The Brewster Bulletin

Mia's Dance Moves

2012-01-20T20:54:00.003-05:00

I’ve written a few times on my blog about the various musical aspirations I’ve had for my children. Toby was the first one to dupe me by PRETENDING to be a fan of Kanye while in the womb and then staring at me DUMBFOUNDED when I introduced him to real life hip hop music that wasn’t obscured by amniotic fluid. He then went on to prove to me that what kids ACTUALLY like are Raffi songs and Old MacDonald had a Farm. It took some getting used to, but almost 4 years into it, I now more often than not find myself bopping along to “Baby Beluga” for at LEAST 5 minutes after letting Toby off at daycare. It takes a while before noticing that I have regained control of my radio again.

OK FINE, that’s not the whole story. The truth is that a lot of times now I don’t even BOTHER to turn it off. Whoever WRITES these catchy songs for kids probably has a side job in Vegas because they draft the most ADDICTIVE and CATCHY tunes imaginable. After a few times you don’t even NOTICE how ridiculous the lyrics are you have so EMBEDDED the tune in your brain you just can’t suppress the urge to whistle, hum or sing it. Over. And Over. And finally HEARING the song again after whistling, humming or singing it to yourself all day long at the office is like finally scratching that spot on your back that has been itching all day long.

And then there was Mia.

Having learned NOTHING from Pregnancy #1, this time, Mia’s in utero musical selection had me convinced that she was a Drag Queen. (I guess the very fact that her default genitals are female immediately disproves my suspicion.) Mia didn’t seem to react AT ALL to music while she was a wee zygote. In fact, all of the addictive Raffi tunes in the world (and even Toby’s month long Frosty the Snowman kick) didn’t jolt her into a few kicks. It wasn’t until I was at the musical Priscilla Queen of the Desert that she proved that not only could she hear, but also that she LOVED that particular genre of music.

Since her birth I have PURPOSELY not brought out my Stayin Alive CD in the hopes of delaying the inevitable.

The real Mia is a serious little girl. It used to take a lot to get her to smile but she is realizing that life isn’t always so intense and has started grinning away mischievously and laughing loudly at anything and everything her idolized big brother does in front of her.

Just a few weeks ago, though, she showed us she could dance. At first we thought she was just shaking her head, “no” a lot, but then we seemed to put the pieces together and realized her very unique style of dance that was being demonstrated to us; head banging.

For the past while we thought her “head banging” was one dimensional – side-to-side in only the horizontal direction. But last night, when we brought out Dance Mix 2011 for our after dinner dance party, Mia’s dancing took on a WHOLE NEW LEVEL.

She started bouncing her head…

(Wait for it)

UP AND DOWN.

Now, I know this doesn’t PROVE anything - -I have been duped before and I will be duped again by my own offspring. But is this video not a PROMISING sign that MAYBE, just MAYBE I have birthed a child who finally APPRECIATES hip hop music?

I leave the question for you to ponder as you enjoy the uniquely hers dance moves of my sweet little Mia.

(Don’t judge me for owning Dance Mix 2011. It was a Christmas gift…from Santa.)

Rediscovering old hobbies

2012-01-07T10:56:00.002-05:00

One of my favourite things that I learned in Thunder Bay was how to skate ski. I remember the serene kid-free weekends I used to spend up there, where my only plan for the day was to go skate skiing with Jane. We would meet at noon and take as long as we wanted, admiring the vastly beautiful landscape and the sweet behinds of the tall Finnish population of Thunder Bay as we tortured our lungs and legs with the great new sport I had discovered.

Towards the end of our 3-year stint up north I purchased a pair of skate skis in the hopes that I would continue to enjoy my newfound sport after my return to southern Ontario.

But alas, moving away from Thunder Bay I became busy with work and new friends. Before I knew it I had entered the first stages of parenthood; the symbiotic 9months of alien inhabitation that took over my body followed by the equally grueling 9 months of breastfeeding-not-sleeping-no-time-to-myself chaos that ensued. Needless to say, as my belly expanded with new life, so too did the cobwebs on my beloved pair of skate skis.

And then, just when life started to slow down a little we decided to do it all over again.

And so here I find myself, SIX YEARS post Thunder Bay, in the irrational excitement of Mia’s soon to be first birthday, eagerly fooling myself into thinking that I have life under enough control that I can finally rekindle the friendship I had with my skis last century.

My mission was ALMOST FOILED by an unexpected scheduling change at work and an impromptu snow squall, but I forged ahead and completed my mission.

I was the only one at the ski hills that day; apparently the “southern skiers” are easily deterred by bad weather. I scoffed to think what the tall Finnish Thunder Bay-ites would think of the feeble resolve of us lowly southerners. The ladies in the shop were QUITE pleased to finally have a customer on this particularly blustering minus 20 degree day and even offered some free trail advice.

And off I went.

Resuming the long lost sport of skate skiing after an unplanned 6 year hiatus is similar to going into labour for the second time; after two contractions it all comes FLOODING BACK to you and you suddenly REMEMBER as if it was only yesterday.

THIS.

SUCKS.

It is a GOOD THING I was all alone in the woods this week when I “rediscovered” the sport. Even then, I was SO BADLY out of shape and SO BRUTALLY unprepared that I was EMBARASSED.

It’s like the time old conundrum “If a tree falls in the middle of the woods, does anyone hear it?“ only changed up a little to read, “If Alyssa skate ski’s TERRIBLY in the middle of the woods and no one sees should she be embarrassed?”

The answer is yes.

In anticipation of the snow storm I had put on leggings, tights, pants AND show pants along with a long sleeve shirt, sweater, hoodie and bomber ski jacket, complete with scarf, ski mitts, hat and neck-warmer.

I looked like I could take on the abominable snowman but to put me on a pair of slender skate skis and ask me to sleekly glide through the woods was ludicrous.

And so I trudged along, huffing and puffing with my nose running profusely, every pore of my scalp sweating so much that my big ski hat kept falling off my head and an audible GROAN escaped my lips with every painful stride.

It was a LONG 2 km but FINALLY I made it back to the lodge without dying. As I stepped back in to the safety of the ski chalet a cloud of evaporating sweat ERUPTED over my head which told everyone there just how out of shape I was. But I forged on through the last few steps of utter embarrassment and managed to get to my car and out the driveway without a second glance.

I am proud to report that my skate skis are no longer covered in dust and cobwebs.

I may not be able walk without the telltale limp of a timely beating of unfamiliar muscles, but I am proud to say that Alyssa the Skate- Skier is back on the tracks. I may be the slowest one out there but hey; I do my Thunder Bay peeps proud…. I think…

2011

2012-01-01T19:49:00.001-05:00

And alas, the year I thought would never arrive (and then never end) has done both of the above. I see 2011 off with a sigh and a smile as I am left with a potty trained 3 year-old, a busy toothful 11 month old, a rambunctious dog and a brand new coffee maker. Life is good.

This time last year, life was a big question mark. I riddled with questions about the new person about to enter our lives – when, where and how they would arrive and, most importantly of all, WHO they were.

And now we know. She turned our lives and our hearts upside down and is now hard at work at doing the same with our house. We have wooden construction pieces strewn all over the floor, a partially decorated tree with countless broken ornaments scattered at its feet and bite marks on the wooden furniture. But we also have the sight of her huge smile to wake up to every morning, the sounds of her and Toby’s laughter entertaining us after dinner and the smell of her sweet baby-ness as we snuggle her to sleep at night.

It all seems so simple when I write it on my blog – “it was tough but now it’s better” doesn’t quite apply to babies OR toddlers. There are still many moments when I want to pull my own or one of my children’s hair out. There are other moments when the Tina Fey scenario – drinking a diet sprite alone in a motel room – still sounds like absolute bliss. Some days the hours go by so quickly I don’t have time to breathe; other days 20 minutes in the playroom with both kids seems to last for hours.

I don’t expect any of that to change in 2012, but I feel a bit more prepared for what lies ahead than I did this time last year. I greet the New Year with crossed fingers for healthy children and for the supposed 99% efficacy of our chosen method of birth control.

Wishing health and happiness to you as well in 2012! Thanks for reading along on our journey….

See you next year!

Tis the Season to be Nice

2011-12-30T11:22:00.004-05:00

Christmases past have been a learning curve for all of us. It has taken 3 years and I finally think Toby has grasped the concept that there is something beyond the wrapping paper, that the guy in the big red suit is worth not being afraid of, and that the baby’s name is NOT, in fact, Jay-Zee. (Some lessons more crucial than others when visiting the Catholic in laws…)

But this year, above all others, Toby has fixated on the differentiation between Naughty and Nice and the important ROLE this plays in the receiving of Christmas gifts. It’s a clever trick to play on kids, getting them to be well behaved on the threat of being passed up on Christmas Eve, but I take no credit for it; the kid announced this notion to us out of the blue last week and we have no idea where he was taught it.

Well…not NO idea, I suppose. He does attend daycare everyday and comes home with all sort of interesting and sometimes misinterpreted tidbits. I suspect that someone, sometime over the past few weeks, CASUALLY mentioned the fact that they were all under observation for good behaviour by Mr. Claus and Toby took it very seriously to heart.

Not only is he on his VERY BEST behaviour these days, but also he is quick to comment on the naughty behaviours he observes in his peers (with a sad shake of his head).

Anthony, for example, failed to keep his hands on his own body today at lunchtime, but Toby reassured us that he “put them back on his own!” after having this pointed out to him by our loud-mouth-Christmas-reminder.

The other problem with his sudden insight into this is his very endearing and earnest concern for his little sister’s behaviour. Mia, unlikely Toby, is going through a bit of a naughty phase right now. I mean, who can blame the girl? She has JUST gained independence and we go and stick a tantalizing tree complete with colourful lights, balls and toys on strings at varying distances from her reach. She now knows enough to shake her head from side to side (WILLING herself not to touch) as she approaches the tree with outstretched arms but that's as far as we've gotten. The girl is PERSISTENT.

Her insistence NOT to learn the rule around tree touching reached a peak yesterday; I arrived home to find a giggling Mia in a heap on the grey chair with (a very frustrated) Rob holding her down in place while looking in the opposite direction.

What on EARTH are you doing? I asked him.

“I’m giving her a TIME OUT” emerged the gruff voice from he peals of 11-month-old laughter.

“OH…” I replied, “How’s THAT working for you?”

It appears Rob and I have lost our touch. We have mastered the art of 3-year-old ~~manipulation~~ discipline but when it comes to stubborn, excessively mobile 11 month olds we are stumped.

We are all hoping to wake up Christmas morning to find the Christmas tree still standing with lots of well deserved presents for Toby underneath it…and hopefully a little something for Mia as well. Fingers crossed!!!

Binary Speak

2011-12-16T15:12:00.002-05:00

As Toby’s language continues to develop, so does his overall perception of adult speech. He often tries to casually throw into conversation words and phrases that we say. Things like “What the heck!” or “What in the WORLD is going ON?” come up frequently (although often not entirely appropriately)

Where he is not quite so successful is in figuring out why adults insist on S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G certain things. ESPECIALLY around Christmas time.

It took us a while to figure out what he was doing but over the past week Toby has begun to announce a random array of numbers and consonants and then ask US what he is talking about. Needless to say, very SELDOMLY does his random array of misplaced digits make ANY sense to us.

In fact, his most common combination is that of ZERO ZERO ONE ZERO ONE TWO ZERO which reminds me somewhat eerily of a computer geek speaking in binary code to his friends. For all I know my sarcastic smirks to Rob and patronizing answers to his questions could be in futile irony; knowing Toby he is probably announcing some brilliant computer programming invention and all we keep saying is, “Use more letters, Toby! That doesn’t make any sense!”

Construction Zombies

2011-12-05T21:32:00.001-05:00

Have I mentioned to you that Mia is walking? I feel I need to clarify: way back when I posted the video of her first steps I believe I used the term. Back then it was more like “stepping tentatively”. NOW, a mere 2 weeks later, Mia is DEFINITELY walking.

In fact, (apart from defeting her brother at the nightly game of Tiger) it is her absolute favourite thing to do.

It is as if she is an elite athlete, rehearsing her sport in her sleep at night and coming back to her game refreshed and leaps and bounds ahead of herself the next morning. Every day she wakes up to cheerfully show off her newfound walking improvements; casually, as if they have been there all along but with a victorious grin that lets us know that she is QUITE proud of her new skills.

Being able to walk is quite liberating. Not only can you SEE more when you go on a walk about, but you are able to make more rational decisions and plans as to how you will spend your time. For example, Mia used to crawl around the house purposelessly, sometimes following us, sometimes following Toby, and sometimes following the dog. But now, being able to WALK, she follows the beat of her own drum.

Sometimes while we are in the kitchen doing such mundane tasks as eating dinner, cooking dinner or cleaning up from dinner, Mia will INSIST on getting down and then make her way to her bedroom and spend a good 5 minutes in there by herself, rummaging around through her stuff (that is now REACHABLE to someone on 2 feet) and then reappear with a prizewinning find in her hand.

“AHA!” the look on her face will say, “I have FOUND what I was looking for. It is a wooden NAIL!”

That’s right. My little girl once again disappoints the stereotypical part of my brain that longed for sugar and spice. The “shelf” that she can now reach contains palpable “toys” of all sorts; swim diapers, pink shoes and socks, little books, dolls, hair brushes and multicoloured foam alphabet letters. But no matter how long she spends “rummaging” she always navigates towards one particular array of toys; Toby’s wooden construction kit. And we never tire of seeing her triumphant two-toothed- grin, as she emerges from her room with a wooden nut or bolt or screw in her tight little fist.

I guess one could say it was all fun and games until she discovered the HAMMER last night. Our furniture, and Zak have yet to recover. The rest of us are still finding it endearing.

The funny part of this newfound development is in the uniquely 11-month-old hand placement. In my opinion, Mia is walking far before the point where her brain is developed enough to make rational sense of this new ability. (Hence the ridiculous choice of wooden construction toys she proudly produces for us!) But her feet are also ahead of her upper torso. Although she seems to be able to motor quite quickly with her legs, her arms, on the other hand, remain the tentative rate limiting part of her gait and she continues to walk with them straight out in front of her.

And hence the title of this enamoured post: my little construction zombie.

It’s hard to believe that a year ago, as we got our Christmas decorations out from the boxes, I didn’t even know whether she was a boy or a girl. And now here she is, blessing our lives with her exuberantly awkward walk and her intense love of her brother that has her growling with ferocious “Da’s” and choosing wooden nails over pink dolls while simultaneously shattering every preconceived thought I’d had about having a daughter of my own.

Oh, Mia, how we love you so…

Mia Barks Back

2011-12-04T19:24:00.004-05:00

For a long time now we have enjoyed the friendly family game of "Tiger" each night after dinner.

You know the game- - the one where an adult sits on the floor with the baby and the toddler goes around the corner and comes out pretending to be a tiger, growling and snapping his teeth as he crawls towards us, scaring the beejezus out of the baby until she turns and tries as hard as possible to run away and in the process falls on her face.

It’s borderline child abuse but Toby and Mia both enjoy it SO much (until the part when she smacks her face on the ground) that it has become somewhat of a staple in our house.

As Mia’s mobility has grown so has the length and her enjoyment of game. She now turns and crawls away at top speed giggling as she goes. Most times she can even make it to the dining room table before face planting into the ground, which shows marked improvement.

Tonight, unexpectedly, the game took a DRASTIC and sudden turn.

Just as “the Tiger” was about to lay his paws on the excited Mia, she suddenly HALTED in her tracks, turned and STOOD UP, towering over the crouching Tiger and in a tentative voice said, “DA!”

Toby didn’t miss a beat and responded with a ferocious GROWL.

Mia didn’t back down. Instead, she THUMPED her fists into her sides and said a little more loudly, “DA!”

Finally, after a few more exchanges Mia’s wimpy yet determined attempt at a growl reached full volume and Toby the Tiger (out of boredom, not chivalry) accepted defeat and went to find some monster trucks to play with.

Mia, somewhat disappointed to have put an abrupt end to her favourite game settled back down onto her bum and stared longingly after her departed playmate before turning to me and very sweetly asking, “Da?”

My darling daughter has not only learned to growl, but for the first time in her 10 months of life, has stood up to (and defeated) her older brother.

You go, girl!

The Christmas Countdown

2011-12-02T20:58:00.000-05:00

“How many sleeps until Christmas, Mommy?” Toby asked me excitedly on his way to skating last week.

“Twenty Six,” I answered back honestly.

Toby would have none of it.

“But MOMMY I already HAD lots of sleeps…. so HOW MANY sleeps until Christmas?”

“Twenty six, Toby” I re-delivered the cold hard truth “There’s nothing you can do to change it.”

“But MOMMY,” he insisted, “FOR EXAMPLE I slept LAST night. So HOW MANY sleeps until Christmas?!?!?”

I delivered the heartbreaking news to him for a THIRD time.

His little head bowed and he stared solemnly at his hands and in a voice of utter defeat, sighed, “But MOMMY…I ONLY have TEN fingers to count with!”

I suggested he count his toes.

Toby set to work at counting his toes. Initially, I was surprised that, despite his mitts, thick socks and winter boots, he was able to discern that his left foot has in fact got 5 toes on it. But I was slightly disappointed to hear that his right foot only has 4 toes.

“No, Toby, you were right before, your feet each have 5 toes on them,” I corrected.

“Uh, NO, Mommy” he replied back with such a tone of adolescence you would swear we were debating something much more sophisticated than the number of toes on his feet, “My RIGHT foot only has FOUR toes on it.”

The victory of his ability to count through the multiple layers of winter wear was working against me in this instance.

Sometimes it’s better to just MOVE ON, so I quickly summarized and redirected,

“OK, well actually it DOESN’T. Both of your feet have FIVE toes so you have TEN toes and TEN fingers which is TWENTY and if you count both eyes, ears, mouth and nose,” I said pointing to each one slowly, “ You get TWENTY SIX which is the number of sleeps until Christmas.” (Thanks heavens we hadn’t had this conversation the day before or I would have been SOL.)

There was silence from the back seat.

I turned around and was met by a grim look peeking out at me from underneath he layers of full snow attire.

(Let me just say, it is REALLY hard to take your kid seriously when they are in full Michelin-Man-winter get up.)

I gave him some room to process the complex mathematical proposal I was setting before him.

The silence and solemn glaring from the back seat continued.

Finally I asked him, “Well, Toby, what do you think?”

Breaking the frozen look of despair he sighed, “I think, Mommy that you’re right.”

As I started my victory sigh he continued his thought for me,

“Except that I STILL only have FOUR toes on my right foot.”

The Occasional Angel in Him...

2011-11-28T20:23:00.003-05:00

Every now and then my boyish, Gochar-obsessed, eyeball-consumed, rude-joke-making 3 year old surprises me with such maternal tenderness I secretly wonder if it’s not the ghost of my wonderful Grandma coming back to haunt me by eerily warping my son into a replica of herself.

Thank heavens his hair doesn’t turn orange and his teeth fall out in the process.

Whatever it is that comes over my son, it has happened TWICE over the past 24 hours and both times it blew my socks off.

Yesterday, after a particularly FANTASTIC WEEKEND with my Thunder Bay Peeps, we arrived home EXHAUSTED and, shortly after putting Mia down for her afternoon nap, I, being the very best parent I could be at the time, threw a mini temper tantrum and put myself to bed, leaving Rob and Toby to fend for themselves for an hour. (Or two and a half it turned out to be…)

Rob is not quite so obvious as I am.

I awoke from my uninterrupted hour (s) of bliss to find the house EERILY quiet.

You know that kind of quiet. The one where you realize there are either 2 kids, a dog and another adult all tied up and gagged in a bathroom somewhere or they are all dead. It is somewhat similar to reaching the very top of a rollercoaster and hearing the final CLICK and PAUSE before you perilously plummet down the giant hill at break neck speeds.

I leapt out of bed.

To my surprise, I arrived in the basement to find a sleeping Rob on the couch and a smugly contented Toby sitting at his desk colouring. Not seconds after I entered the room (rather loudly, I might add) did Toby leap up and announce in as loud a whisper as he could muster,

“SHHHH!!! Mommy!!!! Daddy is SLEEPING. I sang him a song and he went to sleep!”

He threw his little hands up in surprise and then went back to colouring.

Quick check to see if Rob was dead – he wasn’t. Then back to Toby to clarify the situation.

