Category Archives: The Boy

Trees, People, Cello

Or, What My Weekend Was Like, By Me.

Saturday we trekked out to the wilds of North Stormont/Maxville to help t! and Jan dig and plant their orchard. A dozen heritage apples and other fruit trees were planted, each assigned to a different pagan friend. Everyone was invited to bless the tree they planted in whatever way they felt drawn to do so. Some blessings were elaborate; some were quiet; all were blessed with sweat and laughter. Despite assurances otherwise (and here absolutely NO ONE looks at HRH, no) it, well, it poured rain. (Except when HRH planted his tree. Ahem.) I’m a fan of rain, and it wasn’t even cold, but having trekked around after a wiggly four year old for a couple of hours and trying to keep him focused during the cumulatively long first half of the orchard, eventually agreeing to hold him on my hip while he snuggled his very wet head into my neck, took its toll on me. My blessing ended up being rushed because the boy decided he needed to use the bathroom again and we got back right when it was my turn. In the end I did nothing like what I’d prepared and pretty much just shoved the tree in the ground and told those with spades to fill the hole in. I had prepared a charged pebble that I tossed into the hole, though, and I’d brought a bottle of water blended from some Chalice Well water a friend had brought back from Glastonbury for me and a small vial of water blessed and charged at the last BFC Clan Camping I’d attended in 2004, which I poured on the ground once it was planted.

The boy’s tree was next, and he tossed his pebble into the hole. We reminded him that there was something he wanted to sing, so he announced that he had a special song to sing for his tree. “It’s a song we sing at school, and it is my favourite, and it’s about something that is under the water, and yellow,” he informed those gathered. HRH and I tried hard not to laugh as people realized what he meant, and I reminded him that no, he hadn’t planned to sing ‘Yellow Submarine,’ there was another song he’d been singing at home. So we chanted “Up and down, and sky and ground” together while those with spades filled the hole and covered the roots. It was pretty special. Then he stood looking at the base of the tree for a while as everyone collected themselves to move on to the next hole. I’m not sure if he was a bit sad that he hadn’t been able to sing ‘Yellow Submarine’ to his tree, or if he was thinking about how he’d just planted a real tree. He didn’t seem upset, just thoughtful.

As Janice planted her rowan, the first in the orchard, she named the tree Rowan Tree Farm, which feels entirely appropriate.

That night, while the boy ate a late dinner of a grilled cheese sandwich, he said, “Mama, what was your favourite part of the day?” I thought about it and said, “After we had planted all the trees and went back inside, and we’d all changed into our dry clothes, and we all had drinks and pie, and looked around and enjoyed being with our dear friends after sharing something special.” He then asked his father the same question. When I asked him what his favourite part of the day was, he said thoughtfully, “I loved meeting the dog named Carter and petting him and not hurting his leg.” (Carter, the resident year-old collie/husky/shepherd mix, has had a bad run of luck with his right foreleg, and it is splinted.) Carter’s a big dog, loves people, and is currently sporting the latest in Elizabethan collars so he doesn’t gnaw at the leg, but none of this bothered Liam; he was completely in love with the dog and very careful not to knock the splint. As I was useless with the digging part of the day (thanks, fibro) I spent some time with Carter on a leash along the edge of the field so t! could get some work done, and the dog is definitely personable. I quite enjoyed his company.

Also at dinner, Liam said, “I like Amanda.” (Amanda, whom I have known since I was about eleven, had been a passenger in our car there and back.) And then, completely out of the blue, he said something I’d never heard him say before: “When I’m bigger, I’m going to marry her.” We suspect that her admiration of Blackie and her willingness to get down on the floor and play trucks with him led him to this momentous decision.

