Dad's Hands

My dad is in the ICU. A few weeks ago, we all thought he had a simple cold. None of us realized it was pneumonia nor the dangers it posed to my father who underwent a bypass surgery a couple of years ago.  Leaving the doctor's office with a prescription for antibiotics, my dad was overcome with weakness and could no longer stand. Passersby assisted by mother. An ambulance rushed him to the nearest ER. While being assessed, his heart stopped. My dad was resuscitated but he would go into cardiac arrest several more times. Each time, his will to survive and the medical team brought him back. By the time I was able to reach his side, he had stabilized. Nothing short of a miracle. He continued to hang on, and ever so slowly, his vital signs improved over the next 48 hours.
But the prolonged period of time without oxygen damaged his brain. That we knew and accepted. The extent of the damage remains unclear.
As the swelling in his brain crested, movements and reactions we had witnessed in Dad earlier disappeared. It tested our faith. Ever so incrementally, movement returned. First his right leg shifted. Then his right arm. Then he squeezed my hand with his. Tears of relief and joy filled my eyes.
As I stared down at our clasped hands, memories flooded me.
Dad's hands were swollen with fluid from this ordeal. Normally, his hands are strong. Not wizened, not sinewy, not mottled with liver spots. Rather lean and tanned, and fingernails always trimmed.
His hands have gently cradled my siblings and me when we were infants. His hands also meted out discipline and punishment when required.
His hands grabbed me and pulled me out of the water when I went in over my head at Point Pelee as a toddler. Although I was only two or three, I remember seeing the water close over my head, bubbles from the air escaping my lungs as I cried out, and then the feeling of relief as strong hands gripped me. My dad's life-saving hands.
Those same hands held onto the back of my bicycle seat while he ran alongside, teaching me how to ride a two-wheeler. I never noticed he had let go and I was actually pedalling and riding on my own, until I glanced at the shadows and saw that I was alone. My confidence dropped and the front wheel wobbled, and I crashed into the curb. Those same hands that applied bandaids to the cuts and scrapes from that fall.
My dad's hands taught me how to change a flat tire, and replace brake pads. And they gripped the dashboard with white knuckles while he barked out driving instructions to me. My younger sister ended up taking driving lessons with a professional instructor.
His hands have clumsily brushed and tied my sister's hair into pigtails when he took care of us girls while my mother was in Korea for a summer vacation.
His hands demonstrated how to hold the knife and chop vegetables for a salad - his version of a Waldorf salad. Dad was very particular about how chores were to be done, as he demonstrated the proper technique for sweeping the kitchen floor. Three tile squares at a time, otherwise the dust would go everywhere.
His hands are calloused from hard work. He toiled in the backyard and garden, spending hours tying up the grape vines, or digging up the soil. He got blisters from helping us scrape up the ugly parquet tiles in the house we had just purchased, in preparation for new wood flooring.  His hands tinker with household appliances, fixing broken toasters and soldering leaky pipes.
Those same hands delicately held a sewing needle as he taught me how to fix a broken strap on my knapsack.
His hands have proudly clapped at many graduations. His hands held his daughters' as he accompanied them down the aisles on their wedding days.
I stroke his hands as I remember how he held and baptized his grandchildren. 
I believe his hands will soon bring us comfort through his touch. I have to believe my strong-willed father will overcome this challenge. He has already beaten the odds. His life has been about setting his own course, doing the unexpected and the unconventional and walking to the beat of his own drum. Who else would pursue a second career as a minister, a preacher by returning to school at the age of 50? A dreamer too.
This may be a big bump in the road, but it's not a roadblock. It's a detour.
I believe his hands will again hold us close, and will stroke his grandchildren's faces. Soon.

