For getting close to two years now, J and i have been going back and forth on the subject of "the snip."
"It's not natural," he balks.
To which I get furious. It is not natural for a woman to be on the pill for 10 years. It is not "natural" to slice open my abdomen and pull out a nearly 8 lb human. Let's not even get into the STITCHES on my vajuj.
But it's his body. I am pro-choice and therefore have to respect his right to make the decisions about his body. I wanted to get pregnant and have two kids, so I assumed the pains and complications that came with that decision.
The other day, he went to the doctor and actually asked about the snip. It's been almost exactly a year since he first went in to discuss the snip and "forgot to ask." Now, I could probably count on my fingers AND toes the times we've had sex over that year -- which he argues is more than most parents with kids the ages of ours. But frankly, it's not enough for me. I'm still youngish, I'm in my prime and unlike a lot of the moms I know, I actually WANT to "do it."
"I want you to know that I'm doing this for you," he said bitterly. Which makes me feel like shit. Oh, maybe I should not want to have sex more than once a month -- am I a bad wife? What if something goes wrong with the procedure? What would I do about the guilt then? Or worse, what if his goods don't work the same after and this was all for naught?
Right now things are complicated. Nate is sleeping in a bed in our room, while Lucy figures out if she's actually sleep trained or not (DAMN THOSE TEETH!). That's pretty unsexy. J is work nights, which means he comes home at 1 am and passes out before being awoken at 7 to start the day. The other night we started to fool around and the cat came upstairs and started meowing loudly, forcing us to stop and let her into the bedroom before waking Lucy up. Brutally unsexy.
Condoms.
I hate them. They suck. They ruin the natural flow of what's about to go on. They smell funny. They make ME smell funny afterwards. Between them and the fact that a baby passed through my once-narrow tunnel, I feel next to nothing once they are on. They are the reason we no longer have a quickie in the kitchen after the kids are asleep. (Who's going to run upstairs to get a condom? Really.) The sexual freedom we had when I was on the pill is gone.
I think the reason J is not bothered by our lack of action is that he is still getting various kinds of action, the kind that don't quite qualify as the main event. In other words, he's mostly still satisfied, while I'm nursing the female equivalent of blue balls in the corner. It's like I'm living in my mother's house again, forced to feel dirty and ashamed about taking care of my own needs wherever and whenever I can find an ounce of privacy. I really don't like it.
So I emailed him THIS LINK today. Because nothing scares my husband more than the thought of having a third child right now. (Personally, I wouldn't be horribly bothered. It wouldn't be ideal, but I love my kids so much right now that my ovaries might sponeously procreate by just looking at them.)
It is worthwhile to also read the comments associated with that post. It opened my eyes to something: There are a lot of men out there who are keeping Plan B in their back pocket. The bulk of the "don't get a vasectomy" argument was "what if she leaves you in the future and you can't father more babies with your new woman?" Really? I know most marriages have a 50/50 chance of surviving, but really?
At the end of the day, it's up to J. But I do think that on the ingredient list of what makes a good marriage, a healthy sex life is on there. If this thing is going to work, we have to work to get back some of what made us work so well in the first place. What do you think?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Mom Date
Originally published on Sweetspot.ca
Two weeks ago, I found myself standing in front of Starbucks in a snowstorm, nervously checking my cell phone. My eyes darted to every car that pulled over, like a hooker worried she'd miss her trick. A honk of a horn alerted me to the fact that my chariot (a very sexy Lexus Hybrid SUV) had arrived. By the time I felt the seat warmers heating up my booty, some of my jitters had melted away. I hadn't felt this fluttery in years. I was going on a "Mom Date."
Not to be confused with moms who are dating romantically, the Mom Date is purely platonic. You meet a mom (in playgroup, on a blog or message board, at the park or grocery store, etc.) and something about her makes you think, "I would really like to hang out with her." Of course the hilarity of the situation lies in the fact that you'd probably never befriend each other in real life (IRL), but by virtue of both having kids -- and where you stand on that topic -- you now have something in common.
My Mom Date that night happened to be someone I'd met through blogging. L and I had bonded over the fact that we were both bitter, cynical and funny, as well as the fact that we'd both had serious health issues with one of our babies. Over emails we'd commiserated about the NICU and days spent at Sick Kids Hospital. We first met in groups (at Toronto mom blogger meet-ups) and recently we'd had a cup of tea together alone. We clicked and were definitely ready to take things to the next level.
She asked me to go see Diane Flacks' hilarious one-woman show Bear With Me, based on her memoir of the same title. Incidentally, it was the first book I read after my eldest was born and provided a good laugh when I so dearly needed one. By fluke or fate, Diane happened to be holed up at Sick Kids with her second born at the same time that L was there with her daughter. It was meant to be! I sent the kids to Grandma's (something I do as rarely as having a date with my husband!) and RAN out the office to meet my date.
Over dinner we shared stories, making me realize how different our lives were. She's a part-time teacher at a private school. She and her financier husband live in Midtown Toronto with their two beautiful girls. I'm an editor, married to ausually broke video-editor/aspiring filmmaker, living with two kids in a slummier
burgeoning neighbourhood. I drive a Toyota. But then we took in the
amazing show (I hope it tours so more moms can enjoy it), which had the
universal message that motherhood is a tough gig, but if you can laugh
through the tears (and the fears) there are Swarovski-covered needles in
the haystack.
Motherhood can be so divisive: breast over bottle, stay-at-home vs. working mom, rice cereal or fruit first, cloth vs. disposible, to vaccinate/circumcize/baptize or not... But it can also be a unifying thing, bringing people from all walks of life together over a common bond: Love, and the obligations, sacrifices and great joys that come with it.
Two weeks ago, I found myself standing in front of Starbucks in a snowstorm, nervously checking my cell phone. My eyes darted to every car that pulled over, like a hooker worried she'd miss her trick. A honk of a horn alerted me to the fact that my chariot (a very sexy Lexus Hybrid SUV) had arrived. By the time I felt the seat warmers heating up my booty, some of my jitters had melted away. I hadn't felt this fluttery in years. I was going on a "Mom Date."
Not to be confused with moms who are dating romantically, the Mom Date is purely platonic. You meet a mom (in playgroup, on a blog or message board, at the park or grocery store, etc.) and something about her makes you think, "I would really like to hang out with her." Of course the hilarity of the situation lies in the fact that you'd probably never befriend each other in real life (IRL), but by virtue of both having kids -- and where you stand on that topic -- you now have something in common.
My Mom Date that night happened to be someone I'd met through blogging. L and I had bonded over the fact that we were both bitter, cynical and funny, as well as the fact that we'd both had serious health issues with one of our babies. Over emails we'd commiserated about the NICU and days spent at Sick Kids Hospital. We first met in groups (at Toronto mom blogger meet-ups) and recently we'd had a cup of tea together alone. We clicked and were definitely ready to take things to the next level.