It took the rest of the day to piece together what exactly DID happen in the 20 minutes before my descent into the basement. Taking Toby’s innocent 3-year-old version and Rob’s poor-pre-sleep memory, it turns out Toby DID in fact sing Rob to sleep on the couch. The last thing Rob remembers is “a very BAD version of a Christmas song” followed by the familiar question, “Was that a good song, daddy?” accompanied by some light stroking of Rob’s hair by his delicate little fingers and off to sleep Rob went.

Toby, feeling rather proud of himself, sat down and actually played on his own for a grand totally of 7 minutes.

And just to polish off his halo, this afternoon, after an impromptu pick up at daycare, I had to resort to giving a famished Toby the ONLY snack I could find, which happened to be a (I am embarrassed to say this – please don’t judge me all of you healthy, home baked moms out there…) processed package of mini oatmeal raisin cookies.

OK, FINE, they were oatmeal chocolate chip.

Plus or minus the oatmeal.

Toby LOVED them. Used to the usual snack of raisins or apples that Dad brings with him on his regularly scheduled pick up, this was a HOME RUN. The ride out of the parking lot of daycare was the quietest one in history; he had gobbled them all up by the time I was turning out of the parking lot. All except for one, that is.

He held this little mini cookie in his hand and looked at it longingly as he announced with as much will power and determination as he could muster, “Mommy. I am going to save this cookie and give it to Daddy when I get home.”

I told him that that was a VERY nice thing for him to do while secretly believing that the lone last cookie was in all likelihood NOT going to survive the rest of the trip home.

I was wrong.

It wasn’t easy for him. Toby sat and stared at his little fist that clutched the mini cookie the entire way home. At one point he sighed and asked, “Mommy…sometime can you make me some MORE of these?” (Oh, Mr. Christie, how good a mom you make me seem…)

Finally we got home and by then even my OWN willpower was coming into question. I neglected the array of stethoscopes, daycare paintings, dirty tupperware containers and outdoor attire that needed to be carried into the house and quickly got Toby out first and into the house so he could hand over this precious lone surviving cookie to his lucky father.

Setting back to work at emptying the front and back seat of the car, I entered the house 2 minutes later. There wasn’t a trace of the cookie left. Toby was struggling to get his boots off and Rob was chasing Mia around the house.

“Did Toby give you the cookie?” I asked accusingly to Rob.

“Yeah.” Said Rob cavalierly. “And I ate it.”

If only he knew…

The Occasional Angel in Him...

2011-11-28T20:23:00.001-05:00

Thank heavens his hair doesn’t turn orange and his teeth fall out in the process.

Whatever it is, that comes over my son, it has happened TWICE over the past 24 hours and both times it blew my socks off.

Rob is not quite so obvious as I am.

I awoke from my uninterrupted hour (s) of bliss to find the house EERILY quiet.

I leapt out of bed.

“SHHHH!!! Mommy!!!! Daddy is SLEEPING. I sang him a song and he went to sleep!”

He threw his little hands up in surprise and then went back to colouring.

Quick check to see if Rob was dead – he wasn’t. Then back to Toby to clarify the situation.

Toby, feeling rather proud of himself, sat down and actually played on his own for a grand totally of 7 minutes.

OK, FINE, they were oatmeal chocolate chip.

Plus or minus the oatmeal.

I told him that that was a VERY nice thing for him to do while secretly believing that the lone last cookie was in all likelihood NOT going to survive the rest of the trip home.

I was wrong.

“Did Toby give you the cookie?” I asked accusingly to Rob.

“Yeah.” Said Rob cavalierly. “And I ate it.”

If only he knew…

Some days...

2011-11-21T21:29:00.002-05:00

Some days, it has to be said, I don’t have my Mommy-A- Game on. Most days, my morning parental duties include wake up, breakfast and daycare drop off for Toby. (The first of which are Daddy-supervised the second one being old hat.) I can drop Toby off at day care with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back. Not to brag or anything – hahaha J

On Fridays, however, we switch things up. Friday mornings Rob takes Toby to the YMCA for his very own invention of swimming lessons. I’m not QUITE sure what these “lessons” entail but I hear a lot of talk about the “real shower” in the change room afterwards. I suspect the two of them take a quick dip in the icy-cold YMCA pool and then splash each other in the shower for the remaining half hour; either way they both enjoy some lovely daddy-son bonding time while I get an opportunity to spend a morning with my daughter.

The morning at home usually consists of breakfast, a short play and then a bottle and a nap. Having been the soul source of all nutrition and sleep for the first 6 months of this child’s life you’d THINK that this would be considered one of my easier mornings. To be honest, it usually is. Today – not so much.

I blame it on the time change. Mia has been getting up at 5am for a bottle and we’ve been giving in and letting her have it. What I HAVEN’T been used to is the need for a SECOND bottle after breakfast and before her first nap. I mean REALLY. T he child is 23 pounds and barely pushing 10 months. She is HARDLY wasting away. Does one REALLY need 3 separate feedings before 8:30 am???

By the time her crankiness ensued at 8:30 am I was quite ready for a nap. So I made her a bottle, rocked her while she enjoyed it and then went to put her down. Mia gave me look that said it all, “Why, THANK YOU, mom, for finally feeding me. Lets go back and play now!”

I ignored THE LOOK and resumed the naptime routine and put her down in her crib.

She squawked.

She chattered to herself.

She (I CAN ONLY IMAGINE) stood and banged her little fists on the side of her crib as hard as she could to get my attention.

I TRIED to ignore it but by the time she got to the full on “COME GET ME MOMMY” wail I had deluded myself enough to think that I could solve this nap rebellion by going in and trying to rock her to sleep.

The victory was evident on her face before I had even stepped into the room.

I TRIED the rock to sleep. I also tried some light back patting (which is always hard to do when they are crawling around in the crib.) Before long I had resorted to PLEADING with my 10 month old, “PLEASE, Mia, just go to sleep. Daddy is going to KILL me if he gets home and finds you still awake.”

Surprisingly, that didn’t work either.

And so I got her up. I figured I would put her back down 20 minutes later once she REALIZED that she was tired and that it WAS, in fact, nap time. That was my PLAN anyways, before she tore down the corner-shelving unit, smashing Daddy’s weather gauge and the giant daisy plant onto the floor.

It was at that precise moment that Rob arrived home. There we were; right in the middle of nap time – wide awake and covered in dirt and electrical cords with batteries, daisy heads and pieces of cabinetry strewn across the floor.

The look on Rob’s face echoed the surprise look on his daughter’s. (Minus the triumphant I-got-out-of-my-nap component, of course.)

Needless to say, I was quickly ushered out of the house and on my way to work before I knew it. Some days it’s a good thing Mia has two parents.

Mia's New Trick

2011-11-15T20:29:00.002-05:00

Here’s a glimpse at the latest accomplishment at the Henry household.

I had DELUDED myself into thinking that having a girl would mean more sedentary play, but have OBVIOUSLY been mistaken. I also remember writing, not so long ago, a nostalgic post about how Mia is approaching the time when Toby WOULD have walked if ONLY he had not been intubated. Well, Toby, intubated or not, your little sister has CLEARLY beaten your gross motor development. How quickly life proves us wrong.

This weekend, defying all gender stereotypes and parental expectations, Mia unexpectedly decided to walk on her own. I quickly hollered to Rob to grab the video camera.

As it is with second kids, Rob was busy sending an email. Toby was playing with his trucks. By the item I got them organized she was doing it for the FOURTH TIME in a row. (Thank HEAVENS she’s compliant). And, as you can tell by the embarrassingly shrill tone to my voice, I am JUST as excited as I was on Take #1.

And so Mia has found her feet. And not only that, she has found her NICHE in life. What the video shows is take #4. What you don’t see is take #5, 6 and 7…. We are currently on Take #45. Mia, our quiet, no assuming baby girl quickly caught on to this new trick as her one ticket to getting attention in life. No matter WHAT her older brother is doing, she has figured out that she will gain EVERYONE’s attention by merely letting go of whatever object she is holding onto and taking a few tentative steps on her own. Yesterday morning Toby and I were sitting on the couch reading a book that Mia wasn’t all that interested in. Surprisingly, she didn’t put up a fuss but crawled over to the coffee table, stood up and then let go and started walking back towards the couch as if to say,

“Don’t mind me, Mommy. I’m just going to WALK. You keep reading with Toby while I just take a FEW STEPS ON MY OWN over here.”

Needless to say, her tactics have been effective on all three of us and we continually reinforce her walking/malingering behaviour by fervent clapping and high-pitched praises. You gotta give the second child a FEW Moments in the spotlight every now and then…

And just to embarrass myself even more with my high-pitched-baby-flapping-voice, here is Mia trying to walk under the most ARDUOUS of circumstance- getting from me to her favourite person in the world; Toby. It is particularly challenging as she gets SO EXCITED by his attention that it’s hard to concentrate on the new skill of WALKING at the same time.

An Emotional Day

2011-11-11T20:39:00.002-05:00

Some days kick me in the ass. Today was one of those days.

I can’t get into details about patients on my blog, but as a palliative care doc, I often encounter emotionally challenging cases. I am deeply involved in one of them right now; walking the road with this particularly young, vibrant family is hitting closer to home than usual. As always, it is riddled with challenges but also with a sense of privilege and an offering of clairvoyancey. I have extra energy for “play” with my own kids these days and a little less patience for the day-to-day annoyances that hold us back from what truly matters.

Add to this the fact that it is Remembrance Day; a day that rightly enough reminds me of my Grandfather, a proud WWII vet who always played the Last Post on his bugle at the annual Remembrance Day Ceremony. We lost him when I was in Grade 9, but he is ever a part of all that I do.

So what a day for my baby cousin to have a stat C-section. The news was met with concern for her, followed by excitement about the pending arrival, followed by a somber reflection as to the significance of our newest family member joining us on 11/11. As we do in our family, we threw the complexity of our sentiments into making jokes about having to name the baby “Irvin” in honour of my Grandfather as we waited impatiently for the news. I am happy to report that all went well – and (THANK GOODNESS) it was a baby girl so we DON’T have to name her Irvin after all…

Now- - you think I’m done with mixed emotions? Think again.

Mia is JUST about to turn 10 months old. A fantastic age, but one that brings with it my own emotionally charged sentiments. I’ve never enjoyed the “Tenth Month” before. My memories of Toby’s developmental milestones end abruptly with his intubation and his week long stint on life support. It all started just days after his 10-month birthday. As Mia approaches this stage I notice her doing similar thing to what Toby did- she is cruising with determination and babbling constantly in an attempt to communicate with us. This weekend she climbed the stairs for the first time; last night she walked around the coffee table using only one finger for support.

I VIVIDLY remember myself telling the Sick Kids ICU nurses how Toby had been doing just that the night before he was admitted to hospital. We were gearing up for his first steps one day and longing to see him breathe on his own one week later.

Tonight, on the way home from daycare, as I was struggling to keep all that I had dealt with already that day in check, Toby launched into his usual RANT about Gochar that ended in an offhanded remark that Gochar’s brother had died.

(Some days I really can’t stand Gochar.)

I turned to Toby and said to him, “Toby, you know, that’s SAD. Gochar’s brother dying is something that is SAD, not something just to say when you’re making silly statements. How would you feel if your sister Mia died?”

Toby stopped his babbling INSTANTLY and for ONCE IN HIS LIFE was at a loss for words.

(I immediately felt guilty. In hindsight this was WAY too heavy of a statement to make but I really didn’t think he was listening…)

“Mommy.” He said seriously, “That’s NOT…well…Mommy -- Mia CAN’T die.”

He struggled to find the words to what he was finding a frustrating conversation,

“Don’t you KNOW, Mommy? Babies DON’T die!!!” he finally yelled at me in exasperation.

I left it at that.

Toby will never understand why I burst into tears just then. It was perhaps a mixture of relief that my cousin’s baby had arrived safely and my own sense vulnerability. Or maybe the nostalgia for that level of innocence; I wish with all of my heart that he could be right. Babies should never die. And neither should the Mommies of young babies.

But the predominant feeling is that of gratitude; how lucky I am that I can just leave it at that and let him believe…

The Case of the Missing Comb

2011-11-04T09:31:00.002-04:00

This weekend we are looking after my dad while my mom is away on business.

I have mentioned my dad before on my blog; he gives me some of my very best material. But just to recap, my dad is a very sweet 85 year old man who loves to regale us with Shakespearean sonnets and tales of Smithville and playing hockey in the 1940s. What he’s NOT so great at is remembering what he had for dinner 10 minutes ago, what day of the week it is or WHERE his beloved wife is.

As such, visits with my dad are a lovely opportunity to watch him bond with his grandchildren but are also filled with countless repetitive statements and questions…

Coming up here is not easy for my dad. Although he loves to just sit and watch Toby and Mia play, it is hard for him to be out of his usual routine and away from my mom. From our end, taking care of my dad is easy as long as you follow two simple rules. 1. Always take him with you when you leave the house and 2. Despite how trivial or repetitive the concern, offer the answer and some reassurance.

Last night as we were sitting watching TV dad all of a sudden got into a panic.

“Lyssie! You know what I have LOST? “

(Oh, god PLEASE don’t let it be your teeth or your sleeping pills…)

“My COMB!” he said with a look of utter dismay.

Right. Obeying rule #2 of looking after my dad, I sprung into action. I checked his bathroom and his coat pocket. I scoured the basement as he sat there watching with a look of bewildered helplessness. Ten minutes later, after an unsuccessful sweep of the house, I went into his room and found a black comb sitting on his dresser.

“Is THIS it??” I asked incredulously (SURELY it hadn’t been THAT easy to find – I had assumed he had at LEAST checked his room!)

The look of relief on his face stopped me from criticizing him and I threw my hands in the air in defeat and allowed him this small moment of triumph before asking him WHERE he would like me to put it so he doesn’t “lose it” again.

“Oh, just put it on the dresser in my room.” He said practically.

I have a sinking suspicion we may be reliving this scenario again before the weekend is through….

Ho-hum the trip is done...

2011-11-01T20:56:00.002-04:00

** Note - we got back from our trip this past weekend. I am under strict intructions from my more practical street-savy half not to publicize on the internetwhen we are out of the country. I feel a little deceitful that I only started the "Disney posts" after our return but there you have it...here's the one I wrote on our last night. Forgive the date discrepancy :)

It has been a whirlwind trip. Despite the fact that we have two very young kids with us who require regular meals, bottles, naps and downtime, our feet have not touched the ground since we got here. We have hit every theme park not once but at LEAST twice and yesterday, in a rare feat of enthusiasm I actually “three parked it”.

(For those not well versed in Disney-speak, it means I went to 3 theme parks all in one day.)

It is your average person’s worst nightmare, but for Disney folk it’s quite an accomplishment deserving of a very large, white, mousy high five.

The reality of it is this; there IS a certain magic of Disney that I was sometimes engulfed in, and other times not quite so much. Sharing the wonder of the “Celebrate Life” parade with my little boy who so desperately clung to his own life a a few years ago had a certain bit of magic to it. Seeing the fireworks at the Magic Kingdom surrounded by millions of screaming kids (who ALL should have been in bed) and missing most of it because we were inadequately located right behind a big obstructive tree - -not so magical.

I think the highlight for us was the Food and Wine Festival at Epcot. I don’t know if this makes me a selfish parent or an indulgent person, but it was by FAR our favorite thing to do - -with and without kids. We hit Epcot everyday (it WAS only a 2 minute walk from out hotel) for an unplanned lunch or a pre-dinner drink or even as our evening’s main event. You can walk around the International Grounds with drink (S!!!) in hand and sample foods from around the world. They even gave out “passports” so you could be sure to see what every country offered. Rob took this as a personal challenge and I’m proud to say that we managed to eat and/or drink (most times BOTH) from every country represented at the Epcot Food and Wine Festival. Yes, that’s right- - all TWENTY NINE of them.

This was no small feat. In fact, I may just have to haul out my old pregnancy pants again as a result of it. The event SHOULD be sponsored by Lulu lemon as that is ALL I will be wearing for the next few weeks (months, maybe? Shudder…) as a result of it.

Today was our last day and to fit the mood it rained. A lot. All day.

But we didn’t let the rain deter us from our ultimate quest; we had 3 countries to go, two cranky and overtired kids and dreary weather to contend with, but a mission is a mission and NO ONE gets in the way of Rob’s gustatory determination.

We headed out, umbrella in tow, and dragged the kids around Epcot to finalize our conquest. The first thing we stumbled upon was a Parisian booth that sold champagne (yes, please) followed closely by the Gin Blossoms (the band, not the drink). Making our way back, we found ourselves leaving the last park for the last time when we heard some familiar sounds coming from “Canada.” An energetic, kilt-clad maritime band playing Celtic songs from Great Big Sea quickly brought us out of our “last-day” funk. Within minutes, both kids were in smiles. Toby emerged from the stroller, dancing and jumping around in the puddles while Mia shook her bottle to the beat. What had started as a gray day of crankiness ended with a high from the place we call our home.

I could think of no better way to end our trip. Four theme parks, 2 parades, 10 bus rides, two horrific flights, countless “magical moments”, 29 countries, and at the end of it all we concluded the trip with one simple message; There’s no place like home.

Here’s a short video of Toby getting his groove on…Canadian Styles J

The Trip to Disney world

2011-10-30T13:06:00.000-04:00

Today we travelled to Disney World.

I write that (ironically) in a compact little sentence on the pretence that it did NOT in fact, completely turn our lives upside down, inside out and present us with some of the most challenging moments we have ever faced as parents.

I suppose all that the previous paragraph entails is irrelevant as we have arrived safely, all kids are in bed and asleep and we are still married. So no REAL harm has been done. (Depsite the fact that, lingering in the back of our minds is the horrific knowledge that we will have to do it all again this time NEXT week…)

Disney is beautiful and magical and all that it is cracked up to be. Travelling with a 9 month old is, unfortunately, equally as predictable.

Mia is a wonderful baby. She took to sleep training with such integrity that it is now hardwired into her that sleep occurs at 9am and 1pm on the dot in the privacy of her crib with all of the usual fixins (lovey, sleep sac, white noise fan).

Apparently, this means that it does NOT occur in the following circumstances :

On a plane, in a car, in a bus nor a stroller. In mommy’s arms, on daddy’s lap or in front of any stranger.

(I Dr Seused it up in a desperate attempt at humour.)

The flight was a mixture of inconsolable crying followed by an intense hour of “I can’t feel my right arm but no amount of pain will justify a millimeter of muscle movement on the off chance that it will wake her up” followed by another intense hour of intense fussiness. I would consider aeroplane flying with infants an extreme sport.

There were many moments in the day in which the end was not in sight. If I had been a marathon runner I would have walked. If I had been a teacher I would have thrown down the chalk. If I had been a jaguar I would have laid my belly down in the cool grass of the Savannah and smiled as the Gazelles leaped off into the distance.

Apparently, when you reach this point as a mom, there ARE no such decadent options. There is no ESC button. You just have to close your eyes, suck it up, and deal.

Have I got you jealous about our trip to Disney, yet?

Alas, we have arrived. We found our room, our bed and our sanity in that exact order. We even managed to have some quality family time together at the pool (margarita and beer in tow) before calling it a day.

Toby’s good night song, (in which I recount all the tales of the day to the tune of Brahms’ lullabye) went on and on and on tonight; there were so many details he wanted me to include. (Apparently it wasn’t NEARLY as traumatic for him as it had been for us.)

After I left his room and crawled onto the couch with Rob, pen in hand to plan the rest of our “adventure” I noticed that Rob had his shirt on backwards.

In hindsight, maybe this isn’t the funniest thing that has EVER happened to me, but sleep deprived, exhausted, relieved and excited at the same time united to unveil a moment of adult hysteria at this thought; the longest day of our lives and Rob did it all with his shirt on backwards.

More on Gochar

2011-10-28T21:20:00.001-04:00

This Saturday we are taking both kids on a plane, flying to Florida and spending a week at Disney land. It is a time sensitive indulgence; every other year of our children’s lives Rob will be teaching and the token trip to Disney would have to have occurred at either March break (yikes!), Christmas (impossible) or during the summer heat. Realizing that Mia will in no way whatsoever benefit from The Trip to Disney, we are taking this opportunity to spoil at least ONE of our children while Rob is off on parental leave.

