Growing Little Artists (or Black Hawk Down)

There is a space in time parents create to get things done. It's usually about 3 minutes. It's that time when the kids seem fine. They're taking care of themselves. Oh, how loving they're being with each other, I'm sure I can go upstairs and use the washroom. I'm sure I'll hear if anything changes.

I've actually learned that silence is the first sign of creative expression.

The first major "incident" in the 3-minute gap was early in my days as a stay-at-home-dad. Everything seemed under control. Baby sleeping, girls gently playing. I can send that email! The gap begins... Just enough time for both daughters to create their own stealth hair salon, in the same room! I turned around to notice a large beautiful pile of blond hair, next to a large beautiful pile of red hair on the kids' breakfast table. And two wide eyed kids looking up, each holding a pair of scissors, smiling. "Look Poppa, I layered Khona's hair just like Andrew does." As a parent, I've learned that this moment requires a certain kind of response: stopping, pausing, smiling, and then taking a picture.

I've begun to document this gap, or really the effect of the gap, that end of that moment in time between kids being totally fine, to complete Lord of the Flies. Just today, there were three of us looking after three kids. Pretty good: one to one ratio. Suddenly I can hear "Driipppy... Driipppy... Driipppy" being chanted from the deck like "Piiggy...Piiggy", and I look out to find Sanoah & Sikhona putting little sister Nella through a frosh week water hazing. Nella is performing a self-defense downward dog, and madly trying to crawl away from the island.

The other night, Mary-Kate left Rowan & Sikhona in the basement to go upstairs and hang the laundry: the gap begins. When she returned, she found them standing naked in plastic Ikea drawers completely covered in blue paint, beginning to hand paint anything they could touch stretching out from their perch ... floor, walls, shelves ... "Miiike, I neeeed hellllp !!!" I grabbed the camera. A Smurf like bath ensued with much scraping of skin and crying.

Last week, in the heat, the girls somehow got into the fine art of peeing in various places and containers. One evening, we discovered Rowan and Sikhona each squatting over their own ice cube tray, saying "I did it! I did it! I got it in." "No, I got more..." OK girls, nice work, I notice you're developing a skill. How about we work on the Olympic sport of peeing in a potty.

Recently, before bed one night, we left both girls to burn off some energy by doing some Playmobile, jumping on the bed, running around. Oh, they're so good at entertaining themselves. Mary-Kate and I slumped downstairs in the couch, each enjoying a brief wine respite. As we enjoyed the quiet moment, we looked at each other, and realized it really was awfully quiet. When we went back upstairs, we peeked around the corner to discover both girls squatting on their own bed, peeing. We both stood there, hands on our hips, jaws dropped, as they then began to jump over their pee marks, saying, "Hey, mine looks like an H". "Look at me. I jumped right over it!"We looked at each other with total exasperation, open mouthed, pointing, as if miming to each other "what the f--- do we ... ?" So we just turned and left, walked back downstairs and drank our wine. Ah, the joys of parenting when the helicopter crashes in the ocean.

I later went back upstairs to check on the carnage. Rowan had passed out on the floor of the laundry room, and Sikhona was standing, arms out, in front of a fan, with thumbs up, and a smile, as if everything's all good up here Poppa. And everything was for these beautiful little provocative artists. Everything was.

Residue

One minute.
Of simplicity.
Typing.
Kids typing.
Type writer.
What is that?
That thing that captures letters, words as we tap them, hit them, ink into paper, touching, feeling the keys, hearing the tick, click, jam, one letter is off, imperfect, human, can't be corrected, easily, there is no undo. No delete. Ideas spill out, and the words are there, physically there. Jam. Pull the wire arms back, and hit, tap, click, connection with physical, the touch, language, not digital, made up, on a screen, a shadow of itself, pretending it is there. As we are, pretending, there is us underneath. We are all typewriters, real, physical, human, imprfect. What are we typing in this world? What is our story? What are is our residual? The thing that's left behind when we are no longer here.  In memory. Our residue. Ink on a page. Stories of who we were. That is all that we have.

