End Of The Adventure

Oh I'm dying. Dying of a broken heart. The Exchange is gone, gone, gone out of my life. We put him on his flight home Saturday. His time with us was up and he had to go back to France. My life feels so empty and meaningless. How will I live without him?

There. I had to get that out of the way. The drama queen in me was itching to act up. But The Exchange has indeed left us. It was time for him to return to his real family. School starts in a week.

The Man said it feels like the end of an era. It does feel like the grand summer adventure is over. I don't know if The Boy has benefited from this summer's experience, but I've enjoyed every minute of The Exchange's stay with us. I am so grateful to have had this experience. I don't think The Man intended me to be the beneficiary of this exchange when he said yes to The Exchange's father.

This is what I know: we were enriched by this experience. How lucky we were that The Exchange and The Boy should have been so similar, yet complementarily different. We didn't get someone who was moody, into drugs and sex, slovenly, and uncommunicative. We got a perfect angel.

It was trying for The Boy to have a shadow for two months, especially the four weeks in Toronto. But he showed his mettle and emerged a gracious host. I think the main drawback for him was the camping in France. His resourcefulness was tested and he made a good experience out of a dull situation. I am still stunned he came back speaking French.

I was fortunate to have spent time with The Exchange, who evoked in me an appreciation of the precious and the potential for being. It's like being reminded that I have to embrace being in all its facets in order to appreciate the preciousness of beauty in all its aspects.

In sessions with Dr. Noggins, I puzzled about what seeing The Boy and The Exchange together has meant to me. It's a joyous unfolding to see these two boys explore their different languages and their personal commonality. It was their parents who facilitated the experience, with me being central to the process. All so unlike my own youth and the circumstances under which I left home.

So the crush aside, I am grateful to The Exchange for triggering several sessions of discussion with Dr. Noggins.

To use Kid2's metaphor, there is a string that attaches my heart to The Exchange's (and Kid2's and The Boy's) despite the ocean between us. It doesn't matter whether The Exchange is aware of this string. It matters that I know it's there, and that I send good will to The Exchange through this attachment.

So how did we spend our first day without The Exchange? Well, the first night, The Boy and I stayed up till 6 am waiting for The Exchange's phone call to say he's landed safely in Paris. We watched two seasons of Scrubs. Between episodes, I snoozed and learned to sing the Hawaiian rendition of Over The Rainbow. The Boy looked up chords and taught himself to play the ukelele. He can do Hey Jude and If You're Happy And You Know It. Now he takes the ukelele with him wherever he goes. He said at 6 am, "Mom, it's like the two of us had a party. It was fun hanging out with you."

The next day, The Man succumbed to the flu. The Boy and I slept in. No one stirred until 4 pm. That's because we had been invited to dinner at a friend's and we needed to get ready. How fortunate we were that the invitation was there to help us ease back into life without The Exchange.

It's still a mighty fine life.

The Competitive Spirit

A while ago, I had a marvelous conversation with The Boy's friend, Butterfly Boy. After, I told The Boy that of all his friends, Butterfly Boy is my favourite. Since then, The Boy has made several references to Butterfly Boy being my favourite, as if he's just a little jealous and in competition with Butterfly to retain his postion as the apple of my eye. Then he and The Exchange went to his friend's cottage.

When he got back, he said, "You know how Butterfly Boy is your favourite? Well, I am now Friend's mother's favourite."

"How did that come about? Did she tell you so?"

"Yeah, she said, 'Boy, you're my favourite.' It's because I'm so helpful and I make her laugh."

I can totally see that. If he weren't my son already, he would be my favourite. But I think it's funny that he wanted to be another mom's favourite.

Toronto, Still The Good

Well, if Fryslan is coming to Toronto, then what Fryslan wants, Fryslan gets.

I don't frequent five star restaurants. The two times I've been, I was disappointed. I mean, when I pay over $100 for a meal, I don't want mediocre food. So these are my favourite restaurants. I like them because they serve great food, they have good ambiance and they are affordable.

Lee Garden - 331 Spadina Avenue - My all time favourite Chinese restaurant after all these years. I have never had anything I didn't like at this restaurant. Their beef tenderloin with avocado and cashew, and shrimp with spicy eggplant are must haves.

Ferro - 769 St. Clair Avenue West - Trendy Italian restaurant. Always too noisy but I have loved everything on the menu. If it weren't for the noise, this would be my favourite restaurant. Their magic mushroom appetizer is a must have.

