Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Tag: children

Because It’s White and Cold And Beautiful

By

On January 14, 2013

It’s snowing again but now we’re inside and it’s warm. I am making some cowboy coffee and mending my frozen toes and fingers. They are almost warm and not hurting anymore. Almost.

We went out to the lake today. Kamloops lake that is.  We haven’t been there since a sunny October afternoon and that day was bright and warm and the shores were decorated with gentle lapping sounds. Today the road here was but a thick smooth ribbon of whiteness, thick and dense like a heavy wool blanket laid on the ground. The shore was white and spreading far, a most perfect postcard…

We make our way to the very edge of lake stepping over logs tucked under blankets of snow. The cold bites the tip of my nose and the boys would agree. Their noses get new hues as we walk: first pink, then nose and cheeks turn red.

The gentle laps that were dancing in the fall are now frozen. Two feet from where we’re standing the ice becomes thin and unfriendly. The boys don’t need many warnings, they’ve met frozen waters before. Four steps further out there’s a fast moving stream, courtesy of Thompson river, that carries an all-size assortment of ice slabs into the lake. The whooshing sound of the floating ice is an eerie one. It’s cold and we need to get moving.

I put my boots on, clamp the skis on and as I slide around on the slightly hardened snow, I create my own frozen sound. It almost sounds like the whirring of a snow robot finding its way around. The boys shoot the bow and the arrows fly like long thin birds into the sky and then land most elegantly, burying their pointed metal heads in the snow. As it sometimes happens, the boys fight their way into learning how to take turns. Egos are sharper then the arrows’ heads and it shows. As it sometimes happens, the boys find a way to stop arguing.

In the distance – shooting arrow distance – a man walks his two majestic Husky dogs and I envy their furry coats that are perfectly impenetrable to the cold that’s nipping at toes and fingers, wool coats on both notwithstanding. It’s freezing cold and I vow to never take my mitts off or change my snow boots for ski boots ever in the middle of a snowy field.

We spend the rest of the time exploring, shooting the arrows, searching for arrows when they get lost in the snow and skiing further down the shores.The boys search for signs of prehistoric life (Sasha) and they plunge on a frozen giant puddle that shines a strange turquoise hue at us (Tony). “Mom, can you pull me around on the ice?” Like a human puck, he means, but I decline. Cross-country skis on ice spell disaster. The cold nips at every square centimeter of exposed skin and it does so to my fingers every times I take my mittens off to take a photo.

“Mom, look, this drift log is stuck in the ice!” Indeed it is, in the middle of the frozen turquoise pond. Sasha caresses it like it’s a frozen animal and it almost looks the part with the ruffled shredded bark all over its half-naked trunk. Sasha gathers some “nest material” and then we head to see an icy crevasse that opens like an icy mouth into one of the frozen rivulets tributary to the big lake.

Round lacy perfection with the gurgle of unstill water underneath: I take photos knowing for a fact that perfection of that kind never shows up in a photo. It’s the angle of the light at that particular moment, the sounds of the snow my boys are stepping on, Tony’s excitement as he kneels and looks into the ice cavern, the distant wailing of a train that plunges head-first into the snow all over just like the boys’ arrows a while ago… How do I catch all that in a photo, you tell me.

We try to walk across the frozen stream, just a couple of steps over a thick bridge of ice, but the light cracking sounds make Sasha back up. His big winter hat is slightly pushed sideways and his big eyes are glowing from above red cheeks. There’s no making him and I like that. He’s cautious. We walk further down where the we can cross in one step and he’s holding onto my pole the whole time. That keeps my heart warm, no matter how freezing cold the outside is: the mama bear soul coat. Backpack on my back, quiver with arrows on the side, a big piece of perfectly-shaped white driftwood in my arms, and Sasha on a stick. There’s no better way of bidding goodbye to the lake shores today.

