What Did She Say?

two kids wrapped in blue towels wearing sunglasses sitting in lounger chairs

WHAT did she say?
I will preface these stories only by saying that Penelope is a six-year-old with doe eyes and a mop of curls.

The other day, I notice Penelope’s on her way to the basement.
“What are you doing?” I ask her, friendly-like.
“You don’t need to know that.” She answers in a way that stuns me into silence—then laughter.

Atlas is our male dog. Out of the blue, Penelope asks me, “When is Atlas going to have babies?”

We’re in a period of deep learning.

While I was attending Kelly Thompson’s book launch in Toronto for her newest memoir, STILL I CANNOT SAVE YOU, Dan was home with our three girls, running the show, as one does. I want to take a second to acknowledge the dads who do the work of childrearing in the same way mothers are expected to do the work, which is to say, without expecting any praise or accolades. Of course, gratitude is always welcome and appreciated by either sex. All to say, Dan does the work because the work needs doing. And, as a mother manager, I’m learning (unlearning) that whatever that work looks like, however the job gets done, when I’m away, that’s not my concern. I do not need to micromanage my children’s father’s parenting, and I certainly would not appreciate him micromanaging mine. Who has time for that? We consult with one another, but whoever is in charge ultimately takes responsibility.
After Kelly’s event, I got in my car feeling satisfied from a fun, busy evening with friends and writers. I checked my phone.
This is the text Dan sent me. A candid exchange between him and Penelope:
Penelope: can I go for a walk by myself?
Dan: Sure. Have fun.
Penelope: I’ll walk to bus stop and back.
Dan: Sounds good. Don’t cross any streets.
She leaves and returns shortly.
Dan: That was quick!
Penelope: I turned the corner from our street and it was creepy. It scared the fuck out of me, so I came home.

Now, there’s a lot to unpack here, but I think the first most important piece of information to point out is that Penelope knows that the “F-word” is a “bad” word. But she does not know that the F-word is “Fuck”. Now she does.
Dan had a nice, civil, follow-up conversation with her about language and what’s appropriate for a grade one to say.
Penelope suggested she heard the word from kids at school—perhaps.
We’ll never know.

On Carrying Grief

Let me tell you a story. Once, there was a writer who gave birth to a daughter with Down syndrome. Wait. That’s not how the story goes. Let’s begin again.
Once, there was a woman who wanted to write a book. She gave birth to a daughter with Down syndrome and that experience was the catalyst that led her to write with a purpose. Furthermore, the writer now understood the book she wanted to write. For the writer, there is no point in writing without passion at the centre. Her love for her daughter filled that hole.
One day, the writer was journaling on her bed when an eerie blue light filtered through the blinds. The writer transformed into a mother cast in a shadow of sadness and she cried for seven days and seven nights. Her tears flowed and formed a river, which we will call “de-nile.” The mother wrote about the curse of the blue light, but she couldn’t free herself from the sadness. Not completely. The story and grief stayed inside her. For years, she carried the curse of the blue light, unable to free herself of its burden. The writer in her wrote, but the mother in her kept her from telling the full truth.
Nine years passed. The writer produced a book and was in the thick mire of writing another. And it was during the writing of that second book that the story of the blue light came back to her. She’d been carrying it deep inside of her all these years. She had no idea the story would save her.
The writer’s second book was a collection of essays. One of the essays she was editing was lengthy, unruly and in need of…something. She took the essay with her to a retreat in France searching for answers. There, she met and received guidance from a scribing sage: “I don’t usually do this,” the scribing sage cautioned about being prescriptive “but what you have here is two essays.” Now the writer could see what was obvious to an outsider. And so, the words were cleaved and a new essay in its infancy was born.
Later, at home, pondering the new essay and what it could become, the writer recalled the story of the blue light. With time and experience, she understood more fully where the sadness had come from and why. She had carried the weight of the blue light on her back and she was ready to fling it aside, like a pack that had once served her, but was now empty of reserves. But it’s true that the grief may never subside in its entirety, and the writer and the mother are okay with that. They will greet grief, upon its return, as though welcoming a long lost friend.
To research the ancient story, the writer dug through old journals, fished open old documents to accurately recreate the tale. Ultimately, she searched her own heart. And the pieces fit. The essay was complete. The writer smiled at the mother she once was, the person who needed to guard her truth. In the end, the blue light served her well. And only by releasing the truth of that experience could the blue light also serve others.
The process only took nine years.