She asked me to go see Diane Flacks' hilarious one-woman show Bear With Me, based on her memoir of the same title. Incidentally, it was the first book I read after my eldest was born and provided a good laugh when I so dearly needed one. By fluke or fate, Diane happened to be holed up at Sick Kids with her second born at the same time that L was there with her daughter. It was meant to be! I sent the kids to Grandma's (something I do as rarely as having a date with my husband!) and RAN out the office to meet my date.
Over dinner we shared stories, making me realize how different our lives were. She's a part-time teacher at a private school. She and her financier husband live in Midtown Toronto with their two beautiful girls. I'm an editor, married to a
Motherhood can be so divisive: breast over bottle, stay-at-home vs. working mom, rice cereal or fruit first, cloth vs. disposible, to vaccinate/circumcize/baptize or not... But it can also be a unifying thing, bringing people from all walks of life together over a common bond: Love, and the obligations, sacrifices and great joys that come with it.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Stuff White People Like: Armenians
White people love Armenians. Admit it. We look mostly white. We're mostly Christian. Our big noses and hairy forearms make us not so intimidatingly beautiful that you can't be friends with us. We have moms that bake you stuff even though they barely know you.
White people especially love having an Armenian at a party. We're as rare as Vulcans, and as exotic as bringing hummous to a potluck 10 years ago. We make you feel like you know something about the Middle East without having to deal with the awkward do-you-drink-do-you-eat-ham line of questioning you might feel compelled to have with a Muslim guest. We're usually pretty funny (like all persecuted people -- funny is a great defence mechanism). And for these reasons we often find ourselves to be the only minority at a jermag party.
White people love to show us off as their token ethnic person. "This is Nadine. She's Armaynian!" The response to this statement varies. In intellectual groups, we will be met with oohs and ahs. Inevitably, some grad student type will mention a class they took where they learned about the genocide. Which, you know, is a great party conversation.
Then there's that ice-breaking sentence all Armenians just love to hear: "Oh! I have an Armenian friend/neighbour/coworker! Do you know Shant/Raffi/Hasmig?" Um yeah, I know about 10. Do you know a white guy named Steve?
By far the worst thing you can say to an Armenian is, "What's Armaynian?" Are you kidding me? We're like one of the oldest civilizations in the world. OK, so our dry-clean-only homeland was washed in hot water and put through the dryer. Admittedly it's kind of hard to find on a map. But any Armenian would love to tell you that the Christian anthill surrounded by warring Muslim grasshoppers was once an enormous empire spanning from sea to sea.
Or better still: "Don't you mean RO-maynian? Maybe AL-baynian?" Um yeah, I think I know what I am asshole. And for the record dipshit, it's AR-MEENIAN.
We also LOVE to tell you about our famous people. Please, if you're next to us at a party, ask us about our famous people. Because sharing a nationality with them automatically means we're kinda sorta related. My personal top five would be: Andre Agassi, Andrea Martin, Atom Egoyan, Dodie Kazanjian from Vogue, Charles Aznavour... But also the guy who invented The Chipmunks! Alek Keshishian AKA the guy that directed Madonna's Truth or Dare movie! We'll even claim Cher -- although she's only half Armenian. (Of course we'll let the non-Armenian half take credit for those skanky outfits and all the plastic surgery.)
At the party, we're always polite and make great conversation. Because we are so used to parties. That's all we do. We find a minimum of five other Armenians and we have a feast. We're initiated into partydom from birth! But there's no way your party compares to an Armenian party. So we'll be totally nice on the outside, but rest assured -- we're going to go home and call our mom to tell her you that served sandwiches for dinner. (Shame.) Or that, God forbid, there were no olives, pita or feta cheese on the table. And oh, man, how you almost came close to running out of food and you sent us home without any leftovers. *gasp*
And then we'll laugh and forgive you, because it's not your fault you're not Armenian.
Now excuse me while I go knock on wood and compulsively perform Middle Eastern Voodoo to make sure that I don't get the evil eye for writing this post and tempting fate. Ptoo! Ptoo!
White people especially love having an Armenian at a party. We're as rare as Vulcans, and as exotic as bringing hummous to a potluck 10 years ago. We make you feel like you know something about the Middle East without having to deal with the awkward do-you-drink-do-you-eat-ham line of questioning you might feel compelled to have with a Muslim guest. We're usually pretty funny (like all persecuted people -- funny is a great defence mechanism). And for these reasons we often find ourselves to be the only minority at a jermag party.
White people love to show us off as their token ethnic person. "This is Nadine. She's Armaynian!" The response to this statement varies. In intellectual groups, we will be met with oohs and ahs. Inevitably, some grad student type will mention a class they took where they learned about the genocide. Which, you know, is a great party conversation.
Then there's that ice-breaking sentence all Armenians just love to hear: "Oh! I have an Armenian friend/neighbour/coworker! Do you know Shant/Raffi/Hasmig?" Um yeah, I know about 10. Do you know a white guy named Steve?
By far the worst thing you can say to an Armenian is, "What's Armaynian?" Are you kidding me? We're like one of the oldest civilizations in the world. OK, so our dry-clean-only homeland was washed in hot water and put through the dryer. Admittedly it's kind of hard to find on a map. But any Armenian would love to tell you that the Christian anthill surrounded by warring Muslim grasshoppers was once an enormous empire spanning from sea to sea.
Or better still: "Don't you mean RO-maynian? Maybe AL-baynian?" Um yeah, I think I know what I am asshole. And for the record dipshit, it's AR-MEENIAN.
We also LOVE to tell you about our famous people. Please, if you're next to us at a party, ask us about our famous people. Because sharing a nationality with them automatically means we're kinda sorta related. My personal top five would be: Andre Agassi, Andrea Martin, Atom Egoyan, Dodie Kazanjian from Vogue, Charles Aznavour... But also the guy who invented The Chipmunks! Alek Keshishian AKA the guy that directed Madonna's Truth or Dare movie! We'll even claim Cher -- although she's only half Armenian. (Of course we'll let the non-Armenian half take credit for those skanky outfits and all the plastic surgery.)
At the party, we're always polite and make great conversation. Because we are so used to parties. That's all we do. We find a minimum of five other Armenians and we have a feast. We're initiated into partydom from birth! But there's no way your party compares to an Armenian party. So we'll be totally nice on the outside, but rest assured -- we're going to go home and call our mom to tell her you that served sandwiches for dinner. (Shame.) Or that, God forbid, there were no olives, pita or feta cheese on the table. And oh, man, how you almost came close to running out of food and you sent us home without any leftovers. *gasp*
And then we'll laugh and forgive you, because it's not your fault you're not Armenian.
Now excuse me while I go knock on wood and compulsively perform Middle Eastern Voodoo to make sure that I don't get the evil eye for writing this post and tempting fate. Ptoo! Ptoo!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Diamonds in the Roughage
a sort of continuation of this really long post on hope...
After the disaster day I had, certain things came to mind as I lay in bed with Nate trying to quiet the thoughts (and stop thinking about my fruit-punch-fused hair).