It started snowing as we were making our way back to the car. We take a path through bushes that are subdued by cold and snow: tangles of rigid branches shaped like countless octopi sown all over the field. I make my way through snow, followed by the same mechanical whirring I started out with. I take a couple of more photos and with that my hands give in to freezing. It’s almost sudden and it feels revengeful. The mitts hurt as I put them back on, a useless act now because my fingers are stiff and hurting.

We unfroze slowly on the drive home. I can’t deny the beauty of snow just because it’s so cold but I wished for the hurting fingers to stop hurting. The fields on each side of the road were endlessly white, some studded with distant minuscule-looking cows and some with random patches of trees and bushes.

It’s been a good white afternoon. Cold too. As I type this, my fingers have returned to being warm and mine. Coffee is done with and tonight we’ll watch Shackleton. Antarctica expeditions have been the talk of the day for a week or so…

 

 

If You See The Tide Come In

By

On July 7, 2012

In all fairness, Sasha wanted to go to the river. But I said let’s go to the secret place. So we did. Walk on the path, curtains of salmonberries plopped over and around. We pick and eat. Mom, this is mystic yummy land. It is. Sasha in front, Tony second. I chase them. Sasha carries a pole with him. Black metal pole, a former curtain rod from the old house that never got to be.

The secret place awaits. Reeds, leaves, mud. Mud. You can’t understand mud until you get here. Which you can’t because I won’t tell where. We take our sandals off, I almost leave my bag with books and phone behind but swing it off the branch as we head for the mud fields. Better take it with. Open fields of mud. You sink to your knees, it snakes through your toes and the squelching is to die for. Literally. Stick around and you’ll see.

We follow the rivulet then walk to this water hole, run to the next, follow the steps of herons leading to nowhere in the land of nobody. The murky liquid in the water holes is warm. “Mom, it’s so warm… come see…” I think elephants and hippos. Cooling off with mud armor growing on us. A bald eagle swoops over, close, very close, and lands on the tiny island in the middle of sprawled waters. “Did he come for us, mom?” No, it’s fish he’s after. The eagle watches us from afar. Like he knows something we don’t. He does. Like all eagles, he looks smug. Proud.

Tide’s coming in, look! Look! Tongues of water lick the endless mud fields. Coming from all directions, foamy water advances and I’ve never seen it this close. Mud rats we are but now it’s mud show. Majestic. The eagle watches as the water closes in around him. A feathered daredevil but how could he not be one.

We plan for a mud fight in the morrow. The boys relish the thought. Water slides in. Tony builds mud bombs. “This is how you do it…Guys, come watch.: We gather round as he picks a handful of mud… you dip it in the river of death (it is that blackened from the silt we stirred). He adds some moss, some clay from where our feet sank. I watch the feet marks. Holes. Deep. Sasha’s, Tony’s, mine… they fill with foamy water. It takes a couple of seconds for the first to fill. Then the next. Water rolls in, eerie sight. Quiet. Fast. I stare. It moves so fast. “Mom, you’re not looking, the bomb…” I look, but the water… “Guys, let’s go back.” The mud bomb ready for lunch. “Mom, wait…” No waiting. This way. No, the other way. Water covered driftlogs and rivulets, it’s getting all swampy. Reeds as far as we can see and above them, the woods. We run and sink. Sasha’s tiny legs sink. Tony runs through a former wading rivulet that is now deep. Down to his thighs, he breaks free and throws me a look that screams and freaks out. He doesn’t though. Almost all that muddy field is now covered in water, it moves quick. I don’t like it. Which way, which way? The reeds. We cut through the reeds. They are taller than me and they spew dust. My lungs swallow it but who has time for it. The boys follow, trustful, single line through the reeds. I think, I think and try to make my words come out calm and straight. How? How?