Le Paradis - 166 Bedford Road - French restaurant offering wholesome food with substance, frequented by the elderly Rosedale crowd looking for an inexpensive meal in a comfortable setting. This is one of The Man's favourite.

Thai Basil - 467 Bloor Street West - Exquisite Thai cuisine beyond the common pad thai and mango salad. I love their duck curry with grapes.

Salad King - 335 Yonge Street - Despite its name, this is actually a Thai restaurant right across from Ryerson University. It's a student eatery of good food at reasonable prices. You may have to share tables, but the tables are clean and chic. It's like they have a mass feeding system of quick and efficient service. It's an experience.

JTime - 394 Bloor Street West - The Boy's favourite Japanese restaurant. I like their spider roll, nagimi, and grilled salmon belly. I also like the items on their specials menu.

Oyster Boy - 872 Queen Street West - The Boy's favourite food is oyster. We come to this restaurant once a year on The Boy's birthday. We sit at the tables with the tall stools and order 5 dozen oysters, salad, chowder and fries. The meal costs the three of us over $200 but it's worth it. If you don't eat 5 dozen oysters, the meal could be considerably less.

I invite everyone to offer your favourite eating spots, and maybe special places here to help Fryslan and his wife enjoy Toronto all the more.

Little Things

The Boy and The Exchange are away at a cottage. Time to get tight with The Man again. He confesses to being jealous of The Exchange. I don't know why. It's not like I would actually touch the boy. The Man says he doesn't want to talk about it. He just says he doesn't like seeing me go ga-ga over the boy, and he would prefer I not talk to him so much.

That's crazy talk. I already know I cannot accommodate The Man's request. First, we are not in high school, and second, The Exchange is my son while he is in Canada. How can I not talk to my charge? Indulge my crush. It's such a small thing to ask.

Still, it's good to have some adult time with The Man. First thing we did, we smoked a joint last night. It pretty much knocked us out. As part of the recovery today, I slowly cleared out my basement "office". It's so unfair to keep referring to this space as my office. It's insulting to my work, when I work. This room is really our storage space.

So today, I cleared the room to put in more shelving. I am moving my closet down here and giving The Boy his closet back. The closet unit I bought is a complicated arrangement of wires and rods. I gave up on the instructions after the first read. I had no desire to rewrite them. Which does not bode well if I want to return to work as a technical writer.

Thankfully, The Man figured it out. I now have my own closet, for the first time in this house, after almost 20 years. I feel cleaner and more organized for the Fall now that my storage is in order. Funny how these little things make one feel so in control of one's life.

But it's always the little things. Little things said or not said, little things done or not done, that make or break relationships, that shape or unscramble our lives.

I was thinking tonight that if I had received a few words of encouragement from any of my university teachers, I might have chosen a totally different career path. If The Man hadn't done all the little things he did in the seventh year of our marriage, I might have moved on. If I hadn't off-handedly said yes to the community projects that came my way, I wouldn't have many of the friends I have today. If my friends and I hadn't exchanged little words of support, understanding, and laughter here and there over the years, I might be a very lonely woman today.

So here's to all the little things in our lives that we don't always pay attention to or are often not aware of. May we have many little things in our lives that make us feel joyously alive.

Tourist On The Waterfront

I spent a wonderful afternoon with Outrageous, now my bad influence, eating too much, smoking and wondering around the waterfront.

We ate at the renovated Gladstone Hotel and even managed a tour of the premises. The Gladstone is a quaint landmark, a reminder of Toronto's past. I've only ever known it as a scary, seedy dive where the homeless went to get drunk with their welfare money. It has been refurbished as an arts hotel, with much of its architecture, original features, and long-time staff and customers in tact. Last Call At The Gladstone, a documentary film, details the 2001 departure of the hotel's residents and transition of the hotel into its present form. We were served brunch by one of the waitresses featured in the film!

Outrageous and I walked through neighbourhoods I never knew about. We went into open houses of chic condos where I wanted us to pose as a lesbian couple.

On the Bathurst bridge in front of old Fort York, three bar stools perch on the sidewalk, glued to cement blocks. They could be an art installation, sitting in the sun, in the middle of nowhere. I can find no information about these stools on the internet, but there they were, offering respite to pilgrims of the bridge.

Beyond the industrial bridge and iron railings, we came upon the island airport dock. A ferry makes frequent crossings to the airport a skip and a hop across the water. This dock is clean and spanking new, and open to the public. It's really important to know where all the good washrooms are in the city.