Suddenly I remembered moving into the crappiest apartment of all time with Jan, 8 years ago, in an attempt to save on rent. The apartment was in a complex with a dozen or so units, in something akin to a giant house, kitty corner to the Dip n' Sip donuts that served "Sausages Roll" (many of which were consumed after a drunken outing). The floor was vinyl peel-n-stick tile in a nasty brown taupe combo, and if you dropped your water bottle in the bedroom, it would roll to the front door.
We got used to the sloped, sagging floors and bumping our heads on the equally sloped attic ceiling. We dealt with the heat of being in the attic in the summers by purchasing a scary R2D2-looking portable air conditioner. We still had friends that would actually sleep over back then after a bender, even though it was less than half the space of our previous apartment (and about half the rent too). "One day we'll think of this place and laugh," J would say whenever I would get down about how dumpy it was.
But then, there I was, lying in my bed next to my beautiful sleeping son and giggling to myself as I thought about that ridiculous time in our lives. "Wow," I thought, aware of the moment, "That day has come."
Then my mind wandered to a moment at the very tail end of summer, just after my friend Ana's boyfriend passed away. We spent the day at the local beach, picking up beach glass. I wore my wellies hoping to have dry feet, only to have a rare swell wash right into them. I remembered stripping Loogoo down to nothing and her pure joy at being baptized in the lake that gives me a bit of the creeps (no matter how many blue flags they give it). We couldn't keep her out of the water that day if we tried.
Just picturing her joy, that snapshot of time embedded like a YouTube video in my brain, well it made me giggle some more. I thought of all the crap we've been going through since she was born and this image of her at the beach was juxtaposed against it, jarringly. I thought about how J keeps saying something akin to "we are stuck in the shit right now".
And then I thought about corn and how humans don't really digest it. I thought about looking at an August poo (come on now, you all do it) and seeing those perfect flecks of golden maize, wholly untransformed by the eating of them, speckled throughout the most unpleasant thing that we do on a daily basis.
J called from work, just as I was having this profound moment. I told him I'd had a realization about our life. "Right now we are mired in shit. Except there are these pretty little corn diamonds in there too."
"That's funny," he replied.
And you know what? It totally is.
I found hope in that. And I hope there's a nugget of gold (pardon the pun) somewhere in there that gives you hope too.
After the disaster day I had, certain things came to mind as I lay in bed with Nate trying to quiet the thoughts (and stop thinking about my fruit-punch-fused hair).
Suddenly I remembered moving into the crappiest apartment of all time with Jan, 8 years ago, in an attempt to save on rent. The apartment was in a complex with a dozen or so units, in something akin to a giant house, kitty corner to the Dip n' Sip donuts that served "Sausages Roll" (many of which were consumed after a drunken outing). The floor was vinyl peel-n-stick tile in a nasty brown taupe combo, and if you dropped your water bottle in the bedroom, it would roll to the front door.
We got used to the sloped, sagging floors and bumping our heads on the equally sloped attic ceiling. We dealt with the heat of being in the attic in the summers by purchasing a scary R2D2-looking portable air conditioner. We still had friends that would actually sleep over back then after a bender, even though it was less than half the space of our previous apartment (and about half the rent too). "One day we'll think of this place and laugh," J would say whenever I would get down about how dumpy it was.
But then, there I was, lying in my bed next to my beautiful sleeping son and giggling to myself as I thought about that ridiculous time in our lives. "Wow," I thought, aware of the moment, "That day has come."
Then my mind wandered to a moment at the very tail end of summer, just after my friend Ana's boyfriend passed away. We spent the day at the local beach, picking up beach glass. I wore my wellies hoping to have dry feet, only to have a rare swell wash right into them. I remembered stripping Loogoo down to nothing and her pure joy at being baptized in the lake that gives me a bit of the creeps (no matter how many blue flags they give it). We couldn't keep her out of the water that day if we tried.
Just picturing her joy, that snapshot of time embedded like a YouTube video in my brain, well it made me giggle some more. I thought of all the crap we've been going through since she was born and this image of her at the beach was juxtaposed against it, jarringly. I thought about how J keeps saying something akin to "we are stuck in the shit right now".
And then I thought about corn and how humans don't really digest it. I thought about looking at an August poo (come on now, you all do it) and seeing those perfect flecks of golden maize, wholly untransformed by the eating of them, speckled throughout the most unpleasant thing that we do on a daily basis.
J called from work, just as I was having this profound moment. I told him I'd had a realization about our life. "Right now we are mired in shit. Except there are these pretty little corn diamonds in there too."
"That's funny," he replied.
And you know what? It totally is.
I found hope in that. And I hope there's a nugget of gold (pardon the pun) somewhere in there that gives you hope too.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
A Way to Find Hope in Dark Times
Well to say today, the day the most inspiring man on the planet took the most important job in the world, was about hope would be an understatement. There is not a human on this planet, who had access to news, who was not moved by Barack Obama today. Even my mother (who for an immigrant, whose grandparents and parents survived an ethnic cleansing genocide, is... well... kinda racist) understood the full impact of Obama's inauguration.
So it got me thinking about hope. Because I'm me, I had one of those days again. The kind of day where you start out giving some loving to your man because the kids are at Grandma's. Except while you are mid-fellatio you really notice that the neighbours' dogs are barking incessantly. And so after you get dressed and head out the door, you look in the direction of the dogs, and notice that the neighbours' front door is open.
And then because you've watched enough prime time drama, you start to think that the dogs are trying to tell you something. So you and your husband play Magnum P.I. trying to figure out who could be dead in that house. The screen door is closed, but there's a key in the wooden main door. You could shut it, but then you would be mauled by two very upset blood hounds.
Long story shortish, you remember that your neighbours both work for a charity and call that place to find them, freaking them out that you've called them at work and how did you get that number and whatever could be the matter! You explain the situation and decide that sending your canine husband to shut the door and hide the key is the best option.
Then you get dropped off at the subway station, only to realize that you're wearing your scary winter boots and haven't packed shoes to change into at the office. You're vain, so you call your husband's cell so he can come to your rescue. Except he doesn't have his phone on him. So you get on the bus and head back home in the -24 weather, only to discover that you were the one to start the car in the first place, so your keys are in the ignition of the car that is unreachable, because why the hell does he even have a cell phone if he's not going to take it with him!
Then you head back to the office, slinking in at 10:45 in gym socks. Thankfully everyone is in the boardroom watching the pre-inauguration stuff and also you work with fashionistas and someone happens to have a spare pair of brown boots in the office to go with your outfit and the day is saved. You take your laptop into the boardroom and are completely blown away for the next hour and a half by the magnitude of what you are witnessing (and Aretha Franklin's hat).
You are slightly late leaving the office in the evening. The sanctuary you usually have on nights like this is closed for a family function, so you head down to the subway and mentally calculate which take-out food will be cheap, fast and moderately nutritious. The subway is not running and you take out a quarter to call for help , because you get no cell reception in the depths of hell. Except the payphone now asks you for $0.50. This irks you. You dial the sanctuary, because they usually bail you out when they can, which is why you love them so much. The guardian of the sanctuary informs you that her husband also leaves his phone at home and is unreachable.