It doesn’t hurt that our trip also coincides with the annual Food and Wine festival at Epcot. Which, coincidentally, is where we are staying.

I digress.

The point of this post is to update you on yet another interesting family dinner. Amidst the excitement of packing, planning and preparing for the trip, Toby could think of nothing other to talk of than…Gochar.

I seem to be mentioning Gochar quite a bit in recent posts so I thought I should share with you some of the truths about Gocahr that Toby enlightened us on tonight at dinner.

(Gochar, by the way, is Toby’s imaginary friend. At least…I HOPE he is imaginary. I SOMETIMES wonder if there may be a ghost living in our house with the unfortunate name of Gochar but to keep us all sane we just go with it…)

So here is what Toby (with equal measures of seriousness and earnestness) repeatedly interrupted our Disney planning meal to tell us :

Gochar is tall. In fact, he is the tallest man in the world. (Demonstrated with hand gestures.)

“Know how big his head is? THIS BIG”

(arms extended as wide as Toby can reach)

“Know how long his legs are? THIS BIG”

(arms reaching down as far as they can reach)

“Know how big his belly is? THIS BIG”

(arms forming the biggest circle Toby can form with his two decrepit little arms)

Yes indeed, there was a visual picture for just how big Gocahr is; tallest man in the world (except for his mom, of course, who is taller than him.) He is also, I have to say, COMPLETELY out of proportion.

“How do you hug him, Toby, if he is so tall?” I asked.

Toby took this question very seriously and thought about if for a bit as he chewed his pizza (I believe we even got in a brief discussion about carry on luggage for Mia) when he announced that it WAS possible to hug him, you just had to “crouch on your tippy toes” to do so.

Other interesting facts?

Gochar likes to cook. His favourite thing to cook is salad and he makes chocolate salad dressing. But his mom always say, “Gochar, you can’t eat that. “ but he does anyways.

Gochar drives a car. It has orange tires.

Gochar has a last name.

Wait for it…

THOMAS.

And so you have it - -Gochar Thomas, the tallest man in the world (except for his mother), recognized by his fancy car with orange wheels and well versed in culinary expertise and wildly rebellious bodily proportions, continues to enrich our lives with his very presence. I wonder if he’s coming to Florida with us…

Meal time Exceptions

2011-10-17T19:31:00.002-04:00

At dinner tonight we had a cranky, tired Mia, a cranky, overtired and hungry Toby and one set of cranky, overtired parents.

It was not a great combination.

I’m not sure who started it or how it happened; it had the potential to turn a temper-tantrum filled family meal into sheer pandemonium but in fact, had the opposite effect. Amidst a tray of perogies, mushed up baby food, avocado and banana slices, watered down apple juice and mouthfuls of spit out spinach salad, someone put their utensils down, threw their hands up in disgust and said, “AHHHH!”

Toby stopped spitting out spinach.

My baby stopped crying and throwing food on the floor.

Rob stopped asking questions about our trip to Florida and I stopped sighing in exasperation.

Even the dog poked his lazy head up for a second to see what would happen next.

We all waited with baited breath to hear the sequeale. Was one of the parents going to yell? Would Mia burst into tears? Would Toby resume his spinach spitting?

To our surprise, it was Mia who responded first with a little giggle followed by an “AHHH!” of her own. Now THAT was a sound she knew how to make.

Still shocked by the interruption, I didn’t quite have my mommy hat on straight and immediately “AHHHH-ed” right back at her at the top of my lungs.

This earned a full on belly laugh from my baby-food covered little girl. As her chubbly little cheeks rolled with laughter an equally piercing shriek responded to my own.

It was a verbal food fight. Soon Toby joined us followed closely by daddy.

Our rapidly disintegrating attempt at a cohesive family meal had been miraculously rescued by a spontaneous game of screaming at one another. Not the most CONVENTIONAL of meal times, but it had us all laughing hysterically within a few minutes.

And then, just as quickly as it began, Mia remembered that she was overtired and hates eating, Toby remembered that he has never tried perogies before and certainly never wants to, and Rob and I resumed our roles of meal time parent-police after exchanging a puzzled but bemused look that said it all; "And now back to our regularly scheduled program."

Giving Thanks

2011-10-11T22:53:00.003-04:00

This weekend we had the unfortunate task of introducing Toby to his first funeral.

Rob’s beloved Grandfather (Toby’s great grandfather) died last weekend. It was not unexpected, but as it is with all deaths, the news still came as a bit of a shock. Plans got changed. Work got cancelled. Tears were shed.

The hoardes of Blonde relatives made their way en masse to Chatham to pay their respects. When I say, “everyone was there” I mean EVERYONE was there. And that is no small feat when you are talking about a family of 11 children and 19 grandchildren.

Rob’s grandpa lived to be 88 years old. But what is even MORE impressive is the fact that he drew 200 people to his funeral, complete with a police escort to the cemetery that had cars pulled over at the side of the road with people standing at attention, saluting as we drove past.

Now I’ve got you wondering if you missed an important funeral - -I certainly felt important being in that line of cars. But Grandpa was no Steve Jobs- his death didn’t make the headlines; as it is his modest obituary would probably have him rolling over in his grave at the cost. Grandpa Blonde was an honest and true, salt of the earth family man. He was a farmer through and through – never passing up a good meal, an opportunity to be thankful or an offering of praise for good old-fashioned hard work. He was also a devout Catholic. There were many tears at his funeral, but there was an overall feeling of peace and contentment. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Grandpa’s death was as peaceful as it seemed; he had left us for the better place he had worked his whole life to be welcomed into. The fact that so many attended is a true testament to how well he lived his life and what a legacy he has left behind.

And how did Toby do at his first funeral?

Fantatsically. It is one of the greatest privileges as a mom to be able to witness your child’s learning in front of your eyes. Toby watched the entire proceedings of the day with great attention. Often he would come and sit on my lap. Sometimes he would ask questions. He took his role of “staying quiet” very seriously and expressed appropriate concern for those who were crying, the lack of legs that Grandpa sported in his coffin and the fact that the “box” looked like it might be too heavy for Daddy to carry.

I was able to take time to listen and relieve each of his concerns; people were sad but it was OK to cry at funerals; Grandpa DID still have his legs- they were just hiding under the “shelf” (as Toby called it) and not to worry, there would be other pallbearers helping Daddy with “the box.”

I had had a bit of forewarning about the possibility of such an event when Toby had watched parts of Jack Layton’s funeral with us. He had been VERY interested and often talked about Jack and the “box” after the fact. Not surprisingly, this started a run of uncanny “Gochar mishaps” that all ended in Gochar dead and in a box (announced quite cheerfully by the innocent Toby). He has been processing this new aspect of life for a while now and this was just one more step in the journey of understanding that which we all struggle with.

At the end of the funeral, Toby was very quiet in the backseat of the car, holding the red rose he had been allowed to take off of Grandpa’s casket, when I turned and asked him if he had any questions. “No.” I then asked him if it had been like Jack’s funeral, seeing Grandpa in his box.

“Oh, NO, Mommy, “ he replied earnestly, “Jack was in a CANADA box.”

And so, this Thanksgiving, along with the usual fixings of turkey and mashed potatoes, we got an extra tasting of what it means to be thankful.

We are thankful for family and our health.

We are thankful for great friends who willingly take our dog on their own Thanksgiving adventures so we would have one less thing to worry about.

We are thankful for colleagues who eagerly covered my practice without a second thought.

We are thankful for Grandparents who pretended to have nothing on so that we wouldn’t feel badly about leaving Mia with them.

And most importantly, we are thankful for the legacy of one simple farmer who, through a life well lived, continually brings us all together, reminding us all that it is the simple things in life that count and, most importantly of all, started the chain of events that brought me my Toby and Mia.

And if Grandpa taught us anything at it all, it’s that at the end of the day, there is nothing more important than that.

A Disgusting Breakthrough

2011-10-04T20:06:00.001-04:00

Over the past 48 hours, Mia has gone from a frustrated-stuck-under-the-couch backwards maneuver-er to a full on forwards I’m-motoring-with-a-purpose crawler.

She is reveling in her new skills. We, as always, remain a few steps behind -- simultaneously unprepared and in denial about her latest development

I still perceive my fast approaching 9 month old as a helpless baby. Every day at meal time I am tempted by the Cheerio gods to test her rock hard gums with the terrifyingly choking-potential cereal I know she will love, and then sigh in defeat as I resort to another mushy mouthful of pureed baby food or tiny pieces of Mum-Mums. Using the same mindset, I place her on the floor to play and expect her to be in the same spot I left her in when I get back.

Unbeknownst to me, my little girl is a bit of an adventurer.

She is also, apparently, tired of baby mush.

Today I placed her in the kitchen with a giant pile of extremely stimulating yoghurt containers. Rob and I were both around; the fault is shared equally. I was PLANNING to keep an eye on Mia- - I really was. But a 3 year old’s ear-piercing cries of; “I JUST HAD A POOH IN MY UNDER WEAR!!!! ” is somewhat distracting. For both of us.

It was about 5 minutes later, after the sobbing Toby had been changed, cleaned and settled down that Rob inquired as to the whereabouts of our other child.

“She’s in the kitchen.” I said, knowing, as soon as the words left my mouth, that she probably wasn’t.

The house was eerily quiet. Except, of course, for the sweet little sounds of crunching that came from the front hall.

To my utter disgust I found Mia, knee deep in the dog food. The dry, kibble, choking hazard kind.

I rushed her to the sink and cleaned her off. She had 3 pieces tucked into the folds of her neck fat, multiple segments of pieces in her tight little fists and a plethora of oozy, smelly dog food drool coating her chin and belly.

I’ve done barf.

I’ve done diarrhea.

I’ve drained anal abscessed.

This, however, was utterly disgusting.

It wasn’t until about 5 minutes into her impromptu bath that I discovered the lone victorious kibble, still lodged in the side of her cheek for safekeeping.

I probably wouldn’t readily relive those horrifying moments of discovery and stomach turning clean up, but I will acknowledge that I gained a little respect for my daughter tonight. Not only has she successfully proven to us that she CAN now crawl, she has also demonstrated to us that she has both drive and determination and maybe a sense of humour to boot. But most excitingly, she has proven to us that she CAN handle something with a bit more texture to it than mushy baby food.

And her reward for the deathly defying act of kibble crunching?

For the first time in her life, I fed her cheerios for dinner.

And she loved them.

Baby talk

2011-10-03T20:13:00.000-04:00

Hot on the heels of Toby’s recent revelation to us that he can spell, Mia continues to regale us with her abilities to say “Mama” and “Dada”. Alternating between the two on command, however: not so impressive.

Tonight at dinner Mia was on her usual “Mama” tangent. Over and over and over she repeated it: quickly, then slowly; loudly, then softly; sometimes she varied the intonations and sometimes she just said it over and over and over again in rapid succession.

After about 5 minutes of this Rob managed to silence her by suggesting that she say the word, “Dada”.

Mia promptly threw down the piece of toast she had in her chubby little hands and shut her mouth.

Silence.

You could tell she was thinking SO hard it was almost comical. (The rest of us were too busy enjoying the sudden silence to mention it, however…)

Finally a look of triumph sprang to her face and she banged her fists on her tray before staring Rob back in the eye and opening her mouth, sticking her tongue out and spitting raspberries at him in an act of satisfied victory.

Although raspberries are USUALLY seen as endearing, in this instance it was very clearly translated from baby-speak to mean a decisive “Up yours, Dad”.

Two lessons for the price of one

2011-10-02T13:01:00.003-04:00

Toby is working on his alphabet. I know he has had a keen interest in letters for some time and that it was “ABC’s” week at daycare 2 weeks ago, but I couldn’t tell you WHERE exactly his alphabet skills are at; a point that was driven home to me today while we were in the car on the way home from swimming.

Toby was snuggled up in Mia’s blanket when a sudden epiphany hit him. As it is with Toby, sudden epiphanies don’t happen quietly.

“MOMMY!!!!” he exclaimed with enough volume to deafen the 3 other passengers in the car, “This blanket has M-I-A on it! That spells MIA!!!!”

It would have been a discovery second only to walking on the moon had I not shattered its unique coincidence by pointing out that it had been done on purpose; it was, after all, Mia’s blanket.

You’ve got to love kids; even this deflating piece of evidence didn’t dampen his enthusiasm.

“Mommy - -how you do spell YOUR Name?”

Having had this conversation with him several times before, I knew to ask whether he wanted the spelling of the name Mommy or the name Alyssa. (Toby always loves to be given options.)

I first spelled Alyssa (he oohed and aahed – it’s VERY exotic in its spelling with TWO S’s and a Y in the middle…crazy…) and then Mommy.

The conversation picked up as I was then asked to spell Mama, Mom, Daddy, Dada, Dad and…Zak.

As you can probably imagine, I was only half engaged at this point in the toddler driven spelling bee but was caught off guard when I was suddenly corrected.

“What did you say, Toby?”

“I SAID, Mommy, that you FORGOT the C.”

(What had I been spelling? Oh, right…Zak)

I looked at Rob for help and he confirmed, “Yeah, he’s right. Zak is spelled Z-A-C-K.”

I guess it’s the first time (in the 4 months we’ve had him) that we had actually stopped to discuss HOW his name was spelled. Apparently, by spelling Zak without a C, I was dead wrong. Toby and Rob, who spell it with a C, are cleverly correct. As always.

In all the discussion that ensued about how you should or shouldn’t spell the name ZAK it never occurred to us until afterwards to marvel at the loud mouth troublemaker from the back seat and his brilliant alphabet analysis skills.

I wonder what ELSE he knows how to spell…

The Sock Dilemma

2011-09-25T10:01:00.001-04:00

Some days I wear my craziness on my sleeve.

Today was one such day and it’s all because of YESTERDAY.

Yesterday, in an attempt to be both fit and friendly, I agreed to go for a midday run with my good friend (yes, this is attempt #2 after being rained out on Monday night.) I met her in our mutual place of work and changed in the bathroom.

I admit, I don’t have the quietest voice. And perhaps I do add a flare of drama to my sweeping statements. As far as I’m concerned, all I did was casually MENTION, as I was walking down the halls of her work, that I had forgotten my running socks.

(Plus or minus a few superlative vituperations.)

Out of nowhere, a lady of great esteem emerged from her office and kindheartedly offered me a pair of HER running socks.

I respect this woman WAY too much to mention her by name on my lowly blog post. Lets just say it’s akin to having the principal of your school pop out of his office and offer you his socks.

A principal you REALLY like. And admire. And are a wee bit intimidated by sometimes.

And you’re in grade 8.

With acne.

I had no choice BUT to take the socks and I felt the rush of privilege suffuse up my feet as I put them on.

I have to say; this lady has fancy running socks.

The aura of privilege stayed with me the entire run. I won’t say I ran fast because I don’t. And I didn’t. But I will say I had an extra little BOUNCE in my step, knowing I not only LOOKED more like a runner with my fancy super short Nike jogging socks and knowing to whom they belonged.

It wasn’t until after the run that the reality of the situation sank in and I realized I had a dilemma on my hands. Did I give the socks back right away or did I take them home and wash them? Was it more polite to be punctual with the sock return or present her with a pristine pair that has been politely disinfected?

I asked around and went with the majority.

That night I gathered up whatever I could find to add bulk to my load of ONE PAIR OF SOCKS and did a load of wash. I even stayed up late to ensure they got in the drier and properly dried so I had them in my purse, ready to hand back to her the next morning.

And that’s when the moment of horror occurred.

I’ve HEARD about driers that eat socks, just as I’ve heard about plants that eat bugs. I know that they exist; it just doesn’t make scientific sense to me. I guess it’s like STDs and tax audits – you just never think it will happen to you.

Well here’s your lesson folks; it does, and it did.

I lost ONE sock. One sock of the fanciest pair of running socks I’ve ever had in my possession. The socks that had so generously been loaned to me by someone I’m usually too shy to even say hello to in the hallways of my work. And here I was. Sockless.

There was really only ONE solution to this problem. I would have to go and buy her a replacement. Lesson number two is this; there are lots of different types of fancy running socks out there. Saying to a sales person “short white ones” doesn’t narrow it down.

After 45 minutes of intense sock analysis in the aisles of Sporting Life and a 15 minute pep talk in the parking lot I found myself this morning, wearing my craziness on my sleeve, as I skulked into my superior’s office with 5 different pairs of swanky white jogging socks in my hand and my vulnerability written all over my face.

And after all that build up…apparently she doesn’t work on Fridays.

My bittersweet week

2011-09-23T20:00:00.000-04:00

Life with kids is so bittersweet; you just can’t win.

When I’m in the crest of it, I long for the quiet solitude that is so lacking from my day-to-day routine. There is a scene from the movie Date Night where Tina Fey (playing a busy mother of 2 kids) confesses to her husband that her dream is to be alone in a motel room all by herself with a can of diet sprite.

I laughed; everyone laughed. The idea of that being your sole dream in life is absolutely ludicrous.

But later on that night as we were going to sleep I rolled over and whispered to Rob my confession; I could totally see her point. Substitute a glass of red wine and you had me sold.

So tonight I was confronted with a somewhat more palatable version of Tina Fey’s lunch break of solitude in a motel room. Rob, trying to make the most of his parental leave, packed both kids up and headed to Chatham for the next few days to spend some quality time with his parents and ailing Grandpa. I, as always, packed up early and headed to work.

All day I had a mixed feeling in the bottom of my stomach; a longing for my little girl whom I knew I wouldn’t get to see at the end of the day and a little bit of excitement for the prospect of – wait for it – being able to stay at the office for AS LONG AS I WANTED doing…PAPERWORK.

Don’t get too excited, now. I did still have to be home at a REASONABLE hour to let the dog out. But staying until 5:45 was an absolute treat when I am used to spending the hours from 8-4pm RUSHING AROUND to ensure that I’m able to leave work and get Toby from daycare before the monster in him appears.

My only plan for this evening (other than blissfully unpressured paper-work catch up) was to go for a run with a good friend that I never seem to have enough time to visit with.

NOTHING was going to get in my way of either plan.

But alas, life is never quite so straightforward. As the hour of 5 o’clock came and went and my colleagues all drifted off from the office I had my first epiphany; Paperwork is boring. Doing it fast and in a hurry is kind of the right way to do it. Lingering over it just prolongs the agony.

Later on this evening I had my second epiphany:

NO matter whether you have kids or don’t have kids, running in the rain is no fun. I’m just not that hardcore. And, as testament to true friendship, neither is my friend.

And there you have it. After 3.5 year of longing for an evening to do paperwork and exercise in a leisurely manner, I ended up rushing home to my phone in order to quench my addiction with the sound of my 3 year olds sweet voice before demanding to hear every detail of Mia’s day, sleep schedule and eating pattern.

I spent the rest of the evening cleaning up the house (with the novelty of knowing it’s going to STAY tidy for at LEAST 48 hours. The toys may even COLLECT DUST!!!) before getting BACK on the phone with Rob after he’d put the kids down to debrief the rest of his day.

It was after I hung up the phone, in the midst of extreme silence that I realized a few things about My Life with Kids. Yes, it is nice have more time to do my job. Yes, exercising is a bit of a luxury I never fully appreciated when I had all of the time in the world to do it. And yes, kids add a bit of a hectic flare to life…

But WOW. What a gift it is to come home to 3 year old who is so brimming with love for life that he talks incessantly and wants nothing more than your undivided attention to share his exciting discoveries with. And who cares if I have to wake up before 7am every day when I get to be greeted by the toothless grin of a pudgy 8 month old. And what a treat it is to be able to lie my head down on my pillow each night, exhausted, and be able to share all these thoughts (the good AND the bad ones) with the person I’ve chosen to travel this journey with.

I won’t say that these melodramatic reflections ruined my night of peaceful solitude; it was still rather indulgent and quite enjoyable. Lets just say their return, as it was with their departure, brought yet another wave of mixed emotions but this time weighing more heavily on excitement and tempered with a bit more insight into my own delusions of solitude; I don’t think life gets much better than this…

Mia - 6 month update

2011-09-06T19:38:00.000-04:00

With the 6-month mark now well behind us, we are starting to see some exciting developments emerge from our little Mia.

To start with, she is now able to crawl.

Backwards.