A short walk down the dock is a small patch of grass. On it are five statues erected as the Irish Famine Memorial. The gaunt statues look yearningly out to the water in the direction where the ships would have come in. They haunt with the hunger and despair of displaced immigrants who cannot find home either in the promise land or in the country they left behind. Visitors have stuffed coins into the crevices of these statues for luck. This is an amazing little hideaway, more beautiful because you come upon it so unexpectedly. This is now my secret place.

Further down the walk, we came to the Toronto Music Garden, Yo-Yo Ma's visual interpretation of Bach's Unaccompanied Cello. It is a delightful garden of twists and turns and unexpected foliage. At the end of the garden, we sat on a bench in front of a docked yacht and listened to a parrot mimic a cell phone. Every time it trilled, passersby reached for their cell phones. The clever bird.

In the evening, I had dinner with Sis and friends at a tapas restaurant. They are the right people to go to an experimental restaurant with. Duck and lamb dumplings, frog legs, sea bream, they were all good.

After, we went to see Michael Moore's Sicko. Oh sure, his is a biased presentation full of irreverence, but it doesn't make the lack of universal health care in the U.S. any less serious an issue. It certainly made me appreciate our health care system more, troubled as it is, and I am thinking, we could model our system after France or Cuba...

All in all, a really great day of fun, beauty, and good company. I really needed it.

Just An Old Lady

I got to spend an entire afternoon alone with The Exchange yesterday. We went to the CN Tower. Now, you'd think that would be a real treat, like a dream date or something. And it would have been, if I weren't such an old lady.

To be sure, The Exchange is beautiful to look at, a pleasure to stand beside. But it's been a long time since I've been downtown. In fact, I can't remember the last time. And it's certainly been never that I found myself at Union Station during rush hour when suburban office workers disgorge from concrete towers with furrowed brows and harried paces.

So that was how I hooked up with The Exchange. We put The Boy on a bus to Hamilton for a gig, then went to the CN Tower through the underground pathways of Union Station. After a few steps, I felt disoriented, like a trapped animal. I remembered why I hated underground passages. Soon, I was overwhelmed by the human traffic and white noise around me. I couldn't focus or turn the sound off.

I was surprised that The Exchange knew how to get to the CN Tower through these interior corridors. I felt I should have known that route. I was sure I had been there before. Yet, every step I took felt new, and at every junction, I didn't know which turn to take. For the first time, I had a sense of what claustrophobia or a panic attack might feel like and I wondered if this wasn't an extension of my inability to sit in an enclosed non-moving car. In those winding tunnels of Union Station amongst the mole-like scurrying and shrieking of bipeds, I felt a depression come over me.

When we finally got up to the CN Tower, it was an hour's wait before we could get up to the Sky Pod. We stood in line. Throngs of people moved back and forth in the narrow hall of the observation deck where we queued for the elevator. Soon, I was fanning myself and heard The Exchange ask several times, Are you okay? Sure?

I knew I was okay. I just didn't know why I had broken out in a sweat and was heaving for breath. Sure, there were lots of people around, and it may have been hot. It dawned on me I might've been having a hot flash.

To normalize my attention, I struck up meaningless conversation with The Exchange (as if any of our conversations have ever been anything but opportunities for me to stare at him in wonder) and people in the queue.

The young woman in front showed me her drawings. She had been sketching furiously in her pad during the whole line up. She was from Belize, the only English speaking country in Central America. I didn't know that Belize operates much like Canada, with English its official language and Queen Elizabeth its head of state.

Still, it was pleasant enough, this excursion to the CN Tower. But it was obvious The Exchange would rather spend time with The Boy than with me. Thank god he's normal. In our chats, he reveals he is more than just a pretty face, full of political opinions, quite worldly and knowledgeable about Canada.

But I am afraid that I too am more...more of an old lady than I thought. Funny that nature should assert itself so to remind me to keep my distance and behave.

Desperately Seeking Balance

You know I love the boys in my house right now and sometimes I can't believe what I good time I am having with them. Last night, The Boy invited a friend to join him and The Exchange on an outing. When they came home, I happened to drive by the bottom of our street. So they swarmed me, sat on the hood of the car, and generally mimicked ruffians. I told them the neighbours are watching so they quickly got into the car like good boys.

