Daycare dilemma

I am finally starting to look into daycares for my son. That is, I am starting to get serious about it. He is already on the waiting list for over 30 daycares, I have visited several and have fervently prayed for others. But these actions remained in the abstract until now.

Recently, I visited a daycare that a) has space, b) is available now, c) is around the corner, d) is subsidized and therefore quite affordable, and e) is ready to accept my son part-time. Then why am I frozen? Why am I not jumping at the chance to put my son in this daycare? Why did I not fall asleep until after midnight last night, tossing and turning in my ambivalence?

The daycare in question is a home daycare, run by a woman who seemed pleasant enough. None of the children were smiling though they were playing quietly by themselves. When my son went to carry a table across the room, the lady took it away from him. She was open to vegetarian options but in the same breath mentioned fish and rice krispie squares. She showed me the little blue mats that are used for nap time and I suddenly had a vision of my son being put to sleep on the mat on the floor, completely out of context to the world he knows. And I thought, well, he'll get used to it. But it suddenly seemed so scary and sad.

My son has been going to daycare two mornings a week and strangely, none of the fears that assailed me at the new daycare ever came up at the morning one. A day is much longer than a morning, a friend reminded me. It is, but why am I reacting so strongly? Is it the idea of naps in foreign, new places? Lunches prepared and served by someone else? Or was it the environment that I intuitively felt as unhappy, controlled and unloving?

I have been rationalizing the experience to myself. Maybe I am overprotective. Too controlling. Maybe I am not ready to let go of my son. But I don't think this is true. What I want for him is to be happy, to be valued and be cared for. I didn't feel it there.

I will give it a second chance. First impressions, especially mine, are usually wrong.

What a minefield.

And now I can finish 'La strategie des antilopes'

I have finally finished Julia Alvarez's In the Time of the Butterflies (1994) and have but one word for you: mehhhhh.

Boys, boys, boys

I am currently reading It's a Boy: Women Writers on Raising Sons (ed. Andrea J. Buchanan, 2005). It is making me think about being the mother to a son.

The first essays are about the shock and disappointment that the writers felt when they found out they were having a boy. The moment of truth comes for most at their ultrasound when the foetal penis makes an appearance. The women explore their expectations, their family histories and their hopes all in a desire to understand why they wanted girls and not boys.

I, on the other hand, wanted a boy. I even wanted several boys. If I were to fall pregnant again, I would not be disappointed with another willy in the family. When I was in my early twenties and dreaming of having a family, I always saw myself with sons. Long before I was pregnant, my mother predicted a son. All to make perfectly clear that boys have been on the menu for a long time.

But why?

I have been thinking about this as I read It's a Boy because it seems at odds with the prevailing sentiment. I look at my own life and think that I can explain the reasons why.

Boys are a foreign world to me. I never played with legos or blocks or trucks. I didn't have a wooden sword or toy soldiers or a train set. I had dolls and dresses and plastic high heels. The boys I knew as a child were boisterous and loud and full of agressive energy. They confused and fascinated me but I never understood them. Then I grew up. Men continue to fascinate and confuse me and I still don't understand them.

Now I get to buy my son train sets and small cars. I watch him run and jump and explore. By having a son I feel as if I have been given the opportunity to travel in an exotic and wonderful foreign country. My son is my passport and my guide. I feel so very fortunate.

Turning tides

I have gone to the dark side.

The day started off normally enough. My son and I took our daily ramble through the park in the sunshine. He climbed up and down hills and commented on his dirty hands. I tried to interest him in the squaking seagulls to no avail. Then it happened. As we were making our final round through the park, I noticed two teenage boys on the roof of a park building. They were enthusiastically kicking what looked to be part of the chimney. When they saw me staring, they waved. I waved back but continued to stare, hoping my act of witness would get them on their way. They waved some more and pretended to not be interested in kicking apart the roof-structure. They started up again once I turned my back.