You call the daycare next, but you have to use a dollar, since you're out of smaller change. The caregiver sounds exhausted and tired of excuses, even though you never ever pick your child up late. The payphone does not give you back the remaining $0.50. The subway starts running. You cram yourself in and allow strangers to rub against you in ways you're not totally comfortable with, but will tolerate in order to get home.
You make it to the daycare just in the nick of time, only to find you're not the only late straggler. This irks you more as you can tell these parents are repeat offenders. Not cool. Your child is alone, in front of the computer and even though he has not seen you in 30 hours, he is not thrilled to see you but sad that you are taking him away from computer time.
You go for pizza, ignoring how dingy the place is, even though it's a respectable chain in most parts of the city. It's in your skeevy part of town, so it's the worst location in the chain. You order pizzas and get drinks and sit down to have a mother-son date. He's still not thrilled with you, but a few gulps of fruit punch and he loosens up.
"Mom, if you drink this drink, your belly will be on fire."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, come on Mom. You like hot sauce. Try it. You'll like it."
You play a game with the fruit punch until he's eaten enough pizza to satisfy you. Then you screw the cap on the bottle and head to the car, happy to be alone in the world with him at this moment. You are driving home, thinking about snuggling him to sleep when...
"Mom, you have to try the hot sauce again."
Ha ha, you think, I'll just pretend to swig it so I don't have to drink that putrid stuff and it will be funny. You take the bottle from the back seat and attempt a fake chug.
Except he's taken the cap off the bottle. A sea of sticky, vile hot pink liquid washes over you, burning your skin, seeping through the fibres of your thick down coat onto your cream Merino wool dry clean only sweater and trickling down to your underwear.
And you start to laugh. Hard. And you think of how your husband would be killing himself with laughter if he witnessed it and you laugh harder. Even though the strands of your hair are welded together with fruit punch jizz and you know your good Spanx will never be the same again.
You make a song about spilled fruit punch with your son and he tells you sweetly that he will get you "all cleaned up" when you get home. And somehow, it all starts to feel OK.
To be continued...
So it got me thinking about hope. Because I'm me, I had one of those days again. The kind of day where you start out giving some loving to your man because the kids are at Grandma's. Except while you are mid-fellatio you really notice that the neighbours' dogs are barking incessantly. And so after you get dressed and head out the door, you look in the direction of the dogs, and notice that the neighbours' front door is open.
And then because you've watched enough prime time drama, you start to think that the dogs are trying to tell you something. So you and your husband play Magnum P.I. trying to figure out who could be dead in that house. The screen door is closed, but there's a key in the wooden main door. You could shut it, but then you would be mauled by two very upset blood hounds.
Long story shortish, you remember that your neighbours both work for a charity and call that place to find them, freaking them out that you've called them at work and how did you get that number and whatever could be the matter! You explain the situation and decide that sending your canine husband to shut the door and hide the key is the best option.
Then you get dropped off at the subway station, only to realize that you're wearing your scary winter boots and haven't packed shoes to change into at the office. You're vain, so you call your husband's cell so he can come to your rescue. Except he doesn't have his phone on him. So you get on the bus and head back home in the -24 weather, only to discover that you were the one to start the car in the first place, so your keys are in the ignition of the car that is unreachable, because why the hell does he even have a cell phone if he's not going to take it with him!
Then you head back to the office, slinking in at 10:45 in gym socks. Thankfully everyone is in the boardroom watching the pre-inauguration stuff and also you work with fashionistas and someone happens to have a spare pair of brown boots in the office to go with your outfit and the day is saved. You take your laptop into the boardroom and are completely blown away for the next hour and a half by the magnitude of what you are witnessing (and Aretha Franklin's hat).
You are slightly late leaving the office in the evening. The sanctuary you usually have on nights like this is closed for a family function, so you head down to the subway and mentally calculate which take-out food will be cheap, fast and moderately nutritious. The subway is not running and you take out a quarter to call for help , because you get no cell reception in the depths of hell. Except the payphone now asks you for $0.50. This irks you. You dial the sanctuary, because they usually bail you out when they can, which is why you love them so much. The guardian of the sanctuary informs you that her husband also leaves his phone at home and is unreachable.
You call the daycare next, but you have to use a dollar, since you're out of smaller change. The caregiver sounds exhausted and tired of excuses, even though you never ever pick your child up late. The payphone does not give you back the remaining $0.50. The subway starts running. You cram yourself in and allow strangers to rub against you in ways you're not totally comfortable with, but will tolerate in order to get home.
You make it to the daycare just in the nick of time, only to find you're not the only late straggler. This irks you more as you can tell these parents are repeat offenders. Not cool. Your child is alone, in front of the computer and even though he has not seen you in 30 hours, he is not thrilled to see you but sad that you are taking him away from computer time.
You go for pizza, ignoring how dingy the place is, even though it's a respectable chain in most parts of the city. It's in your skeevy part of town, so it's the worst location in the chain. You order pizzas and get drinks and sit down to have a mother-son date. He's still not thrilled with you, but a few gulps of fruit punch and he loosens up.
"Mom, if you drink this drink, your belly will be on fire."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, come on Mom. You like hot sauce. Try it. You'll like it."
You play a game with the fruit punch until he's eaten enough pizza to satisfy you. Then you screw the cap on the bottle and head to the car, happy to be alone in the world with him at this moment. You are driving home, thinking about snuggling him to sleep when...
"Mom, you have to try the hot sauce again."
Ha ha, you think, I'll just pretend to swig it so I don't have to drink that putrid stuff and it will be funny. You take the bottle from the back seat and attempt a fake chug.
Except he's taken the cap off the bottle. A sea of sticky, vile hot pink liquid washes over you, burning your skin, seeping through the fibres of your thick down coat onto your cream Merino wool dry clean only sweater and trickling down to your underwear.
And you start to laugh. Hard. And you think of how your husband would be killing himself with laughter if he witnessed it and you laugh harder. Even though the strands of your hair are welded together with fruit punch jizz and you know your good Spanx will never be the same again.
You make a song about spilled fruit punch with your son and he tells you sweetly that he will get you "all cleaned up" when you get home. And somehow, it all starts to feel OK.
To be continued...
Monday, January 19, 2009
Winter birthday party redux
Originally published on Sweetspot.ca
Although it's been a few weeks since my son turned four, we tend to have the birthday party for his friends a few weeks later. This gives the moms (especially me) time to recover from holiday burnout, while giving me a bit more time to get my act together.
This past summer, we went camping as a family for the first time. Nate was in love with the idea of sleeping in a tent. But he was more enamoured with the concept of marshmallows becoming a food group. So when it came time to plan this year's event, I thought, "Why not throw up a bunch of play tents and serve hot dogs and marshmallows?"
So we went with a camping theme. Here's how it went down:
Rental Space: The local community centre provided a perfect room to let the kids go wild for $30/hour.
Pro: Letting kids run amok and not worry about what gets smeared on your couches.
Con: Dragging all your party supplies, plus your two snow suited kids, down the street.
Play Tents: Ikea has very affordable playtents -- even more affordable if you get them second hand, or have party guests donate theirs if they have one. For a real budget option, drape some sheets over available chairs (just not the 300 thread count ones).
