Fear

Despite my recent assertions to the contrary, had you been in the parking lot of my local supermarket last night you would most certainly have wondered if I were a bad mother.

You would most certainly have been shocked at the sight of me, right down in my child's face, screaming at him at the top of my lungs. You would most certainly have wondered why I continued to rant and rave long after the wee thing ducked his head away from me and long after tears started to flow down his ruddy cheeks.

You might not have realized that I was more frightened than I have ever been in my life.

Graham and I had stopped off at the supermarket on the way home to pick up the steaks for the barbecue and, as usual, I was pretty lax about letting him gleefully race up and down the aisles. This store is not the one where I saw my life flash before my eyes, it's a small, local store where I've been going for years and where everyone knows both of us by name.

Once into the busy parking lot however, as is my habit, I clutched Graham's hand tightly, pointed out all of the moving cars and sternly admonished him to stick close to my side.

Except he didn't.

Just a few steps out of the door he shrugged off my hand and ran ahead of me with a mischievous giggle.

"Graham!" I shouted. "Get back here right now, Graham!"

But he ignored me and continued running.

And then I saw the car.

The car was backing out of a parking spot at a rapid pace, the kind of jerky, jaunty pace a driver sets when they are absolutely certain there is absolutely nothing in their path.

Except there was.

I dropped my groceries and started to run, only vaguely aware that my screaming had a throaty, desperate quality that sounded unlike anything that had ever come out of my mouth before.

But Graham didn't stop.

There was a sickening screech of brakes just as the car's back bumper kissed Graham's back. As I ran towards him, the woman driver turned and caught my eye: the terror on her face was a perfect reflection of what I was feeling.

Oblivious, Graham turned to me, casually patted the car and giggled.

That's when I lost it.

I have never yelled at Graham like I yelled at him then. I yelled at him for a good five minutes in the parking lot and I yelled at him all the way home.

I gave my anger and my fear full license because I wanted Graham to remember it. I wanted to traumatize him, to cement in his head that bad things, very, very bad things happen when little boys run into the paths of speeding cars.

It wasn't until we pulled into our driveway that I lost steam. Graham was sobbing quietly and I was teary-eyed. I parked, released him from his car seat, brushed his tears away and hugged him to me tightly.

"Mommy was so scared Graham. You ran right into a car back there, right into a car."

He sniffed and buried his head further into my shoulder.

"You could have been killed Graham, do you understand that?"

More sniffles.

I brushed away my own tears.

"I love you more than anything in the world Graham. If something had happened to you back there Mommy's heart would be broken forever. Do you understand that?

Mommy's heart would be broken forever".

And we hugged then for a good long time before he raised his tear-stained face.

"I understand Mommy, I understand."

He doesn't, of course, but such is the nature of children and of childhood.

I can only pray my son, and my heart, survives it intact.

Thank goodness he's so ungrateful

Graham does not appreciate a damn thing I do for him.

He doesn't appreciate that most days I spend my lunch hours running errands so I can devote my time after work to playing hide and seek or kicking the soccer ball around or going to the park even though I'm usually so tired I just want to collapse on the couch.

He doesn't appreciate the effort I put into providing healthy and tasty food, fun and educational toys and books, and stylish and comfortable clothing. He doesn't appreciate that he lives in a lovely house with a huge yard and a pool and, more importantly, that he has two devoted parents who love each other, four healthy grandparents who dote on him and a huge, loving extended family

He doesn't appreciate that his father has introduced him to movie stars and that his grandfather is a bush pilot and that his mother has already started an account to fund his future travel and educational pursuits.

He clearly feels that he is due the terms of endearment, the gentle admonishments, the tender snuggles and the loving kisses that rain on him daily like manna from above.

Graham has absolutely no clue how incredibly lucky he is.

And I'm glad.

I am glad that Graham assumes every child in the world is loved as well as he is. I'm glad that he knows nothing of illness and stress and work, of friendships that end and nerves that fray and people who change. I'm glad that he knows nothing of the million and one mundane details of daily life that conspire to wear adults down.

It is with a strange mixture of envy and frustration and joy that I watch my son skip through his days, oblivious to the suffering in the world and indeed, at times, in his own home. There are times when the child in me feels staggered by the unfairness inherent in his oblivion but then I remind myself that it wasn't always so: it wasn't until my adulthood that I understood the difficulties my parents endured throughout my childhood.

And that's the way it should be, ideally. Isn't that one of the reasons we have children? Bouts of uncertainty and worry and stress are inevitable for every adult: at least parents who suffer them have the satisfaction of watching someone they love and care for enjoy blissful ignorance.

I know that Graham will not pass through life without experiencing bouts of uncertainty and worry and stress: ultimately I would not want him to. They are parts of life just as surely as is the unqualified happiness he experiences now. And besides everyone knows that in order for someone to really appreciate the good in life, they have to suffer the bad.

But Graham has yet to suffer the bad and thus Graham is completely unappreciative of how good he has it now.

Graham does not appreciate a damn thing I do for him.

And for now I am both grateful for, and proud of, that.

Into the wild

There’s a big wild, world just outside our backyard.

There are trees and woodland animals and hollow logs inside which captivating creatures surely lurk. There are bird’s nests and raccoon dens and a tiny creek where ethereal minnows flash and dart to escape the grasp of chubby fingers.

There is magic out there.

Even if I didn’t always see it.

I was not born a city girl. I was born in a small town and I had to fight to win the cloak of urban style that for years I wrapped around myself.

I was living in downtown Toronto when I fell in love with a sweet and serious man who suggested we buy a house in Don Mills where he grew up. I balked. Don Mills was only 15 minutes from the epicenter of a metropolis of several million people, but it seemed worlds away from the hip, downtown world into which I finally, finally, fit.

Moving out of downtown, I feared, would be a regression.

And I guess in a way it has been, but in the best possible sense.

I had a charmed childhood. I grew up, steeped in rural traditions and familial love, on the outskirts of a tiny village surrounded by lakes and endless woods.

Across the fields I sailed on my trusty bike, legs pumping furiously, my heart swollen with conviction that just an ounce more effort would surely launch girl and bike into the sky and towards the heavens.

Through murky creeks I sloshed, chasing frogs and swampy creatures I imagined had just emerged from primordial ooze and held the secrets of the universe within their dirt and slime.

And while a woman may need a room of own, a girl does not. A girl needs only a tall tree that she can scramble up and sit and contemplate the world below in perfect contentment.

But contentment has a way of turning into yearning and as I grew I did begin to yearn. A walking cliché, I yearned for the bright lights of the big city, imaging that I would conquer it and bring it to heel with my vigor and enthusiasm.

And I did, in my way

I landed a good job with glamorous overtones and collected witty, urbane friends. I enjoyed exotic travel and buzzing parties and strange and unusual things my childhood self had not even the capacity to dream about

And it was all very good but once again contentment turned to yearning and I finally did leave my sexy little place downtown to move here to a house with a door in the backyard which seemed to lead right back to where I came from

I have walked for miles outside this back door. I consulted the trees as I planned my marriage and prayed to the birds and the squirrels for a child. When I finally carried one in my stomach, every night I marched purposely alongside our creek, sending up each step as a tiny, separate prayer for his safe arrival.

And as I walked I began to see that this place, these woods, filled a need in me that I had long denied existed. I began to see that this place, Don Mills was the place where my childhood memories and my adult reality could co-exist.

It’s a place where a boy may climb a tree and survey his private kingdom, where scientific wonders may be captured in muddy bottles and a forest path might possibly lead straight to heaven’s gate.