It’s actually quite a nuisance. Whereas before she was content to sit still and play with toys (ie: put them in her mouth), now when she sees a toy that catches her interest she gets down on her belly and as fast as she can, pushes herself away from it. Needless to say, this NEVER ends well. Our mild mannered child has turned into a frustrated screaming head that pokes out from under whatever piece of furniture she manages to back herself into (or under). The more she WANTS a toy, the more force she uses to try to get to it which just results in a quicker movement in the opposite direction.

I think I’d be frustrated as well.

Thank goodness the gross motor inadequacies are mitigated by some delightful language development. Mia has become quite vocal; when she is not screaming in frustration from underneath a chair, she is busy practicing various sounds, my favourite of which is (obviously) “Mum…mum mum mum mum”

She says “mum” like a proper English school child – quickly and precisely with a little accent. (I blame it on our Welsh friends who have just been over for a visit). After a few days of this Rob decided it was time to teach her “dada” and set to work on it. I kid you not- - the very next morning when I went to get her form the crib I was greeted with a smiling and elated, “Dada…dadadadada”

Our family, once again, is falling into the usual female/male stereotypes. Whereas Toby was crawling around the house at full speed by his 6-month birthday, he was not interested in the least in communicating verbally with us. Mia, on the other hand, is well on the way to proving that she will take after me and chatter away non stop while uncoordinatedly faking her way through the physical side of life.

The Neverending Conversation

2011-09-02T20:02:00.002-04:00

The other day I was busy hanging clothes up in my closet when Toby burst in and asked what game I was playing. I explained to him that it wasn’t, in fact, a game, but a rather mundane task that comes with the privilege of adulthood.

HE stared at me with a look of bored skepticism before announcing that HE was playing a game with Gochar and that I was WELCOME to come and play it with him.

“Oh,” I said, “What game are you and Gochar playing?”

I can always tell when Toby is making things up because he assigns the most RIDICULOUS names to his inventions.

“We’re playing HAVOSHANCASHA” he announced confidently.

“Right,” I told him with an equal amount of self-assurance, “I don’t know that game so I’ll just let you and Gochar play.”

Little did I know, my off the cuff dismissal of HAVOSHANCASHA would result in the longest, most ridiculously torturous conversation of my life.

NOT TO WORRY! I was reassured; Toby had LOTS of other friends who could teach me the rule of HAVOSHANCASHA. Would that be to my liking?

Sure.

I hopped in the shower.

The shower door opened. Which one of his friends would I like to have teach me the game?

Politely closing the shower door, I suggested the only “friend” I knew: Gochar.

The shower door opened. Had I FORGOTTEN that Gochar was already busy PLAYING the game with TOBY?

I shut the shower door. No, I hadn’t. Whom, did he suggest, I pick to teach me his game?

I was presented with a list of equally ridiculous made up names. The list went on and on while I shampooed my hair.

Finally reaching the end of the list I felt, beyond the depths of my soap-sud-covered-eyes, the familiar cool breeze as the shower door opened yet again as his demanding little eyes waited impatiently for my final decision.

It was at this point, I think, that I forgot what we had been talking about in the first place.

“Oh, RIGHT.” I remembered, “I have to pick someone to teach me that game. Huh.”

There was an anticipatory silence form the other side of the shower door. I was not going to be let off the hook easily.

DAMMIT. I had NO idea what made up names my 3 year old had come up with. Not only had I not REALLY been paying attention, but even if I HAD been, the weird tonal inflections and unusual consonant pairings made them virtually unrepeatable in the first place.

“Honshi?” I tried.

“NO! Mom that is NOT one of my friends.”

As you can imagine, it took a good number of guesses before the odd arrangement of syllables that came out of my mouth at last matched with the names of one of Toby’s imaginary friends.

“Phew. “ I said, emerging from the shower. “Jagar it is!”

“Ok, mom. “ my bossy son said wagging his finger at me, “I’ll get Jagar, but you’re going to have to pick another one, too. You need to have TWO teachers.”

Silence: a lost art

2011-08-22T20:12:00.002-04:00

Our house is never quiet. Not only is Toby a loquacious child, he has also recently discovered that making a variety of alien like sounds intermingled with moronic laughter brings a smile to Mia’s face. He does it NON STOP. Sometimes I feel as though I am a broken record reciting the phrase, “Not so loud, Toby” and “That’s enough” over and over and over again.

I have TRIED to explain to him that Mia loves him and would find him funny EVEN IF he did away with his cacophonous sounds; I bet she would still flash her adoring smile his way if his volume was only half maximum and he didn’t add grotesque facial expressions to his already disturbing jingles.

This suggestion is usually met with a roll of the eyes and an exasperated sigh, and then another loud eruption of vocal diarrhea. (Followed by a predictably obedient fit of laughter by the ever-obliging Mia.)

It’s a vicious circle. Until last week, however, when we kindly left Toby with his Grandparents for some “bonding time”.

For the first time in eons, I woke up to the lone squeals of a 6 month old.

I brushed my teeth to her soft cooing.

I sipped coffee while she spat her breakfast at me – quietly.

I rocked her to sleep with only the sounds of her mouth sucking the bottle and the squeak of the rocking chair in the background.

During nap-time I checked email and cleaned the house. In silence.

Soon enough I heard the first little peeps of a 6 month old waking up and excitedly greeted my darling daughter.

I was met with a scowl.

I picked her up and changed her bum, then got out her favourite toys and laid them all down in front of her before plopping myself down on the carpet to enjoy a little one on one time with my her.

She was not amused.

Ten minutes later we were BOTH bored and slightly unsure of what to do with one another. The silence in the house was deafening.

I racked my brains trying to think of something I could do to bring a smile out of my usually cheerful daughter. After a number of unsuccessful attempts, the solution became obvious.

I glanced around to ensure that no one was looking before I put my fingers in either side of my mouth, scowled at her, bulged my eyes and puffed out my cheeks and then, as loudly as I could, shrieked with laughter while clicking my tongue against my teeth.

True to form, Mia smiled.

The "Open mouth insert...anything" stage

2011-08-18T19:11:00.003-04:00

Time for another update on the development of my “Little” 7 month old. Mia is an incredibly sweet, LARGE (with a capital L and triple chins) little girl. She continues to develop and explore the world and has started reaching milestones and developing skills before our eyes, which makes the whole process so rewarding.

Currently, Mia’s stage is the ever so passionate “open mouth insert…anything” stage: the stage in which some part of her developing brain is coaching her along saying, “Get that! Put it in your mouth! Now that! Taste it! Put it in your mouth! See that thing? Put it in your mouth!” She takes these instructions VERY seriously and is quite adept at not only reaching things, but also at accurately smashing them into her mouth. Or the side of her cheek.

She is not at ALL discerning. If it exists, it’s good enough to taste. As far as I can tell she has NO ability whatsoever to discriminate between a CLEAN finger and a NOT so clean finger. Coinciding with Toby’s current independent streak and concomitant weakness at hand washing pretty much ensures that Mia has already had a taste of peanut butter and many other things.

I was watching her in the bath tonight and was baffled by her persistence. As the bath toys floated by sat there flailing both arms about, clenching and unclenching her fists in a fit of excitement while her gaping mouth DROOLED in anticipation of all the THINGS that she could POSSIBLY put in her mouth. Bath toys being small and all, she ended up settling for the soapy-bath-water-filled-facecloth that was much easier to get her hands on. As she contentedly sucked the bath water out of it, I contemplated to myself how LUCKY we are to outgrow this little stage.

Apparently Mia Doesn't Like Squash

2011-08-16T19:24:00.003-04:00

WARNING : This video is not for the faint of heart.

Adult Converstions

2011-08-07T20:36:00.001-04:00

This morning at breakfast, Toby and I found ourselves eating the exact same cereal with the exact same berries in it. This was VERY exciting to Toby and in all of his excitement he exclaimed, “Mommy! Lets eat breakfast together and talk like you and daddy talk when you eat supper together!”

I was immediately intrigued and agreed to this breakfast game without hesitation. I started the game off with anticipatory silence, waiting to hear what my 3 year old thinks is appropriate “adult talk” during mealtime.

Toby started off with a dramatic topic of conversation. Complete with arm gestures and an exasperated look on his face he opened with a sudden proclamation; “There are SO MANY FLIES in here! Oh my GOODNESS!”

I concurred and took another bite of cheerios.

He then changed his tone a little as he tried to start up the next topic of conversation with, “Did you hear about Rwanda? She is sick. Very, very sick.” And he sadly shook his head, lamenting “Rwanda”’s ill state of health.

I stifled a laugh at this one (not just for the fact that the invented name RWANDA was rather clever) and was then invited to engage in a game of “You say yes, I’ll say no”

This carried on for a few rounds before Toby laughed and said, “I won!”

Tragically, our game was interrupted by the sudden realization that the berries in his cereal had all disappeared.

“Guess where they WENT?” he asked excitedly

“In your mouth?” I stated the obvious,

“Nope..." (wait for it) "...In my EYEBALL!”

I’ll give him the fact that Rob and I sometimes comment on the flies and, being a palliative care doctor, I suspect a lot of conversation DOES involve sick people, (sometimes VERY sick people, said with a shake of the head and downwards gaze of the eyes) and perhaps we do have a lot of back and forth yes vs. no, but Rob has NEVER in all the time I’ve been with him, digested his food in his eyeballs. It was an interesting look into the world of conversation from a 3 year olds perspective while it lasted. And now back to talking about eyeballs.

First Day Back - Take 2

2011-07-18T20:22:00.006-04:00

Yes, that’s right, that’s a stethoscope around my neck; at long last, yet all of a sudden, the day has come for me to go back to work. I celebrated my return to work by taking the day off. After the token “back to work photo” (I have a simlar one of me and Toby) I hung my stethoscope back up and took Toby to his first dentist appointment and then met our office staff for lunch.

I remember my first day back from my mat leave with Toby was riddled with anxiety; Would I remember enough to still offer my patients good care? Would Toby take the bottle? Would he nap for Rob? Would Rob be waiting for me at the end of the day ready to hand our son over and return to his teaching job? By 5pm I was exhausted and desperate to see my little boy.

By 5pm today I was exhausted from drinking beer on a patio in the stifling heat, but I can’t say I was at all anxious. It seems I have learned a thing or two this time around J

So what WAS I feeling?

Sigh. As always, life with kids is filled with mixed emotions. Primarily, I'm elated that Mia and Rob are doing so well together that the transition has been seamless. I sheepishly admit that I am also a bit relieved to have survived yet another maternity leave. I'm excited to return to my job and patients that I love, yet I'm already nostalgic for the 6 months I've just spent soothing, feeding and falling in love with my little girl. But above and beyond I'm feeling grateful; for having both a job and a family that I love so much that every day is filled with excitement and yearning.

And what about Rob and Mia? My little girl, who, up until 2 weeks ago was completely dependent on me alone, converted to a total daddy's girl within 24 hours of Rob being on summer vacation. I'll close this post with some photographic evidence of my current obsoleteness in the Daddy-Daughter bond that has fast emerged.

Thank you, my sweet girl, for making life so deliciously complicated and riddled with emotion. I leave you in the best of hands...

Raspberry Picking with Mia

2011-07-16T21:05:00.002-04:00

We are at the farm, visiting Rob’s side of the family for a long weekend. The Henry family has a 100-acre farm complete with a pool, barn (with kittens), huge vegetable garden, farm dog, a never-ending supply of toys from across the generations and an ever-increasing number of cousins. It is any kids’ dream come true; Toby LOVES it here.

Today, in a very rare occurrence (similar to a blue moon I might say) I found myself alone on the farm with only Mia to care for. Sitting idle on the farm is not really an option, so I was asked to pick black raspberries during Mia’s nap so we might make raspberry tarts later on.

Caught up in the tranquility of some time to myself and the sounds of the farm, my naïve self of 4 hours ago decided to save the berry picking for AFTER Mia’s nap so we might enjoy the experience together. And what an experience it was…

I’m not going to sugar coat it for you; my romantic notion of leisure berry picking with my 6 month old never came to fruition.

It was a mere 115 degrees out (in the shade) and we lathered on the sunscreen, I put Mia in the baby bjorn and off we went.

To start with, ANY activity that occurs at noon on a typical Ontario July day is destined to be thwarted by spiking temperatures and sweatiness. On top of this, my monstrous 17 pound (and agile) 6 month old made baby bjorn carrying much more difficult. Add to this her insistence to either kick or grab for the attractive berry leaves and vines that were COVERED IN THORNS and you have a most unpleasant situation.

Teaching Mia NOT to grab the thorns, I soon discovered, was not an option. And holding out my bucket of lovingly cultivated berries to distract her only resulted in it being knocked out of my hand and my having to start over again. I quickly realized that the only way for me to pick the berries safely was for me to walk backwards into the berry patch while holding the bucket up in the air, out of Mia’s reach and then pick berries from behind my back. Fun times...I won’t even MENTION the added bonus of poison ivy and wasps that also enhanced the experience.

Suffice it to say, the berry picking activity took WAY longer than I anticipated. In fact, it took way longer than MIA anticipated. It was right when I discovered a very accessibly patch of particularly lovely berries that were surrounded by tiger lilies (which Mia could safely grab) when Mia announced that she was DONE with berry picking. And there wasn’t much I could do to convince her otherwise.

I have a very meager basked of berries and a very scraped up back to show for my intense effort. But, somewhat more useful than either of the above, I also have some well-learned words of advice: when given an opportunity to accomplish something while your child is asleep, DO IT. NO matter HOW FUN it may seem to involve the baby in the task, believe me - -it won’t be.

Bad guys, princesses and eyeballs

2011-07-07T19:51:00.001-04:00

Sad as it is to say, I have been having some trouble relating to my kid these days. I made it through his “trucks and cars” stage and even his various sports obsessions, but lately I haven’t been able to see the appeal in his various fascinations. Toby’s latest fixation is with eyeballs, shooting bad guys and…princesses.

These days EVERY conversation ends in SOMETHING to do with someone’s eyeball. What did you do at daycare today? We played duck duck goose and poked each other in the EYEBALL. Can you go and see why Mia is crying? Yes, it’s because her EYEBALLS hurt. Can you stand still while I put your sunscreen on? Yes. Just make sure not to get it in my EYEBALLS he says EVERY TIME before falling to the floor in a fit of eyeball-induced laughter.

When he is not ruminating over eyeballs, he spends his time running around the house making boyish shooting and “pooming” noises as he “gets bad guys” with his swords and “poomers”. (I draw the line at letting him use the word “gun”.) He then runs over to me in elated victory to announce that he has once again successfully eliminated all of the bad guys by shooting them (you guessed it) in their EYEBALLS. Which he says with a flourish before falling on the floor in peals of testosterone-driven triumph.

And yet his FAVOURITE after dinner activity is to put Dido on and dance around as a princess wearing one of Mia’s pink blankets. He also likes to pretend he’s driving a horse (the arm rest of the couch) and heading to the castle to marry a prince. Yesterday we went to get him new crocs for daycare and he picked out pink ones. He also chose the pink potty seat over the one with the racecars on it.

Sigh. I can’t keep up.

I am FUNDAMENTALLY opposed to guns. I hate them. I hate seeing kids play with them. I hate everything to do with them. It tears me up that my sweet innocent little boy has somehow found a fascination with them. WHERE did he get that? We have certainly never exposed Toby to guns, shooting OR pooming; he has never played video games and the only movie he watches (on repeat) is Toy Story 3. (Not to say it isn’t without its own creepiness, but at least there are no guns in it…) My only conclusion is that he has picked it up at daycare and I am trying hard to teach him that pooming bad guys just isn’t a game I am interested in.

I can’t say I’m all that keen on princesses, either, but it DOES serve as a welcome break from all the guns and bad-guy-getting.

So I guess that leaves me with the eyeball situation. Which, I have to admit, I just don’t GET. It’s hard to find the hysterical appeal of them. Maybe it’s my field of work; I have never really been all that good (or INTERESTED) in ophthalmology, and real eyeball emergencies in the office or ER have only ever served to increase my stress level, never left me guffawing in uncontrollable laughter as it seems to do for Toby.

And so I will do what most good mommies do in the situation I am currently facing; I will participate as I can; smile and encourage the good; redirect and dishearten the bad; marvel at our differences and wait for this stage to pass…

Toby wins AGAIN

2011-07-05T08:47:00.004-04:00

There are several benefits to imaginary friends; they continue to slide down waterslides with you long after your parents have tired of the activity, and they ALWAYS let you win. Toby and Gochar amused themselves for hours with the new waterslide we got him. Usually Toby allows Gochar a few token "wins" but not when it came to his new waterslide. As you can see in the video, Toby won the race every time.

Terrifying Tball

2011-07-03T20:41:00.000-04:00

There are things you are allowed to brag about on your kids’ blog, and there are things you aren’t. Fingers crossed I have this one straight, but seeing as my son has very CLEARLY inherited ALL of his athletic capabilities from his father, I think it’s safe for me to write this post about his Tball prowess. And his deceptive lack thereof…

Toby is a FANTASTIC Tball player. In fact, he’s a fantastic BASEBALL player; we abandoned the “T” part a few games in, as he very clearly was able to hit a ball that Rob pitches to him. (Note: Rob has to pitch. He’s not quite so adept with my erratic pitches…but they have served to teach him what “balls” and “walks” are.) We have been playing “baseball” as a family for a while now with little pieces of cardboard as bases and the plastic bat and ball that he was given for Christmas.

You can imagine the excitement that we ALL felt when we discovered that there is a Tball league in Nottwa that is open to THREE year olds AND that his two best buddies were also going to join. We could think of nothing more exciting for the little guy.

You could tell Rob was excited because on his very next trip to Canadian tire he purchased a REAL bat, a REAL ball, a REAL helmet and a REAL mitt for Toby.

And they weren’t even on sale.

I won’t comment on how cute he looks in his baseball get up because I like to think some of my genes play a part in there. So that part I’ll leave up to your imagination. Lets just say he’s the shortest guy on the team and his #9 jersey comes down to about his knees. And sometimes I kind of want to eat him up.

The first Tball game was a bit of a production; Rob had soccer that night and Mia still needs my undivided attention at bedtime so my mom and dad came up to take him to the game. Rob went, too, for the first half, and I took a billion pictures and met them on their way out the door and on their way back in.

The game’s build up was akin to the Royal Wedding. Hats and all.

I won’t say we’re DISAPPOINTED that he spent the entire game picking dandelions in the outfield. It was a letdown that wasn’t at all unexpected; along with Rob’s athletic ability, Toby also inherited his shyness. And coach Ryan, apparently, is not only intimidating, but making eye contact with him will likely result in the world combusting into an eruption of flames and volcanic ash. Or so Toby seems to believe.

We are now at week 4 of Tball. Toby continues to revel in the novelty and dresses in his Tball outfit with passion only to arrive and hide behind my legs and then resort to playing with gravel in the infield or chasing his friends in the outfield. We have managed to hold him to one rule: he has to be on the field or we go home.

Last week we had a MAJOR breakthrough when Toby faced his fear of the terrifying coach and went up to bat. I have to hand it to Coach Ryan – as scary as he may seem to Toby, he is EXCELLENT with kids. His patience has outlasted mine by leaps and bounds and he knew EXACTLY how to handle the fact that Mr. Shy finally stepped up to bat. He did not make a big deal of things but treated Toby just like all the other kids and showed him how to hold the bat and find the ball.

I could hear the other kids, parents and fans all hold their breath as Toby stepped up to the plate.

This was the moment my shy kid would show the world that he has a hidden talent for baseball. As he took a swing at the T I pictured the reaction of the crowd as the youngest kid on the team hit the first home run of the season.

With the piddliest little swing I’ve ever seen him take, Toby finally made contact with the ball on the 3^rd swing and sent it about a quarter of the way to the pitcher before standing there looking dumbfounded as people cheered enthusiastically and encouraged him to run to first base. That was enough for him; off came the helmet and back to the dugout he ran with his eyes on the ground.

SERIOUSLY, KID? Is that ALL you got!?!?

Alas, I am an optimist. We have many more weeks of Tball ahead. ONE OF THESE DAYS, his shyness will part and he will shock the world with his surprisingly accurate swing. We can only hope…

Best Friends

2011-06-22T14:25:00.002-04:00

I love this video because it was taken about 5 minutes after we brought Zak home. You can tell right from the get go that these two are going to be best friends...I also like that you get a good sense of Toby's "bossy voice" which we are hearing more and more of these days!