Sunday morning I was in a lot of pain, as I’d expected; one doesn’t walk around in an uneven field holding a drenched preschooler and expect to escape unscathed. By the time my in-laws arrived for the Mother’s Day brunch we hosted I was at least functional, though. Savoury quiche, waffles, sausages, piles of fruit, salad, and mimosas. Mmm. The boy began crashing just before noon, so both he and I had a lie-down. He slept for two and a half hours (not surprising given the expected lack of nap the day before) but a rude interruption by an arrogant Hydro rep at our door ruined my chance for rest. I then went off to our monthly group cello lesson after picking a dozen of the tulips from along the side of the house for my cello teacher. Great lesson prepping for the recital in two weeks, but alas, it seems as if we will be cutting my beloved “Ave Verum Corpus,” a hesitant announcement that made all three of us doing the top melody very sad. It’s being bumped to the Christmas recital, and I fully understand why; it needs more work so that all four voices move confidently at the same time, and as the lower voices don’t feel the melody the way we do they’re not as sure about where to move, or even how they’re supposed to sound like against the other parts. But I am sad indeed.

And then last night I finished reading Dan Simmons’ very excellent Drood.

That was my weekend. The end.

Mid-Week

Well, the day home with the boy yesterday was mostly terrific. The morning was lovely; he watched TV while I slept, because three hours of sleep = Very Bad. The boys had a talk about how Mama needed some more sleep before she could get up and have a good day. The boy was mostly on board with this but decided to Take Care Of Me once HRH had left for work, which entailed bringing me various stuffed animals to cuddle while I slept, and informing me every time the TV show changed, which was at fifteen-minute intervals. Still, it was something. We went out to the big bookstore to noodle about and play with the trains, and wow, it’s nice and quiet on Tuesdays. We usually go once a month on a Friday, his regular at-home day, and it’s always packed. I finally picked up Dan Simmons’ Drood, which I am enjoying immensely, and the boy got a new Henry & Mudge book. He didn’t even fuss about not buying a train beyond pointing out the milk cars to me. Then I suggested wandering through the pet store, to which he readily agreed, and he didn’t kick and scream about leaving when we had to. We stopped by the Bramble House in its new location, which has more space but now feels like it carries fewer products as a result. It’s lost a bit of its charm. The boy got some Dairy Milk Buttons, and we bought a bottle of water at the corner store to share. (Very exciting if you are the boy.)

I was looking forward to his nap so I could nap too, but things went somewhat awry. He went to sleep willingly enough, but woke up after only forty-five minutes when I’d been counting on at least half an hour longer than that. Unfortunately for me, I’d only dozed for fifteen minutes myself before he pattered in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I told him he could either play in his room or the living room, or cuddle with me, but I wasn’t getting up till three. He chose to stay, but whispered and squirmed a lot trying to pet Gryff, so I didn’t actually get back to sleep. At least I got to lie down with my eyes closed.

We did a small grocery run, and he was pretty good there too, apart from continually stepping on my feet because he wasn’t paying attention to where his own were. If I’d had enough sleep I’d have been more patient, but the little things like this were starting to make me grit my teeth. Once back home he settled down to watch the last half of a movie and play with his cars while I practised. I explained that I needed to, and that I’d close my office door so I wouldn’t disturb him, and he was fine with that. He came to the door about ten minutes in to watch me, then grinned and dashed away. Later, while I took a brief break, he brought his box of trains into my office to play, but when I picked the cello up again he burst into tears and wailed. He didn’t want me to play with him, he just didn’t want me to practise while he was in the room. And that’s where my short-on-sleep really caught up with me; my mood flipped from relaxed to tight and annoyed. When my temper was even enough again I talked to him about it being (a) my office, in which I am allowed to do whatever I like, and (b) he’d been informed that I was practising, so he had no reason to get upset. We went over the “How do you think Mama feels when you cry and tell her she can’t play the cello?” thing, and he mumbled, “You feel sad.” I could see that he was upset because he’d upset me, but he still didn’t want me to play.