Sex in a Jar

The call came in at 5pm. I answered the phone, "Are you ovulating?" "Yes!", she said, "we'll be there at 9. Put it in a dry, glass jar." Got it. "We're on honey." And so it begins. The letter came 5 months ago, asking so beautifully if I would have another baby, not with Mary-Kate, but as a donor to a wonderful lesbian couple. Close friends, but not too close. Connected, yet not. Similar communities, but not overlapped. I was honoured, touched, moved. A privilege. Indeed. To be asked to offer something so personal, so powerful, life-giving, and yet, so easy. Easy? Is it really? What do we hold close. Give away. Hold on to. Let go. What is us. Not us. Me. Not me. We pass on our genes. Is that us? A part of us. And why not give it away. To honour. To cherish. To love. To give joy. Passion. Sadness. Grief. Pride. All of it. Why not give it away. And so we did. I say we, as Mary-Kate and I made a decision in that moment. That we would offer this together. We would make this together. This would connect us. We would be a donation team. And what a great reason to have sex! The lesbians have called. We need to do the thing honey. Put the kids to bed. They're here at 9. They arrived at 8. Kids eating snack. And screaming. The phone ringing, a deep, slow voice on the answering machine. A friend in the kitchen talking about baby chicks. The dog barking. The door opens. "Hello!" Ah, the tranquility. "We lost your phone #, so here we are! We'll be at our friends' around the corner, waiting for the call." Got it. Launch the kids to bed routine. Teeth. Last pee. Jumping on bed. Read books. Jumping on bed. Last last pee. Stack of books on bed for each kid. And sleep. And duty calls. So the jar. This dry glass jar. Apparently, any drops of water in the jar confuse the sperm. Water them down. Slow them. And we do not want to slow these sperm. They've got a long journey ahead. "So the jar is supposed to be at body temperature when doing the passover," I say. "You can't put your stuff into a cold jar, and then warm it up. It's got to be AT body temperature," says Mary-Kate. OK, so I tuck the jar under my arm, and we go to it. But I can't really use my left arm. So I'm falling, kind of, squeezing the jar. Keeping it warm. Like those penguins in the movie with their eggs. Falling again. Then the jar squeezes out. We laugh. Jar goes back into the pit. And we get to the moment. The moment where we got to get the stuff into the damn jar. And it's a small jar. So there's all these angles, and pointing things, pushing, and whoah this, whoah that. And bingo, sperm is in the dry jar. Tuck it directly under the armpit, and make the call. "Donation is ready. Go team." So, we gather our clothing, and walk downstairs, and they're at the door. Fast. Yes. Well this part is very important. The armpit passover. We open the door. There's that awkward, funny air in the space. Pause. "Well, here it is." And we pass the jar from armpit to armpit. We say good luck with the turkey basting part! I was joking, but she calls back, "yes, it's actually called the turkey basting!" We close the door. And smile. Mission accomplished. Self passed on. Selves passed on. Life given over. We'll see if those little critters can swim.

Drought

Writer's block. What is this thing. We call it a thing, as if it's there. Something to muscle out of the way. Burst through. Smash, pound, eliminate. But what is it really. I have about 15 blog posts backlogged in my mind right now... "Slings and Savages", "Sex in a jar", "Enlightenment & my sleeping foot"... waiting, waiting, waiting for what? For someone to make me write them. For the brilliant post, that perfect one, the funny one, the one that everybody talks about.  And then the fear envelopes. What if? What if it's not good? What if it's not... insert 1000 different things here. And so they all bounce around in my head, pinballs, oh they're brilliant, I say, ooh, that's a good story, that one, oooh, that one really says something. And yet, they fade, they begin to fade, without sunlight, without water, stuck inside, rattling around, the part that's bursting to get out, is now limp, a plant in drought. Water. Water? And I look at it, and know how beautiful it once was. Water it. Water it? Or just write. Just start. Write what I am experiencing right now. Right now. Write now. Experience. We experience something, and then it changes. It is forever changed. We talk about it. We tell the story. And then it changes it again. And we tell the story again. And it changes. And we call it true. This is what happened. This is what Actually happened. Or is it? What if our experience of something is the closest we can come to the Truth of it. What if we were to stop and be with our partner. Our kids. Our friends. Really stop. Even for 2 minutes. Just stop. And be with them. I can guess that's what we will remember. In the end, when we look back, it is those brief moments of connection, of being part of something bigger, of being open. Letting in.