Gossie and Gertie

 Tonight was a big night for us.  Beatrix actually sat on my lap with Alasdair and listened to 3 bedtime stories.  Usually she comes into Alasdair's room and I close the door while Alasdair and I read stories.  Otherwise I find her at the bottom of the stairs.  While we read, she busies herself with the rocking chair and Alasdair's toys and occasionally joins us for a second or two. But tonight she actually listened to the stories.

Usually Beatrix wants to do everything that Alasdair does.  Kind of like the story of Gertie and Gossie, "Gossie and Gertie are best friends.  Everywhere Gossie goes, Gertie goes too."  Beatrix intently watches Alasdair and wants to do everything that he does.  And she is fearless.  She will try just about anything.  This evening we went out in the rain.  Alasdair in his red boots (just like Gossie) and Beatrix in her sort of blue boots (just like Gertie).  I wasn't sure if Beatrix would be able to walk in her too big rain boots, and her too big rain coat, and her too big rain pants, but she could.  And she followed Alasdair right into puddles big and small.

In the first Gossie book, Gertie "borrows" Gossie's favourite red boots.  Beatrix really likes Alasdair's stuff, too.  His Cars pajamas have become her security blanket.  This evening after Beatrix had fallen asleep I crept into her room to retrieve Alasdair's sunglasses that she was playing with as she fell asleep.  Here is how I found her sleeping:

Gertie, eventually emerges from Gossie's shadow to take the lead.  I suspect it won't be long before Beatrix tries to do the same.

Fan Fiction

Last evening Seumas and I watched 'How did Sherlock Holmes Pave the Way for 50 Shades of Grey', on the PBS Idea Channel, on YouTube (I know, I can barely understand that sentence myself).  Anyway, it was about fan fiction, something I think very little about, and admittedly, not very highly of either.  In his piece, Mike states 'in order to understand the fan fiction writer, we must become the fan fiction writer'.
This thought must have been swirling around in my head on the way home today.  I was in the middle of telling Alasdair (and Beatrix I suppose, but I may have already bored her to sleep by this point) yet another Super Mario Bros. story.  This one just so happened to be about Bowser trying to sink the Staten Island Ferry so that he could have all the cars on board for himself to race a la MarioKart.  Almost every car ride we take these days starts out with some such story request.  'Mommy can you tell a Lightening McQueen story (or Too Tall Gang story or Robocar Poli story)?' I then start 'Once upon a time', and he interjects 'Not too fast,' and I repeat 'Not too fast' because if I don't he keeps repeating 'Not too fast, mommy' with increasing agitation until I do.

Well, I'm sure you can see where I'm going here, but half way across the French Fry bridge, the realization struck me: 'Oh my god, I am a fan fiction writer'. Well, perhaps a failed fan fiction writer.  Fan fiction writers bring worlds back to life, trying to stay true to the laws of the universes created by the original authors.  I try to do this too.  I try to make sure that every detail is true to the universes created by John Lasseter and Stan and Jan Berenstain, and although I cannot understand a word of Robocar Poli, I put in an effort there too.  But every once in a while I dig myself into a big, old imaginary hole and I can't think fast enough to get out.  But then I realize, I don't need to stay true to that universe, I can push outside its bounds.  And most of the time I get away with it.  I'll admit I have taken things too far a few times, and the believability quotient of my stories has dipped below the three year old threshold... 'mommy, how did Lightning McQueen kick the soccer ball?'  And sometimes what makes a story most unbelievable to a three year old really demonstrates the things that are most important in their three year old universe.  I once told a story about Francesco Bernoulli, only he had wings and was flying around Bear Country.  He was even going to take Brother and Sister Bear for a ride through the skies.  But my yarn was called into question, not because of the flying race car in the Berenstain Bear's world, but because I was sending the bear cubs on this adventure without their mommy and daddy.  That was where I crossed the line.

Mike from PBS says fan fiction is 'considered amateur, poorly constructed and exciting only to dedicated fans'.  And in my case, I couldn't agree more, especially the part about the dedicated fan.

