Noah, Montreal, and music
Noah’s in some kind of hyper developmental phase that knocks my socks off. No one ever told me having a child was going to be this good. And it’s not about the mind, although that does excite me, I admit it. It’s just about the enthusiasm.
We went to Montreal for the weekend. I know I used to write about these things in advance but lately this is how it goes. It was a combination of a Via (train) sale, corporate rates at the Fairmount Queen Elizabeth, and my recent PR-fed travel bug that made me book a random self-created long weekend in October, and Carl actually managed to clear his schedule, and we actually went. The train is soooo easy from my house: get on at the station 5 minutes away. Given that the QE is above the Montreal train station, getting off and checked in and settled involved a 2 minute stroll and a couple of elevators. It was super easy-peasy.
Noah loved every minute of it. He even got brave enough to try a little french (Merci, S’il vous plait, Je m’appelle Noah-et-toi?) and we swam in the hotel pool and messed about in the underground shopping (oh god, the shopping). The weather sucked so we did less exploration than planned and more relaxation and that was just fine. And we ate a ton of good food. And we got amazingly cool made in France art stuff.
This is what I love about Montreal: you stay over the train station and when you want to eat but you don’t want to be bothered patrolling your child at a restaurant, you go down to said train station and there is not one but about three full-on deli counters with fabulous bocconcini, roasted vegetable, prosciutto, or brie and tomato sandwiches -plus- a full-serve patisserie with not only eclairs and pain au chocolat, but terrines like… rabbit terrines. And duck confit for your potato pie. I am so not kidding. And this is the train station, mon dieu. So you haul that back up, with a bottle of wine, to your room via the elevator and then you admire your view up to the mountain while you eat, my god, fresh bocconcini with your wine while your child watches Teletoon… in french, so you can pretend it’s educational even.
And then you go down to the hotel pool and swim in the salt water and sit in the whirlpool and trade off sitting in the warm wading pool with Noah.
It was glorious. We all cried when we had to come home. Even Mr. Bada, who came along but “doesn’t like french.” He does, however, like croissants avec jambon et fromage. And Noah was great on both 5-hr train rides.
So developmental leaps: Noah was really tired out today and after dinner I let him have a popscicle (homemade smoothie sort, if anyone is keeping score) in front of a video (Metal Monsters from the library, which is scenes of… yup… a junkyard with cars getting crushed). Noah eventually got bored of the crushing and was exploring the big bookshelves when he pulled out a few books and shrieked: These are music books!
(Consider this a tone like: Why didn’t you tell me we won the lottery 2 years ago!)
So I said yes and we sat down and looked at one and Noah pointed out the treble clef and the bass clef and that when the notes go up you sing the higher pitches and when they go down you sing the lower pitches.
Oh yeah. I’d forgotten that we signed him up for music lessons at Montessori, which I had assumed would be like… singing Old MacDonald. But no. Noah recognizes middle C in both treble and bass clefs. Who knew? I did not.
And that, smarmy mother story though it is, is how it goes these days. You’re sitting there minding your own business when suddenly there’s a shriek like “THIS PAPER SAYS BOG!” (well actually it says dog, but you know, reversals aside that’s pretty good) or you get a random fact like “Mummy, did you know bats sleep upside down?”
Of course there are also the moments like “C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me… P IS FOR PENIS, THAT’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME.”
(Errrrr… good for you? Stop saying Penis? Cookie Monster doesn’t have one? How does one respond? Well if one is me, one hides in the bathroom laughing.)
We are having some power plays; he’s four. But also incredible moments of sheer generosity. Like having two gummies left and offering one each to Carl and I.
~~
One sad moment though: Noah came home upset because of a “new game” at school that his teachers banned. It turns out it’s that Chinese burn (I know, I know) game where you twist someone’s arm until it… burns. This makes me sad. The Lord of the Flies age approaches.
~~
I still haven’t decided how I feel about the slow revelation of minor bits of people in the system to Noah through play, but my instinct says it’s okay where it was at. It hasn’t come up much since, and Mr. Bada decided to go as a boy fairy. It will be interesting to see if he gets any candy.