Introducing...Zak Henry

2011-06-22T13:59:00.003-04:00

It wasn’t long after Mia was born that Rob announced, “Well, now all we need is a dog!” I believe my response was ”over my dead body” but I can’t QUITE remember, as I was busy doing something like delivering the placenta or having my insides stitched up at the time. In fact, I had quite forgotten about his statement until a few months ago when he began to mention it. Again. And. Again.

Yes, that’s right – I bought my husband a dog for Fathers day. We have officially become a family of 5. This newest edition didn’t quite take the full 9 months - just a few intensive weeks of daily kijiji searching and we have found ourselves the perfect dog to join our family. His name is Zak.

Zak is a 3-year-old “Red Retriever”. I’m not completely sure such a thing ACTUALLY exists – he may just be a cross between a golden retriever and an Irish Setter. Either way, he is a beautiful auburn colour and is extremely friendly. He lived with a family with two young kids in Stayner on a big lot with no fence and is used to lots of land and young kids. He was in the car all of five minutes before he settled down to sleep and made it clear to us that he feels right at home.

Despite being bowled over a few times, Toby is already referring to Zak as “his dog” although it is quite clear that Rob is alpha dog. Mia giggles at the sloppy wet kisses she now receives on a regular basis, and I am reluctantly admitting that he is, indeed, the perfect addition to our family.

I am accepting nominations for wife of the year award, as the year 2011 will be forever remembered as the year in which I gave my husband a daughter AND a dog (while graciously accepting a frying pan as my mothers day present.)

Time Out Failure

2011-06-21T19:29:00.001-04:00

Tonight after dinner I was helping Toby to wash his hands and face when he started spitting on me. I explained to him that spitting was rude and asked him to stop. He didn’t. I asked him again. He continued to spit. I threatened a time out and counted to three. He waited until I had gotten to three and then ever so sweetly smiled up at me and spat in my face.

I had no choice but to calmly and firmly escort my soap-covered-spitting-three-year-old to the time out chair. Following the rules of “time outs” I looked at the clock and prayed that the 3 minutes would go by quickly.

They didn’t.

My three year old’s response to time outs is akin to the stages of grief – he starts with anger; flailing his limbs about in dramatic protest until the denial set in and he boldy get off the time out chair and attempts to innocently end his sentence early. After a few failed attempts at “denial”, he finally resigns himself to acceptance, as he sits back down and sheds great big alligator tears to signify his grief.

It is a long 3 minutes for both of us.

Finally, I had made my three minute point. As I escorted him off the chair and walked back to the bathroom to continue washing his hands I asked him why he had been given a time out.

“Be-be-because…I was SPITTTING” he guffawed through the tears of his torture.

“And are you going to spit again?” I asked

“N-n-n-NOOOOO!!!” He wailed in conclusion.

Satisfied that he had learned his lesson, I picked up his facecloth and made a little game of the face washing by pretending I was a washing machine, making loud noises with my mouth and sweeping his face in circular motion.

The tears stopped abruptly and he started at me in disbelief.

I guess he didn’t realize I was being a washing machine. All he could focus on was the fact that, in doing so, I had spat all over his face.

The only thing better than diamonds...

2011-06-18T20:40:00.002-04:00

Tonight as I was putting Toby to bed he noticed, for the first time, my engagement ring.

“Ooh…” he exclaimed, “That’s a pretty ring, Mommy!”

I took this opportunity to give my son his first lesson on the 4 C’s and explained to him that it was called a diamond and it was very special. He asked if he could try it on and I obliged but drew the line at letting him wear it “to sleep in”.

He was visibly distraught that he couldn’t wear my most expensive piece of jewelry to be bed, so I clarified to him WHY it was so special; it had been a special present from daddy, given to me a long time ago. At first he wondered if I had meant HIS daddy or MY daddy and I elaborated that it had been HIS daddy and that he had asked me to marry him (in a castle – one of Toby’s favourite stories) and I had said yes.

Toby thought about this for a minute and then decided to tell me a story of his own.

His story went like this :

“Mommy you know what? One day I asked Gochar to marry me on top of a castle and Gochar said YES! And then do you know what I gave him?”

I waited with baited breath for what I thought was the surefire answer.

As usual, I was wrong.

“Chocolate milk!”

I supose that when you’re three, chocolate milk is right up there with diamond rings.

Maternal Pride

2011-06-15T08:28:00.000-04:00

Mia has a new trick.

And not only am I thrilled to see that my baby girl CAN learn new things and has the potential to grow into a rational, logistically thinking individual, I also have a touch of that irrational mummy brain excitement going on. Thank heavens it is happening again!

Before Mia was born I was reliving Toby’s baby days through the countless videos I took. Looking back on them I was APPALLED at my high pitched voice and the shrill edge of lunacy as I pointed out to the camera his seemingly groundbreaking discoveries; holding his head up (lasting all of 5 seconds before it violently slammed against my breast) and reaching for a rattle (after an agonizing 5 minutes of anticipation with shaky amateur camera work) and saying the word “blueberry” in what I thought was completely coherent adult word. (It came out as “Ba-Ba”) Now that Toby comes home from daycare proudly announcing that he can say the days of the week in French, or recite the importance of Reduce, Reuse and Recycle, I wondered how I would ever be able to meet Mia’s first accomplishments with the same exhilaration as I once did with her big brother.

Well, not to worry – I can. And once again, it came quite naturally.

Today she woke up from her nap SPITTING at me. At first I was taken aback. She wouldn’t even breastfeed she was SO excited about her new ability to spit. After a good 10 minutes of this she FINALLY showed me what she had been working at during her morning nap; Mia blew her first raspberry.

The look of elation on her face was nothing compared to the whoop of joy and hand clapping praise I showered her with.

My baby girl can (sort of) blow a raspberry. And once again I’m a (slightly crazy) proud mama.

But not to worry- - I have learned SOMETHING from my experience with my first-born. This time, to save myself from future embarrassment, I DIDN’T take a video.

Population Explosion at Brewster Lake. Or not.

2011-06-14T09:40:00.001-04:00

I have mentioned before that we live in the middle of nowhere; I have to admit that I have a love/hate relationship with my house. Some days after the kids are in bed, I sit on the swing and listen to the crickets chirping while the sun sets as the waterfall Rob built trickles in the background and I can’t imagine a more serene location. Other days I would give anything to live in town so I could walk somewhere. Or take a taxi home. Or ride my bike to work. Or get a coffee from the Espresso post on Sunday morning. Or order a pizza for delivery.

One day I hope to have the best of both worlds…but for now I will continue to use my rapid cycling rollercoaster of emotion about my house as good material for my blog J

Sometimes there are moments, even when the crickets are chirping and the waterfall is flowing that I am reminded of our isolation. Yesterday held one such moment. Toby was sitting staring out the front window when all of a sudden he excitedly pointed out to me, “MOMMMY! Look at all of those PEOPLE over there!!!”

Naturally, when you are used to a population of zero out of your front window, an impending swarm of thousands brought me running.

To my disappointment, I was not greeted with my brain’s anticipatory delusion. There was, in fact, nobody on the road save the few trees that are usually there. But off in the distance I could see what Toby thought was a mirage of socialization: our neighbors clothes line and their brightly coloured laundry. It did kind of look like a line of lots of people.

Sigh. Back to the crickets.

Environmental Complications

2011-06-07T19:24:00.000-04:00

Tonight, as we entered the bathroom to wash our hands after supper, Toby threw open the bathroom door and proudly announced that he had left the lights on (from the before supper handwashing session) so we didn’t have to bother turning them on again!

“Isn’t that a good idea?” he asked, his little chest swelling with pride at his ingenious foresight.

Hmm…did I get into the pros and cons of electrical preservation with my 3 year old? I decided to give it a go,

“Well…” I said slowly, “Leaving lights on all of the time uses up electricity which is bad for the environment.”

Deflated, Toby stared at me for a second, blinked twice and then, with a shrug of his shoulder and a loud sigh concluded,

“Huh. Well…I don’t know that yet.”

And then he happily set about washing his hands.

I can see his point; sometimes a little extra knowledge just complicates things.

Telephone Manners

2011-06-05T14:38:00.001-04:00

After 10 years (TEN YEARS!) I have finally managed to convince Rob to concede on a point he has been adamantly opposed to for eons. Today, FINALLY, Rob agreed to put his morals and sound ethics aside and allow me to get ... call display.

It may seem like a petty dispute. Believe me, it is not. As my husband is pushed to join the 21^st century and leave the 80’s behind, I have (ever the supportive wife) had to do a lot of reassuring that call display is now the NORMAL thing to have; it is NOT rude and it WILL make my life with two kids MUCH more convenient.

He is skeptical, but I took his (albeit weak) go ahead sign without hesitation and called Bell Canada.

After the cheerful robot, I got a lovely chap with a thick Indian accent who very CLEARLY knows about as much about the North American telephone system as my dad knows about the internet: not a heck of a lot.

After I answered all of the topnotch special secret service detective questions to reassure them that I was in fact the rightful owner of my phone line I was allowed to request a change to my phone settings. (Phew.) (There is a special place in hell for whatever criminals duped Bell Canada and forced them to adopt such strict telephone identity security systems ... but that’s another post …)

“Yes, Hello, Mrs Alyssa Boyd-Henry!”

“Hello” (our phone bill is the only thing that I use the name Henry for)

“May I call you Mrs. Alyssa Boyd-Henry?”

(Good God this was going to take all day)

“Yes.”

Right away, Mr Cheerful from Bangladesh informed me that there was some good news! It turns out by calling to add call display to my existing phone line I would end up SAVING myself some money! All I had to do was sign up for the Bell Convenience 5 Feature Pack and my phone bill would plummet from $71.71 to $71.53.

!!!!

I may have postpartum brain fog but even I could figure out that it adds up to a reduction of NOT EVEN TWENTY CENTS!

It seemed to excite my interlocutor very much. (I suspect he knows as much about our currency as he does about Bell Canada…)

The problem became the 5 features I had to choose from. Dude on the phone read them out to me from a list. When I asked him to clarify just exactly WHAT would happen when I pressed *11 for the mysterious “call privacy identification “ he became slightly anxious and then reread to me the previous sentence,

“well…you press *11 and then the privacy identification is activated. “

Fantastic.

None of the proffered other features were in any way appealing, and I certainly didn’t want to rock the boat by adding lots of POTENTIALLY RUDE bells and whistles to our phone line. Call waiting just might have the potential to get Rob kicked out of the Catholic Church. You never know….

Finally, in a state of impatient exasperation (the kind that only strikes when you are on the phone with Bell Canada for the 20^th minute trying to accomplish a SIMPLE TASK with someone halfway around the world) I said to the guy,

“Look. It has taken TEN YEARS for my husband to agree to Call Display. (TEN YEARS!) If I start adding all these other fancy things to my phone line and the phone starts beeping the next time he’s on the phone with his mother he’s going to take 10 steps backwards and time warp our house back to the 1950s and I’ll be using a beige rotary phone that’s attached to the wall. ALL I WANT IS CALL DISPLAY!”

This stunned him. I could hear him scrambling for the right words as he leafed through the papers on his desk. This was putting his training to the test. He may not know about the special intricacies of the *11 features of North American phones but this man had social skills. After a short break I heard him take a deep breath and as politely as he could muster asked,

“Ah yes…uh…Mrs Alyssa Boyd-Henry I forgot to ask you…How are YOU today?”

Believe it or not, his technique worked. I told him I was fine and together we navigated through the complexities of the Bell Canada 5 feature convenience pack. When it came time to process the changes I was very politely put on hold and quite diligently checked on and reassured every minute or so with profuse apologies about the wait. One time he even asked me how the weather was.

At the end of the day I am pleased to say our phone line has been successfully (and perilously) modernized and I not only made a new friend from halfway around the world, but also learned a valuable lesson in politeness.

Stevie Wonder

2011-05-30T20:42:00.002-04:00

For the past 2 years or so Toby has humored us with his diverse dancing techniques. One of my very favourite moments of the day are our after dinner dance parties. It started a while ago with me teaching him to air guitar to Bon Jovi. A mere 18 months old he captured many peoples attention by requesting Bon Jovi in his then still formative baby voice. But my most FAVOURITE dance of all is what we call his “Stevie Wonder Dance”.

Toby “made this up” himself. (As much as you can claim that Stevie’s head raise and sway was made up by Toby.) We coined it his “Stevie Wonder” dance right away. Always a ham, Toby likes to bring out his Stevie Wonder moves for any willing audience and to ANY genre of music.

So what excitement when we discovered that our PVR’d Oprah Special had the surprise guest of Stevie Wonder himeslf. I caught a few minutes of it today and quickly saved it to watch tonight with Toby.

At dinner I announced that we were going to see the REAL Stevie Wonder on TV.

Toby was speechless.

“Wow…” he said as he chewed his carrots and thought about this.

It’s a lot to process. For years “Stevie Wonder” was a simple swaying dance that made adults laugh. All of a sudden he was told that he was about to see THE REAL STEVIE WONDER. Akin to telling any 13 year old they were about to meet Justin Beiber, I would presume. No wonder the poor kid was speechless.

At last his voice came back and he asked the critical question that revealed to us just what was going on in his little brain,

“Mommy….will Stevie Wonder look like a CAT?”

I have to say, after all that build up (plus the 5 minutes it took to finish his carrots and race downstairs to the TV) the real Stevie Wonder would have been a TOTAL let down if he hadn’t appeared on a rising platform that miraculously ascended onto the stage.

“MOMMY!” He exclaimed excitedly, “HE CAME THROUGH THE STAGE!!!”

And so it turns out that even if he doesn’t look like a cat, Stevie Wonder is pretty special.

On Death and Dying

2011-05-25T13:34:00.002-04:00

Knock on wood; we have never had to explain the concept of death to our inquisitive 3 year old. (Well, except for the ladybug incident…but that was an exceptional circumstance…) So what a shock when Toby and I were playing yesterday and he announced that one of his trucks was “dead”.

It was an intricate game that incorporated Lego, the horses from his farm animals, Tomas the Tank Engine and various cars and trucks in a repetitive story line in which the horses and cars woke up to find the blue truck missing. Turns out this truck had escaped in the night and was in the middle of the field. Broken. The cars would wake up the horses who would eat their breakfast of carrots and then rush off to enlist Thomas the Tank Engine (playing the role of mechanic) in the search and rescue of the blue truck.

Upon discovering the broken truck, Thomas would usually announce that it was missing a wheel, but on round 3 of the game Thomas was dismayed to announce to the horses that the truck was, in fact, DEAD.

For added flourish, Toby paused and raised his eyebrows at me after clinching the diagnosis.

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I gave (what I thought was) an appropriate display of remorse and suggested that they take the truck back to the repair shop to be fixed.

“No, Mommy! He’s DEAD!”

(Apparently I had not demonstrated enough remorse to fully convey my understanding of the word “dead”)

“He’s SO MUCH DEAD that he can’t get UP!” Toby continued, “Mummy…he’s dead ALL OF THE TIME!”

Yikes! This kid means business. The truck was obviously dead. But how on earth did Toby understand what this meant? By the serious look on his face and his pessimism about the situation I got the sense that my 3 year old was starting to grasp the finality of death. Was he really ready to understand this concept? How far did I let this go? Would I really mess him up by pretending the mechanic could still fix his “dead” car or did the game stop here? Was a Lego graveyard and a funeral led by Sir Toppam Hat the next step?

Before I made up my mind which way to proceed, Toby took the game back into his own hands and decided for himself that Thomas would set to work on the futile situation. (I sense a true ER doctor lingering somewhere in there…)

Thankfully, it didn’t take Thomas long.

“AHA! I have figured it out! His battery is definitely DEAD. He needs a new battery!”

And suddenly it dawned on me. We HAD taught Toby about death. Repeatedly. As my cranky pregnant and later sleep deprived postpartum patience dwindled, the subject of my irritability was often whatever loud noise making plastic toy Toby would be playing with at the time. After he had put it aside I would covertly take the batteries out or turn the switch to “off” and then use the line “Toby I’m sorry, the battery is dead, the sound doesn’t work anymore - -you’ll have to play with it without sound for now.”

Little did I know I was simultaneously teaching him his first lesson on death and dying.

You’ll be happy to know that the blue truck, much like the ladybug, came back to life, thanks to the quick work of the horses, Thomas the tank Engine and a new battery. I let the situation satisfy him for now and will keep my fingers crossed that true death doesn’t cross his innocent life’s path for the next little while so he may be shielded just a little bit longer from the knowledge that batteries can’t fix everything.

Selective Breastfeeding

2011-05-19T19:41:00.001-04:00

It has finally come – a glimmer of socialization with a touch of cleverness and Miss Mia has reached that dreaded stage where she has started noticing that things go on around her. As such, she no longer sleeps just anywhere. She also won’t eat if there is anything REMOTELY exciting going on. Things that meet her criteria include music, bright lights, anything and everything her loud mouth big brother does or says, conversations…the list goes on and on and gets more and more selective every day.

Needless to say, my repertoire of “activities to do while breastfeeding” is dwindling.

Today I was sitting in a quiet room with my computer shut and the lights on dim, hoping to give her a good feed when all of a sudden she PULLED off the breast and STARED at me before bursting into tears. I convinced her to go back on only to have this happen again a few seconds later. This time she didn’t cry but merely GLARED at me with a face that told me exactly just how PUT OUT she was by my watching her eat.

“MIA.” I said exasperatedly, “This is how it works. I can’t leave while you feed – it’s a packaged deal!”

What a shock – this reasoning didn’t work with my daughter. Apparently she no longer wants an audience at her breastfeeding sessions.

And so if you see me sitting alone in a dark, quiet room with a blanket over my head, you’ll know what I’m doing.

Oh, the things we do for our children!

Crushing a Princess' Dream

2011-05-17T11:32:00.001-04:00

Toby has had quite a run of princess situations lately. Recently there was another theme week at daycare that revolved around princesses, and then there was the Royal Wedding, which he watched both at home AND at daycare. So no wonder he announced to me the other day that when he grows up he wants to be a princess.

I believe very strongly in allowing my kids to follow WHATEVER path they choose so long as they are passionate about what they do. When Toby decided he wanted to be an astronaut so he could go to the moon I said nothing of the high IQ, financial implications and years and years of schooling it would involve; I bit my mommy tongue and told him that sounded like a great plan.

But a PRINCESS? At what point does the very practical point – that being the fact that he is MALE – negate this option?

The first time it came up I said nothing.

The second time it came up I nodded and smiled.

Yesterday, though, perhaps having sensed my skepticism, he clarified to me, “Mommy, when I grow up FIRST I’m going to become a woman and THEN I’m going to be a princess? And you know what? I’m going to wear a PURPLE DRESS.”

As if the fact that it will be a PURPLE dress will somehow soften the blow of the sex change that took place in the previous sentence.

Kids have a way of putting our blanket statements to a test. Would it REALLY scar him if I told him that he couldn’t become a woman? What is the likelihood that years from now he’ll find himself in a purple dress lying on the couch of his shrink’s office saying in his estrogen-induced-high-pitched-female-voice “If only my mom had just been more open minded and not crushed my dreams of becoming Tobina at the age of 3, I would never have had such a tough life.”

By the time I had analyzed this and weighed the odds enough to feel confident in my decision to raise the sensible point to him he had moved on and was busy smashing his train track apart.

Perhaps some conversations are better left unsaid…

The Great Deer Incident of 2010

2011-05-16T10:15:00.001-04:00

One night, a long time ago, I hit a deer on my way home from work. Toby was in bed already but the next morning I showed him my severely dented car before it went off to the mechanics to get fixed.

Little did I know it would soon become his FAVOURITE story.

ANY chance he gets, Toby reminds, questions and BUGS me about this incident. It initially came up a few months ago after having to have a conversation about seatbelts. I had explained to him that being buckled into his carseat was the equivalent of how adults have to wear seatbelts; to keep us safe in case of an accident.

“Oooh” he said knowingly, “Like when you hit that MOOSE, Mommy?”

I clarified that it had not, in fact, been a moose, but a deer.

But WHY had I hit that deer? (Because it had jumped in front of my car). And WHAT had it done to the car? (Schmucked it.) And WHAT had happened to the deer? (It flew into the air) and WHERE had I sent my car? (To the mechanics be fixed).

For days after my innocent ”seatbelt lesson” I was plagued with questions about The Great Deer Mishap.

This rapid fire questioning continued for days and then (FINALLY) he let it go.

