Blowing in the wind

Being the mother of a boy and being an only child of a single mother, there are certain things about boyness of which I am uncertain. Primarily, little boys and their willies.

While potty training is almost complete, a new challenge has come upon us, one which I have watched other mothers preform in parking lots and in parks, with admiration and wonder: peeing outside. Whereas up until yesterday, if my son needed to pee when we were outdoors, he would invariably let loose, soaking his pants and underwear. Perhaps having done this several times in sub-zero temperatures he realized that walking around with freezing pee sticking to your bum and legs isn't the way to go. Today, while taking our post-nap stroll, he stopped, looked around, somewhat furtively, and said 'toilet.' I stopped walking and asked him, 'do you need to pee?' He looked around some more, at the buildings, the sidewalk, the parked cars and told me, yes, he needed to pee. We walked around the corner, into the alley. I pulled down his pants purposefully and held his little pickle (gherkin probably the more appropriate euphemism). He said, 'it's cold,' and looked around some more. 'We're outside,' he said. 'C'mon,' I said. He let out a little trickle. It splashed down the front of his pants. 'Is that it?' I asked. 'No', he said. Then he peed. I aimed at the wall. Pee splashed on the wall, his boots, and my hand. Some dribbled on his pants but not much.

'D- peed outside,' my son said proudly. I wiped my fingers on my mittens and pulled up his pants. When we got home, I sent an email to friends who are mothers of more than one boy. Is there a way to do this without getting full of pee, I asked them.

I feel like I have become a full member to the mother of boys club.

Rock and roll.

Maybe one day my son will join the ranks of the likes of Mark Wahlberg (see above), peeing publicly at all hours of the day. I can only hope.

Soundtrack

Different times of my life are associated with certain songs. If I hear Counting Crows, I am immediately brought back to the final years of high school: first love, the taste of adult just over the horizon, my boyfriend's ripped jeans that I wore obsessively, drinking hard liquor mixed with sweet sweet drinks, the moodiness and angst, "And I don't understand why I sleep all day and I start to complain that there's no raiiiiin.'

Then, a few years later, I lived in Africa. Certain songs from that time and place bring me right back to the dust and the poverty and the laughter. Kofi Olomide. Black-so-man. 'Birima' by Youssou N'Dour. I hear those musicians and I am sitting in a roadside bar, it is late and the heat has abated, grilled tilapia makes my mouth water, the wide lights under which students study late into the night, the ragged gangs of homeless children, their clothes uniformly brown, wait in the shadows for any food that may be left over.

Recently the soundtrack that accompanies my ramblings has changed. I listen to a lot more children's music now than ever before. Also, to calm myself from living with a crazy two and half year old, I listen to a lot of classical music. Well, relatively a lot. Recently, I spent an evening cleaning the leaves of a plant after trying to deal with an unending tantrum. I didn't even listen to any music.

What will the soundtrack of this time be? Will it be The Wiggles' saccharine version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star? Will it be the Pirate Song, a sing-a-long book that my son loves to listen to over and over and over? Or will it be The Beatles 'Hello Goodbye' which my son sings quite well and seems to represent exactly his stage of development: 'You say yes, I say no. You say stop and I say go go go.'

Spicy!

Living in the neighborhood means we eat a lot of South Asian food. Thalis, rice drenched in oil and chilies, samosas, pakoras, wadoos. All delicious and all dangerously spicy. My son loves these spicy dishes. He jumps with excitement when the neighbor brings a plate of rice just for him. "Aunty brings rice! Aunty brings rice!" he cries. Sometimes, impatient, he bangs on her door and demands chapatis. When she gives him just chapatis, he looks confused and asks, "Where's the sauce?" And by sauce, we all know I mean some firey concoction of a million spices and chilis.

Because he learned so early the joys and pain of curry, he has made a strange association with the word spicy. "Careful", I warn him as he is about to dive into a plate of steaming pakoras, "it's spicy." Forewarned, he proceeds with caution, taking small bites and keeping a glass of water on hand. "Spicy," he says, gulping down milk to dampen the curry fire on his tongue. "Spicy," he says, showing me the red scrape on his hands from a fall in the snow. "Spicy," he says, when told it's time for bed when he'd rather play with his puzzles. "Spicy," he says, when the path is icy and he knows he must be careful.

Spicy, indeed.