Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Tag: motherhood Page 3 of 4

Heart Strings And Daisies

By

On November 14, 2013

In Life Stories, Motherhood

This morning has been no better or worse than others. In fact, slightly worse because an overnight rain soaked my shoes, which I had forgotten on the porch, yet again. First world problems as I call them.

The boys are cheery and gabby and we manage to leave the house on time with no altercations and no delays that make us run and jump over sidewalks like a group of sun-scared bats on the way to the first deep dark cave (no negative reference to school or maybe just a small one?…)

So we walk. There’s chatter and silliness and loud “No, no, I’ll say it. Mom, listen to this…” and some of last night’s toilet jokes on replay. Some are that good, according to 11-year-olds and under.

Hold hands, small hugging palms hiding in mine and if I hold stronger than I should is because I know the jumpy nature of such holds. They go poof before you realize it. So hold on while they last.

A sparrow hops from between some cigarette butts on one side of a chicken-wire fence to wet sand on the other. She’s round and fluffy and the hopping is exquisite. Elegant and light and we’re spellbound.

Toilet jokes are forgotten. We stare. She stares back. Hops. Stares. A hand squeeze but this time it is not me. It’s the small hand making me heed the bird and its exquisite tiny feet. “Mom, isn’t she cute?”

I am struck again by how we attach ourselves to memories of no particular day or place. Muck, sand, a brownish bird and five more minutes until school starts. All wrapped up in a forgetfulness-proof mental package that will never be stamped with the awkward “when was that again?”

The day rolls into a big fat cinnamon-tinted cocoon of a sunset with a glued-on ghost-white moon and when night comes I know of the one thing I learned about today. “No special day” memories, or no-planning-to-acquire-memories-but-did-it-anyway kind of day.

Heart stringsAnd I know of two things that will never leave my prized possessions box (not that I have one, but I will think of one) and those are: a string of no particular glamour that Sasha has loved and played with since the dollopy days of toddlerhood and he still holds dear, and a pressed little daisy which Tony gave me one day at a park that has long disappeared off the Vancouver map. It was drizzly and cold and ten years ago and a late daisy made it from his tiny fingers into my heart and journal. Just like today, we were half-way into winter, which is why heart strings feel warmer than ever.

DaisyToday I learned that heart strings are not negotiable. They just are. They appear out of nowhere and they will stick forever. It takes one to learn to spot one when it happens.

Heart strings are never planned for, so don’t start trying. That’s the magic of it all. They happen with no warning and often you realize what happened way after they’re gone. But they’ll be there when you least expect it. Magic.

Stop, Drop, Roll. Repeat.

By

On October 18, 2013

In Life Stories

Sun splashedWe’re walking home from school. A day of “Mom, you know what happened today?” and everything is so important. They both want to talk. Simultaneously. Their words bubble like cute little mud volcanoes.
“Hey I was talking!”

“Mine is shorter to say! Mom, you know…”

Who was first? The forever conundrum.

Interrupted, again, little guy puffs and walks ahead. Whatever. You can’t win all of them. Big brother is excited. A new program at school involving babies. To elicit empathy… “but Mom, it seemed like we were observing an animal, that’s not right. It’s not good for the baby.”

Empathy springs from other existential corners, we both agree. My boys are learning life. Are they learning the right things? I teach them to question things, to think for themselves, how else will they know how to choose the right path? But right and wrong are not set in stone, I tell them. Think, don’t betray common sense,

BiteCommon sense. “We have that, Mom, don’t we?” Yes, heaps of it, sweet boys, except for the times when you’re so wild and chopping down all the wisdom, patience trees I’ve been planting since you came into my world. But those times, they are my trials, my getting lost as a mom and finding myself again. Better? Who knows. Willing, always. Yours truly.

I remember my boys as babies. Peeking at the world from their slings, infinite cuddles, nursing like koala bears and holding onto my shirts with tiny pudgy hands. Loving the night snuggles, quiet breathing and twitching of eyelids. The mystery of baby dreams… what do they see? 