I walked away. But I walked away mad. My thoughts were along the lines of: "those destructive little fu#$%ers!" And then I did something I have never done in my whole entire life. I walked into the local community centre, and called the police. I CALLED THE POLICE.

Maybe it was because they waved. Maybe it was because they looked so bored and middle class. Maybe it was because I hate to see destruction for destruction's sake. Maybe it is because I am a parent now and have a new sense of community responsibility. I am not exactly sure but I am surprised at myself.

So, perhaps my warning should read: Beware neighbours, I've got 9-1-1 on speed-dial!

You are not welcome here

I am new to my neighbourhood so I am still in the process of finding and negotiating a space for myself within the community. It is a challenge. This is an inner-city, multi-cultural neighbourhood. There is a large, mostly elderly Greek population and a newer, younger South Asian population. There are large apartment blocks piled on top of crowded Indian groceries, next to Greek bakeries. It is crowded, colourful and sometimes dirty. It is known in the wider city to be poor and violent.

When I first arrived, I did the rounds of community organizations that offered services for young children. The reception I received was chilly at best. I am not visibly ethnic and was therefore not considered to be the target population. In the end, I found children's activities outside my neighbourhood, where budgets are not so linked to ethnic identity and presumed socio-economic status. But it left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Yesterday, I went for the first meeting of the collective garden I was rather keen to join. Upon arrival at the large, multi-use community centre, I saw that the room next to the one I was looking for was open. I poked my head in and asked "jardin?" When answered in the affirmative, I entered and took my place next to several elderly Greek gentlemen who continued to chat and banter among themselves. "Hmm, not so friendly" I said to myself. "Maybe it's a language thing." After a few more minutes, another man arrived, hailed as 'boss' by the group slowly gathering. He looked over at me and then rudely asked me for my documents. What documents? I wrote my name on a pad of paper he provided ("Capitals!" he insisted) and patiently waited for the meeting to start. 'Boss' then returned and told me that I could be on my way as this was a private meeting, thank you very much. I was confused. I had not felt so pointedly unwelcome in quite some time.

In the end, it was the wrong garden. The elderly Greeks were meeting to discuss the community gardens, the hotly contested and possessively guarded plots to the north of the school, I was joining the collective gardens, the small, shared plot at the front of the library. I was in the wrong room.

The collective garden meeting was friendly and relaxed. Members were from various backgrounds, visible and not-so visible minorities and majorities. Everyone's voice was welcome and there was space for each to have their say. We are even going to try planting potatoes and artichokes this year on my suggestion.

Sometimes, it takes a while to find one's place in a new community, to negotiate the prejudices and assumptions of appearances, and the minefield of limited ressources.

Street walker

On Wednesday evening, there were two related segments on As It Happens (CBC Radio 1's evening current event show) that were of particular interest. The first, was an interview with a woman from small-town Mississippi who recently had a run-in with the law. The reason? She had let her 10-year-old boy walk to baseball practice.* The walk was along a residential street, in daylight hours, and was about a kilometer long. The woman, whose name I forget, was given a warning by police after they had been called by concerned neighbours. The companion piece was an interview with a scientist in the UK who had studied several generations of a single rural family to see whether 'freedom to roam' effected their sense of direction. While 'grandpa' had been allowed to roam far and wide as long as he was home by supper, by the time we reach the present generation, the 'grandchild' is not even allowed to cross the street. The scientist, again, my memory for names is rather limited, had drawn a link between a child's ability to discover their natural environment and their sense of direction as an adult. It turns out, grandpa had an excellent sense of direction yet this skill has weakened with each subsequent generation.

I have a good sense of direction. It is one of the only aspects of myself that I am unabashedly proud of. I believe it has helped me to be at home in various places in the world. I am at ease because I know, in a sense, where I am.

I was also given the freedom to roam as a child. I remember the first time I crossed a street by myself: my mother stood on the balcony, in a brown poncho, encouraging me, 'no cars, no cars', she cried as I took my hesitant first steps onto the street. I was so proud of myself. I was maybe five. By ten, I was taking city buses with friends to go to school. The rest, as they say, is history.