Pro: A simple busy-making prop for the kiddos -- especially if Dad plays"bear" and chases the kids from tent to tent.
Con: A few accidents as kids clambered over each other or struggled to get through small openings at the same time. (Fortunately, the community centre had those blue gymnasium mats -- which we thought to spread out after the first goose egg was hatched.)
The Menu: Oh sure, we put out some healthy options, like veggies and dip or cheese and crackers, too. But at a birthday party, I still firmly believe it's all about the food our parents saved for special occasions. Chips, party mix, gummy bears, marshmallows and hot dogs for the main course. (The community centre had a kitchen, or else it would have been a very un-camping party pizza.)
Pro: Everything gets eaten; little food waste.
Con: The kids are super sugared up, making for lots of high pitched squeals. (Ouch.)
The Cake: I had the idea of having a S'mores cake and found this recipe on Epicurious. The icing directions weren't too clear, so we (meaning my sister who bakes and not the alchemy-challenged me) opted for Fluff on top. It was the best cake I've ever tasted. Another easy option would have been to make one giant S'more by layering graham crackers in a baking dish, topped with chocolate chips and marshmallows and then broiled in the oven for a few minutes.
Pro: Far too good for the kids, this cake impressed the adults at the party to no end.
Con: Fighting over the last piece could get rather heated.
The Loot Bag: I don't know about you, but I am sick to death of getting dollar store junk that adds to the clutter in my house (and often accumulates under my couch). So each year we burn CDs of theme-appropriate songs -- as well as Nate's favourite's from the past year -- to give as a thanks to all our guests.
Pro: We create a musical history for our son, provide a soundtrack for the party and give guests take-home memories to last until next year's party.
Con: It's a bit time consuming. J and I are musical snobs and coming up with the playlist is almost as dicey as trying to get that last piece of S'mores cake. Plus, I'm a procrastinating perfectionist (Photoshopped labels at the last minute) and he's a no-frills-if-it-means-saving-time kinda guy (Black Sharpie marker hastily scribbled when my plan takes too long).
All in all, good fun was had by all. I think the age of four is probably when your memories begin. I hope we cemented something nice in Nate's mind. If nothing else, his "girlfriend" showed up. But that's a story for next time...
Although it's been a few weeks since my son turned four, we tend to have the birthday party for his friends a few weeks later. This gives the moms (especially me) time to recover from holiday burnout, while giving me a bit more time to get my act together.
This past summer, we went camping as a family for the first time. Nate was in love with the idea of sleeping in a tent. But he was more enamoured with the concept of marshmallows becoming a food group. So when it came time to plan this year's event, I thought, "Why not throw up a bunch of play tents and serve hot dogs and marshmallows?"
So we went with a camping theme. Here's how it went down:
Rental Space: The local community centre provided a perfect room to let the kids go wild for $30/hour.
Pro: Letting kids run amok and not worry about what gets smeared on your couches.
Con: Dragging all your party supplies, plus your two snow suited kids, down the street.
Play Tents: Ikea has very affordable playtents -- even more affordable if you get them second hand, or have party guests donate theirs if they have one. For a real budget option, drape some sheets over available chairs (just not the 300 thread count ones).
Pro: A simple busy-making prop for the kiddos -- especially if Dad plays"bear" and chases the kids from tent to tent.
Con: A few accidents as kids clambered over each other or struggled to get through small openings at the same time. (Fortunately, the community centre had those blue gymnasium mats -- which we thought to spread out after the first goose egg was hatched.)
The Menu: Oh sure, we put out some healthy options, like veggies and dip or cheese and crackers, too. But at a birthday party, I still firmly believe it's all about the food our parents saved for special occasions. Chips, party mix, gummy bears, marshmallows and hot dogs for the main course. (The community centre had a kitchen, or else it would have been a very un-camping party pizza.)
Pro: Everything gets eaten; little food waste.
Con: The kids are super sugared up, making for lots of high pitched squeals. (Ouch.)
The Cake: I had the idea of having a S'mores cake and found this recipe on Epicurious. The icing directions weren't too clear, so we (meaning my sister who bakes and not the alchemy-challenged me) opted for Fluff on top. It was the best cake I've ever tasted. Another easy option would have been to make one giant S'more by layering graham crackers in a baking dish, topped with chocolate chips and marshmallows and then broiled in the oven for a few minutes.
Pro: Far too good for the kids, this cake impressed the adults at the party to no end.
Con: Fighting over the last piece could get rather heated.
The Loot Bag: I don't know about you, but I am sick to death of getting dollar store junk that adds to the clutter in my house (and often accumulates under my couch). So each year we burn CDs of theme-appropriate songs -- as well as Nate's favourite's from the past year -- to give as a thanks to all our guests.
Pro: We create a musical history for our son, provide a soundtrack for the party and give guests take-home memories to last until next year's party.
Con: It's a bit time consuming. J and I are musical snobs and coming up with the playlist is almost as dicey as trying to get that last piece of S'mores cake. Plus, I'm a procrastinating perfectionist (Photoshopped labels at the last minute) and he's a no-frills-if-it-means-saving-time kinda guy (Black Sharpie marker hastily scribbled when my plan takes too long).
All in all, good fun was had by all. I think the age of four is probably when your memories begin. I hope we cemented something nice in Nate's mind. If nothing else, his "girlfriend" showed up. But that's a story for next time...
Saturday, January 17, 2009
oh look! Some cute boy wrote a song about me
Sweet Nadine by Brad Doggett... Come on! If this is not the next Plain White Tees, I don't know what is!
And yes, I found this while googling weird stuff with my name. (Also, I have a new YouTube crush now...)
And yes, I found this while googling weird stuff with my name. (Also, I have a new YouTube crush now...)
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Rush Rush
Sifting through my email newsletters tonight, I came across this and it made me happy.
I've been feeling rather reflective about my parenting career since Nate turned four. (FOUR!) Also, it's been a hard road back to work-life balance after being home with them for two weeks. I am really regretting going back to work so soon. Yes, even though I could not really afford to stay home. Yes, even though I LOVE my job. Yes, even though being at home makes me absolutely batty (and invites the Universe to throw weird obstacles in my path -- you know like this, or THIS!). I definitely feel like I'm missing out on stuff, stuff that will be a blip in the time-space-continuum of my family (and there are no 80's Robert Zemekis movie plots that could change that).
This past weekend, we celebrated Armo Christmas at my mom's. I was putting Lucy down for bed around 7 and maybe there was a wee bit of crying while the the exhausted princess bemoaned the party going on without her. Lucy's new sleep schedule had already become a bone of contention amongst some of my cousins, because I'd opted out of the huge Armenian New Year's Eve tradition in favour of a quiet one with immediate family -- an option that would accommodate my young daughter's need to go to bed at 7pm.
So while I tried to shush Lucy to sleep, my BFF and her husband were also doing the same in the next room. Except their son, my godson, has never set foot in my mom's house before, let alone attempted to sleep there. So he was wailing pretty hard, and this was making all the guests downstairs pretty antsy.
