an ape in little dude's bed

The Good Man is tucking Little Dude in for the night.

GM: Good night.
LD: Good night.

GM: Love you.
LD: Love you.

GM: Have a good sleep.
LD: Have a good sleep.

GM: I'm going to sleep now.
LD: I'm going to sleep now.

GM: I'm going to stay in bed.
LD: I'm going to stay in bed.

GM: I'm a chimpanzee.
LD: I'm Little Dude!

duped

Little Dude crushes a cracker into his cup. He still likes to make concoctions with his left-over food. He lifts the cup up to me and asks, "Mommy, what's this?" Crumbs are everywhere.

"A big mess," I reply casually.

"No, it isn't," he insists.

"What is it then?" I ask, wondering if crumbs has made it to his vocabulary.

"It's an accident!"

D'oh! Little Dude: 1. Mommy: 0.

Later, Little Dude asks to have a Coffee Crisp from his Halloween stash. After some quick negotiations, I find myself watching him lick a second helping of ice cream on a mini cone. And, I wonder if the reason why I caved in so easily is because I wanted to keep the Coffee Crisp to myself or if my chocolate-hating 3 1/2-year-old, in fact, had planned to have ice cream all along and successfully duped me for a second time today.

boo

LittleR Dude insisted on going trick-or-treating with his lunch bag tonight. Who am I to argue with a dragon?

thank you

My lola (grandma) died at age 98, several years ago. Although she often talked of her life in the Philippines, I remember very few details now. I had always wanted to record her stories on tape and transcribe them but never did.

Among many things, my lola lived through the Japanese occupation of the Philippine countryside. I remember her recalling how she witnessed the stomach of pregnant woman in her village suffer the rage of soldier's bayonet.

My lola's daughter (my mom) to this day will only speak of high school beauty pageants and dances. But my (dearly departed) father would sometimes talk excitedly about living through the war as a young boy not yet in his teens. His eyes would widen as he recounted how he was sometimes forced to hold his breath underwater for long periods of time and used reeds as make-shift snorkels in order avoid capture.

I cannot even begin to imagine living through those times. The years of sleep-deprivation. The atrocities of exploding vomit and poop. The massacre of peas, mushed but uneaten. The torture endured on watching yet another In the Night Garden episode. These are the struggles I have faced. Although the exhaustion, helplessness, frustration and boredom I've felt are very real to me, these as well as the guilt and feelings of inadequacy that sometimes overwhelm me do not compare to having lived through a war.

And so as I reminisce about the old stories told by my father and lola and as this (Canadian) Thanksgiving long weekend comes to a close, I find myself reflecting on the things I am grateful for. There really is so much. Too many to write down here. So I've kept my list brief:

The Good Man
You've taken your fair share of raising the boys and, certainly, of dealing with the night time and early morning wake-ups. I love you for that and, on a more selfish level, I love the way you often lie on my side of the bed on cold nights, warming it for me before I climb in beside you. Thank you.

Little Dude and LittleR Dude
Mommy was 39 and 41 when she had you but, still, you were born with 2 eyes, 2 arms and 2 legs and no physical abnormalities. Good genes, a healthy lifestyle, my avoidance of the dentist (and consequently, x-rays) stacked the deck in our favour, yes. But not all mommies, some much, much younger than I was, were so lucky.

I'm so grateful that I have the three of you in my life and that my daily struggles are not those involving life and death, as did my lola and father.

ouch

In one of my rare waves of neat freakishness, I was tidying up the family/play room and jammed my knee against the corner of the toy box. I yelped, grabbed my injured knee and writhed in pain on the carpet.

Little Dude was playing nearby and with real concern in his voice, he exclaimed, "Don't worry, mommy. I'll kiss it better." He did.

This brought a smile to my face but did not relieve the pain. I muffled the expletives screaming in my head as I tried, unsuccessfully, to get up. I must have sounded like a wounded puppy.

"Don't worry, mommy. You'll feel better soon," Little Dude encouraged and patted me on my head.

Good god! Is this the same boy who initiates the torture tag games that usually ends with his younger brother or both of them in tears? I couldn't help but feel proud.

Eager for more evidence that my first-born has, in fact, learned how to sympathize and give comfort, I faked a cry of pain.

Little Dude walked back to his toy. "You need to be more careful, mommy," he suggested.

Ouch!