So put 9-1-1 into your speed dial, neighbours. My boy is going to be out on these city streets. I hope that one day, he too, will have a good sense of direction.


*I once read that good writing requires no exclamation marks but boy-oh-boy, I would use one here.

Howling at the moon

There is a stranger living in my house. He arrived without warning and unceremoniously kicked out my lovely baby boy.

This new guy is moody. One minute he is laughing and enjoying life and the next he is angry and overwhelmed. He throws toys around the house, usually in frustration but sometimes in glee. He cries at the word 'no' yet says it himself often. He throws himself on the ground in fury one minute and then the next acts as if he will die if he doesn't get a cuddle that second. And sometimes he is a perfect little angel, smiling and laughing, talking and sharing. He keeps me off-guard.

To wit: his love of markers has become obsessive. A ballpen on a table becomes the Holy Grail to his own Indiana Jones. He must have it at all costs. Height, wobbly chairs, and a glaring mother are all mere obstacles in his quest. Once he has his pen, the walls, floor and cupboards all become victim to his furious scribbling. The removal of said pen can lead to seismic, earth shaking, the cave collapses, the large rolling stone crushes all, and Indiana barely makes it out alive.

I expect that soon he will be howling at the moon and eating small rodents.

The terrible twos have come early to our house.

Seeing the city differently

Once my son started walking I started spending a lot of time in parks. I became acquainted with the enormous poplars, the shady lindens, the preening catalpas. I learnt to observe the sky, to watch the clouds scuttle across high blue, to know the signs of rain. With the changing of seasons, I learnt which trees shed their leaves first, which last, and which went out in a blaze of glory. I learnt that dead ginko leaves, despite being a radiant yellow, smell rotten.

I know when the ducks fly south and when the swings are taken in for the winter. I know where the squirrels and petancle players hang out. In fact, I know which parks have animal life and which ones are barren and quiet except for the overhead drone of distant planes.

I have learnt, sometimes the hard way, which sidewalks are clean and which are covered in old garbage, soiled diapers and glass. I know that where there are seagulls there is also soggy bread and bird poop.

Today, my son reminded me that climbing on bleachers is a joyous past-time. He also discoverd the primeval pleasure of crushing ice puddles. He stepped, gingerly at first, on the ice crusts and then stomped gleefully at the crunching of ice below his feet. When he got tired, I pushed him in the stroller and made special detours towards the ice. I, too, wanted the thrill of destroyed ice plates under my boots.

The end of the affair

The city is looking dirty and shabby. This is Montreal the morning after, unshaven, bleary-eyed, make-up askew, wearing the same underwear as last night. The heady affair with Winter is drawing to a close. No more ski weekends, no more shaken snowglobe photo ops, no more pride at surviving in -25 weather. The yearly honeymoon is over. All that is left is cigarette butts, dog shit, and mushy cardboard boxes. And very dirty cars.

Time to take a shower, dear city. I feel grubby just walking your streets.

Shake your hair, Montreal. Dust off your coat. Your new love is coming soon. Forget Winter, he was getting to be a bore. Time to move on. Let's get green and wet. Show me some colour and light. If you are going to get Summer to stay awhile, you're going to need to make a bit of an effort. She's a fickle lady, that Summer. Last year, she barely made an appearance, begging off on some pretext of being super busy in Florida and Spain. I know that hurt but remember the feel of her when she stays two, three months? Warm air up your skirt. Sun on your parched sidewalks. She's worth it, you know she is.

Oh, and Montreal? Please let Winter go. I don't want to see him around here for at least another nine months. Il est trop lourd!

Why I love public libraries

Oh public library, how I love thee.

