it always is with you kids!). It will be a donkey-centred movie about Jesus’s birth, and that’s my kind of religion.

By the time we get home, it will be bedtime, and we both know that you will sleep with me because the boys are away. First we’ll look in on your bedroom, because we decorated with magic lights there earlier, then we’ll race to the bed and snuggle until you fall asleep. Before I join you, I’ll run down to the main floor and get that blasted Elf on the Shelf and pop him in your covers in your stead. I get you, beside me all night.

Happy first day of Christmas, gorgeous kids. I love you more than every grain of sand, every gust of wind and every wave in the sea.

**

**

 

Bliss

Georgia, before you go to sleep every night you say "I love you so much." When you wake up, you say the exact same thing. It is the first and last thought on your mind every day. You are six.

Oliver, before you go to sleep, you twist and twirl my hair to relax me, and you, and it is pure bliss. We chat as you do it, until finally I have to say it's time to be quiet and still. You are nine.

We could never imagine having better kids than you.

Catch up

I missed writing about both Georgia's and Oliver's birthdays—G turned five in February and O turned eight in April. We are loving these ages. Georgia, in particular, seemed to have been waiting to turn five. Like Oliver, Georgia found four a bit frustrating—no longer a toddler, but too little to get into real big-kid shenanigans like proper bike riding and witty jokes and especially, serious fashion. At five, she is much more sure of herself and the fact that Oliver pays more attention to her doesn't hurt—it's hard not to, because she's hilarious. She'll do anything for a laugh, from crossing her eyes to inventing crazy voices and associated gestures.

Oliver, meanwhile, is more nature-loving than ever and routinely busts out of the house to turn over rocks and search leaves for critters. About a month ago, we were walking along a beach in Aylmer and Georgia found an animal jawbone. Oliver begged her for it and Georgia turned it over to him (enjoying her regal power and beneficence). It had needle-sharp teeth still attached to it. We guessed as to its origin (racoon? weasel?) and at one point, Oliver turned to me and proclaimed it the best day of his life. "Punch me!" he said. I told him that maybe he meant "pinch me"? "No, punch me, I must be dreaming." We settled on a light shove.

Recently, we had a weekend that just encapsulated the amazingness of these years. There was nothing huge about the weekend. Just a string of moments, more closely spaced than usual, of beauty and laughter. Georgia "doing" the monkey bars (translation: hanging on one bar, refusing to move on, until her arms got tired and she dropped triumphantly to the sand). Oliver scoring a ball hockey goal in the last three seconds against a tough team. Shopping at the mall with Georgia and listening to her progressively grown-up, glamourous voice as she tried on various outfits. Going to the Golden Avenue farmers' market on the first really summery Saturday of the year: first tomatoes, asparagus and ricotta bruschetta, a cookie and an apple for Georgia.

Oliver had gotten up too early on Saturday, so I brought him home and got him to sleep in the basement and read my book alongside him. While he was still sleeping, I went upstairs for a shower. When I got out, he was sitting sadly outside in the hallway. I asked him what was wrong and he said he needed some time alone. So two minutes later (time alone is not Oliver's forte) he came into my room and explained that he needed a ring for his girlfriend for their playdate tomorrow (they are married now). So off we went on our bikes to a little store where they sell beautiful things from Asia. Along the way we talked about how he wants to study bird flight dynamics when he grows up. I biked behind him listening to his non-stop chatter, and watched his little body go from side to side as he pedalled. He is so big and still so small at this perfect age.

We got to the store and we looked for ages, with a lovely lady shopkeeper trying to help us out. Finally Oliver asked her, "Do you have anything with love in it?" She showed him a tiny ring with a turquoise stone in it and it was just what he wanted. "Thank you so much. And by the way this music is excellent, it is so Chinese." We got a little black velvet bag to hold the ring and all was right with the world. Oliver hugged me so hard I almost fell over and said, "Thank you mom, for saving my life!"

Meanwhile, Georgia was over at GG and Grumpa's because it was race weekend (10Ks and more) and race weekend is Grumpa's favourite time of year, edging out even Christmas. Race weekend has long held top spot and this is because GG and Grumpa live on Queen Elizabeth Driveway in front of the Rideau Canal — a key stretch of the race. Rain or shine, hot or not, Grumpa stands by the side of the road with his hose and sprays the runners. Most of them seem happy about this, and some are ecstatic — and as Grumpa quite rightly says, it's such a wonderful way of providing someone with exactly what they need with so little effort. Those who are more surprised by or even a tiny bit ungrateful (curmudgeons!) about the spray are thankfully so focused on keeping going that nothing terrible goes down even if Grumpa gets them right in the face. In any case, Georgia is now Grumpa's helper, and an enthusiastic one at that. After a diligent stretch of attending to Grumpa's spray needs, Georgia found new friends gathered along the grass by the race. They were adult, Muslim, and black, and they shared Georgia's love of popsicles. A couple of them needed to pee so Georgia showed them into GG and Grumpa's house, and by this point, they were calling her an ambassador for world peace. She actually could be, this girl.

We had a glorious shrimp and orzo salad at GG and Grumpa's that night and Georgia introduced them to the magnificent Buddy and Earl series, so there was a lot of laughing as well as good food and wine. When we got back to our place, I was helping G to get settled into bed and I guess I must have been distracted at one point. In a French accent, G gently put her fingers under my chin and said, "Turn to me, my leetle muffin."

This is as good as it gets, and I know it.