Simian Farmer

A fetish of sorts

Perhaps a poor title to follow immediately on the heels of a post extolling the virtues of one's wife and mother.

But rest assured, there are no Freudian inferences to be drawn here.

Well, it does deal with long, cylindrical objects, but that's it! 

Mama's boy

One of the unexpected side effects of watching my wife blossom into the nurturing tigress that she has become in the rearing of her two boys is a deeper appreciation - largely unspoken - for having been raised by my own mother.

Amy exhibits the same unswerving dedication to the upbringing of our two sons that I experienced first-hand for so many years.  Her approach to the details of child-rearing varies greatly at times (as it should), but the overwhelming impression that's left is one with which I am eminently familiar: the health and welfare of her sons is of paramount importance, superseding everything else.  Declan and Tavish aren't an added element to her life, they have become the nucleus; all else orbits that singularity.  (In this regard I think it's important for a husband to get caught up in his wife's wake and for her to acknowledge the single-mindedness of her own determination.  Which is another discussion entirely.)

I think it's quite impossible for a son to fully reconcile himself to the sacrifices made by a mother for his benefit.  As a father I can see more of it now, especially bearing witness to my own wife, but there is still a lot that eludes my comprehension.

Something to illustrate this. 

My folks were divorced when my brother and I were quite young and whatever messiness fell out from that was largely kept from the purview of our relationship with each parent.  Though the fact that it wasn't an entirely amicable break was obvious.  It was a divorce, for Chrissake; sunshine and rainbows were not the order of the day.

My dad was first to get remarried, and at that point in my life (for reasons that still elude me today) I was enamoured of and engaged in the hobby of rug hooking.  I found some sort of sweet succour in the mindless repetition of knotting bits of coloured yarn to a patterned web.  I was rewarded with a fuzzy rainbow, or some spotted mushrooms, or (I think once) a Care Bear.

For the wedding, I wanted to make a rug hooking as a gift.  Something hand made and personal.  It was the biggest I had tackled to that point and I struggled during the last few weekday evenings to finish the top rows.  My most vivid memory is that of being in tears, hunkered over the folds of the nearly completed work, knotting furiously, and falling about five rows short by the time Dad came to pick us up for the nuptial weekend.

The next morning my mother stopped by my dad's place (something she NEVER did), and delivered a gift-wrapped package for me to give to my father and step-mum on their wedding day.  She had stayed up to finish what I had started.

Given the stormy history behind that period, it took me 20 years to fathom the enormity of the gift she had given me and to thank her in a slightly more appropriate - yet still insufficient - way.  But she was my mother and, as always, put her sons first.

That's only one instance; there are many more that I'll never know of.  And it is only now, being a parent and a witness to my wife as a mother, that I am able to glean a little more understanding of - and appreciation for - the self-sacrificing dedication of a mother for her boys.  At least in the two instances to which I've been privy.  This sacrifice does not engender an obligation in the children, since parents undertake this long journey of their own volition, but some level of acknowledgement as awareness grows certainly does not go amiss.

Chocolate obloquy

O! vile mallomars I abhor
your address on my waist;
I've none but my own self to blame --
I can't resist your taste!

Your chocolate coating acts a shield
to puffy goodness underneath.
A drop of jam rests at your core,
that I can squish right through my teeth.

Your graham crust's a pedestal,
a dais 'pon which you rest,
surpassing cookies, bars and treats;
I hate how easy you digest!

To paraphrase potato chips:
I cannae have just one;
the vanguard of a fresh assault,
you encroach upon my bum.

The cookie jar at work's replete
with thine alluring ilk;
methinks I must away ere long,
to wash you down with milk.

Hi; hi boobies -- weet, weet

It's been frikkin' scorching hot 'round these parts the past week and more.  Tuesday it got up to 32 degrees.  That's 90 in the old scale.

Dex has been adamant about spending as much time outside as possible.  Not that I mind in the least.  It's gotten to the point where he bitches and moans about having to sit down for supper because he wants to go for a walk, or to the park, or for a wagon ride.