Until this week.

As he was rounding my car to get into his side he noticed my little “deer alert” things that I bought for $2 at Dollorama. Apparently they make some sort of sound that humans can’t hear but somehow warn deer in particular (according to the package) that you’re coming. I thought for $2 it was worth a shot. Given the bag of worms it then opened up, I’m starting to rethink my purchase. I braced myself and then explained to him what they were.

Toby looked at me very seriously.

“Is this so you don’t hit any more DEERS, Mommy?” (Thank heavens he’d at least stopped referring to them as MOOSE.)

“Yes.”

“Cause last day when you hit a deer you hurt your car?”

“Yes”

“Did you hit the FRONT of your car?”

“Yes”

“Did it hurt the STEERING WHEEL?”

“No”

“And then you had to have a WHITE car while they fixed your BLUE car?”

I paused after this question and searched in the depths of my pre-Mia memory for the colour of the rental car and concluded that it had, in fact, been white. How does he REMEMBER these things?

I will spare you any further details but suffice it to say that my son continually demonstrates himself to be a perfect blend of my husband and myself; lecturing, ruminating and obsessing over a minor car mishap (like his dad) but adding the odd Moose-like-flare for exaggeration just to prove he’s got a little of me in him, too.

My Mother's Day Gift

2011-05-09T19:33:00.001-04:00

About a month ago, after a seemingly unimportant trip into town, Rob arrived home looking rather smug. It wasn’t long before he divulged the secret behind his smugness; he had bought me a mother’s day present.

I wasn’t sure HOW to respond to his triumphant confession at first. Rob is not a huge gift giver. He’s also not prone to secrecy. But his mother has taught him well, and he has always made an effort to make me feel special on mother’s day. Maybe this time he had gone all out? I decided not to build this up too much and responded with an appropriate amount of gratitude and tried to let it go.

As the days passed by and mother’s day grew closer, Rob continued to mention this “gift” on numerous occasions. Sometimes as we sat peacefully in the hottub after the kids had gone to bed, he’d break the silence by voicing his thoughts aloud, “Did I mention that I bought you a mothers day present?” Othertimes it would come up when Toby mentioned that he was learning about mothers day at daycare,

“Toby,” Rob would say to him, “That’s great! And do you know what? I bought mommy a present for Mothers day which we can give it to her together.”

Despite my attempts not to read into things too much, I couldn’t help but be SLIGHTLY curious. I remembered a few years back mentioning to Rob that when our family was complete I’d like a piece of jewelry with my kids’ birthstones in it. Had he ACTUALLY remembered this?

I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I know for myself that by the time Mother's day actually rolled around I was definitely eager to unveil this much-mentioned accomplishment of Rob’s.

I didn’t have to wait long. As I stood at the kitchen counter making my coffee I heard Rob and Toby coming upstairs with my gift. (Rob was urging Toby on to give it to me). I resisted the urge to turn around and look as Toby crept towards me, gift in hand. Finally I felt his little hand close around my fingers and I turned around and peeked.

After 31 days of built up anticipation, the triumphant gift was finally in my hands.

It was a frying pan.

The concept of twins

2011-05-09T19:27:00.000-04:00

It was an exciting day at daycare today because it was one of Toby’s friends’ birthdays. As he excitedly announced this to me I realized it was one of the twins. Just as I was processing this he added, “And there were TWO Birthdays, Mommy!” and then named the other twin whose birthday it also was today.

“Toby,” I asked, “Do you know WHY they have the same birthday?”

Toby thought about this for a second, trying to put the obvious into words.

“Yes, Mommy.” He concluded, “It’s because they match.”

Mothers Day Flash Back

2011-05-08T19:45:00.002-04:00

A year ago this weekend I made the discovery that I was pregnant. There wasn’t one sudden instant when I knew, but a very faint line on the Saturday morning test gave me a heads up, while Rob firmly concluded that it was negative and refused to give it a second thought. But I knew better and kept it as my little secret until a suitably dark enough line emerged on Monday morning, clinching the diagnosis for my skeptical husband.

Those two days of suspecting but not being able to share the news with my black and white husband (or anyone else for that matter) started the bond I now have with Mia. Whereas with Toby I couldn’t WAIT to share the news, this time I reveled in the secrecy of my pregnancy. From the very start Mia was all mine…I was excited, but also nervous. How would I manage life with two? How would Toby react? How could I possibly love another as much as I love him? Would I get my wish of having a daughter or be investing in new soccer cleats for myself so I could keep up with the testosterone in our house? And the biggest question of all - - what would I be doing this time next year?

What a joyous feeling to be on this end of the fence and to KNOW. I got my girl. Toby adores her. My heart has expanded appropriately (to put it mildly) to accommodate this new addition. And what does life look like today?

I contemplated this at 6:45 this morning. Mia had slept through the night, woken up smiling and had a great feed and I’d brought her into bed with us for a few moments of quiet before Toby got up. Rob and I were taking turns making her laugh.

I thought about the “me” of this time last year – excited, nervous, well rested, 10 pounds lighter and unaware of what laid ahead. And I felt this great surge of accomplishment, satisfaction and joy…And then Mia projectile vomited all over my face.

Chaos ensued; as I wiped my glasses and face off, Rob jumped up and sprang into laundry-action and somewhere from the depths of the basement I heard Toby start to cry.

And so my mother’s day conclusion is? Life is certainly unpredictable…and motherhood brings with it the greatest highs and the lowest of lows imaginable. But at the end of the day, it’s the greatest gift of all.

Life Lessons on Ladybugs

2011-05-01T19:53:00.003-04:00

Toby was sitting at the counter this afternoon having his snack while I was making dinner when all of a sudden he spied a lady bug on the ground. He quickly got down and started to play with it excitedly. I wasn't pay much attention because I was busy creating kid friendly supper food (NO EASY FEAT!) when he climbed back up on his stool and announced matter-of-factly, “Well THAT lady bug isn’t going to fly again!” and returned to his snack. He then finished it up with, “Yup. He’s gone and got DEAD, that ladybug.” And took a deep satisfied gulp of his juice.

Well THAT got my attention. I know EXACTLY what it means when kids develop a love of torturing animals and this was NOT a behaviour I had either anticipated or would tolerate. But I gave my son the benefit of the doubt by gingerly asking how this lady bug had “gotten” dead.

“OH.” He said coldly, “I did it to him.”

Rob took one look at my panic-stricken face and reassured me that he IS only 3.

I wasn’t reassured.

I raced over to where the poor ladybug lay on the floor and examined him.

“Oh, DEAR, Toby!” I tried to enlist his empathy, “The POOR LADYBUG!”

Toby put his juice down to come over and look. When he was down on the floor with me and making eye contact I asked him very seriously why he had hurt the ladybug.

Apparently it was a BAD ladybug because it had not wanted to get up on Toby’s finger. So it got squished.

I had hoped to garner SOME emotion from Toby as I taught him that it’s not nice to hurt ANYTHING – animal, insect or person – no matter what they’ve done to you. (Including something as appalling as refusing to get on your finger…) I used an example of how he felt when he got hurt. I think he understood, but I was a little disappointed that I hadn’t elicited even a remorseful LOOK from the boy.

My skepticism was further reinforced when he got back up on his chair and promptly burst into tears because he had spilled his orange juice on his new pirate placemat. (Aha! So you DO have feelings...)

But not to worry - - a few minutes later the miracle of Easter occurred on our kitchen floor and that very same ladybug was seen scurrying across the floor again. I pointed this out to Toby excitedly and he very calmly got down onto the floor to inspect the resurrection.

I am relieved to report that my life lesson from the floor of the kitchen DID in fact take; as he watched the Jesus Christ of Ladybugs frantically scurry away from him I overheard him whisper, “Don’t worry, Ladybug. This time I’m not going to squish you.”

I think we’re making progress.

Circus Week

2011-04-30T14:20:00.003-04:00

This past week at daycare the theme was the circus. It has been an exciting week for all of us; brightly coloured crafts, face paintings, daily phone calls to Grandma enlisting her to find him a circus we can go to and endless conversastions about clowns, animals and circus acts filled our days. But this morning I realized he hadn't entirely gotten circus-speak down pat.

We were eating waffles with syrup and discussing how much fun it would be to go to a real circus. Toby was imaging what he would see- - clowns, elephants, tigers and dribblers.

DRIBBLERS?

What were dribblers? I asked.

Toby responded by putting his fork down and acting out a juggling act while explaining, “You know, mommy, DRIBBLERS, the guys who poke balls in the air like this!”

I corrected the name “dribblers” to be “jugglers” but left the act of “poking balls into the air” alone. In fact, I think it’s a rather clever way of explaining what juggling is.

Bath time "excitement"

2011-04-28T20:44:00.000-04:00

Mia has been working very hard lately at mastering a skill that has taken me weeks to teach her. It is with great pride that I can finally report…that she can kick her feet in the bath.

And cause a splash.

On command.

It doesn’t seem like much, but she has taken this conquest VERY seriously. So seriously, in fact, that she does it with the STERNEST of looks on her little face. She reminds me of one of those crazy kilted dancers whose upper torso is totally immobile while their legs kick in and out at such a fast pace you wonder how they can possibly be attached to the upper body. As soon as she gets in the bath her eyebrows furrow, her little tongue pokes out (this is her look of intense concentration) and then her little legs start kicking and kicking, water splashes everywhere and, while I erupt into hands-clapping-mouth-open-high-pitched-encouraging-baby-voice-laughter she just stares at me in deep concentration.
No matter how much splashing occurs, how hard I clap or laugh; she doesn’t dare even CRACK a smile.

It is fantastic to see that she CAN learn things and that she is even somewhat obedient by humouring me in my insistence that she learn this new skill. But if she weren’t such a smiley, happy baby at other times, I would have serious concerns about her inability to find the “fun” in this activity. From the look on her face the only thing I can imagine that she is thinking is “For some reason you want me to kick and splash in the bath - -well here you go. But don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

The Yoga Master

2011-04-19T13:31:00.001-04:00

The other day I made the mistake of introducing Toby to the sport of yoga. I didn’t think he’d actually LIKE Yoga- - so far he has just been a busy little boy who loves sports that involve balls and running; turns out he likes the downward dog as well.

Most parents would find it awesome that their 3 year old son readily engages in yoga. At first I found it charming, but today, it was nothing but torture.

I got Toby early from daycare today so he could have a nap and ended up having one of those miraculous moments when BOTH children were asleep. AT THE SAME TIME. I didn’t know whether to sleep, eat or empty the dishwasher and ended up wandering around the house in hypomanic ineptness, accomplishing nothing while marveling at my freedom. Finally I managed to focus my energy and have a snack, do a few chores and then put on an exercise video.

It was one of those ANNOYING videos that CLAIM to be only 40 minutes long (which is a LOONG time when you’re post partum and on severely rationed amounts of alone time) when in fact it was actually FIFTY TWO minutes long. About 41 minutes in I decided Toby’s nap had been long enough and woke him up, rationalizing to myself that I’d finish the video in his presence (while secretly thinking he’d convince me to do something else instead). Sneaky, I know. But there has to be SOME advantage to having a three year old.

My plan backfired.

Two minutes in and Toby was completely enthralled in the video and forced me to finish it. And then he wanted to do yoga. I explained to him that it was time for a snack but he would have none of it. If I got to do an exercise video, he should be allowed to do his YOGA video.

Sometimes, in life, there are fights you just can’t muster up the energy to fight. ESPECIALLY after completing a FIFTY TWO MINUTE exercise video. So I turned the yoga on. Toby held the first pose for all of 5 seconds before declaring it “too difficult” and then sitting on the couch. As I went to join him on the couch I was quickly reprimanded and ordered BACK onto the yoga mat.

This routine continued for quite some time. Six minutes to be precise. Which, I might point out, is a LONG TIME when you’re just completed a full FIFTY TWO MINUTE exercise video.

As I found myself immersed in the agony of dolphin, camel and downward dog poses I started dreaming up schemes to outsmart the yoga master who was bossing me around from the couch.

“Maybe we should have a snack, Toby?”

“No…not yet. Get back on the mat”

“Hey, Toby! Lets watch Sesame Street!”

“…No…I like watching Yoga.”

Every now and then, when he could see me gearing up to stop the video he would join me on the mat for a few poses before announcing his yoga inadequacies and assuming his spot on the couch.

Finally, (FINALLY!!!) I was rescued by my beloved daughter who had the good sense to WAKE UP and save me from the inconsiderate yoga nazi I’d created. Although most people would be proud of the fact that their child is well versed in yoga-speak, I have to say (and my thighs and arms agree)…I think I may have created a monster.

Struction Workers

2011-04-18T21:08:00.001-04:00

After dinner tonight we went downstairs to find Toby in head to toe construction worker gear – goggles, tool belt, helmet, and orange vest to boot.

“Wow!” said Rob, “Are you a construction worker?”

“Yes!” Replied Toby, “I’m a STRUCTION worker!”

“Awesome!” Encouraged Rob, “What are you going to fix?”

“I’m going to fix GIRLS!” replied Toby

We looked at each other skeptically before Rob questioned this statement and suggested perhaps that he could fix things like cars and buildings.

“No,” Toby had obviously made up his mind, “I’m going to fix girls.”

“So….does that mean you’re a DOCTOR?”

“NO!” Toby started to get angry “I’m a STRUCTION worker and I’m going to fix BROOKLYN”

I’ll spare you the details of the rest of this (ridiculous) conversation. Suffice it to say that there is a little girl in Toby’s daycare (named Brooklyn) who happens to be sick at home right now who APPARENTLY requires full construction worker gear to fix her ailment. So maybe I haven’t done such a great job at explaining what I do for work to the kid. Looking on the bright side, I’m sure construction school is MUCH cheaper than med school and you DEFINITELY get to wear cooler outfits.

The Cure for Colic

2011-04-06T12:06:00.004-04:00

I am scientist. Although I love the idea of romance and soul mates and have been known to flirt with religion, deep down in my core most of my beliefs are backed up by double blind placebo control trials with an n >1000. That is, until Mia came into my life.

Similar to how I felt about the whole “day 5 hormonal surge” I initially didn’t think that “baby brain” would apply to me. In fact it was probably the same group of people that told me about the cry day who warned me that upon delivering the placenta you lose part of your brain. I didn’t believe it. It never happened with Toby (not that I can remember, anyway), so I should have been safe this time, too, right?

Wrong.

I noticed my severely handicapped concentration skills on my first night home with Mia. It was 2 am; she was having a marathon feed and I was watching a movie on TV. I was literally 90 minutes into the movie when one of the characters started to have what looked like an epileptic fit. I found myself thinking, “I wonder what’s going on.” Then I started to question why I didn’t know what was going on and I realized that I had been watching the movie with the sound off the entire time. It wasn’t as if there was a ton of stuff going on; I was sitting in an empty room all alone at 2 am for a full 90 minutes in complete silence before I noticed that my difficulty following the movie was due to the fact that I’d inadvertently pressed the mute button an hour and a half ago. No wonder I wasn’t following properly.

Since then, my IQ has seemingly oozed out of me with my breast milk. When Mia became increasingly colicky at around 3 weeks I decided it was time to do some research into it. I had access to dozens of textbooks and online resources as well as some intelligent colleagues. What did I choose? Yahoo Questions and some “Hot Mommy Chat Boards”.

It was then that I threw all scientific evidence on Ovol drops and Gripe water out of the window and laid down my credit card for substances that have absolutely no research to back them up other than some positive reviews on various new-mom forums. I figured it couldn’t do her any harm…

When neither of the above solutions worked I chalked the colic up to the full moon and focused my internet searching to confirming my suspicion that a full moon DOES mess you up. Unfortunately, not even Google complied with my thoughts on this, but somewhere in the depths of my memory I found, in the sober moments of my Grade 13 grad trip to Cancun, something about the Mayan culture accounting for many behaviours on the cycles of the moon. That was evidence enough for me and the fact that Google hadn’t anything to back this up just confirmed that I was unveiling a new theory into colic.

This theory provided me with enough optimism to get through the next week as I watched the moon nightly and waited patiently for the full moon to pass and my new baby to return to her lovely, sleepy, one week self.

When the full moon passed and the colic continued, I sucked up my pride and took her to my doctor. Turns out there were SOME evidence for probiotics and the fact that EVERY SINGLE PHARMACY IN COLLINGWOOD was sold out of them clinched it for me. I dropped an easy $50 and waited the suggested 4-5 days for them to start working with renewed optimism.

When day 7 came and went with equal parts fussiness and crying, I want back to old faithful; yahoo questions. I believe I typed something like “colic + cure + diet”. Because CLEARLY I was doing something wrong with my diet. It didn’t take long to notice the trend in responses; the culprit was so OBVIOUSLY dairy I spit out my latte and vowed off dairy in my last ditch effort to regain my sanity and “cure” my now 6 week old problem child.

The very next day as evening approached I held my breath. Mia snacked at 5, smiled up at me and opened her mouth to unveil a big yawn. And she fell asleep.

Silence.

The colic was gone.

And so here I am, several weeks later having solved the greatest scientific dilemmas of my career. The solution was simple – forget evidence based trials; all I needed was to go dairy free, stop caffeine, start Mia on probiotics and use the occasional dose of ovol drops.

OR maybe she just needed to turn 6 weeks old. Either way, I learned some valuable lessons in patience, astronomy and life beyond science. Maybe this new “mommy brain” is just what I needed…

An Interesting Excursion...

2011-03-31T13:45:00.002-04:00

There are lots of things I love to do with my mother. In fact, doing almost ANYTHING with my mother adds a splash of energy and a hint of chaos to MOST day to day activities. Sometimes this is a good thing – sometimes not. Last week I discovered something that I should probably NOT do with my mother: shop.

This is not the first time I’ve gone shopping with my mom. It’s also not the first time I’ve dealt with the postpartum awkward stage my body is currently going through. But it’s the first time I’ve mixed the two together. Not. A. Great. Idea.

With Mia’s baptism fast approaching (mainly because we left the planning to the last minute) and my waistline creeping down at a SNAILS pace, I decided it was best just to buy something new for the occasion. Barrie, being halfway between my parents’ house and mine, seemed like a great option. (The fact that there is a mall there was also a bonus.)

This seemingly logical thought process set the stage for where I found myself this time last week; surrounded by lovely clothes that accentuated various rolls and love handles with my mother, wheelchaired father and crying daughter taking up the entire change room, eagerly awaiting their chance to voice their opinion.

It’s not my mother’s fault that I can read her; I have had over 30 years of practice. She did her best to use neutral phrases such as, “That’s a nice colour” and “Well…that looks OK…“ and my favourite: “Hmm…” She was never negative but the dramatic lack of enthusiasm said it all.

Finally, she came out with it and told me what she REALLY thought when I put on a particularly familiar blue shirt. “Oh, now that shirt just makes you look BUSTY. A definite NO.”

It was the shirt I had worn there that day.

I think that clinched it for all of us. As Mia started to fuss and my dad started to wonder where he was, mom and I decided it was a great time to go for lunch.

Thank heavens for Moxy’s Grille. They took one look at my (still slightly enlarged) disgruntled face and cheerfully asked the question that saved the day,

“Would you like the 6 or the 8 ounce glass of white wine?”

One of Those Days...

2011-03-29T07:52:00.003-04:00

Today was one of those days…when all I had to do was make a loaf of zucchini bread, but even THAT turned out to clash with Mia’s plans for my day.

Mia had a long stretch last night which meant two things: counter intuitively, I was up more than usual, waking up at the regularly scheduled 3 hour intervals only to spend the next 2 hours sleeping fitfully as I awaited her royal highnesses’ new feeding time. It also meant that I woke up completely engorged and Mia spent the rest of the day trying to eat without making herself sick. She did this by using my breasts as a swim up snack bar, intermingled with brief siestas. After a few hours of this the two things I was responsible for keeping track of were beyond me. Was she crying because she was hungry or tired? Taking cues from a 2 month old is no easy task. Deciphering the different cries is mildly reminiscent of listening to different heart sounds and trying to hear the difference between a split s2 and an early S3. Our day dissolved into a mess of irrational fussiness. On both our parts.

Finally, I resorted to putting her in the swing while I vacuumed. She fell asleep! And she slept. And slept. For WAY longer than I had planned to vacuum. I found myself stalling -- I didn’t want to risk turning the vacuum off and having her wake up, but there is only so much you can vacuum. I did half of the bedrooms and half of the stairs. Why half? Because the central vac will only reach so far and I didn’t want to unplug it.

