GLOBE AND MAIL
FACTS AND ARGUMENTS: THE ESSAY

Cotton is silk and every day a holiday
by Carla Gunn

August 29, 2003

It's what we do every day that best reflects the fabric of our lives. I decide an everyday day is noteworthy.

Recently, I urged my son to write an essay about his summer vacation.

"Write what?" he asked.

"About camping or fossil hunting or watching your first car race," I said. He was uninspired.

Later I questioned what I had advocated to him -- focusing on the big events. After all, it's what we do every day that best reflects the fabric of our lives -- like cotton interwoven with bits of silk. But isn't cotton remarkable, too? Doesn't it have texture? I decide an everyday day is noteworthy.

An Everyday Day Morning: Younger son, six years old, creates a grapevine. He dips his thumb into purple paint and presses it onto a canvas to form grapes. Older son, 10 years old, mopes around the house complaining of boredom. As I walk to the table to look at the artwork, younger son jumps up to run to the bathroom. We collide. There is now a purple grape on the crotch of my white shorts.

Fast forward. I'm pulling weeds from the garden. I feel like Mickey Mouse as The Sorcerer's Apprentice in Fantasia , except the brooms are carrying dandelions instead of water. I love the garden, though. I love the scents, the silence. And unlike in other environments, I've only been pooped on once in the garden.

Younger son joins me. Despite the heat, he's dressed as a Ninja.

"Mom, did you know that the nurse shark is the smallest shark?"

"No." (I try not to admit ignorance too often since a year ago younger son asked me why my mother didn't teach me everything. He was indignant in case he would suffer a similar fate.).

"Mom, why do ants have three body sections?"

"Why do you have two ears?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I."

"Mom, did you put sunscreen or sunblock on me?"

"Hey, I thought Ninjas were silent."

I enjoy 20 seconds of silence.

Afternoon: We go grocery shopping. Not one of us enjoys this excursion. I rush from aisle to aisle.

The boys are right on my heels. As I turn from a freezer to head back to the cart, I bump into one and then the other of them. I feel like the Pied Piper.

"Boys, I've been a mother for 10 years and haven't bolted yet."

"Yeah," older son retorts, "but you never know." Expect the best but be prepared for the worst.

Late afternoon, younger son needs a cavity filled. After the last freezing, he chewed on his lower lip, and it swelled grotesquely. I assure him that everything will be fine this time. Like a trooper, he climbs into the chair, sits through the needles and the noise and then, just as the dentist is finishing, he bites down on the drill. He must now undergo a partial root canal.

I call my sister to lament. She's a sympathetic listener. Then she tells me her own troubles. Her two-year-old puts himself to sleep by rubbing other people's hair. While at the theatre, he stroked the head of the boy in front of him. When stopped, he threw a temper tantrum. He has such a fondness for hair that her husband has to wear his shirt at all times -- it's either that or shave his armpits. I feel better now.

Evening: We're having chicken and vegetables for supper. I open the oven and stick a fork into a potato. It's done. I then immediately use this fork to sample the cooled chicken on the stove top. My upper lip is well-done also.

Older son saunters into the kitchen. He shows me his loose molar and groans about the carrots.

"I won't be able to chew them and besides, I don't like them," he complains.

"But," I say, "they're baby carrots. They're soft. They're the best kind."

"It's funny how every carrot is the best carrot," he replies, "and how every food is my favourite food at every suppertime. I'm on to you, Mom. And why are you talking funny?"

Later, younger son says, "Mom, could you sneak up on me and cover my nose and mouth?" I'm stunned. I'm also worried. What a creepy request. "In Florida, you can swim with the dolphins," he explains, "but you can't cover the dolphin's blowhole because that's like when someone sneaks up on you and covers your nose and mouth. What's that like?" I'm relieved. In five minutes, I sneak up behind him and (briefly!) cover his mouth and nose. He feigns surprise, smiles and thanks me.

I check on older son. He's using the computer. He excitedly tells me that someone just tried to hack in. Through the firewall, we find the IP address. We report the offender to the internet service provider. We feel like detectives saving the country from corruption.

It's 7:30 p.m. and the boys' father arrives. They're spending the night with him. We say our goodbyes and exchange our I love you's.

I walk around the house and peer into their empty rooms. I listen to music and the only sound I hear is the music. I start to write a letter, give up and climb into my bed with its cotton sheets. Cotton is silk.

I miss them already.

Carla Gunn lives in Fredericton, N.B.