The afternoon light is made of caramel and fine dust, and I coax them outside. They need no coaxing.

“Wanna play cowboys?” Tony’s favorite game these days.

Rolled...Leather holster, vests, cap guns that puff smoke and make clackety noises, hats that tilt backwards… “Mom can we get the Chilly hats?” It’s Tilley, I want to say, but I know better than to correct Sasha. He still speaks words that seem to have come from his baby dreams, a world that’s sweet and round like the fists that were holding on to the my shirt,

They drop, roll, yelp, climb and I succumb to being there.

Piled dishes can wait, wilted flowers can wilt no more until they are taken out, crumbs from breakfast that stick to socks, they can wait… this time will never come back.

Today this, tomorrow that, from one day to the next, we celebrate growth; I push them out of the nest gently “Come on, you can…” but then I pull them back in. Stay, wings need to grow.

I want to be with them when October afternoon sun bends over them in soft caramel arches, I want to see their sweaty faces and worry about them dropping too hard to the ground… “We’re boys, Mom…” Smile, laugh, I stand to catch bits of it and just like dandelion fluff, laughter scatters everywhere… To grow further, to become. Bright, golden. Stay, grow. Nothing stays the same.

“Mom, I want the holster now!”

“No! I didn’t have it enough. No!”

“Moom! He is not sharing!”

Wait, what? I lost track. Who has what? Does it matter? Sweetness whimpers, departs like a wounded animal. No, come back. It does. This time. Every time I fear that it won’t. It always does. What drama queen.

'Lion headIt’s true. Motherhood makes you dramatic, you have to know colors, be fair and remember how to catch smiles; you have to be there, soul done or undone but who cares. You have to teach little people how to take turns, to share… But you yourself never want to share them, the (dande)lion heads. You want the crowns, the fluff, the escaping fluff and the air around them. Shhh, don’t say it out loud. How wicked and childish, people will say. How aware of preciousness and its infuriating fleeting nature, you say. You know.

“That was a good game, Mom. Can you bake cookies tonight?”

The Robin. Today

By

On February 14, 2013

We were sitting on the porch. The boys and I. It was sunny, we were eating some hash browns that I made in my greatly appreciated cast iron pan and we were chatting. About the awkward dancing that happened at school today on Valentine’s Day and about the guinea pigs. They were out on the lawn too, they usually are on sunny days.

The potatoes were golden yellow and the sun was a perfect match.

Then I saw it: the robin. It startled me to see it and it sent a warm tingle down my spine. I got awfully soft in the knees. I told the boys to take a look.

“Do you know what I think that robin’s doing there? Saying happy birthday.”

Just like that, you’d say? No, not just like that.

You see, when my mom passed away almost seven years ago, I had this robin come into my front yard every day. So frazzled soul that I was then, I decided that the robin was some extension of my mom. Crazy you say? So be it. It meant so much to see the robin there.

The robin meant the continuation of what was taken away from me so brutally and so suddenly. It was a bit of a buoy. I had the boys but who would put such a burden on beautiful little bubbling souls like theirs?

The robin was something I needed.

The robin came in the front yard of that house. And then in the back yard of the next house we lived in, it used to play on sunshine fiddles in this big leafy magnolia tree. Then when we moved again, it appeared again; back yard.

Then we moved here. Today was the first day I saw a robin. It came to wish me the happy birthday my mom would’ve wished me. Instead, the robin came.

A continuation of what was taken from me almost seven years ago brutally and suddenly. I am childish that way you see. I will never fully come to terms with it. But so what. I don’t have to.

I think the robin will keep showing up from time to time. Now the boys know about it too. Sasha is trying to pick an animal that will make him think of me after I am gone. It’s not morbid. It’s sweet and it’s his way of saying he understands.

Tony smiled when I told them how I’ve come to look at the robin that way. There was a question there too, that he sometimes asks but not today. Today he smiled, we all did, and the sun wrapped all three of us in warm golden light.

I took photos of the robin but I am not sure I need them. I actually don’t.

A happy birthday it is.

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…

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.

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.

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