That's when I heard my opinionated, nearly 50-year-old, single male cousin say, "What's the big deal with sleeping now anyway? It never mattered before! Why does it matter now?"
I think my mom muttered something about the moms working nowadays and needing that sleep. (I rarely nap when I stay at home with the kids either, but it's nice to have that option.) I don't think it's crazy to put my kids to bed regularly before 8 pm. I also don't think Lucy's old enough yet to try and stay up so late.
My cousins are all older than me by at least 15 years. Admittedly, I was a young, club-going student/waitress when they had their babies and I probably never gave a thought to the sleep needs of my baby cousins (who are now between the ages of 12 and 17). I do remember lots more parties back then and I remember babies being around and often up until late. But what did I know of the next day's fallout?
I love my single male cousin dearly, but he knows nothing of the next day's fallout when it comes to babies. For someone who reads a lot of scientific studies and material, I'm surprised he knows so little of infant sleep. But hey, he's not a dad. He's also not my accountant. He knows even less about my finances and how I live (pretty modestly -- save for the annual shiny new purse).
"Why do they need to work," he roared. "If you live modestly, you should be able to survive on one income." (I'm paraphrasing here, so if he stumbles on this, it's not meant to be a direct quote.)
It was a bit of a slap in the face -- because I'm feeling particularly sensitive about this subject as of late. I know I shouldn't let it get to me. I know my own life and know that not working is not an option right now (especially with all this bad economy crap). Plus I do genuinely love what I do and the people I work with.
But I also know that it's all going WAY TOO FAST. And I can't slow it down. I'm like Sandra Bullock in Speed. I have to drive this bus at 50 right now. But part of me feels like the bomb in my head will go off if I don't slow down.
Really, sometimes I wonder why I'm rushing the kids to independence. They are not going to want to sleep with us forever. It seems so obvious, but I forget that sometimes. Big deal if Nate wants to snuggle with us in our bed before being placed in his own.
I have been going back and forth on this because I worry that I'm raising a sissy sometimes. But whatevs. He's a great kid. It's a bit tougher with Lucy right now, because nobody sleeps -- not even Lucy -- when she's in the bed. I can't wait until she's is a bit more flexible too and I could perhaps have sleeps with her on occasion, too. Because even if we have them in our house for 20 years, what is that in their lifetime?
And snuggling them? It's the best thing ever that's sadly -- not forever.
I've been feeling rather reflective about my parenting career since Nate turned four. (FOUR!) Also, it's been a hard road back to work-life balance after being home with them for two weeks. I am really regretting going back to work so soon. Yes, even though I could not really afford to stay home. Yes, even though I LOVE my job. Yes, even though being at home makes me absolutely batty (and invites the Universe to throw weird obstacles in my path -- you know like this, or THIS!). I definitely feel like I'm missing out on stuff, stuff that will be a blip in the time-space-continuum of my family (and there are no 80's Robert Zemekis movie plots that could change that).
This past weekend, we celebrated Armo Christmas at my mom's. I was putting Lucy down for bed around 7 and maybe there was a wee bit of crying while the the exhausted princess bemoaned the party going on without her. Lucy's new sleep schedule had already become a bone of contention amongst some of my cousins, because I'd opted out of the huge Armenian New Year's Eve tradition in favour of a quiet one with immediate family -- an option that would accommodate my young daughter's need to go to bed at 7pm.
So while I tried to shush Lucy to sleep, my BFF and her husband were also doing the same in the next room. Except their son, my godson, has never set foot in my mom's house before, let alone attempted to sleep there. So he was wailing pretty hard, and this was making all the guests downstairs pretty antsy.
That's when I heard my opinionated, nearly 50-year-old, single male cousin say, "What's the big deal with sleeping now anyway? It never mattered before! Why does it matter now?"
I think my mom muttered something about the moms working nowadays and needing that sleep. (I rarely nap when I stay at home with the kids either, but it's nice to have that option.) I don't think it's crazy to put my kids to bed regularly before 8 pm. I also don't think Lucy's old enough yet to try and stay up so late.
My cousins are all older than me by at least 15 years. Admittedly, I was a young, club-going student/waitress when they had their babies and I probably never gave a thought to the sleep needs of my baby cousins (who are now between the ages of 12 and 17). I do remember lots more parties back then and I remember babies being around and often up until late. But what did I know of the next day's fallout?
I love my single male cousin dearly, but he knows nothing of the next day's fallout when it comes to babies. For someone who reads a lot of scientific studies and material, I'm surprised he knows so little of infant sleep. But hey, he's not a dad. He's also not my accountant. He knows even less about my finances and how I live (pretty modestly -- save for the annual shiny new purse).
"Why do they need to work," he roared. "If you live modestly, you should be able to survive on one income." (I'm paraphrasing here, so if he stumbles on this, it's not meant to be a direct quote.)
It was a bit of a slap in the face -- because I'm feeling particularly sensitive about this subject as of late. I know I shouldn't let it get to me. I know my own life and know that not working is not an option right now (especially with all this bad economy crap). Plus I do genuinely love what I do and the people I work with.
But I also know that it's all going WAY TOO FAST. And I can't slow it down. I'm like Sandra Bullock in Speed. I have to drive this bus at 50 right now. But part of me feels like the bomb in my head will go off if I don't slow down.
Really, sometimes I wonder why I'm rushing the kids to independence. They are not going to want to sleep with us forever. It seems so obvious, but I forget that sometimes. Big deal if Nate wants to snuggle with us in our bed before being placed in his own.
I have been going back and forth on this because I worry that I'm raising a sissy sometimes. But whatevs. He's a great kid. It's a bit tougher with Lucy right now, because nobody sleeps -- not even Lucy -- when she's in the bed. I can't wait until she's is a bit more flexible too and I could perhaps have sleeps with her on occasion, too. Because even if we have them in our house for 20 years, what is that in their lifetime?
And snuggling them? It's the best thing ever that's sadly -- not forever.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Bedroom Blues
We just got one child's sleep issues
resolved, when we realized that the older one might be a problem too.
Now that Lucy is sleeping through the night and going to bed without a
fuss, I was hoping we could evict Nate from our room and reclaim some
adult space. But there are some new realizations/developments:
1. Since the kids' room is narrow and long, and they're too young for bunk beds, I've been eyeballing trundle beds (see left).
2. Batman sheets from Pottery Barn would blow my little Bruce Wayne's mind!
3. I am drooling over this latex/soy mattress, or this natural rubber one, but ack! The prices! (At around $1000/mattress, that's $2K in kid mattress costs.)
4. A Magic Light Penguin (we're having a penguin phase), has a soft body and can be kept in bed thanks to the energy efficient and cool LED light inside.
5. A great armchair for reading stories to both at once (a friend said his mom called this "double snuggles") and every Oliver Jeffers book there is.
There will be some growing pains for sure (especially when it comes to nighttime potty training and a sound-sensitive toddler), but envisioning the room to be full of lovely things makes me happy regardless. I'm hoping a design show will come to our rescue...