HRH eventually got home, which helped diffuse the tension, and we had dinner. The boy was chipper and cheerful and played with him, and they had an awesome time in the bath and doing story and bed while I got ready for my cello lesson. And a wonderful cello lesson it was: my duet partner and I had a shared lesson wherein we worked our duet for the upcoming recital. It’s sounding really, really good. All we’re doing at this point is tweaking little things like gentling the ends of phrases and doing more subtle shaping along the way. Of course, I blew some simple stuff in the ensemble pieces we played first to warm up. I need to work out a weekly practise schedule where I can assign specific times to work on lesson stuff, solo pieces, ensemble music, and orchestra pieces. Otherwise I just end up trying to read through everything or what I remember going wrong, and other things get lost along the way. That’s a lot of music, after all, no matter how many notes I take about changes and obstacles in lessons and at rehearsal.

I’m worried about what’s going to happen in the summer when lessons stop.

Other good things that happened yesterday: I got my new freelance assignment (naturally, while we are given a week to turn them around, it lands at such a time when I only have two work days before the due date); receiving the exquisite score to The Painted Veil by Alexandre Desplat; and hearing back from the accountant about having a nice chunk of money being returned to us by the government. Yay for tax refunds! Yay, slashing at Visa/credit line/dumping money into RRSPs! Yay, no longer stressing about not having quite enough money from the anthology delivery cheque to buy the new computer and the 7/8 cello (for which I have begun thinking about names, which means yes, it’s going to be mine pending the full physical exam I want the luthier to give it)! I am content. I may even be able to buy a new bow, as mine is on its last legs frog-wise and has a nasty hook at the tip.

So other than the mild annoyance about not being able to sleep whenever I tried to, and the kerfuffle about not being allowed to play my cello in my own office, it was a very good day indeed.

Of Course

Trust my son to have a breakdown because the ribbons aren’t covering the entire Maypole. “But there’s still wood at the bottom!” he wailed.

Other than that, awesome Pagan playgroup meeting this morning. Nothing like having six under-nines learning how to do a Maypole for the first time. I think the parents had even more fun coaching and watching and laughing.

Yesterday was an excellent Day One of the local Beltane Fair, where I met Judika Illes for the first time and saw other friends whom I don’t get to see often as well. My workshop went decently well, as did the authors panel afterwards. Gorgeous day, too; twenty-six degrees Celsius, brilliantly sunny with a good wind. Lovely. Brought the boy back home, had dinner, crashed; the boy woke up at three, as he’s been doing lately, and ghosted into our room to ask for cuddles. I took him back to his bed but he didn’t sleep, so forty-five minutes later, after a glass of water, he looked at me with soulful eyes and said, “Mama, may I please cuddle with you and Dada in your bed?” And to do him justice, he did sleep properly once there. I did not, but they gave me an two hours of sleep on my own after they got up at seven.

Today’s Day Two of the fair, and we’re going back again after the boy’s nap for Tal’s book launch and to mingle with new and old friends for a while longer. I’m glad the original plan to be out of town today was cancelled so we could go back one more time.

And since this looks like the weekend roundup, I will mention that I had a most excellent cello lesson first thing Saturday morning, too. It was the kind of lesson where there were a couple of breakthroughs, and I felt suspiciously like a Real Cellist at the end. I also cast on my Picovoli sleeveless sweater Friday afternoon, using a lovely Pima cotton on the new Harmony circulars I ordered from KnitPicks. And it’s my dad’s birthday today, so happy birthday, Dad!

He Doesn’t Even Particularly Like Ketchup

(Background: There is homemade macaroni and cheese baking in the oven. Apologies in advance to anyone who enjoys ketchup with their mac and cheese, or with anything else; you’re welcome to it, but the idea of consuming it on anything other than fries or burgers and hot dogs ourselves makes us shudder.)

    SPARKY: [on his way to the bathroom] You know what I love?

    MAMA: [from her office] What?

    SPARKY: Macaroni and cheeeeeese.

    MAMA: Good, ’cause that’s what we’re having for dinner.

    SPARKY: [in bathroom] You know what else I love?

    MAMA: What?

    SPARKY: Ketchup!

    [There is a pause.]