For Sadie in the morning, noon or night kitchen

When Alasdair and I visited Marla's library, we were lucky enough to find a copy of Maurice Sendak's In the Night Kitchen.  We have borrowed it from the library a couple of times now, and because we love it so much, I got us a copy of our own.  This is about the only book that we include the dedication page in our reading.  It says, for Sadie and Philip.  Our Sadie passed away a few months ago, and we still miss her.  Reading this book is one of the ways that we still remember her, and not just because of the dedication page.  When you start to think about things, Sadie was a lot like Mickey and Sadie would have thoroughly enjoyed Mickey's adventure in the night kitchen.  She would have loved to have fallen out of bed into a kitchen.  Well, Sadie would have made it look like she had fully intended to fall, but anyway.  She would have been in heaven swimming about in cake batter and bread dough.  She may not have been quite as tolerant of the bakers as Mickey is, but she probably would have just completely ignored their existence.  A small price to pay for such fun.  Sadie, despite barfing on Carol's floor on her first day with me, had a stomach of steel.  She ate a whole chicken one time, not a bone was left behind.  She ate a margarine container once, barfed it up, and ate it again, and then again.  I was ready the last time, and put a stop to that cycle.

Sadie was up for adventure.  She was independent, just like Mickey, and not afraid to explore new places.   Leave the gate open and she'd be gone.  In latter years there were a few times when I didn't even know she had run away, she was home before I noticed.  Let her off the leash and blink your eyes and she was nowhere to be seen.  I have no idea what she did as we hiked the Mantario Trail.  She'd check in every 5, 10 or 15 minutes, and then be off again.  Sometimes it was longer.  Once she got herself stuck down in the foundation of a building that once existed on the trail, I guess it was lucky we came across her in our search.  Another time Andrea, Leela and I waited and waited for her.  We were 45 minutes into the trail and hadn't seen her since passing or being passed by some fellow hikers.  Eventually I decided to head back to the parking lot to check for her.  And wouldn't you know, there was Sadie waiting faithfully beside our car.  Andrea, Leela and I spent every evening pulling tics off Sadie and squashing them with a rock, I don't know how many there were in total, but it was in the hundreds.  Then there was the canoe trip with Sheila where we attempted to camp on the island on Lone Island Lake.  Well the bugs were so bad, Sadie and I spent most of the time in the water to escape them.  Sadie would get herself lying down under the water, but then she had nowhere to rest her head without her nose being under water, so she would get up and try again.

Sadie had high expectations, at least of me.  It's good to have someone hold you to high expectations.  She expected two walks a day, rain, shine, or -40 below.  But her expectations weren't as unshakeable as I would have thought at one time.  I should have known since when others looked after her, she adjusted her expectations.  I think Sheila once said Sadie had low expectations of her but I'm sure Sadie didn't think of it as low expectations.  Perhaps sad that I was away, she would be glad that Sheila or Brad were willing to look after her and that she didn't have to go to a kennel.

Alasdair's birth was the most remarkable glimpse into a different side of Sadie.  She was protective of Alasdair, rather than jealous as I had expected.  Her expectations of me changed.  She was ok with the occasional walk.  As some of you may know, Sadie was terrified of thunder.  She would shake and huff and puff.  She would pee on my bed or on any other piece of furniture.  We would put her in her kennel to keep the furniture safe.  The summer after Alasdair was born Sadie would put herself in her kennel during a storm, and she was much less outwardly panicked.  This only lasted the one summer, but what a huge help it was.  I often said Sadie was all for what she could get, but that was not entirely true.


In the book, Mickey says, "What's all the fuss? I'm Mickey the pilot! I get milk the Mickey way!"  And Sadie too did things her own way.  And we love her for it.

A gun is for ???

At the time of Beatrix's birth, I was reading 1Q84 (although I have a very hard time referring to it as anything but IQ84) by Haruki Murakami.  I enjoy Murakami, a lot.  I have probably read all of his stuff, but I have lost track somehow.  I like how he weaves his tales together, and I thoroughly enjoyed the first half of this story.  But then it kept going and going and going in a directionless kind of a way.  But, one of the things that came up again and again was Chekhov's notion that if a gun is introduced into a story, it must be fired.  I think Chekhov may have put that in a somewhat more sophisticated fashion like "One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it." (Chekhov).  You will have to read the story the whole way through for yourself to find out whether the gun in IQ84 is fired or Murakami wrote an entire novel just to spite or defy Chekhov.