And that is how Rob found us an hour later when he (finally!) got home from work. I was sitting peacefully eating homemade zucchini bread and Mia was asleep in the swing. And that vacuum was still going in the corner.

The Proud Big Brother

2011-03-21T20:43:00.003-04:00

With yesterday being the last day of March break we packed our day full of fun family activities. Toby and Daddy went to church while mommy slept in (OK, not quite so family centered but definitely a perk in my day!) followed by a romp around gymnastics with good friends and then pancake breakfast at Café chartreuse.

After nap time we packed up and went to Sarah’s house for a playdate with Allie. Toby had a great time running around the apple orchard and playing with new toys. He was so well behaved at dinner that Sarah rewarded him with CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM for dessert. We then took some photos of the kids and let him watch the Backyardigans in the car on the way home. Life doesn’t get much better than this...

So at bedtime as I tucked my tired boy into bed, I laid down beside him and asked him what his favourite part of our day had been.

He thought for a minute and then lifted his sleepy head to recall,”When you and Sarah took pictures and I got to hold Mia on the couch.”

Sometimes the grace with which Toby has taken his new roll of "big brother" just astounds me. And the sincerity with which he adores his little sister leaves me speechless. What was the favourite part of MY day? The 8am sleep in was pretty blissful, but nothing could top that moment.

Froggie Rules

2011-03-18T10:52:00.001-04:00

Since Toby was just a wee kid we have listened to the same Raffi CD in my car. I TRY to get him interested in other more adult friendly music like hip hop or dance but he always requests “My favourite music” which is basically any Raffi song. As such, I have developed my own favourite; 5 green and speckled frogs.

This morning, there was some perfectly decent upbeat music on the radio but I was urged to switch to Raffi and so I complied, glad to hear that MY favourite was next in queue. As I started to sing along I was RUDELY interrupted and firmly scolded from the back seat,

“MOMMY. You can’t SING this song, only FROGS can sing it.”

His bossiness was followed by some weird wide mouth contortionism and loud gulping sounds. Apparently, this was what it took to be a frog.

NO way I was going to be left out of my favourite song, so I eagerly and animatedly complied and did my best frog act while simulating hungry-frog-grub-gulping.

My next mistake was to jump into the pool.

“Mommy! Has to stay on the LOG!”

Note to self- - I am frog #3 and committing the crime of premature jumping is almost just as bad as singing along without amphibian status. (Note- Toby is frog #5.)

By the third go round of the song I had the rules straight and was permitted to both sing AND jump into the pool. My victory smile soon faded, however, as I realized the dude in the next truck over had been observing my performance as we sat at the red light together. Judging by the look on his face I highly doubt he recognized me as Green and Speckled Frog #3 but PROBABLY thought of me as more of an air-gulping lunatic.

Oh, the things we do for our kids…

Pyjama Day

2011-03-14T13:18:00.001-04:00

Today was pyjama day at daycare. Despite Daddy’s attempts to convince him otherwise, Toby came upstairs dressed in khaki pants and his soccer shirt. “Toby!” I pointed out, “Isn’t today pyjama day?”

“UH…Yeah it is!” he said excitedly, “But I’m not wearing my pyjamas.”

His initial explanation was a nonchalant and off the cuff scoff at the thought of wearing pyjamas to daycare (RIDICULOUS) followed by the practical fact that he was already DRESSED in REAL CLOTHES.

This was not a battle I was going to fight as I suspected that he would figure it out himself as soon as he got to daycare. Which he did. Thank goodness for foresighted parents who packed pyjamas in his backpack for him. AND they were his favourite Thomas ones to boot. Some days it’s nice to know we DO actually know our kid.

The Bottle Feeding Gene

2011-03-14T13:12:00.001-04:00

I seem to breed children who are either extremely conniving or just plain deficient when it comes to bottle-feeding. Maybe they are both lacking in the bottle-sucking-ability gene? Or, maybe Toby has been secretly passing on his bottle-aversion tips to his sister...who knows?

Toby happily took a bottle until the ripe old age of 6 weeks when he suddenly realized it was NOT the breast and not NEARLY as nice as the breast and embarked on a complete bottle hiatus that lasted long past the time that I went back to work. I spent those 4.5 months with immense guilt over the fact that I was going to go back to work and potentially STARVE my poor bottle-disabled child. I ordered so many nipples online I could start my own store. Finally, with the help of good friends, sippy cups, solid food, and a very dedicated husband, I eased myself back into work and Toby and (and father) managed to survive without me.

It wasn’t until he was 11 months old that, at a moment of weakness, Toby let it slip that he actually DID know how to take a bottle. Still in the ICU of Sick Kids hospital, he had just been extubated and withdrawing from his week-long morphine infusion when the nurse gave him a bottle -- the first bit of sustenance he’d had been offered in over a week. Forgetting his political stance on bottles, he sucked it back happily.

BUSTED.

Needless to say, I have a little less empathy this time. Trying to avoid this problem with Mia, we started her on a bottle even earlier, before she hit the 2 week old mark, once we knew breastfeeding was going well. She took one look at the bottle and innocently and loudly revolted, pretending to have NO IDEA what to do with it while simultaneously keeping up the pretence that I was trying to starve her to death.

It was a familiar scene that instantly took me back and sucked all optimism out of me, replacing it with the impending dread of another 5 months of a three hour leash.

I quickly came to my senses and gave myself a pep talk. This child was TEN DAYS OLD. What did SHE know? Perseverance was going to work on this equally-bottle-sucking-challenged child. Every day I pumped and lovingly coaxed her into taking the bottle. Eventually she took it, but only after being first allowed to breast feed and then with me sneakily and quickly replacing the nipple with the bottle. After a week of this even Rob had success but he, too, had to pretend to feed her on the nipple first before sneaking the bottle into her mouth. (Don’t ask…)

Last night, for the first time in 7 weeks, I left Mia for a heart wrenching hour and a half to go and play hockey. It was completely indulgent and felt both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. I left Rob with a bottle, a soother, a swaddle blanket, a sleeping toddler and about 100 hugs and kisses before guiltily skulking off.

I am pleased to report that all 3 of us survived the ordeal. After complaining loudly to her Daddy for a full 7 minutes it was time to try the bottle. She managed to take all 3 ounces but came off to burp every ½ ounce and then needed a full 5-10 minutes of gaping mouth flailing “OMG I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know how this works!” to remember how to suck again EACH TIME. Once again - - Master-manipulator or complete idiot? Who knows?

By the end of the night we were ALL exhausted for very different reasons.

The bottle taking isn’t perfect, but we haven’t lost the battle yet. And maybe, just MAYBE we’ve learned something from Toby after all…

Ornithology lessons

2011-03-11T01:46:00.002-05:00

Rob is reading a book right now that depicts the evils of video games and the deleterious effects they have on children. As such, we spend a lot of time nobly talking about how we are NEVER going to expose our children to them, and brainstorming ways to avoid them.

So what a shock it was to both of us when Toby confidently announced that Mia's new toy owl was an "Angry Bird!"

Oops….do iphone games count?

The Sport of Breastfeeding

2011-03-08T13:43:00.001-05:00

I knew this was coming – I had been warned by countless friends that Toby would try to imitate my breastfeeding, but I just couldn’t imagine my manly-boys-boy taking an interest in ANYTHING maternal.

But once again, Toby came through, proving that he WAS normal while staying true to his character. It happened only once, while he was visiting his grandparents, during a heated game of tennis ball soccer-baseball in the kitchen. I suspect he was on break after scoring a point and as he picked up the ball he slipped it under his shirt and announced that there was a baby in his belly.

Being now well versed in the sequence of events, he proceeded to announce that the baby was going to come out of his belly. He then assigned roles – “Grandma, you’re the daddy, I’m the mommy and Poppa you’re the big brother.” The tennis ball was successfully delivered (a much glossed over event, thank goodness) and immediately handed to “daddy”. Toby then positioned himself on the couch, lifted up his shirt and announced that it was time to breastfeed before grabbing the tennis ball back and placing it on his right breast.

"Daddy" was then handed the tennis ball for another brief instant before having it snatched up again by an eager Toby with the obvious explanation that it was time to feed on the other side.

The tennis ball is a much more efficient eater then Mia and my poor parents had barely caught their breath from choking back laughter before it was back to the game. He has not attempted to breastfeed any further pieces of sports equipment, and I suspect he only did it once to let us know that he is just like any other big brother/sister and the new and somewhat unusual act of breastfeeding is not lost on him. But at the end of the day, there are much more entertaining games to play with a tennis ball.

Fire Breathing Bullies

2011-02-23T23:54:00.001-05:00

They must be learning about bullies at daycare; tonight at dinner Toby solemnly announced that no one hits at daycare. He then clarified that if you hit someone it meant you were a bully. He THEN went on to explain that he knows this because yesterday he SAW a bully and it had sharp teeth and claws and FIRE coming out of his nose and that if the bully ever caught him he would get SQUISHED.

As you can imagine, this description was told with the appropriate dramatic flare complete with sound effects and actions.

I get the point and (more importantly) apparently HE gets the point; bullies are bad. In fact, in his three year old world it doesn’t get much worse; a few weeks ago they learned about dinosaurs and poor T Rex has NOTHING on these terrifying bullies.

I suspect the mere THREAT of being named a bully will put a dramatic end to all hitting at daycare. If only it were capable of eliciting a similar reaction in 13 year olds…

Back seat shenanigans

2011-02-20T00:54:00.000-05:00

We were driving home from daycare when Toby’s incessantly runny nose reached the epic proportion it needs to catch Toby’s attention. He politely asked for a Kleenex. In all of the chaos of two kids, two car seats and two sets of winter attire strewn across the backseat, I couldn’t for the life of me find the Kleenex box and, being less than 5 minutes from home, opted not to put our lives at risk for the sake of sanitation.

“Sorry, Toby,” I explained as confidently as a I could,, “Mommy can’t find the Kleenex right now so you will have to wipe it with your sleeve.”

(Was this an appropriate solution? This scenario was not covered in my mommy-course.)

Nonetheless, if my suggestion didn’t horrify you, his matter-of-fact response will:

“Don’t worry about it, mommy. I’ll just use my tongue.”

To prevent the gag reflex, I quietly averted my eyes from the rearview mirror. I’ll leave the rest up to your imagination…

The new "plum" sauce

2011-02-20T00:52:00.000-05:00

Toby is a sauce-man. That is, he lives by a firm belief that “anything and everything tastes better with condiments.” So hardcore is he in his belief that I have even caught him dipping fresh orange slices into ketchup when I wasn’t looking. (He was being discreet not because he knew it would turn my stomach, but because there are strict rules around appropriate ketchup use in our household.)

Tonight he had chicken fingers and for dip we gave him plum sauce. He was a bit skeptical at first as his favourite would OBVIOUSLY have been ketchup, but he tasted it and immediately added it to his “dip repertoire”. His vocab, unfortunately, failed to keep up with his sophisticated condiment palate.

“Can I have more of that sauce daddy?”

“Yes, Toby. And it’s called PLUM sauce”

“Ooh. He said. CUM sauce.”

Sometimes, when these unscripted moments catch you off guard, it’s impossible not to laugh. And when your kid is an attention-loving-ham that’s a sure fire way to encourage a behaiour, or, in this unfortunate case, an incorrect use of the term “cum sauce”. Lets just hope they don’t serve chicken fingers at daycare anytime soon.

Just the little things...

2011-02-13T12:09:00.001-05:00

There are so many little things to write about in my blog that I don’t want to forget; things that have come barreling back to me from my first 6 weeks with Toby that I thought would either never end or would be impossible to forget. And yet there they were, archived in the back of my brain along with my organic chemistry notes and everything that came before “cry it out”. These little things have overtaken my world again; the sudden thirst that overtakes you as soon as your milk lets down; the sweetness of the look on your child’s face when the milk coma take over; the visceral discomfort that hearing your baby cry elicits; the rhythm of the swish and bounce; the euphoric feeling of the sun rising and knowing you’ve survived another night; my anxiety over absolutely everything and absolutely nothing…Why did I assume it would be so different this time around?

But there are also new things with this experience; the pride I feel when I watch Toby kiss and hold his little sister; the reality of how OLD my firstborn seems all of a sudden; the challenge of multitasking – doing bed time with Toby while breastfeeding, cooking dinner with Mia in the baby Bjorn while doing Valentine’s crafts with Toby; and the quiet simplicity of days with a newborn.

Above all, however, this experience is blessed with the innate knowledge of how soon this phase will all be over. Some days this brings me great relief; other days it brings me to tears. Am I enjoying these first few weeks? I know that my answer today comes with hesitation but I am very aware of how fondly I will look back on them in years to come…

Confessions of a Desperate Lady

2011-02-04T14:35:00.000-05:00

It has been almost 2 weeks so I’m ready to come clean; I have a confession to make. About 2 weeks ago, being 8 days overdue with (the baby who turned out to be) Mia, I was dangerously close to losing my mind. So before you read this story, please know that I plead the clause of insanity.

As I mentioned previously, I lost my mental pregnancy game at about 38 weeks. It was at that time that I stopped working, stopped sleeping. contracted the flu and began to let myself daydream about going into labour and ending my 9 months of sacrificial living. So you can imagine my chagrin when I found myself 3.5 weeks later and not an inch closer to delivery. I was distraught. My sleep deteriorated, my ability to concentrate was squat and my optimism about life in general reached an all time low.

That is how the morning of Friday, Jan 21st found me. I woke up and moaned in agony at not being in labour before mustering up the strength to give myself a pep talk. Here I was, days before starting the REALLY tough part of sleep deprivation, leaky breasts and constant anxiety about my baby; why wasn’t I able to enjoy my freedom? I had all day ahead of me while Toby was in daycare --surely there was SOMETHING satisfying I could fill my day with. I racked my brains for anything that made me feel good (how indulgent is THAT??) and all I could come up with was that I always feel great after getting my hair done. My cranky brain usurped this sliver of optimism to remind me that I wasn’t in need of a hair cut and didn’t have an appointment.. That’s when I remembered that we have First Choice Hair cutters in Collingwood - $12 for a haircut. Surely they could handle just washing my hair?

And it was with this thought; a promise of a 12$ hair wash, that I managed to convince my ornery self to get out of bed.

That’s when I had to make my first decision. Did I shower? I was heading into town for a hair cut. But what if I went into labour on the way in and then was unshowered for days? What if there was a line up and I couldn’t get my hair done? I decided it was safer to shower. And so I did. And while I was in the shower I decided I might as well wash my hair. Same principles applied there.

Making those decisions in addition to the morning pep talk, was all my sleep deprived self could handle. I got out of the shower and felt exhausted. So I went back to bed and slept for 3 more hours.

You can imagine what my no-longer-wet-hair looked like when I woke up. It was almost noon and my whole plan for the day was to get my hair washed and here I was with outlandish hair after having washed it myself and then slept on it. The ridiculousness of this almost set me back but I charged forward with my plan and ventured out to get my hair done. Properly.

I have nothing against First Choice Hair Cutters- - the lady who did my hair was very nice. But it took her AN HOUR AND A HALF to wash and blow-dry my hair. No joke. For someone who prides herself on efficiency, it was a unique and slightly torturous experience. I had to keep reminding myself that I had NO WHERE ELSE TO BE and that her inefficiency was in NO WAY impeding my plans for the day. Still, how I longed to grab the hairdryer from her hands and do it myself!!!

As you can imagine, spending a full 90 minutes small talking with a stranger was also not something I had anticipated OR was in any shape to carry out. That’s when I started lying. Why was I having my hair done? Dinner plans (yeah, right). When was the baby due? Next month. (I couldn’t handle any more pitying looks…) Was I off work today? Yes, nice to have a day off mid week (for the 21st day in a row…) As wrong as lying is, I did it for her own good. If this poor girl was going to have to spend 90 minutes making a lousy $12 by merely washing and then blow drying my hair (which quite obviously not her forte) then at least I should have the courtesy of covering up the fact that I was a complete lunatic.

Finally, FINALLY the lady put down the hair dryer and proudly announced that I was done. I felt so badly I ended up paying her $20, which is, more than a 50% tip but hey, it fit with the whole theme of my day. She smiled and wished me a nice night out and an easy delivery next month and I triumphantly noted that it was 3pm and I’d almost managed to squander an entire day with the simple task of washing my hair.

It was a good thing I went into labour the next day – who KNOWS what I would have done to fill Saturday…

The Notorious Day 5

2011-01-29T14:31:00.003-05:00

I have been told that day 5 is the inevitable “cry day” that most women experience post partum; the day when the hormonal surge eclipses the sense of relief, love and accomplishment just at the sleep deprivation sinks in and you are reduced to a blubbering mess. I’ve been warned, I’ve witnessed and yet have always been an overly optimistic skeptic as to how it would apply to myself. I believe with Toby my day 5 was manifest only by my need to change the CDs in the CD player because I was so easily moved to tears by the happy and sappy songs. This time, let me just say, was a wee bit different.

I woke up at 8am to the sound of Toby screaming for his mommy. I had had a whopping total of 45 min sleep the entire night. Mia had been cluster feeding and I couldn’t put her down and had no one to hand off to because Rob was downstairs with Toby who was vomiting with gastro. At 7am I finally handed Mia over, desperate for sleep. The 8am wake up call wasn’t what I had planned.

There is nothing worse than waking up to someone screaming for you. My mommy brain leaped into action and I bounded down the stairs where a barf-contaminated Toby lay in a heap of tears wailing for me. “DON’T TOUCH HIM!!!” Rob warned me before I’d been able to get to him. Mia was handed back to me. Protecting Mia from gastro means divvying up the parental duties- - Rob takes Toby and I take Mia.

I returned upstairs exhausted and defeated. Having to turn my back on my son who was so sick and in need of his mommy was one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever had to do. Taking back my other child who I continued to be completely incapable of feeding despite 12 hours of continuous breastfeeding served only to reinforce my feelings of inadequacy.

I did what I had been warned I would do on day 5; I went upstairs and cried.

The day progressed with more tears as I overheard Toby explain to his daddy very matter-of-factly that his mommy was his “bad friend’ and that I was no longer in contention for the role of “best friend” (an honour he likes to bestow on us when we are being particularly compliant with his every need…) Other highlights involved a trip to the doctors office in which Mia was found to have lost even MORE weight and I had to engage in intensive visualization exercises of various people sporting purple lingerie in order to keep myself from breaking out the day 5 tears in the waiting room.

I will spare you any further gory details. Suffice it to say that the greatest thing about day 5 was that eventually it ended and, as I had also been reassured, day 6 was a better one.

We find ourselves here today, on Mia’s “one week birthday” in much better spirits. The gastro has lifted and I’ve been able to resume my full mommy role with both children; never have I longed so much to hug and kiss my little boy and what a relief to finally be able to do that again. Mia’s weight is now moving in the right direction and we have figured out “temporary a solution” to the nights. We definitely have a lot to learn and a long road ahead of us, but I am proud to say I have joined the ranks of converted and humbled survivor of day 5.

Mia Marjorie Henry

2011-01-26T14:57:00.001-05:00

After 9 months of wondering, hoping and rationalizing with myself, I am finally allowed to say it: I wanted a girl. And maybe I’m still underplaying that sentiment - - for as long as I can remember, I have longed for a daughter. Seeing my friends start to have children there is an inexplicable excitement matched equally with my own yearning that is felt in the pit of my stomach whenever one of them had a baby girl.

Don’t get me wrong - -I wouldn’t trade my Toby in for 1000 little girls. I think it’s just a testament to the many amazing relationships I have with the women in my life and family that has led me to crave a mother-daughter relationship with my own child.

And now here she is…

Mia is blessed with an absolutely horrendous middle name, but I know that as she grows up she will learn to be proud of it as she experiences her grandmother first hand and her great grandmother through the many crazy stories I will share with her over the years. I wish my Grandma had lived to see my two beautiful children. I can picture the way she would analyze every little detail of their photographs and call them by the ridiculous nicknames she had for my mother and me. I am so glad to have been given the opportunity to pass some of her along to my little girl.

Mia’s first name isn’t just there for alliterary softening of the Marjorie blow; it has it’s own special meaning. Maybe it’s selfish but right now it sums up just perfectly the pride and excitement I feel about life with Mia. The name is sweet and simple and Italian for the word “mine”.