    HRH: [from the living room] No. Oh, no.

    MAMA: You do know that those things don’t go together, right?

    SPARKY: Why not?

    HRH: Because you’re not. that. person.

    SPARKY: [gaily] You’re right! I’m not! Hahahahaha!

And he proceeded to laugh loudly as if he’d set the whole thing up, and it sounded like he was the laugh track for a bad sitcom. We laughed so hard we cried in our respective rooms.

But the really weird thing? He doesn’t particularly like ketchup.

Weekend Roundup

Good morning, Internets. It was a busy weekend.

Friday afternoon: Finish printing the ms. and start reading through it with a pen in hand. It does not suck as much as I’d feared. I suspect I’ll throw out about fifteen pages, or at least fit the info in elsewhere (probably in dialogue with someone). It’s the kind of thing that was necessary for me to write to understand where things were coming from, but not necessary for the reader.

Friday night: Awesome cello lesson. I’m getting it.

Saturday morning: HRH dismantles the upper bunk of the boy’s bed (AKA the tree fort, where a lot of the boy’s playthings are stored) in preparation for a new shelving/storage system to be put at the foot of his bed. Then, IKEA! As soon as the store opens, when there is still parking by the door and almost no one inside. The boy requests the ball room, and we sign him in for the first time and head off to reconnoitre on our own, feeling vaguely like we’re skipping school or something like that. The shelving unit and bins we are here to pick up are actually in stock. We collect the boy, who has a bump on his head from running into someone round the corner of the play structure. He has a mild breakdown when he is informed that it’s time to go. (Sign of Things Having Gone Well: floods of tears when it’s over.) Off to Best Buy so HRH can pick up yet another cell phone and a copy of 101 Dalmatians on DVD. We stop by the bookstore and buy two books for the boy, then bring home hot dogs and fries to eat while we watch the film.

Saturday afternoon: I stumble to the bedroom with a suspiciously threatening pain in my head, and nap after taking some headache candy. The boy does not nap, although HRH convinces him to have quiet time in his room for an hour or so. I take more headache candy. When the edge of what has revealed itself to be a migraine has been taken off, we head out to our goddaughter’s seventh birthday party, which she has planned as a singalong for family. With the help of a glass of wine, I enjoy myself more than I’d cautiously expected to. The boy makes new friends with the children of an old friend of mine (we are all touched when the two youngest hug gently before leaving). This old friend, another scion of an ex-pat UK family, gives me a roll of Polos and a Cadbury Flake, making me squeal.

Saturday night: Major discovery! I can eat the Cadbury Flake without having an allergic reaction to the chocolate! This further confirms my suspicion that the sensitivity responds to the proportion of cocoa solids to butter/cream/other stuff. Alas, dark chocolate; I loved you well, but circumstances force me to turn to milk chocolate for comfort and indulgence.

Sunday morning: HRH and the boy assemble the shelving system and slide the bins into it. It’s terrific. We watch 101 Dalmatians for the second time in less than 24 hours. Good thing it’s still among my top three favourite Disney films today, and was my very favourite while growing up. HRH heads out to do a landscaping consultation for Ceri and Scott, and the boy and I go along to make use of the play structure. There is soccer and much swinging and sliding and finding of bugs and playing a new game called “the running around the trees game.” (I told you, my almost-four year old is terribly original when it comes to naming things.) The boy learns the valuable lesson of the necessity of holding on to the chains of a swing while you’re at the apex of your arc.

Sunday afternoon: The boy naps for just under two hours. Wiktory! He heads out to help HRH in the garden, expanding the vegetable plot, turning compost into the soil, watering the plants, and so forth. I head out for my monthly group cello lesson where we work on ensemble pieces for the upcoming recital. For some reason I can’t get comfortable with the length of my endpin or the angle of my cello. I blow stupidly easy shifts when I’m playing solo (naturally). Moral of the story: Revisit your ensemble pieces regularly, even if the last time you played them they were easy and note-perfect.