Mr. Bada
We have a new member of the family, Mr. Bada. I have come to think of him as a relic of some Edwardian house guest era; he arrives for long stays and makes demands on the servants (that would be me) from the privileged position of his class and station.
Which would be imaginary companion to my son.
And like others in his position he mostly seems to exist to confound the rest of us. No sooner does one attempt to sit than one is informed that Mr. Bada is sitting in that place. Mr. Bada does not like corn on the cob, but Noah gamely devours his share. Mr. Bada also is solely responsible for any spills or knocked over towers.
The strange thing is that Mr. Bada seems to have carved out the way for some other rather sideways conversations I’m not sure I’m comfortable with. For example, Noah is planning to trick or treat as Superman. Mr. Bada, however, is going to be a “fairy, like Tinkerbell.”
Which led to a suppertime discussion about how Tinkerbell is an okay fairy (and having watched Tinkerbell the movie, I have to say it’s not… horrid, like Wonderpets, another library DVD I wish would vanish itself. However if the term “flittericious” takes hold I may have to revise my opinion.) but a better fairy name would be… Lyria. Lin. (Laroux, adds Carl, which is a joke between him and Lyr, and always produces… giggling. I don’t get it, but it’s not my joke.)
Someday, I trust, Mr. Bada will set out for the colonies. But Lyria won’t. So hmmm.
Preserving the self
One of things my abuse experience did to me was put me at odds with the world. I always have to have a plan b, and preferably a plan c and d… and maybe e.
One of the ways this has played out in my life has been my relationship to food. First, I grew up in the 70s and 80s, which meant (in my family) alternating years between eating McDonalds and TV dinners (feminist no-cook household) and carob and toasted chickpeas (hippie household) and having my mum always on some diet, often involving the “cottage cheese platter.” There was also the time that somewhere in the financial dance among my parents we ate white rice, plain, 3 meals a day, for 3 weeks. At least I remember it as 3 weeks.
So I have a very love-hate dysfunctional relationship with food anyway, in terms not only of eating, but also of foraging. Most years I manage to just have about a 2-3 month store of food but some years the pantries groan and bulge. You don’t have to be a fiction writer to get the symbolism here about nourishment, poverty of spirit, lack of trust, and so on.
I think generally I’ve turned this - food thing - into a positive, overall. I budget and meal plan pretty well. I’m also into food as a kind of hobby: I’m not a gourmet chef or anything but I improve every year, and I also try to take the time to learn how to cook for our family in a way that generally improves our relationship to our bodies and our community rather than takes away from it. (This includes the occasional hot dog too, I must say, esp. if it is at a fundraiser.)
With all the recessionary talk and peak oil and the 100 Mile Diet and the Omnivore’s Dilemma, though, I’ve got a new wrinkle to it. This year I’ve been struggling for the first time with a wicked embarrassment of riches from our CSA share. Harvest time means the food gets picked and you have a shitload of it! Who knew!!?
I need to get a big freezer but I haven’t, in part because I know it will be full pretty quick - not to Hoarders levels, but a not-that-distant cousin.
However, I’ve also been convinced that any attempt to preserve this lush, local bounty of the earth will result in certain death from botulism. And no, I’m not talking about low-acid preservation, just jams and jellies and pickles. I bought jars and grippers and a lid magnet, all with good intentions, but for the most part what hasn’t been eaten or been given away has been turned into compost.
However then entered the beets. 10 lbs of them. In case you hadn’t heard, beets are really, really good for you. (Yes, it’s a suspicious source, but read the link anyway!) And I love pickled beets.
So today I took the plunge and pickled and canned 5 lbs of them. I still don’t know if, 4 months down the road, I will have the cojones to actually trust them and eat them. They may simply become a part of the embarrassment that is my pantry at the moment.
Today is also Thanksgiving, which we are celebrating with a prime rib roast due to a miscommunication about free range turkeys, roast brussel sprouts, a mixture of roast sweet and fingerling potatoes (with a bit of diced onion), and - pickled beets. And pumpkin pie.
May abundance come your way!