As much as I love them, I find myself craving greater intellectual stimulation. They've so filled my capacity for silliness I find I cannot sit through a Harry Potter reading. I want to read a book of substance. I give of myself to them, around the clock it feels like, my yearning turns to my sketch book, pastels and oil paints. For the first time, I resent that our CD player is broken and I can't play the music I enjoy. As I go about my errands and drive the boys around, I find myself looking out the car window, hoping to run into a friend for some adult conversation. I am in need of replenishment.

But it's hard to get away. I just made BLTs for the boys' lunch, then came downstairs to blog. After his lunch, The Exchange came down, looked deep into my eyes and said, "Thank you Sylph, for lunch. That was very good. You come back with me to France and make food for me."

"Did you try the banana bread?"

"Ah yes, I tried. But I can't eat. It's very sweet. I want to eat but my stomach does not agree."

"Oh you're a smooth one."

"What? What you say?"

"Nevermind. That's okay."

Okay. Now I really got to get out of the house before I jump all over the dear boy and smother him with kisses in front of The Boy and his friend.

The Good Place

I talked to Dr. Noggins about my crush on The Exchange. He says it's okay, it's coming from a good place. I said, "How do you know it's from a good place and not the lecherous desires of a dirty old lady?"

He said because he knows me and people are always more themselves in his office. Then he told me about travels this summer with his 68-year-old brother, his brother's wife, and his own wife. They visited various countries in Europe last month. In one city, they met up with a graduate student of his brother's. She's in her mid-twenties. They had dinner with her and her boyfriend and met up several times after.

It was obvious to everyone, including the brother, that the brother had a crush on this grad student. But he didn't do anything about it and everyone enjoyed his crush.

Despite my being compared to a 68-year-old man, this story made me smile. There is something good about appreciating the beauty and budding adulthood of the young, that I can appreciate them without wanting anything for myself, that I can appreciate their essence and want only good things for them, that I can extend this appreciation and good will to others, and even if I don't immediately see other people's goodness, I trust it's there.

So then The Exchange came home from a day of fly-fishing with The Man. They left the house before I got up so I hadn't seen him all day. He had such a good time that upon seeing me, he kissed me twice and I stroked his sunburned cheeks.

Do I still think Dr. Noggins knows what he's talking about?

Yes I do. Because earlier in the day, The Boy came home from a student council meeting and had to make his own way to Union Station for a hook up to a rehearsal in Hamilton. He phoned me just as I got off the bus near home. He sounded rushed. I asked him what he wanted. He said, "Train fare and some hugs." I said, "I'm here for that." You can't imagine how thrilled and pleased I was that he still wanted hugs from me when he is under pressure.

Precious And Few

Being with The Exchange is like being with The Boy, without the complaining and whining. He doesn't know how to do that in English. I mean, it's ridiculous how the two of them dress alike. I am sure they don't confer about what to wear in the morning, yet they come downstairs wearing striped t-shirts, capri cargos, and sockless Converses. In photographs, they strike similar stances and expressions. They rib me the same way. They tell me how similar Exchange's mother and I are.

I love every minute of being with The Exchange. Having said that, having The Exchange in the house also punctuates how much The Man, The Boy and I actually have a rhythm and routine despite our seeming chaos, and how we've adapted to each other's need for alone time.

The Exchange adores The Boy. But who doesn't. The Boy likes him, but finds it a challenge to be shadowed, for six weeks now, when he would like to spend time with his friends now that he is home. The Man doesn't like giving up his office for The Exchange's bedroom. I continue to adore all three of them, though when disagreements erupt, I am quick to jump ship to save my sanity.

This afternoon, the plans for our outings fell apart. We were frustrated with our inability to formulate new plans. I think it came down to all of us needing time away from each other. I darted out of the house and stopped neighbours on the street to talk to them. The Man threatened to drive off in the car but ended up on the street with me holding impromptu meetings with passersby. The Boy read. The Exchange wrote post cards home.

After about two hours, I went back into the house. All was well. We were all friends again.

The surprising thing is not how The Exchange is an extra corner to our trinity, but in fact, how much he fits in. It's like we suddenly melded into a shape-shifting polygon, more dynamic, in tune with each other, tolerant, and forgiving of each other than I thought possible. The Exchange has a sensitivity, maturity and confidence that makes this possible.

If I were to have another son, he would be The Exchange. Right now, I don't want to imagine life without him and I am plotting ways to keep him. So what is it that draws me to him? I mean aside from the fact that he is good looking, smart, good humoured, engaging, easy-going, gentlemanly and charming.