Memories of my First Halloween

This year, I can sit at home and give out treats, enjoying the silence of a normally chaotic home. All the kids are trick or treating with their pals, and Daddy is out supervising the boys. Fortunately, the rain stopped and it's actually warm for an October night. I'm seeing more trick or treaters than usual.
As I hand out treats to little goblins, I am overcome by the memory of my very first Halloween ever.
My parents, being recent immigrants from Korea, had never heard of this tradition of dressing up in costumes and going door to door to receive candy. That didn't happen in Korea, at least not back then.
We were at my surrogate Grandfather's home, and he came down with a ratty looking pillow case, and beckoned me to follow. I remember going around his neighbourhood, shyly repeating "trick or treat" and getting CANDY in the pillowcase. What an exciting experience! I think I was 3 or 4 years old.  I wasn't ever allowed to eat candy! But that night, I got to indulge in everything I had earned from my trek.
The following year, I remember my dad taking me out in our neighbourhood. My mom hadn't quite gotten the idea of a costume, but I remember wearing an uncomfortable plastic Wonder Woman mask that cut into my face and getting more candy than the previous year.
As the years went on, our costumes got better. Mom made a witch costume, and I remember someone being a bunny. My younger sister still uses the jack o'lantern outfit mom made for her thirty years ago.
Dr. Toop was a crusty bachelor who didn't really participate in children's activities, but I know he made an exception for me. Instead of candy though, I think he gave out pennies.  It has been several years now since our surrogate Grandfather passed away. He was a huge part of my life, from introducing me to Halloween, to helping me with science projects and teaching us all how to curse. His driving tips still stick with me - it's safe to change lanes when you can see the other car's bumper in your rear view mirror, and you know you've gone too far when you hear a sickening crunch! I learned how to tile a wall, and how to polish a floor with wax (a skill I will likely never use again). Dr. Toop was with Dad and me when I opened my first bank account at age six and then treated me to dinner at Sneaky Pete's. I remember "educational" trips to museums and going to the police auction with him to bid on a ten speed bike. I paid way too much for it and spent just as much on buying new gears, tires, and paint for it. There was a lesson in that too.
What I also remember now is, while Dr. Toop introduced the Kim family to Halloween, Valentine's Day was another North American tradition (at that time) that he did NOT explain. I remember being in kindergarten, and cutting pink and red hearts to paste on an empty cracker box. Then sitting in a circle on the rug while all the other children dropped paper into the boxes, while I was at first mystified, then mortified that I had nothing to share! That was how the Kims became acquainted with Valentine's Day.

The pen is mightier than the sword

With four kids, physical fights are inevitable. I think it's unrealistic to expect children won't resort to kicking, punching, pushing, biting, pulling hair and jumping on one another to solve their conflicts. I'm not suggesting it's the preferred method to deal with differences, but it's not out of the ordinary. What we hope to accomplish as parents, in raising the hellions to become respectable citizens of this world, is to guide them away from physical aggression and to more constructive means of communication. Words. Spoken or otherwise, but words that are not hurtful. Words that can convey their frustrations and feelings of angst.
Although the following pictures are over a year old, I think we're getting somewhere on that particular parenting responsibility.
The following is an exchange between siblings, posted to each other's bedroom door:

And, finally, just to show that writing down one's frustrations can be a cathartic experience:

His middle name!

When you have 4 kids, all attempts at watching your language go out the window. Or at least it does in my case. For those of you whose children have never heard a four letter word uttered in your home, unless of course, the toilet backed up at the same time the washing machine broke down and you dropped a wrench on your big toe, good on ya. You’re going to parent heaven and I am burning in hell.

There you go, another 4 letter word.

And then there’s being the parent to a precocious, curious, over active, mischievous child. It never fails that when I need be somewhere or need to have Quinn do something, it doesn’t happen according to plan or schedule.

Inevitably, there will be a crash, or a thump, or an “oopsy” and then, a “Quinn – Goddammit! Can you please ____” and fill in the blank with whatever you want. Brush your teeth, stop touching that wire, stop hitting/scratching/kicking, stop picking your nose, get out the door, pick up the toy you threw, finish your lunch …”

I have lost all pretence of attempting to edit my language at home. Yes, I’m sure that makes me a very poor role model for my children. But so long as they’re able to understand what is acceptable language for mommy and what is not acceptable for them, my children are learning self-regulation.

Although, perhaps I too need a lesson in self-regulation.

The other day, after another episode of “Quinn, goddammit, can you please ___”, my little precocious tot stated “That’s my middle name!”

“What’s your name?” I asked absently while tending to his latest misadventure.