We go sideways thinking we’ll reach the path we know. “An opening, mom, I see it…” It’s nothing, just downed yellowed reeds. We’re barefoot and scared. We see nothing. I down more reeds and the boys follow faithfully. “Mom, we trust you… Sasha, mom knows…” Was planning to see a play tonight. We stop. We hear swooshing through the reeds. Water seeps towards us. “Mom, are we gonna die?” No, oh, come on, of course not.

“Will you make to the play tonight?” Of course, guys, we’re almost out. No, I can’t see the play happening. We’re not out. We’re not, I can’t find my bearings. New strategy. We will head straight towards the woods, at least that’s high and towards where we should be. More reeds, swimming, feet hurt. I think of Sasha’s soft feet. He’s not complaining. Tony had his crocs with, smart man. They fight to keep up, my brave boys.

We laugh when we get to the woods. But stop. The bramble is mean. Old blackberry branches like booby traps on the ground. Sasha whimpers. We move fast. Think, move, move. Not that way. “Mom, I see the path. No, it’s not.” Listen guys, the water stream. The trickle of water is close. We’re saved. No. It’s another stream that ends in a marshy grin full of old bramble teeth. They hurt our legs and feet. “Mom, what now?” What now? My mind is a revolving door swinging crazily fast throwing thoughts out but they hit the ground and die. We can’t walk through bramble. It’s thick, we’re wearing shorts and Sasha and I are barefoot. I pick him up, his pole gets in the way. It has a feather stuck at one end, an eagle feather. I tell Sasha to leave it behind, it gets in the way. He agrees but Tony offers to carry it. The boys make promises to each other, they tell each other good brotherly things. We’re stuck. I remember Tony’s socks and put them on Sasha’s scratched feet. My legs have bloody streaks on them, my feet are full of spikes but we keep going. We walk eastward and find a less tangly patch of forest. We make our way up towards the hill. We reach a crumbly wall of dirt. Roots stick out, we hang onto them. We scream with joy. Laugh loud, my cheeks hurt. Relieved. No matter where we end up, water can’t get us and brambles can’t build skin tents on our arms. We laugh our way up. I pull Sasha up and … we roll onto the most proper green gold field and a perfectly dressed gentleman ready to swing. He looks like a cutout from a magazine. We’re covered in mud, scratched and bloody here and there and barefoot. Tony holds the black pole but we lost the feather. Ha!

The tide came in, you see. We’re not sure where we are. The guy stares. Maybe this is part of the game? No, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t live in Vancouver. The grass is rich and soothing to our hurt feet. I never liked fields like this for environmental reasons but now, now I appreciate the hurtless surface. My feet kiss the grass. Smooth. I pick Sasha up and we walk to the four gentlemen who have never seen this before. They look so clean. I explain quickly. The tide, shoes are floating somewhere most likely, we want to get home. He tells us to follow the path and eventually we’ll reach the entrance to this posh members-only club. Right. We thank, they watch… Good thing I’m a writer, I tell them laughing as we head towards the path. Adrenaline rush over. We celebrate. Tony walks side by side. He turned 10 yesterday. Happy birthday indeed! He’s tall and determined. Sasha is on my back and that makes my feet sink deeper in the grass. Soft, cold. Tomorrow I shall go look for my sandals. I like my Keen sandals. But all that water, there’s no way… but it says on them waterproof. Cheeky, I know. Maybe I’ll find Sasha’s sandals and that bag of grapes too.

Half an hour later we’re all cleaned up and I am heading out for the play. It’s opening night.

Half A Cup Of Tea

By

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…

To Never Really Grow Up. Verb, Infinitive

By

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?

Salmonberry Shoots To Chew On. Happy Mother’s Day.