I think it's because there is a vulnerability to him that yanks at my maternal heart strings. That, and the liveliness of potential, purity, innocence and beauty in the face of vulnerability.

Few people draw my attention to our potential for meaning, happiness, and goodness in spite of being vulnerable. Knowing these people exist makes me glad and hopeful for humanity. They make me want to protect them and what they symbolize. They make me want to be a better me. Because of them, I am more aware of the essence of purity and beauty in others and appreciate people much more.

The Boy is one of these people. The Man another. Kid2 is one. The Boy's friend Butterfly Boy is one. And now The Exchange. I am blessed to have them in my life and to actually talk to them and touch them. And yes, The Exchange kissed me this morning.

Pogo, Poutine and Beef Patty

Great. Now I'm being accused of trying to poison The Exchange.

Because we were rafting on the Quebec side of the Ottawa River, of course we had to get The Exchange to try poutine. We stopped at a chip truck. Not only did they have poutine, they also had pogo. So I got The Exchange an order of each.

The Man said at the time, "Pogo? That's an illegal food." Thinking he was serious, The Exchange inquired about the nature of its illegality. The Man had to explain his joke.

Like a trooper, The Exchange said, "Okay, when in Rome..." and ate the pogo and the poutine. Then he got sick. After, he said, "Now I know why pogos are illegal."

Bro came over last night and said, "From French cuisine to pogo and poutine? How could he not get sick?" Such snobbery. It's the experience. Having said that, Bro offered The Exchange a Jamaican beef patty.

Fearlessly, The Exchange accepted. I jumped in with knife, fork and plate and said, "Try one bite first and go slow." The Exchange was quick to identify the Jamaican beef patty as beef with spicy seasoning wrapped in puff pastry. The smart boy. He ate half and declared it was good, but that half was enough.

Then he said to me, "Now I know why you gave me pogo. You don't want me to come back to Canada." Such cheek. He teased me with that because he knows I dote on him.

Smitten

I am in Ottawa right now, at an internet cafe. The four of us - The Man, The Boy, The Exchange and I - have spent so much time together, we came here to have some alone time. Each alone in front of our own computer, communicating with the world beyond the four of us.

We came to Ottawa directly from our camping trip at Awenda. I think my purpose in life must be to coordinate trips like this that bring friends and family together. Each year, I have a good time. This year, I had a great time.

I wonder how much of the good time had to do with Prozac, and how much of it had to do with all the women on the trip getting just a bit smitten with The Exchange.

He's such a cute guy, so charming, and a terrible flirt. On the first night of camping, I told him that in the morning, we will have coffee for him. He said, "Yes that is good. Coffee in the morning makes a man happy." It took a few seconds to sink in that he meant himself as the man.

The Exchange helped around the camp site, chopped vegetables for dinner, and enjoyed spending time with younger kids. Of 7-year-old Nephew, he said, "He looks like a surfer when he runs, because he has long blond hair and he wears a surfer shirt. He's the little brother I wish I had."

We went into Penetanguishene one day to get travel information. We met a sea captain in the tourist bureau who told us Penetanguishene is a French settlement and therefore, many people speak French. The young woman at the desk immediately offered a few phrases of French to welcome us. When we got outside, The Exchange said to me, "I will come back to Canada. I will come back if all the girls who speak French in Canada are as pretty as she is."

Later at a drive-in, Sis asked him if he has a girlfriend. He flubbed about. I said, "The question is, how many girlfriends do you have?" He's quick and good natured. "Seven," he answered, "one for each day of the week."

Driving to Ottawa, we stopped for a Subway sandwich. In the car, trying to maneuver the sandwich, he spilled some sauce on his jeans. "Arg," he complained, "I am sure this is an American sandwich. In France, we also have sandwiches, but the sauce, they stay inside the sandwich. Here, they go to the jeans."

He absolutely charms and delights me. He's polite, helpful, gentlemanly, smart, funny, and the more I see him, the better looking I think he is. I am sure I have a little crush on him. But then I stop myself. Shame on you, I say, he's six months younger than The Boy.

It's okay. Because the maternal urge is also strong. I want to adopt him and Kid2 because they are so much fun to talk to and be with. I could be way ahead of Angelina Jolie.

We've been very tired in Ottawa. It's all the late nights at camping, and the walking around. We are trying to recover because tonight, we head to Davidson, Quebec for whitewater rafting in the morning.