- We've been getting Nate ready for bed in our crowded room. This means he's become very used to having his stories read in our bed and sometimes falls asleep in our bed.
- Our bed is a lush, pocket coil, pillow top, with 300 thread count sheets and a plush goose-down duvet.
- His bed is a plastic-covered, firm (read: hard) department store-issue mattress, with flimsy Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and comforter.
- He's still in a pull-up at night. We get him up to pee when we go to bed to save ourselves from changing the sheets at 4am.
- He's been coming into our bed at 6am, because, hey! It's just a hop from his bed to ours.
1. Since the kids' room is narrow and long, and they're too young for bunk beds, I've been eyeballing trundle beds (see left).2. Batman sheets from Pottery Barn would blow my little Bruce Wayne's mind!
3. I am drooling over this latex/soy mattress, or this natural rubber one, but ack! The prices! (At around $1000/mattress, that's $2K in kid mattress costs.)
4. A Magic Light Penguin (we're having a penguin phase), has a soft body and can be kept in bed thanks to the energy efficient and cool LED light inside.
5. A great armchair for reading stories to both at once (a friend said his mom called this "double snuggles") and every Oliver Jeffers book there is.
There will be some growing pains for sure (especially when it comes to nighttime potty training and a sound-sensitive toddler), but envisioning the room to be full of lovely things makes me happy regardless. I'm hoping a design show will come to our rescue...
The Ultimate Baby/Toddler Schedule
For four years now, I've been trying to figure out what the perfect schedule is. I've googled it, asked friends, doctors, experts and I've never been given a straight answer.
I know children are like freakin' snowflakes, yadda, yadda, yadda. But I have two polar opposite children in terms of temperament. I constantly made the excuse that Lucy was just different, that she just didn't sleep.
I also pretended I was really laissez-faire about the whole thing. We're a couple of artists -- we don't need no stinkin' schedules! I quickly lost control of my days and the kids were often a mess. And my lack of ability in getting everyone organized was a source of great stress.
Then we did the sleep training (after the doctor told us there were no health issues and we were good to go) and I see now that my children both needed similar structure for their day from the time they gave up that third nap (around 9 months old). So I'm putting it out there in case someone is flaky like me when it comes to organizing their day.
6-7 am: Lucy wakes up. We say good morning, praise her for staying in her bed all night and then change her diaper. We tend to keep her in her jammies since she's still having a 9 am nap.
7:30: breakfast (keep it easy on yourself -- especially pre-caffeine), followed by playtime to 8:30-ish
By 8:45 we are upstairs reading books. I am always sure to say, "This is the last book and then naptime." We have a few other sleep associations like turning on the white noise CD, closing the blinds and some Fisher Price light thing that plays lullabies for a few minutes. Then I close the door, smile and say, "See you in a bit." (Then I play on the computer!)
9:30 or 10 am: Lucy is up. I change her and give her a snack by 10. Then it's free time until 11:30 (can go out for a walk if I've had the forethought to prepare lunch, otherwise playtime at home works too)
11:30: lunch, milk, followed by free play until 12:30.
12:45 pm: Naptime -- following the same routine as the morning nap. That 15-minute window gives us room to read, get organized and allows Lucy time to fall asleep before she's exhausted. (Then I put the laundry on, start dinner, and play on the computer!)
2-3 pm: She wakes up. Feed a snack. This is a good time to run any errands or schedule playdates. If you didn't get dinner together at naptime, you may have to come back early to get it going. Here's a good cheater recipe, courtesy of yours truly.)
5 or 5:30 pm: dinner
Bedtime routine begins at 6 pm in this order: Milk, bath, change, story, song, I love you, Goodnight.
6:30-7 pm: She's in bed and we have an evening to ourselves. (Now I have to learn how to get Nate to bed before 8:30pm.)
She really shows us when she's ready for bed now. If we keep her up too long, she gets upset and cries. She understands herself better now that her day has a loose structure. It does hem us in a bit as per what we can do in a day, but soon she'll drop that morning nap and her afternoon nap will bump up to noon-ish, making room for longer periods of wakefulness and therefore, time to go out and do stuff. There are days she sleeps in the stroller or in the car, while we're out, but we try to schedule those naps too.
For the first time since becoming a mother, I feel like I have some control over it. I feel like I have freedom (within the boundaries of motherhood) because now MY day has structure too and I can plan and organize around the things we must do. I am not perfect -- there are loads of days where I fuck it up. I get too relaxed and then I'm like, "Oh shit! It's noon and I didn't feed anyone yet." But I'm learning to roll with the punches and be easier on myself.
Hope that's helpful to anyone who's feeling a bit puzzled at the whole schedule thing and wondering how and when they can get out. Let me know what you think!
I know children are like freakin' snowflakes, yadda, yadda, yadda. But I have two polar opposite children in terms of temperament. I constantly made the excuse that Lucy was just different, that she just didn't sleep.
I also pretended I was really laissez-faire about the whole thing. We're a couple of artists -- we don't need no stinkin' schedules! I quickly lost control of my days and the kids were often a mess. And my lack of ability in getting everyone organized was a source of great stress.
Then we did the sleep training (after the doctor told us there were no health issues and we were good to go) and I see now that my children both needed similar structure for their day from the time they gave up that third nap (around 9 months old). So I'm putting it out there in case someone is flaky like me when it comes to organizing their day.
6-7 am: Lucy wakes up. We say good morning, praise her for staying in her bed all night and then change her diaper. We tend to keep her in her jammies since she's still having a 9 am nap.
7:30: breakfast (keep it easy on yourself -- especially pre-caffeine), followed by playtime to 8:30-ish
By 8:45 we are upstairs reading books. I am always sure to say, "This is the last book and then naptime." We have a few other sleep associations like turning on the white noise CD, closing the blinds and some Fisher Price light thing that plays lullabies for a few minutes. Then I close the door, smile and say, "See you in a bit." (Then I play on the computer!)
9:30 or 10 am: Lucy is up. I change her and give her a snack by 10. Then it's free time until 11:30 (can go out for a walk if I've had the forethought to prepare lunch, otherwise playtime at home works too)
11:30: lunch, milk, followed by free play until 12:30.
12:45 pm: Naptime -- following the same routine as the morning nap. That 15-minute window gives us room to read, get organized and allows Lucy time to fall asleep before she's exhausted. (Then I put the laundry on, start dinner, and play on the computer!)
2-3 pm: She wakes up. Feed a snack. This is a good time to run any errands or schedule playdates. If you didn't get dinner together at naptime, you may have to come back early to get it going. Here's a good cheater recipe, courtesy of yours truly.)
5 or 5:30 pm: dinner
Bedtime routine begins at 6 pm in this order: Milk, bath, change, story, song, I love you, Goodnight.
6:30-7 pm: She's in bed and we have an evening to ourselves. (Now I have to learn how to get Nate to bed before 8:30pm.)
