Skip to main content

Sequential Chocolates

If one were to measure growth of a little person based on their reaction to advent calendars (and I am going to), one would be able to chart significant growth and change from year 3 to year 4.  Last year's reaction to advent calendars by my son spoke volumes about his concept of time.  "Tiny chocolates behind little doors?  That is all I need to know. Let's open all those doors, get those chocolates out of their little windows as soon as."  The idea that those little chocolate squares are behind little doors that have numbers on them was unimportant to him.  The idea that those same numbers indicated that  the doors were meant to be opened in a sequence was also lost on him.  In fact, the idea that the shape of those numbers 3, 18, 23 ...were an amount of something or ordering something was also not quite in place yet.  If Christmas had come as fast as the chocolates counted down towards it, it would have been a very short season.  I had to hide it between times and if I wasn't looking, a whole week could be ingested in one shot.

This year, the response has definitely changed.  "What number is it today Mama?"  Thirteen.
"What's that?"   1-3
"1-3, 1-3, 1-3,  I found it, 1-3 Mama.  1-3". 

The shape that makes 13 is now a number on a door-a door that should be opened before another door.  After a certain number of doors, it will be Christmas.



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I entered August without you.

 I won't visit you this month.  You won't call. I will raid your garden and you won't get any of the vegetables. I will make plans without telling you about them. We'll go to the store and not buy you one single thing. Whole books will be read and I will not tell you which ones. I will watch movies and not inform you. The nasturiums will ripen. Last month was different. I changed my schedule and took time off work to be with you.   I dropped all kinds of plans for us to be together. You sent me messages, I received them. I picked up food that I thought you would like at the store and sent you pictures of every beautiful thing I saw. I sang with you. We watched the Great Canadian Baking Show. You chose the recipe for the garlic scape pesto and gave me instructions for making the gooseberry jam. I am in August without you. You are in July.

Keep telling yourself that.

We talk to ourselves everyday, all day (and night) for the whole of our lives. We started talking to ourselves before we knew we were a self, we forget what we said because we forget everything from before...when we were too young and busy developing our brain to remember those early years. There is still lingering residue of long forgotten conversations I have had with myself as a toddler sitting around in the crevices...sloughing off occasionally into words I tell myself still.   We talk non-stop, and not just with dialogue.  Our goosebumps communicate to us, our tingly feelings, our neurons, our peripheal vision.  They are all submitting data into our self and expecting us to react, respond or all to often, expecting what they are sending us will be ignored. After all that talking, you'd think we'd know what we think about most things, but occasionally we are stumped.  Unless we stop what we are doing and really concentrate sometimes that voice(s) ...

The tiny little lie

"What I've discovered is that in art, as in music, there's a lot of truth-and then there's a lie. The artist is essentially creating his work to make this lie a truth, but he slides it in amongst all the others. The tiny little lie is the moment I live for, my moment. It's the moment that the audience falls in love."   Lady Gaga "There's a robot.  Do you see Mama his big eyes?  He's a tall Robot and he is right over there."  Do you see him?  Have you seen him before?  I was pleased to realize that I could. When I was about 6 or 7, I occasionally used to lie on my back at the foot of my bed and stare up a patch of stucco on the ceiling.  Repeatedly and for what seemed like ages at a time, I would stare up at a cluster of tiny peaks of stucco that I could see with my 6 year old eyes was a little village inhabited by little creatures (half human, half smurf) marching around it.  It was animated enough by the tiny shadows cast by those t...