Cheaters?

"How was drama club today, B?," I asked on our usual walk home. "What did Mrs Day ask you to do?"

"It was fun, " B offered, eager to share his day with me. "She put us into groups. First there was SPACE. Then there were the CHEATERS. Then the INDIANS. Then ICE."

This jolted me out of my reverie and made me bring E's pushchair to a screeching halt on the footpath. Then I caught myself and took a step forward, trying to sound casual as I asked, "Cheaters? There was a group of CHEATERS in drama club? What kind of cheaters?"

"Cheaters," said B patiently. "The ones that run really fast and look like big cats."

Ohhhhh, comprehension dawned. CHEETAHS, he meant. Except that here in the UK, people often end words like this with "er" instead. Like, look at the way Simon Cowell calls Paula Abdul as "Pauler." The "ah" becomes an "er." I'll give other examples in another post.

So I set to work. "It's CHEETAHS, B, not CHEATERS." And thankfully, this time, he didn't argue with me but simply accepted what I said as gospel truth. An increasingly rare occurrence nowadays, especially since Miss N and his other teachers have taken precedence over Nanay in the knowledge category, well, as far as B is concerned anyway. Sigh. I know it's a phase, but it's still quite hard to accept, that's all.

Then B went on chatting about what the drama club groups did-- the SPACE group rode a spaceship to the moon and took pictures for the whole drama club to see, the CHEETAHS raced around the hall as fast as their feet could carry them, the INDIANS said woowooowooowoowoo with their hands over their mouths and the ICE group (which B was a part of), well, they just slid and glided around on this searing hot summer's day.

Very nice, very creative, and so much fun, this after-school drama club.

Pixie Dust and Other Questions I Probably Didn't Answer Very Well

"Nanay," B asked as he watched Disney's Peter Pan on DVD, "Can I have some pixie dust, please? Because I would like so much to fly."

And I thought to myself: Wouldn't we all, B? Both your Tatay and I dreamed of flying as little kids, and it's a dream that one never quite outgrows, really. Glad you've joined the club at last!

But actually, I was so surpised and pleased by his question that I didn't know what to say. Obviously, I would never have the heart to tell him what them grown-ups know all too well--- that pixies and fairies don't exist (oops, did I just kill a fairy? Sorry, Tink!), but where was I to get this pixie dust that he wanted? So I asked him that, and he said, "That's easy. We'll just get some from the pixie store!"

***

One time, we were in the bathroom getting him ready for bed when he casually enquired, "Nanay, how come you don't have a pitoy?" He was referring, in Cebuano dialect, to the body part where his wee comes out from.

I silently panicked. Where, oh where, was his Tatay to be found? How come these questions come on MY shift??? I decided to do my best.

"Ummm, because I'm a girl, and girls don't have pitoys."

"Why?," he persisted.

Oh, dear Lord. How to explain this to a boy who just turned 6?

"Er, ahh, I don't know, B, but I do know that both boys and girls are special, whether they have pitoys or not. God made all of us special, even though we're different from each other."

That seemed to do it, I think. He was quiet for a while. And then, "Nanay, is that why you don't stand up when you do a wee-wee? Because you don't have a pitoy?"

He had seen me?? He had seen me!! I picked myself off the floor where I had fallen, dusted myself off, smiled feebly and simply said yes.

***

O brought home a DVD of Annie (the 1982 classic film version of the musical) on Friday evening. By the next day, B had memorised most of the songs. And he had, as you can imagine, even more questions on his little mind: "Where are Annie's nanay and tatay? Why did they leave her? Why is Miss Hannigan so mean to the little girls? What's an orphan?"

***

And to think--- just a few years ago, just after B was diagnosed and he was talking purely in incomprehensible jargon--- to think that I had despaired of ever hearing him ask me a single rational question, or say a straight sentence. I had so much wanted to teach my children, to have them ask me Why, Nanay? How? What? What for?, that to be told that I had a son who might never look into my eyes, or ask me questions, or show interest in other people, or even just call me by name, was devastating. And now, now that B has proven medical science wrong, I find myself utterly unprepared for all his wonderful, observant, overflowing curiosity about the world and about people.

How fantastic to be caught by surprise by God's work!