By

On May 14, 2012

The salmonberry bushes stain the woods bright green and the sun-soaked dirt path through the old growth trees is a most comforting sight. Mother’s Day is a majestic bittersweet day. Why, you ask? It’s a day of assessment, even though I say it isn’t. I always question my ability to parent my boys the right way. Be kind, be strong, be accepting, don’t lose it, be there. No pressure. Be there. I am. Am I? The boys leave their bikes at home. Walk, mom, no bikes. Sure thing, I love that. It’s late, it’s when baby bats come out and baby humans go to bed. Mine go to bat school tonight then, it is decided. Chatting, hopping, elf-chasing boys are a treat. We snap the soft crunchy tops of salmonberry bushes, peel them hastily and eat them. Watery and barely sweet, they are part of our new spring ritual. We’ve learn of them last year from a First Nations elder at the Musqueam reserve. We trudge through the woods and somehow I know that the boys hold the bouquet of those make-believe late afternoon adventures of mine. In my parents’ backyard, soft grass and green bushes. Back then…

Walk, peel, eat. Try the shoots before they get woody. Meager amounts but somehow plenty. Can I eat the dark skin, mom? I guess… Sasha spits the whole thing out. Laughter. Tangy with a hint of late afternoon forest is better left in the dirt. But how do you know which ones are good to eat? I make up rules that seem logical enough and that’s the kind of confidence that motherhood instills. Mom, a banana slug! The boys roll him to the side of the road. For safety reasons, they explain. Covered in grit and pine needles, the banana slug is saved from big feet and hungry mouths but truth is, its own species would not recognize the poor fellow. Heartfelt intentions, I know that much. Boys are clumsy and beautiful. Thoughtful. Hopping, running, wondering. Questions. Don’t ever stop.

Tony talks about creatures he imagines, stories that have yet to be written. The dark elves are near... Sasha perks up his ears and they both breathe in the dense fragrant forest air. Quiet. Bird songs drop to the ground like rain drops. The boys sudden laughter roll through the soft grasses of my soul. Every now and then Tony looks at me  like he’s seeing me for the first time: Happy Mother’s Day. Mother. I am. Happy. The woods are a shell of warmth and I feel closer to the boys than everywhere else.

A small bouquet of purple spring bells wrapped in a red tulip petal. Gift from Sasha on the way to the woods. I put in my pocket so we can hold hands. Later on I notice the purple bells dropped. Trailing behind like bread crumbs they must be. Hansel and Gretel, you know the story? That way I can always find my way back to the jumps and laughter my boys leave behind. How much will I miss their elf-chasing and ferret hopping? I will.

Running creeks, backswimmers and then the way out. It’s been almost two hours. They did it! Happy Mother’s Day! Dawdling, tiredness, whining. Not a shade of inadequacy. I asses myself often and sometimes I get the passing grade. Sometimes I fail. And fall. And get up again. Not today. The toughest thing, the most profound and beautiful transformation of self into a gentle dragon. And the other way around. Fire-breathing begone.

We eat, watch some Peter Pan, hug. Hug. Can I have one more? And one more? Clingy? We all are. My heart has two pairs of legs. Sometimes they kick the ground, sometimes they kick each other, sometimes they kick me and other times they downright dance. Motherhood means learning to walk and run and dance on all four legs. You’d think it’s a given. Sometimes it is, and then it’s not. Grateful, humbled. Happy Mother’s Day.

When “Curriculum” Sounds Scary

By

On March 17, 2012

I ceremoniously dedicated my blog to writing about writing and you’d have to believe that I meant it. And I will keep at it but such is life: Things happen and they take us off track for a bit. Intermittent is the word.  That is my disclaimer and I’ll ask to use it today and whenever the situation calls for it. Intermittent at writing and other things. Breaking out of the self-established blog boundaries for example, like I do now.
And here’s how I do it. It starts with my walking to the library. Aside from a book and some wicked movies for the boys, I picked up a magazine that contains one of my latest articles, always good to see that. I leaf through the magazine, almost bump into a parked car – you’d be less amused if you knew how often I do that because I read while walking, but that’s another story. On one of the pages an ad stops me in my tracks. Literally. It’s about a junior kindergarten institution, by now a network all over the Lower Mainland. Obviously a successful business. All good then. What stopped me and made me frown was the mentioning of an early learning program for infants and kids under 5. What’s wrong with that? Nothing, perhaps, but biased me gets her feathers ruffled. Biased because I don’t believe in preschools and I will tell you why. My boys are not preschool graduates. Tony was enrolled for a short time and when I could not escape the uneasy feeling inside anymore I pulled him out and he was happier that I could ever explain it in words. Sasha never made it close to a preschool.