Sunday evening: Dinner is leftover roast beef (yes, the mystery roast was beef, and oh ye gods it was tender and delicious), sliced and stir-fried with mushrooms, done in a cream mushroom gravy, served over wild rice. (“Oh-oh, this rice is bad,” says the boy, picking out the black ones. We reassure him that it’s not, that it’s special rice. He nibbles it and says, “Oh, yes! It is good!”) The beef is just as delicious the second time. And there’s enough for one more meal, too.

I woke up a lot last night. Not the best night of sleep.

Today: More editing, and finally doing the last bit of hunting for exchange rates that I need to finish up the taxes.

Today’s List

1. There are fifteen crocuses in the front garden.

2. There are ants in the laundry room. (Items one plus two = spring.)

3. Cautiously working my way through a few pieces of a Lindt Petits Desserts Chocolate Mousse bar. No adverse reaction as of yet, and it’s been half an hour. Encouraging, as the dark chocolate reaction was immediate burning on the tongue.

4. The boy waved vigorously to the metro drivers on our trip downtown and received surprised and delighted waves in return.

5. A quarter of the way through printing Orchestrated and all’s well. I had saved it to a USB key and taken it to the local print shop to get it done, but remembered while I was in line that I’d used comments. When you print a document with comments it shrinks the text and forces the page into the upper left corner to fit the comments in the right margin, which wastes a lot of paper and makes the text almost impossible to read. I bought more printer paper and came home to do it myself in twenty-page increments after stripping the comments out. Neither ink nor paper nor printer have caused issues so far. (Printing large documents usually causes problems of some kind for me.)

Aha, just as I expected; low ink. Argh. Had to happen at some point. Well, I have some in the cupboard, along with the syringe; I’ll refill it and that will be that.

Potpourri

The monthly post about the boy is up and backdated.

First rehearsal with the new test conductor last night, and what fun. He had us playing the Schubert passably in pretty much no time at all. He’s younger than I thought (by quite a bit) and an oboist. We were missing an oboe so he pulled his out and wandered around playing the oboe theme while conducting. It was mildly alarming to have an oboist wander at you at various points, but it certainly encouraged each section to play out when they were supposed to. He greeted us in French and talked to us equally in both languages, which impressed us. I already like his musicality and his personality. There were grumpy people making their grumpiness known, but that’s not unusual, alas.

Best news of the night: One of the pieces he’s considering programming is Ralph Vaughn Williams’ English Folk Song suite! I bounced in my chair with excitement. (Otherwise I sat there in mild pain, because the particular chair I was in slanted nastily toward the back. Ugh. Time to look into one of those firm wedge cushions.)

I need to do two more takes of six brief sections of dialogue for this recording, then I’m going to hook it all up to the computer and listen to it. I’ve already noted which takes I need to delete because of an error on my part or noise interference (like helpful cats scratching or jumping up onto my desk and scattering papers). I fervently hope everything’s okay, because if not I have to do the whole thing over twice tonight once the boy’s in bed, and I don’t do work after the boy’s in bed very well. The boy and I are headed downtown tomorrow morning to ride on the underground train to hand this in.

This morning’s excitement included being addressed by a policeman, who pulled up next to my car while I was unlocking it after dropping the boy off. How long had I been there, he wanted to know, and was I not aware that I wasn’t allowed to park on this side of the street between nine and four? I blinked, looked at the signage, and pointed out respectfully that the signs indicated that motorists were supposed to park here between nine and four on a Thursday, and that in fact all the cars on the opposite side of the street were parked illegally. He looked at the signs, looked back at me, said, “T’as raison, j’ai mal identifié le côté de la rue,” and gave me a huge grin. I laughed and wished him a good day. There was such a difference between his neutral opening words and the tone of his reply to me. He must encounter argument and abuse pretty much regularly, so to have someone correct him politely must be quite a novelty. He gave me another huge grin once his partner had turned the car around and was headed back down the hill toward all the illegally parked cars. I think I made their day.