I love the young, gangly teenagers who always hog the internet computers. I love the Sikh men at long tables, their laptops glowing and sometimes singing. I love the retired folks who doze in the sun near the newspapers. I love the students, huddled in their cubicles, at the back of the stacks. I love the children, coats askew, pushing and shoving at the check-out counter. I love the homeless man, large backpack at his feet, reading about dream analysis on a cold day. I love the librarians, especially the one from Rwanda who says 'nonante' for 'quatre-vingt-dix' and the other one who told me the movie I was taking out was a 'turnip'.

I love the displays of French poetry, romance novels, guides to writing, or Quebec winters, all tantalizingly exposed for the picking. I love the community newspapers, haphazardly stacked on little metal stands at the entrance, only some of which are in English or French. I love the free bookmarks advertising booksales for 1$ or less.

I love the stacks. I love the feeling of holding a piece of paper with a seemingly random jumble of numbers and letters that guides me to the book I want. I love the briskness in which I type a search into the computer monitor. I love finding a book in the 'New Arrivals' section that has been the talk of the town.

I love finding a DVD that wasn't there the last time or ordering a book that is at a library across town. I especially love the automated phone call telling me my requested book is waiting for me.

I love how the library is for everyone. Everyone is included and everyone belongs. I love how I have read many hundreds of pages of fiction, essays, graphic novel, and how-to books and haven't paid a cent.

Musings on celebrity crush- Jian Ghomeshi

Dear Jian,

Several weeks ago you were to come to Montreal to interview Azar Nafisi, author of Reading Lolita in Tehran (2003) and most recently, Things I've Been Silent About: Memories (2008). You didn't come, though. You were fogged-in at the airport. That's ok, because I couldn't come either. The free babysitter doesn't work on Wednesdays.

I have a crush on you, Jian. And I am not alone.

Is it because you are the perfect guest? You only come when I ask you to and stay only as long as I like. You don't require tea or biscuits. You don't comment on the dust or the dishes or the state of my hair. You come in, you are charming. You tell me interesting tales and interview various people who I wouldn't have heard of if you hadn't found them. You laugh and include me in your irony, your mis-steps, your asides. I am cared for. Yet I am free and invisible.

Maybe it is your voice. You have a nice voice, Jian. Is a nice voice a good basis for a life together? It might be.

Ah, the joys of the CBC Radio crush.

A beginning- or why I want to read all Jean Hatzfeld's work

I have just finished Machete Season (Saison de machettes, 2003) by Jean Hatzfeld and I need to talk about it. It is an amazing and disturbing piece of writing. The second in a trilogy about the 1994 Rwandan Genocide, Machete is essentially a series of interviews with a group of perpetrators who all come from the same small region of Rwanda. The interviews take place in a prison where the men are being held for perpetrating genocide.

After interviewing the survivors from the area of Nyamata and writing a book about it (Dans le nue de la vie, 2000), Hatzfeld finds himself drawn to the perpetrators to try to understand how they lived the experience of systematically hunting and killing their neighbours everyday for over a month.

The answer is not pretty. The killers, who are at times grotesquely honest, show little insight into their actions. They are egotistical, self-centred and show no remorse, regret or sadness for the lives they have taken. They don't have nightmares. They are not mentally unstable. They are a group of men, sitting in prison, feeling bad for themselves, unwilling to explore within themselves the reality of the horror they have perpetrated. Disturbing stuff. I feel that in reading Machete, I have looked right into the darkest corners of the human soul. And what is most disturbing is how banal and normal killing can become.

I have been staring at people on the bus. We are all potential killers. I am feeling protective of my son.

I have started to read the third in the trilogy, La strategie des antilopes (2007, I don't think it has been translated into English yet), which is about life on the small hill community of Nyamata after the perpetrators are released from prison. The survivors and perpetrators are neighbours. This makes me want to scream yet I can't put it down.

Now, I want to read Eichmann in Jerusalem (Hannah Arendt, 1963) and Hatzfeld's earlier work on the war in Bosnia, L'Air de la guerre (1994).

I can't seem to get enough of this stuff. Why?