rain dance: outside/inside

i know just how lucky we are. spring thaw is upon us. and yet this is precisely the time of year that i get very impatient for warmer, drier weather. 

so we're outside at least once a day, for as long as we can stand the rain. and we're inside the rest of the time, finding ways keep to anticipation at bay while we fight the stir crazy.

after all, spring means change. and change is constant. change is imminent. change is chomping at the bit, biding its time, quietly, faithfully - until the ringing shot throws us into the chaos of the unknown.

which means staying present is the name of the game. and rain dancing - outside and inside - is how we play. 

beluga sunday

this week, we followed our almost 3-year old's lead for our one day a week excursion.


i was told by the boy's preschool teacher that he has been spending all of his time at the marine mammals "station," listening to "baby beluga" on repeat, snuggling the mama and baby beluga soft toy, and staring at the identification poster that features all manner of whales and dolphins.


at home, the boy has been spending all his time with the orca soft toy that his grandfather got him when they went to the aquarium together on his last visit, and requesting free willy and free willy 2, on repeat.


so to the aquarium we went.

i was very sad to learn that the vancouver aquarium lost another beluga calf.

tiqa was born just when i got pregnant with the boy. i watched his mother, qila (now the youngest of the belugas at the aquarium once again), give birth to tiqa, just when i was becoming a mother, myself. so i was nearly in tears when i asked about the details. 


although i feel rather silly feeling so strongly about the loss of a beluga i "hardly knew,"  i understand that my affinity comes from a primal place: the universal experiences of motherhood, parenthood, and loss.

"qila" (i think)

so that when the boy asked, "where's the baby belugas?" i had to tell him the truth. that they died. that tiqa was sick; and that her cousin nala died because rocks (and a penny) went into her blow hole.


"they died?" he repeated.


"they got sick?" he asked again and again, truly wanting to know.


and for the next few hours as we settled back home, he continued to process the information. "baby belugas died already," he kept saying. then he showed us that he understood what it meant for rocks to go into a whale's blowhole on the grey whale softie he got from the aquarium today (for free!). 


"all the belugas died already," he continued to say.


of course, the wife (and i) helped the boy along by reminding him of the belugas he did see. and the dolphins. and the turtles. and the sharks. that he can tell his teachers and his classmates about his adventures. lest he tell them only that "all the belugas died already." 

i know we'll continue to have more conversations about what happened to the baby belugas for a long time. every time we go back to the aquarium, i expect.


but boy oh boy, this was much more unschooling than we bargained for. 

as for the girl... she had a good time on this, her first aquarium visit. she saw her first beluga up close, gave qila her big smile, and then went on to other, more important matters: like snoozing on my chest, enjoying her first ride in a new (to her) carrier, and people watching.

not exactly a zero-dollar experience. nor was it void of difficult, but important life lessons.

but before kids, the wife and i would do dates like this all time: just the two of us, or with friends and family.  


only now we each have a baby to wear, intellectual curiosity to foster, and challenging parenting choices to make. 

an attempt to take a shot of the four of us.
the boy is on the wife's back.
the girl, on my chest, asleep.

all in all, the best way to spend a sunday, really: together.

the rain don't get us down

my wish for snow has been thwarted by what appears to be the arrival of early spring.

in vancouver, this means steady and unrelenting rainfall. like full on dark and stormy days. and when it’s not dark and stormy, it’s misting steadily. and when it's not misting steadily, it's all cloud, with no silver lining in sight.


it can all get pretty depressing.

but we choose to rage against the dreary, we do. 


we dress the kids in super-warm clothing. we throw them both in our best stroller. and we prepare to get really, really wet.

 if only to run a few errands.

like buy an umbrella.

because there isn't any point in all four of us bouncing off the walls together on a rainy day.