Or, best of all, a ride in the wagon TO the park.

This past Saturday, the two of us walked to the park and had a ripping good time.  We found and then lost a little spider, played on the slide and swings, greeted some nearby birds and in the end bade farewell in a manner that intimated our eventual return.

Good times.

 

Art in the face of derision

Apparently, when one sees a unique photo opportunity present itself and, being in a position to take full advantage of same, proceeds to leap out of one's seat with slightly more alacrity than is one's wont while exclaiming unexpectedly, "Ooooo!!  A bumble-bee!" one ought, in hindsight, to expect to be mocked by one's wife.

At least, more so than is her wont.

But I'm the one who can sit back smugly and claim to have captured an instant of Nature's precious union through a pane of glass marred with the grubby hand prints of a two year-old toddler and the grubbier nose prints of two dogs.

Besides which, I got to use the macro setting on my new camera to full effect for the first time.

For this:

Evolution of friendship

Please bear with me.

I had a couple pints of Alexander Keith's earlier and am currently working on a fairly generous tumbler of Napoleon Brandy.  I have a warm and fuzzy feeling.

Out of the mouths of little boys

I have no idea why, but every time I walk outside with a plastic Superstore bag in my hand and head to the shed to grab The Shovel and The Spade, Declan's face lights up like it's Christmas morning and announces with more glee than I'll ever be able to muster, "Poop!"

The internet is made of people

Attributed to Warren Ellis, and which I first read at Byzantium's Shores, this phrase contains more than a kernel of truth.

More than a mustard seed.

I dare say it's heftier than a nugget.

Verily, were I to grasp it with both hands and strain to lift it above my head, my back would be bowed and my legs begin to buckle.

He could go all the way!

Apropos of the recent Cinderfella story put on display by my home town Edmonton Oilers, this brief clip is absolutely fraught with suspense, excitement, tension, disbelief...

...and tempered at the end by disappointment.

Not today, but someday.

 

Endearing

The sun is so disgustingly happy to stay up late with us in these halcyon days that a late evening foray to the local playground is a completely reasonable activity.  We're back home in time for Dex's bath and the sun's still shining brightly.  Summer solstice, how I love thee!

What impresses me even more than the amount of sunlight is Declan's endurance.  I've gotten out of the habit of taking a stroller or wagon with us on walks.  The nearest school playground is about six blocks away, which is a good distance to a young boy for whom a curb is still a significant obstacle.  He's quite happy to walk, run, stumble, fall and crawl all the way there himself.

Mind you, there are any number of rocks, sticks, ants, cars, trucks, trees, cats, doggies, flowers, bugs and, of course, boobies along the way to distract him; so it takes a while.  But seeing the sand and playground equipment ahead of him on the latter part of the journey certainly spurs the lad up that last hill.

When he was on the swings at the playground this weekend, Declan demonstrated his growing grasp of geometry.  He has squares, circles, stars, hearts, rectangles and triangles mastered.  (I'm still working on hexagons.)  When he was clinging to the big-boy swing with my hand supporting his back, he tentatively removed one hand from the chain and pointed off to his right.  "Tangoh!"

I didn't see it.  "Where's the triangle, Declan?"

He kept pointing while oscillating and said again, for my edification, "Tangoh!"

I peered long and hard in the direction of his finger until it finally dawned on me: directly to his right, the intersection of the swing-set legs with the sand made an isosceles triangle!  My head nearly exploded right there with the rush of blood to the 'Holy Shit!' centre of my brain.

What impressed me nearly as much was his willingness to go home afterwards.  Once ensconced at the playground, he's almost always loathe to leave.  Sunday, though, he walked right up to me, cocked his head, smiled and said, "Home?"

Being brilliant, I replied, "You want to go home, Dex?"

His smile stretched into a toothy grin. "Home!  Mum!"

Halfway home he was done with the walking thing and I carried him on my shoulders the rest of the way.  I think he got excited when he knew we were getting close.

"Home!  Mum!  Bay-bee ... bud-ler ... Towse!"