Currently I am reading David Mitchell's The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.  I think the fact that I am able to follow this narrative is a positive sign that I am recovering from my mommy brain.  Mitchell's characters also have a few thoughts about guns.  This novel takes place at the turn of the century (the 18th century that is) in Japan.  At one point, one of he characters, Grote, says:  "The idea bein' he'll go home to his jungle an' show the cannibals the light o' the Lord an' so render 'em more pacific, eh?  Bibles bein' cheaper 'n rifles an' all."  "Oh, but rifles make f' better sport," remarks Gerritszoon.  "Bang bang bang."  (p. 103)

Alasdair has a somewhat similar idea about guns.  One day he said to me "lets play guns, mommy."  I said, "why do we have to play guns?  What's so great about guns?"  "They make a better story, mommy."  And perhaps he's right.  But, he doesn't really know what guns are.  One day as he was playing with an old pump shampoo bottle in the tub he yelled over to Beatrix something to the effect that she couldn't play with guns because she didn't know what they were for.  At first I was just going to let this drift right by me, but then I got to wondering whether he knew what guns were for, so I asked.  His reply was "For squirting water, mommy.  Not like swords, those are just for swording each other out."  Got it.

The Martian Hop

I am not particularly interested in space, at least not consciously.   I like Star Wars, I loved the X Files.  Before Alasdair was born we called him Moonbaby and Seumas writes a blog called The Martian Hop.    Beatrix has a birthmark that some people have said looks like a Hershey Kiss, but I have always thought (and prefer to think) that it looks like a UFO.  So maybe I am into space.  What of it?  Although I am uncertain about how much I love space, I do know that I love Oliver Jeffers.  So much so that Alasdair and Beatrix's rooms are decorated in the style of his books.  Beatrix has The Great Paper Caper, and Alasdair, The Way Back Home.  In the latter, the boy finds an ah-plane (as Alasdair would say) and crash lands on the moon.  Later that night a Martian also makes an emergency landing on the moon (Alasdair is into emergencies).  And although they are initially nervous of each other, fearing the other is a monster, they figure things out, and help each other find the way back home, or as Alasdair puts it, "This one (the martian) goes to his family, and this one (the boy) goes back to the penguin."  This is just the kind of story I like, almost ordinary, but just a little bit strange or off kilter.  Plain old ordinary just doesn't interest me.

 And speaking of strange and mysterious, here was a real puzzler that Alasdair put to us last evening (sorry to those of you who read Seumas's blog, but my version's a bit different anyway).  Seumas, Alasdair and I were sitting out on the back deck eating yoghurt, when Alasdair walks over to Seumas and asks, "Daddy, are you afraid of eateemores?"  Seumas makes an attempt at guessing what Alasdair is trying to say, fails miserably, and Alasdair gets a bit upset, but with some coaxing, tries again.  "Eateemores."  This time Seumas repeats exactly what Alasdair has said, and Alasdair nods affirmation.  We are both puzzled at this point.  Seumas tells Alasdair that he's not afraid of eateemores, and I ask him to tell us more about eateemores.  He launches into a fantastic tale of a monkey in space, and as he speaks I vaguely recognize a Wonder Pets episode that he mentioned before.  "Meteor" I say.   I've figured it out, but Alasdair looks at me unconvinced and goes on to tell us what a eateemore could do to you.  It'll make your eye pop out in case you're wondering ... be afraid.

The Tale of Benjamin Bunny

This post has been rolling around between my ears for months.  In fact this is not my first attempt at writing it.  Figuring out what story best represents the arrival of Beatrix Abaigeal to our family, and what to say about it, has eluded me.  Well, I can't escape from it, and so I'm going with one of the most remembered authors of my childhood, Beatrix Potter; specifically, The Tale of Benjamin Bunny (we love you cousin Benjamin).  Beatrix Potter is of course the obvious choice, but much like choosing a name for a baby, I was never quite sure.  I mean, the stories are about cute little animals ... bunnies, squirrels, ducks, kittens.  But, they are all a bit creepy, scary even.  Not a big deal if you're reading to an infant, but the three year old has started to ask too many questions.  Good questions.  Questions that are hard to dance around.


For a couple weeks Alasdair was really into reading Lizzie's Lion, a great little rhyming story about a girl and her lion.  Oh, a girl and her lion and a robber that creeps into her bedroom in the middle of the night, right.  Alasdair now asks at the end of the book "What happened to the robber, Mommy?"  My response is "He's in the garbage can", which is true, I just leave out a few details that would be contained in a more complete answer such as: "He's dead, the lion tore him to shreds, and they scraped the pieces off the walls and ceiling and put them in a garbage bag and threw him out with the trash".  But I can tell Alasdair is not quite satisfied with my response.



But you know, I think kids like scary.  Or, Alasdair does anyway.  "There's a monster in your room mommy" or "There's a ghost in the living room" have become a part of our play.  And he says these looking partly scared, but usually with a smile on his face like he's having fun.  Or, as an attempt to get me to go get the toy from the other room for him because he couldn't possibly go in there alone with the creature.



Alasdair likes Fairy Tales and Beatrix Potter stories despite the fear factor, or perhaps because of it.  I know because he retells them and plays them.  It gives his imagination another avenue beyond its two most common themes "Let's go to the store and buy bagels" and "Where's your mommy?"  Besides, he asks you to read them again (but it's againa, not simply again).  So we're going to stick with them for now.  We'll head out on adventures with Benjamin Bunny and Peter Rabbit as they are chased and trapped by Mr. McGregor and his cat.  Our hearts will beat faster and we'll hold our breath and sigh with relief when everything works out okay.  And that sounds just a little bit like bringing a new baby home to meet her big brother.  I have let out my sigh of relief, everything is working out just fine. And we'll get to watch Beatrix and her big brother adventure happily through childhood, just like Peter and Benjamin.

Ceol cridhe

Yesterday while we were out walking Sadie, Alasdair (with some encouragement from Seumas) became quite interested in the trees. Initially he just wanted to touch the bark, but later he walked from tree to tree trying to push the giant creatures over and saying ‘all fall down’.  I don’t know if there was a connection, but the evening previous we had been reading ‘heartsong (ceol cridhe)’, a Cape Breton storybook that Grammie gave to Alasdair during our recent visit.  It tells the story of a man who makes a fiddle to play for his family.  He and his son climb up a hill to a great spruce tree.  Initially they just put their hands on the bark (much the same as Alasdair did), they say they can hear the music through their hands.  Then they cut the tree down to make the fiddle.

I don’t think the book is meant to be sad, but it’s a bit sad to me.  We have just returned from visiting Cape Breton, and although we had a great time, for me, there is a feeling of sadness, and of loss about the island.  It’s as if the island is caught in a strange space between the past and the present, and is haunted by ghosts.  The first time I visited Cape Breton I remember remarking about the numerous graveyards along the roads we traveled.  But it’s not just the people passing on.  We visited some of the elders of Cape Breton, including a great traditional fiddler.  There is certainly a real fear that the culture is also passing on with these folks.

It is also evident that people are not willing to let their culture and traditions disappear into the fog of the past.  Most road signs on the island (like the text in Alasdair’s book) are in both English and Gaelic, for example, Seumas’s hometown appears as both Judique and Siudaig.  Judique also boasts a Celtic Music Interpretive Centre and a Storytellers Gallery.  Astounding for a community of about 700 or so. 

I hope that the language and culture of Cape Breton continues to be passed down from generation to generation, just as the fiddle in Alasdair’s storybook passed from its creator to his children and his children’s children.  And I hope that some of this language and culture crosses the continent and finds Alasdair, Seumas and I in Winnipeg.  I hope that it doesn’t just all fall down. 

Is ‘se sin ceol an Eilein, oran ar dachaidh.  (Trottier, 1997)