“Goddammit!”

Only hugs at School

How can it be? Quinn is in grade one.
With that comes the new rules for Mommy. No more kisses at drop off.
I am allowed hugs only.
Today, he gave me a kiss. But not anywhere near the school.
Once on school property, I was reminded it would be a hug only.
I must have looked sad.
He stated, "Ok, maybe a kiss on the cheek. But that's it."

That's okay. After school, it's kisses galore, and hugs a plenty. And there's still great fights at bedtime over who gets to sleep with Mommy.

Never Underestimate Ceilidh

At the beginning of the school year, Ceilidh was excited to have a certain teacher. It seemed, in a few short days, the two of them had bonded over their mutual love of reading. Fast forward a few weeks, and Ceilidh came home, glum and upset over the news she was being moved to another class over re-organization of the classes. While she was heartened by the fact she would remain with two of her best buds, the new teacher was an unknown and she wasn't sure what to expect.
As a parent, I gave her the talk about doing the best in whatever situation we find ourselves in, and that life isn't always easy. The old, make lemonade when you're handed lemons lecture.
The first day with the new teacher didn't go well. Ceilidh mentioned being reprimanded over how she handled a task. Having listened to Ceilidh's recitation of the facts, I felt maybe the teacher had overreacted but suggested to Ceilidh that she should have apologized. Over the next few days, I noticed Ceilidh's  school agenda remained blank, and her details about the day's events were slim. Her enthusiasm for class began to wane. The only time she showed any interest was when the decision was announced to establish a student council. With a bit of urging and encouragement, Ceilidh decided to throw her hat into the race for the student council prime minister.
Even though she was running against one of her best friends, she showed no animosity. In fact, she and her opponent got together one afternoon to brainstorm ideas for campaign posters. They vowed to remain BFFs no matter what. Ultimately, Ceilidh was unsuccessful in her run as prime minister and was chosen as a call rep instead. Her best friend was elected as prime minister and the honest heartfelt excitement Ceilidh displayed for her best bud was humbling to me as a parent. World leaders could learn a thing or two from the maturity my 11 year old daughter!
Once the excitement of the elections wore off, Ceilidh returned to her ho-hum attitude about school. This was most unusual from my model student child. We soon learned the why.
Last week, a most distressing message was left on our voice mail. Her teacher insisted on an urgent meeting to discuss Ceilidh. That was all. No further details. Upon being questioned after school, Ceilidh relayed a tale where she was singled out and yelled at by the teacher for not completing a voluntary assignment, and for berated for making up an excuse about not being able to retrieve the document from cyberspace. Furthermore, she was told there was a "reason" for Ceilidh's transfer into this teacher's class and it was now clear as to what that was. However, she didn't enlighten Ceilidh on that reason, but announced to the entire class that she had called Ceilidh's parents and was expecting a phone call in return. And, she also sent a message to Ceilidh at recess through her little sister Aisling. The message being "Your teacher is unhappy with you."
Now, I'm not the parent to simply believe every word my child states. Frankly speaking, I know children exaggerate and my kids are especially good at overstating a situation. However, I received a call from another parent that evening, repeating what Ceilidh had earlier stated. This parent further advised me this berating of students was not an unusual occurrence, and the fact that Ceilidh, a model student, was now being targeted, was concerning.
Armed with that tidbit, I didn't hesitate in calling the principal the next day. Whatever this teacher had advised the principal, I pointed out Ceilidh's mature reaction to the student council election results to refute the incorrect assumptions this teacher had made. Given the conflicting stories, it was decided a meeting with all the parties needed to be held. I insisted on a meeting in short order given Ceilidh's reluctance to now attend school and the tears that ensued in the mornings.
Ceilidh was upset to learn she was to be included in this meeting. Given her reaction, I was suspicious that perhaps Ceilidh hadn't been quite truthful with us, and maybe this teacher was in the right. Nonetheless, I instructed Ceilidh to write down what she wanted to say to her teacher, including her list of complaints and how being the subject of the teacher's wrath made her feel.
I'm sure this teacher felt this meeting was going to be her opportunity to showcase all of Ceilidh's faults, and to extol the advantages of her teaching methods. This teacher's platform was critical thinking, and apparently, her method was forced group work in order for all the minds to expand. But without saying so, it was also clear she marked each student on a floating scale. Without a standard for which all students were held to, each student had their own "gold standard" they were to achieve. That standard depended on each student's particular abilities. So while Ceilidh would put in the same amount of work as another, she would receive a lower mark because she was capable of more in this teacher's eyes. While the desire to do better for the mere satisfaction of challenging oneself is great, it's a bit much to expect 11 year olds to attain this lofty goal.
After listening to this teacher critique Ceilidh, we deftly turned the floor over to Ceilidh. She was clearly nervous. But she held her own. First, she asked if she could respond to the teacher's accusations of 5 incidents of "misbehaviour". Ceilidh then provided her own recounting of the events with much greater detail and clarity, which prompted this teacher to interject with an explanation or excuse. She didn't have much to say when she was corrected on the names of those involved. Ceilidh continued on. She listed the teacher's shortcomings, including not listening to the students and not allowing them to explain without being cut off. She described how scared she felt when she was yelled at in front of the entire class. And when this teacher had the audacity to suggest Ceilidh was misinterpreting certain comments, Ceilidh challenged her and asked her point blank, "Do you think I'm lying?"
Ceilidh asked her what was the reason for being placed in her class? Watching this teacher struggle to answer was something I wish I could recorded. It was clear that comment was made without thinking, for she had nothing.
Bravo Ceilidh!
The teacher sputtered and deflected, denied and made all sorts of excuses. Her inability to have an insight into her own behaviours displayed her gross lack of maturity - both as an educator and as an adult. Her inability to be flexible in her teaching methods and being unprepared for a meeting with the parents also showed her own high opinion of herself. She addressed me incorrectly, and when I pointed out my name was clearly stated on the student records, she was silenced, momentarily. If this teacher had taken the time to review Ceilidh's school records and past report cards, it would have been clear that Ceilidh's strengths were leadership and independence, not forced collaboration.
Ultimately, we were successful in having Ceilidh moved to another teacher. After all, our goal was to ensure our child had a supportive environment in which to learn. To restore her enthusiasm for education and going to school. While all the right things were stated about the importance of trust and respect between a teacher and a student in moving Ceilidh I hope it was made clear to this principal that this staff member is not cut out to educate young impressionable beings.
Mostly, I am proud to have a daughter who was not afraid to speak up for her classmates who are also berated by this "role model". A child who looked her teacher in the eye and stated the incident where she was singled out was the last straw. She didn't back down when the teacher accused Ceilidh of lying, but instead calmly explained her side of the story in a composed manner.
Bravo Ceilidh!
P.S. Apparently, this teacher spent the rest of the day glaring at Ceilidh. Doesn't that speak volumes?