Why ruffled feathers you ask? Because it gets me to see “early learning programs” and “”enriched curriculum” when it’s about kids 5 and younger. There’s a severe clash between the word “infant” and “curriculum” especially when the curriculum involves fine arts. No kidding. A special method is involved in teaching the kids. Special methods scare me. What’s wrong with letting children find their way through playing and asking questions when they feel like it? This particular program also “boasts” (don’t ask me if I resent the very word, I do) on-site chefs too. Not sure how to feel about chefs in kindergartens. Actually I do, I don’t think they should be there. I have yet to meet a child who expects chef-prepared meals. Or cares about that. Yet it is out there, it is popular enough to have become a network already and I suddenly feel alone in my refusal to give a program like this one more than my criticism. Who wants all of that, the superior education of infants and young children, chefs and fine arts and core subjects mixed into a concoction that is promised to go down young throats without any pain or resistance for that matter. Certainly not the kids themselves. I am sincerely scared of how we have lost touch with ourselves and we push children into doing the same. It’s playing they learn best with. They learn through playing more than we can possibly understand and definitely more than it can be fit into a “core subject curriculum”. I can’t even say that whole thing with a straight face because there are too many consonants and it hurts the inside of my mouth almost.

What if we let kids play, just play, no restrictions. I don’t mean dedicated playdate time (sometimes with kids they don’t even want to play with but have to because the moms get along or who knows what other reasons)   or set time for playing (here’s half-hour before your piano lessons), but simply “get out of bed in the morning and play until you can play no more or you’re too hungry” kind of play.

It gets me, I admit it. What are we teaching children through something like this? That life is a rat race and you’d better get ready to race because every day of mindless playing is a lost day? How can be possibly hope to raise free thinkers with inquisitive minds if we don’t allow for discovering the world at their own pace based on what makes them vibrate with curiosity and excitement? Why would a young child care about fine arts more than he would about playing in the mud no time restrictions whatsoever. Yes, I argue that wallowing in muck, among other things, is a great learning experience and if it so happens that the only chef on-site is the child handing you a muddy leaf speared by a mucky stick saying “Here Mom, I caught a piranha and cooked it for you” then there’s no finer dining or educational setting that that.

What are we afraid of? Kids not learning their colors and numbers by the time they’re potty trained? Who cares? Not learning to read by the time they’re six? Who came up with that and why? Kids learn because they’re curious, just like we do too. Or we should anyway. They resist learning when we impose it in a way that makes them feel inadequate and incapable. The ones that get it right away are the lucky ones. They might get stuck with other things but at least they know their colors and letters. Does that make them better prepared for what’s ahead? If we’re talking only academics then maybe, but maybe not. If they learn letters and numbers because they love it and it comes naturally to them then they will be just as well prepared for what’s ahead as the child who’s figured out how cars move before being able to read it in a book.

Being academically educated is one thing. Being resourceful, creative, curious, passionate, resilient and able to expand both mind and heart as they go through life, always ready for a challenge. That’s what I want for my boys and for all kids for that matter. Not sure where “educated” comes in but I am sure that if it’s all by itself it resembles a lonely tree in the middle of a barren land. Any wind, not even the strongest, can easily uproot it. And then what? I don’t know, do you? Well, yes, I am biased, I admit it, so please feel free to challenge me and I will do my best to oblige. No gauntlet will remain on the ground. I am after all, throwing mine and I should expect nothing less from you.

Page 6 of 6

Previous

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén