Growing Up

So recently, I found my old report cards. They gave us all a good laugh. But one really jumped out at me. It was my kindergarten report card from the only city school I attended. I don't remember the teacher. I don't remember one kid's name. But! I knew I loved school. So I was curious what the teacher had to say about me, a little quiet student lost in a shuffle of a large city class. Two sentences jumped out:

Tanya has shown a keen interest and enthusiasm in learning. She has developed a special interest in words... and Tanya has shown an interest in our cultural and others. 

I do remember learning about letters and how they made words. It was fascinating. I always loved learning about different places and people, especially my own cultural. Maybe she wrote that on everyone's report cards, but it made me feel at home when I read that.

I don't remember ever reading or seeing that report until now.

Thirty-four years later, I write and I work for a cultural centre. Words and cultural are my world. Isn't it weird that I showed interest in those things that young and it never changed? If you follow the report cards, the only thing that changed was that I grew stronger in math and gym (have any of you almost failed gym class? lol), but always social studies and languages were clearly my favs.

Not long ago my daughter had to do one of those career tests to see what might be the perfect career for her. So for fun I did it with her. What came up? Writing and working in a cultural center. Not even kidding you.

When I was younger I wanted to be Superman's girlfriend. I mean think about it, she was a writer, she got to travel to other places, and well... Superman...

Okay, I see the pattern; words and culture.

Anyway, point is, we can't really change who we are, can we? So what did you want to be when you grew up and how much did you change since you were 5? I apparently am right where I started, only so very much older with still so much to learn about everything. 

Magical Spots

When my kids were born, people said things like “enjoy the magic” or “these are rare precious moments”. Sure, looking back I remember my daughter sitting in awe watching her new brother. As if he might actually do something magical. It was hard to tear her away from him, and I was sure she could be doing better things than staring at an infant.

And then?

He’d smile and make her whole day. She’d found a spot where magic blossomed. And it changed her life in a way no one else will ever understand and I doubt she even gets the true depth of.

Surprisingly, those magical moments don’t vanish as your children grow, they just sometimes take you off guard because you’re not sitting there in awe anymore, waiting for one action to sweep you away.

Of course, given that the holidays just passed, I did have all these magical moments creep up on me, but this post is about magical spots and so I thought I’d share with you the spot in our house that holds the most magic.

It’s a spot that only exists for a brief moment and will knock us into a deep peaceful sleep.

It’s created unexpectedly when Superman gets a call in the middle of the night. His alarm goes off making the rest of us jump up like we’re on fire. He’s out the door with his super speed and we are left with one pulsating guilty thought; “He just left a warm spot that smells all safe like him.” Umhum, that’s what you’d be thinking too, admit it.

I won’t roll into it until I’m sure one of the kids won’t brave the cold floor to enjoy the magic of it. Either way I win.

If the little guy falls into the magical spot, I’ll listen to it sweep him away. His breaths grow quick and shallow, tinted by happy dreams. The magic from the spot pours out to me, reminding me of how innocent a child is.

If the older one wins the spot the smile never leaves her lips. Like she won the lottery. Her breathes will fill me with this weird pride that I never expect. She doesn’t sound like a child sleeping anymore. Each breath is deeper, taking her away to a magical place only she knows. And that reminds me of how fun it is to grow up. How intriguing and appealing the world was to discover.

Nothing is scary when we lay in Superman’s warm spot. It’s just perfect and happy; magical.

Of course, when I win the spot, I fall off into some deep coma that I wake up from feeling all guilty, cause while Superman is off saving people, shouldn’t I be doing something beside sleeping in his spot? Something, I don’t know, all heroic and magical? I suppose I could, but somehow, I think he purposely leaves this spot to lure us in. It’s a comfort for him to know we’re safe at home and when he finds one of us enjoying the magic of his spot, it somehow gives him that push he needs. That’s his moment and I wouldn’t want to take that away from him.

What magical place have you discovered?

Letting Go

I was about twelve when my uncle walked into the house with a shoe box nestled in his arms. “I found these in the field.”

He showed us the babies.

“Where’s the mother?” Mom asked.

“She... she ran in front of me. They’re on their own now. I wasn’t sure if they’d make it without her, and since you breed rabbits, well, I hoped you could save them.”

Three baby hares.

My mother was on the phone with the vet instantly, because we knew nothing about hares. I snuck the box outside, and my brother and sister followed me. Mom came out with instructions on how to keep them alive. We were fascinated by these wild animals. They were nothing like the white rabbits we bred. Baby rabbits were born blind and hairless. These were tiny, but ready to go. They had a natural instinct to them that made them cautious.  

We each named one. Naming them made it final. We were going to raise them. I was excited about the idea, until morning.

One was dead in the box.

Mom never let us make a big deal of a rabbit dying, since they were our business not our pets, but I think she could see this meant more, so we had a little service to help deal with the blow.

The second one died that night. We took turns staying with that last one. Even Mom and Dad helped. I would have brought that little guy to bed with me if they’d allowed, but they didn’t. So I even did my homework in the garage.

That last one grew quickly. I bet in a week we had it in a run.

Much to my dismay, one day, my brother let it go. I chased that hare all over town. Frantic. He was too young to be on his own.

I learnt something neat that day. Hares run in a zigzag pattern. If I zigged when he zagged, I caught him every time.  It became a game we both loved.

Time passed quickly, but that hare grew just fine. In fact, he was growing much too fast.

My dad announced that it was time to set him free. I had no idea why I couldn’t keep him, but there was no arguing with my dad. I’d helped raise him, but he didn’t belong to me. He was wild. “I found a field close to town, with others like him. He’ll be fine there, safe.”

Close to town? Would he come back? Sure he would. Wouldn’t he? If he came back, Dad would let him stay. I knew he would. So with this hope, I climbed in the car. It was just me and Dad. No one else had the heart to do this.

Dad stood behind me without a word. I talked to that hare, told him what I imagined his new life would be like. I explained how he had to watch for hawks and foxes. He listened to me patiently until I finally set him down. He took off instantly in his zigzag way. Then he stopped. My heart leapt. Would he come back? If he came back... he was mine.

He looked back. He looked right at me. To this day, I remember meeting his eyes and seeing the truth. Some might say hares don’t know such things, but dang it, that one did. He knew this was it. This time, I wasn’t going to run after him. I knew he wouldn’t come back either. My heart swelled with the pain of letting him go, but I stood my ground. It was up to him to come back.

Don’t ever tell me, animals don’t have emotions. They might not be like ours, but that look between a twelve-year-old and her hare spoke volumes. It seemed to last forever, yet it wasn’t long enough.

He would miss me too. But. He wasn’t coming back. no he wasn’t.

He ran. He ran. And ran. Never looked back again.

My dad never said a word. But sometimes, dads don’t have too.