Minding our Manners

Trick or treating this year with Quinn, I felt like I was constantly reminding him to say "Thank you" after the brightly wrapped candy bar was dropped into his loot bag. I get it - it's exciting, and he's more interested in the treats than being polite.
It's always shocking to me and Daddy when the teachers are describing our progeny as polite, well behaved, cooperative and helpful in the classroom. I often wonder if they've mixed up our kids with someone else's. Their aunt and uncle who regularly host them for sleep overs also report nothing but the best behaviours from them. Which again, I find shocking because there isn't a single night without an issue at bedtime.
One afternoon, I dropped off Aisling for her first sleep-over party. As she was taking her jacket off, I issued a litany of reminders and ended with "Mind your manners! Please and thank yous!"
She  responded with, "We're always polite at other people's homes. It's just at home, we're not."
All the parenting books I've read suggest that we must be doing an okay job in raising our kids if they are well behaved in public and for others. The children know what is expected of them, but at home, they feel comfortable in the unconditional love of their parents, so they feel "safe" in acting out, and testing the limits of bad behaviour. Or testing the limits of their parents' patience with their shenanigans.
And yet, sometimes they do remember to use their manners.
The other night, Daddy went to give Quinn his usual good night kiss - a slobbery "doggie" kiss.
Quinn buried his head under the pillows and said "No thank you Daddy. I don't want a kiss!"