And that you are, little Mia. I’ve waited for you for so long and finally, here you are - - and I’m so happy that you’re mine.

A Tale of Two Bobbies

2011-01-17T07:04:00.003-05:00

Toby loves hockey; we all know that. It is played at our house (and Grandma’s house) all year round; outdoors in the winter, indoors in the summer. His dollar store hockey sticks and official Canada hockey sticks and gloves from my sister and niece were second only in Christmas present ranking to his plastic scissors.

As a result of these new sticks, hockey has become increasingly prominent in the past few weeks. As his knowledge of the game increases, so too does his knowledge of hockey teams and players.

The other day he was eating lunch and he announced that he was “Number 99. I’m Gretzky. I’m the GREAT one.” Often when we’re playing hockey he will divide us up into teams. This is how the teams go: someone is Canada, someone is Gretzky and someone is Bobby – Hull or Orr. (His alphabet hockey book taught him about them for the letter 'B') I always hope to be Bobby Orr because, despite the remarkable language skills that he has, he still has difficulty with words that start with a vowel. So Bobby Orr is always pronounced, “Bobby WHORE”.

I know I should correct him, but it’s just too funny to always be told, “Mommy, you’re Bobby WHORE” in his matter-of-fact-I’m-very-serious-don’t-mess-with-me-tone. Oh, the stories I have to tell him when he gets older…

Is there an elephant in the post? Allow me to address it : no, there is no baby yet. Yes, I am still pregnant, and cranky, and impatient and bored. My attempts at putting a positive spin on things have somewhat petered out and I'm now embracing my (now post dates) irritation with a vengance. So...stay tuned for happy news or vulgar posts!

Gender Neutral

2011-01-11T18:25:00.001-05:00

Not knowing if this baby is a boy or a girl is somewhat romantic, but entirely impractical when it’s your second and you are surrounded by boys stuff that you would like to know definitively what to do with.

I have many generous friends and relatives who have given me their baby clothes – some who have had girls, some who have had boys. The end result is a room full of bins that are gender specific. It’s hard to sort through them all and not get them mixed up while simultaneously trying to find one or two gender neutral newborn sleepers. Seems the newborn age is the one you are most likely to have either a pink or a blue sleeper for (according to the clothing bins). I am happy to pack a few of both but thought the other day how nice it would be to have a few yellow or green ones. Just because.

A few days ago, my wish was granted, as I wandered through Joe Fresh in our local Loblaws store. I couldn’t believe it but at the very front of the sales rack was an orange and brown newborn sleeper for $1.20. At first glance, it was definitely not the MOST attractive sleeper, but DEFINITELY didn’t fall into the pink or blue category. And how can you go wrong with a $1.20 price tag?

So I scooped it up and grinned proudly to myself.

About 10 minutes later as my groceries were being beeped through, I was presented with the opportunity to actually LOOK at the sleeper I’d so hastily scooped up. I believe, actually, it was the cashier’s somewhat skeptical comment, “Oh my, how…UNUSUAL…” that caught my attention.

The little white sleeper may have been gender neutral with its oragne and Brown print, but the fact that it was covered in skulls and crosses, orange spiders and brown mummies did give it a bit of a creepy look. No wonder it was $1.20; we’re about as far from Halloween as we get in the calendar year.

I decided to buy the sleeper anyways. So what if my newborn sports a Halloween sleeper with creepy skulls on it. People won’t judge me, will they?

And time stands still...

2011-01-09T14:12:00.000-05:00

The speed at which time has gone by throughout this pregnancy has been incredible. Every week just flew by and I’d find myself shocked to see how far along I was all of a sudden. I think it was the build up to Christmas, which happens earlier and earlier each year, that always made me feel a few weeks ahead of the game. And then the holidays themselves were busy and entertaining and I blinked again and here I am, 1 week from my due date.

And the time-train has suddenly lurched to a halt.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I literally sit around, WILLING my clock to go faster. It doesn’t. What happened to my fast paced, chaotic life? The crib is set up, the bags are packed, the phone numbers are in my phone, and my patients have been handed over. So why do I feel this sense of impatience?

I don’t know WHY I can’t just sit back and enjoy these last few days. I am napping every day, enjoying hot tubs with Rob at night for my back, cherishing my one on one time with Toby and speaking regularly to good friends and family who are equally as excited as I am. Life is as uncomplicated as it gets right now and yet I have this antsy feeling stirring inside of me.

I guess I can put it down to two things:

1. I am not a procrastinator. When there’s a job to be done that is going to be at all unpleasant, I’d rather go first and get it over with.

2. As my friend Alex rationally reminded me last week, I’m probably just excited – and that’s normal. We got pregnant for a reason and as much as part of this feels like I can’t wait to get the labour over with or to not be pregnant any more, a large part of it stems from my crazy excitement to meet this new addition to our family. Few things in life are as exciting welcoming a child into the world.

It all seems quite reasonable as I write this, doesn’t it? So I will sit here in my holding zone, trying desperately to enjoy and not wish away these last few moments of peace before chaos ensues, but secretly hoping that my baby is like me this time and decides to be efficient about things.

I will keep you posted…

Putting Torture to the Test!

2011-01-08T09:18:00.001-05:00

I have mentioned before about the torture of second trimester ultrasounds. Today, I experienced something potentially just as torturous but more importantly, just plain STUPID: third trimester ultrasounds.

Nothing wrong- - just a routine check of fluid levels given that the baby appears to be shrinking. (It just dropped.) And I lost a few pounds (I finally put a halt to my incessant eating of Xmas goodies). I was happy to go nonetheless, until I was given the routine instructions to show up 10 minutes early, have my health card and requisition in hand and make sure to have 8 full cups of water in my bladder.

EXCUSE ME!?!?!

I’ll repeat that sentence because it’s such a preposterously good one: MAKE SURE TO HAVE 8 FULL CUPS OF WATER IN MY BLADDER.

It is riddled with ludicrousness on so many levels.

FIRST Of all, my bladder capacity is about the size of teaspoon. And even that can be quickly depleted by such vigorous activities as sneezing, coughing or standing up too fast.

SECONDLY, what exactly is the POINT of having a full bladder? To push the uterus forward so they can see the baby? When it comes to the ongoing battle between my pea sized bladder and my 7lb fetus, I have witnessed on MANY occasions the clear winner. I don’t think an extra few cups of fluid would do anything to sway the battle – the baby does what it likes, when it likes and if it bumps into my bladder on its way, the cowardly little tings quivers and immediately ejects any semblance of dampness it contains.

THIRDLY, it would be virtually IMPOSSIBLE to miss this baby. Its kicks alone are a dead giveaway. Would the ultrasound tech REALLY place the probe on my belly and be forced to give up, saying Nope – couldn’t find the baby…must be that the bladder only has 7 cups of water in it.

I had an instant aversion to drinking the water. And so I did what only a cranky-rebellious-unworried-and-tired-of-being-pregnant-lady can do; I rebelled against the dreaded litres of water I had been instructed to drink. Instead, I had a small teacup full of water and then (forgetting…) emptied my bladder 5 minutes later before leaving for the hospital.

The end result? A relaxing and even somewhat pleasant ultrasound. The baby looks a little cramped for space but otherwise just perfect. And I have successfully proven something that will benefit women for generations to come; when it comes to 3rd trimester ultrasounds, a teaspoon of water will suffice.

A simple walk through town

2011-01-04T19:41:00.001-05:00

With less than 2 weeks to go I’m feeling ready to have this baby. Whereas last pregnancy I worked until 5pm on the day I delivered (water broke at 5:30 – very punctual) this time things are a little bit different. My palliative care job requires me to be a bit more diligent about follow up so I’ve had to officially hand over in good time, which is great for my cranky placenta but not so good for my mental game. With work being virtually done my brain has gone into full on mommy mode and every day that I wake up not in labour I grow increasingly impatient.

I had the perfect solution this weekend. Come Monday, my plan was to drop the kid off at daycare and then go for a good long hike to get things going.

You can imagine my disappointment when my well-intentioned friend informed me that there was no way she was participating in a big hike with me being 38 weeks pregnant. A simple walk through town was enough.

I TRIED to convince her that I was FINE and that a lame old walk through town was COMPLETELY DEFEATING the PURPOSE of our outing but she managed to sway me with promises of Starbucks coffee and good conversation so I succumbed. (By secretly deciding to venture out on a REAL hike by myself the next day.)

And so we trudged through town at a leisurely pace, lattes in hands, debriefing our Christmas vacation. At one point she suggested we turn around. I kindly complied. We arrived back at our cars not having broken a sweat but thoroughly content and off to do some grocery shopping.

I was barely past the produce section when I realized my legs were a little wobbly. By the bread section I was parched and coming around to the meats I started to feel dizzy. That’s when I slowed my pace, leaned forward on my cart and decided a slow paced shuffle to the canned goods was in order.

I don’t really know what transpired over the next five minutes. I was discovered by the same friend-who-wouldn’t-let-me-go-for-a-real-hike-that-day incoherently shuffling through the canned vegetable section desperately searching for mushrooms. She had been calling my name for the past minute or so but I hadn’t noticed.

“Lyss!” she rejoiced at finally catching my attention, “What’s WRONG with you?”

When I looked up at her, a fuzzy glazed look in my eyes, all I could manage in response was, “Uh….I…uh…can’t find canned mushrooms…”

She left me there, after a consoling smile. (She’s far too kind of a friend to use the term “I told you so” despite the fact that it would have been COMPLETELY appropriate in that instance).

I never DID manage to find those mushrooms, but thankfully made it home in time to collapse into the deepest sleep I’ve had in weeks, only to wake up two hours later and literally FALL out of bed as my wobbly overworked legs gave way.

Needless to say, there was no big solo hiking today. My back and legs are still recovering and I’m disappointed to say that, despite the dramatic toll a simple walk through town took on my body, it did nothing to hasten me into labour.

I’ll keep you posted…

Mystery of the Scissor Obsession : solved

2011-01-04T19:22:00.002-05:00

One of Toby’s favourite presents this year was a new Doctor’s kit. Last year he got a dollar store version of one, which he LOVED but, unfortunately, it broke a few months ago. This new doctor’s kit is a bit of a step up - - it comes complete with otoscope, name tag, AND a pair of scissors. (Plastic, of course.)

I didn’t know where my son’s obsession with scissors came from before this Christmas, but I’m starting to get a sense of it. We bought him kid scissors for his stocking after repeatedly hearing him say that that is what he wanted from Santa. And his reaction didn’t disappoint – he definitely wanted his own pair of scissors.

I am lucky that the new doctor’s kit (and plastic doctor scissors) were opened before we gave him free reign over his real scissors. As Toby eagerly opened his doctor’s kit he bypassed the stethoscope and even the toy needle to get to the scissors and assumed his bossy position behind my mother on the couch, raised his hands and announced, “OK , Grandma. I have scissors. Now I’m going to cut your hair.”

As every parent who loves their job probably finds themselves thinking, I have often thought about the day I’d (maybe?) get to say, “I knew Toby wanted to be a doctor when he was 2 years old and fell in love with this dollar store doctor’s kit…” But this image is now being overshadowed by the thought of him standing in his very own salon with me proudly saying, “I always knew he had a flare for hairdressing!”

Christmas - come and gone

2010-12-28T19:53:00.001-05:00

After a prolonged build up of advent calendar opening, house decorating, baking and endless Raffi Christmas music, the event we thought would never arrive has come and gone. And what an event it was!

If it weren’t for the whole 9 months of sacrificial existence and the impending months of sleeplessness we have ahead of us, I would get pregnant every year at Christmas. Staying put at home is wonderful; Christmas events, in moderation, and lots of down time as a family of 3 is just what I needed.

Toby didn’t let us down; he continued to learn and wonder over every detail that unfolded - -from the carrots we left for Rudolph to the new pyjamas Santa left at his door, each little bit was just as exciting as the rest. We even captured on video the sheer EXHILERATION that only a toddler can deliver upon discovering that he had been given EXACTLY what he had asked for in his stocking; a pair of scissors.

As our exhausted little boy is being tucked into bed, I am spending one more night in front of my tree, enjoying the quiet that I know is going to be short lived. (!) Tomorrow it will all come down and I’ll pack up the boxes and tuck them away for another year, all the while wondering to myself, “I wonder what life will be like this time next year…”

I hope you had a wonderful, merry Christmas and I look forward to sharing the rollercoaster ride of 2011 with all of you!

The Christmas Miracle?? Not quite...

2010-12-21T20:05:00.001-05:00

We spent this past weekend at the farm in Chatham, enjoying some quiet Christmas time (as quiet as it gets with 5 children under the age of 4) and last minute wedding planning. Lots of time to sit around in baggy maternity pants and eat homemade goodies while the kids entertained themselves = 9^th month of pregnancy bliss.

It was wonderful and stress free until about 8:45am on Sunday morning when we had to get dressed for church. I had packed my black maternity dress trousers and a red shirt: nothing fancy but festive enough. When I went to put them on, however, I noted with HORRROR that I couldn’t even get the pants up over my bum. I lay on the bed and pulled. I heaved. I sweated. Finally I got them up but the maternity band was so tight it took my breath away.

These pants had fit perfectly earlier in the week -- WHAT had HAPPENED!?!?!?

I got a bit frantic as I heard everyone packing the kids up to go. I couldn’t very well go to church in my SWEAT pants but these pants were NOT going on. My brain then flipped to WHY - - was it all fluid retention? Was something WRONG with me or was my mother-in-law's baking THAT effective at packing the weight on?? I took the pants off and looked at my thighs (or as much of them as I could see) and then turned to examine myself in the mirror.

Warning: Do not, when 36 weeks pregnant, stand naked with your socks on and look in the mirror HOPING to reassure yourself that you don’t look like an overinflated cow. The mirror will not lie. You do.

It was a horrific sight. I almost burst into tears (stupid hormones) but the only thing more embarrassing than emerging from the room in sweatpants would be to come out in sweat pants and hysterics.

I sighed and turned back to the evil black pants that lay taunting me from the bed and figured I’d give it one more go.

They fit!

Was it the Christmas miracle? Not quite…turns out I’d been putting them on backwards the first time.

Mispronounciations

2010-12-12T20:41:00.001-05:00

There aren’t many words that Toby can’t pronounce and for the most part his sentences are intelligible and understood by strangers. But there is one word he inexplicably continues to mispronounce: oatmeal.

We don’t eat oatmeal a lot but every now and then the kid gets a craving for “Opingole” (Pronounced Oh-ping-yole). This morning as he ate away at it and lauded me on my opingole making skills, I corrected him.

“Toby, it’s called Oatmeal.” I corrected him.

“I know,” he said matter-of-factly, “But I like to call it Opingole."

And who could argue with that?

Scales don't lie; Toddlers do

2010-12-12T20:23:00.001-05:00

Today I made the mistake of stepping onto the scale. As I apprehensively peered over my huge belly an innocent voice from behind me said, “Two hundred and forty eight!”

For a boy whose ability to count to TWENTY is variable on the best of days, this DRAMATICALLY high (and, I might point out, INACCURATE) number took me a bit by surprise.

But not to fear; it was his turn next to get on the scale and as he did so he proudly announced that he was “Two and a half”.

So it may NOT be that I look like I weigh 248 lbs. It may just be that he thinks I’m two hundred and forty eight years old. What a relief.

Mirror, Mirror On the Wall...

2010-12-08T19:37:00.001-05:00

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the order in which they eat a gingerbread man. If you eat the legs first you’re sensitive, if you eat the left arm first you’re creative and if you eat the head first you’re strong willed and independent.

I think I’m usually a left-arm-first-gingerbread-man-eater but this season I’ve definitely been a legs first person. Must be the hormones.

Toby, on the other hand, goes straight for the head every time. Grinning as he munches savagely on the head, there is nothing that so accurately sums up the current stage we are facing -- that of independence and stubbornness. From what socks he wears to daycare to the location of the squirt of ketchup on his dinner plate, there is no step in any process that cannot become a hot topic of debate if it at all deviates from the master’s plan or liking.

Washing his hands and face, for example, is a regular struggle. He’s not QUITE thorough enough to pass mommy or daddy’s standards in terms of cleanliness but yet he INSISTS on walking to the bathroom, turning the light on, soaping up and rinsing all by himself and it’s not until we are granted permission to join him in the bathroom that we can quality control.

Just writing that paragraph makes me roll my eyes and think, “Get a grip, parents. Do you REALLY have such little control over your kid?” It’s ridiculous to think I have no power over the hand washing process until his royal highness grants me access to the lavatory. But I promise you, I’ve lived through the alternative scenario and it’s just not worth it. In general it’s a smooth (although often unnecessarily prolonged) process that sometimes even allows Rob and I a few extra moments to ourselves at the dinner table while Toby takes his time washing up. But every now and then it backfires on us.

The other morning, for example, as I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, I heard the water running and Toby laughing away while saying to himself, “Don’t DO that! Don’t DO that!” Why I didn’t think to go in earlier I will never know. Blissful thinking. When I eventually DID go in I found him splashing water ALL OVER. Not an inch of ht mirror, sink or countertop was water free. And to top it off he was SHOCKED and HORRIFIED when he was rewarded with an immediate time out.

Yesterday night, however, was a different story. He was in a silly mood and took his sweet time getting to the bathroom. We were getting exasperated with his dawdling and frequent attempts to touch the walls with his dirty hands until at last he decided it was time to wash up and as we finished our supper we heard the little prince marveling to his reflection, “Oooh la la! Oooh la la!”

Not only is he independent - - he’s gaining quite the ego as well. We’ll need to work on the French accent, however, if he ever wants to impress Grandma with this new saying…

Ever Changing Christmas Traditions

2010-12-05T20:04:00.001-05:00

Like many others, this was the weekend our house got Christmas-a-fied – real tree and all. From changing the 5 disc CD player to all Christmas music to swapping the hand towels in the bathroom, every inch our house has been transformed to reflect the magic of the season. And, I say this without any sarcasm at all, what magic it is when you throw a wide-eyed and eager toddler into the mix.

As I unpacked our bins of Christmas stuff I remembered the mind frame I was in last year as I put it away, full of wonder as to what our life would look like in a years time. Would it still just be the 3 of us? Would my dad still partake as knowingly and eagerly as he did last year? Would Toby actually “get it”?

What a gift it is to know that my dad is still alive and well and able to share yet another Christmas with his beloved grandson, Toby. And what excitement we have in this second child who is waiting around the corner for us. But perhaps the biggest joy right now for me is one I hadn’t anticipated as I packed up the stuff 11 months ago: the enchantment that hovers in the air as we get to watch Christmas unfolding in the eyes of Toby.

Every little detail is noted and commented on; he’s eagerly learning the words to Christmas songs, bonding with Rob over the old classic Christmas movies on Sunday nights, relishing each and every glass of egg nog he is allowed to have, and was almost moved to TEARS when Santa Claus “The REAL ONE, Mommy!!!” finally arrived at the end of the Stayner Santa Claus parade this weekend.

But perhaps his greatest discovery came yesterday as we unpacked the bins of Christmas decorations together. And that was (OBVIOUSLY) my collection of Christmas socks.

I don’t know how, for someone who doesn’t like to collect things, I have acquired such a vast array of brightly coloured Christmas socks, but it captured Toby’s eye right away. And THEN he put them on. For those of you who aren’t well versed in our sport-fanatic-child, the fact that they come up to mid thigh won’t immediately jump out at you as an obvious triumph. It almost didn’t for me until I saw him assume the usual stance and shout in an excitement I can describe with nothing but the words “sheer glee”

“LOOK, MOMMY! These are BASEBALL SOCKS!!!!” he hollered before taking off “around the bases”.

And so, as we work away fighting with Christmas lights and ornaments, our festively clad boy has been wearing nothing but diapers (insisting on only the green or red fuzzy-buns) and thigh high Christmas (er…I mean, BASEBALL) socks while tearing around the house sliding into imaginary bases and chanting a very baseball-like “Ho-ho-ho MERRY CHRISTMAS, Mommy, I got a HOME RUN!”

I suspect that the only predictions I’ll be able to make for this time next year is that life will be very different. I also suspect that the baseball/Christmas sock obsession will have been usurped by some other 4-year-old fixation. I guess there’s nothing like rapidly changing Christmas traditions to remind you of the excitement and unpredictability of this particular phase of life we happen to be in right now.