She really shows us when she's ready for bed now. If we keep her up too long, she gets upset and cries. She understands herself better now that her day has a loose structure. It does hem us in a bit as per what we can do in a day, but soon she'll drop that morning nap and her afternoon nap will bump up to noon-ish, making room for longer periods of wakefulness and therefore, time to go out and do stuff. There are days she sleeps in the stroller or in the car, while we're out, but we try to schedule those naps too.
For the first time since becoming a mother, I feel like I have some control over it. I feel like I have freedom (within the boundaries of motherhood) because now MY day has structure too and I can plan and organize around the things we must do. I am not perfect -- there are loads of days where I fuck it up. I get too relaxed and then I'm like, "Oh shit! It's noon and I didn't feed anyone yet." But I'm learning to roll with the punches and be easier on myself.
Hope that's helpful to anyone who's feeling a bit puzzled at the whole schedule thing and wondering how and when they can get out. Let me know what you think!
Friday, January 09, 2009
It's been a while since I've wanted to throttle him
Rant time.
So I was up past 1 am working last night. The huzzle stoopidly stayed up until midnight playing his nerd game.
Lucy woke up extra early this morning. 5:30 am to be exact. J went and got her, still half asleep, changed her diaper, plunked her down next to me and promptly went back to sleep. I managed to keep her resting beside me until 6, at which point I said, "You need to take the first shift and I'll take over later when Nate is up."
J has been working nights. A LOT of nights. So not only have I been doing bedtime for two kids, but I've also been up with them at the crack of dawn each day, getting them fed, dressed and keeping them busy until he is ready to get up. You'd think I could have one morning.
Except I don't trust him not to fall asleep while the kids are on his watch. So at 7:30 I heard Lucy tapping at my door, and I bolted up thinking that she had gotten up the stairs on her own.
Thankfully that wasn't the case. Lucy had been playing in her room and I'm guessing that J fell asleep on her rocking chair, allowing her to escape. Regardless, he took the opportunity to get back into bed and fall asleep while both kids were crawling all over me.
Just a note here that the morning shift (when HE is sleeping in) often goes past 9 am. I don't think someone who didn't have the good sense to put Chewbacca away last night should get special privileges, but apparently I'm wrong.
He woke up at a quarter to 10! "Oh, did Lucy just go to sleep?" he asked me, pretending to be sympathetic. No asshat, I actually got her to sleep before 9, like she's supposed to!
I don't know why I'm so pissed off, but I am. He had a WHOLE DAY in the house yesterday BY HIMSELF. He was supposed to fix the broken basement stairs, but he admitted to me that he took a substantial break to watch Quantum of Solace. Do I EVER get a day like that? No! And then get to sleep in the next day?! Until nearly TEN!
Grrrr.... that's all.
So I was up past 1 am working last night. The huzzle stoopidly stayed up until midnight playing his nerd game.
Lucy woke up extra early this morning. 5:30 am to be exact. J went and got her, still half asleep, changed her diaper, plunked her down next to me and promptly went back to sleep. I managed to keep her resting beside me until 6, at which point I said, "You need to take the first shift and I'll take over later when Nate is up."
J has been working nights. A LOT of nights. So not only have I been doing bedtime for two kids, but I've also been up with them at the crack of dawn each day, getting them fed, dressed and keeping them busy until he is ready to get up. You'd think I could have one morning.
Except I don't trust him not to fall asleep while the kids are on his watch. So at 7:30 I heard Lucy tapping at my door, and I bolted up thinking that she had gotten up the stairs on her own.
Thankfully that wasn't the case. Lucy had been playing in her room and I'm guessing that J fell asleep on her rocking chair, allowing her to escape. Regardless, he took the opportunity to get back into bed and fall asleep while both kids were crawling all over me.
Just a note here that the morning shift (when HE is sleeping in) often goes past 9 am. I don't think someone who didn't have the good sense to put Chewbacca away last night should get special privileges, but apparently I'm wrong.
He woke up at a quarter to 10! "Oh, did Lucy just go to sleep?" he asked me, pretending to be sympathetic. No asshat, I actually got her to sleep before 9, like she's supposed to!
I don't know why I'm so pissed off, but I am. He had a WHOLE DAY in the house yesterday BY HIMSELF. He was supposed to fix the broken basement stairs, but he admitted to me that he took a substantial break to watch Quantum of Solace. Do I EVER get a day like that? No! And then get to sleep in the next day?! Until nearly TEN!
Grrrr.... that's all.
Monday, January 05, 2009
SAHM I am - not
Originally published on Sweetspot.ca
After two weeks of playing Stay-at-Home-Mom (SAHM as we bloggers like to call it), I am thrilled to be headed back to work Monday morning. I'm not going to sugar coat it. After two weeks of yogurt-stained yoga pants, subsisting on toast crusts and apple peels, and only wearing makeup on stat holidays, I'll be in pretty clothes, drinking a scalding hot drink and feeling fabulous.
I did have a few pangs of sadness as I prepared Monday's lunch. (A point there for being home. I'm usually not so prepared and habitually buy my lunch.) The house has definitely run better with me home and taking charge as a domestic diva should. Lucy's sleeplessness issues were resolved (with the help of the incredible Sleep Doula), though we're still ironing out a kink or two. The holidays felt less stressful, the house didn't look like robbers had been there by the time the cleaning ladies arrived, and everyone was humming a merry tune.
This past Friday I felt I had things so under control that I dared to utter the words, "I wish I didn't have to go to work Monday. I'm having so much fun with you guys!" Then all kinds of bizarro went on (including police and fire departments being called for two separate incidences -- no one was hurt) and by Saturday I was begging to run to the drug store to buy deoderant so I could be by myself for 20 minutes.
I usually downplay my skills as a mother, mostly because I don't really believe I'm any good at it. But these past two weeks showed me that I'm actually rather awesome at morphing into June Cleaver. I did love (almost) every second I spent with my kids, but that's just it -- I'm completely spent. I just don't know how SAHMs do it! All. The. TIme. (They really deserve a medal and a pay increase.) The four of us couped up indoors, with everyone depending on me to run the ship, well it drove me a little batty.
So I head to the office to recalibrate for a few hours. Safely esconced amidst 20-something lovelies, chattering about gossip blogs and best Boxing Day purchases, I can be "just a woman." For a third of my day no one will need anything more than some copy or a reply to an email; nothing more will hang off me than a necklace and a Marc Jacobs handbag.
And it makes coming home to pudgy, needy hands that much sweeter.
After two weeks of playing Stay-at-Home-Mom (SAHM as we bloggers like to call it), I am thrilled to be headed back to work Monday morning. I'm not going to sugar coat it. After two weeks of yogurt-stained yoga pants, subsisting on toast crusts and apple peels, and only wearing makeup on stat holidays, I'll be in pretty clothes, drinking a scalding hot drink and feeling fabulous.
I did have a few pangs of sadness as I prepared Monday's lunch. (A point there for being home. I'm usually not so prepared and habitually buy my lunch.) The house has definitely run better with me home and taking charge as a domestic diva should. Lucy's sleeplessness issues were resolved (with the help of the incredible Sleep Doula), though we're still ironing out a kink or two. The holidays felt less stressful, the house didn't look like robbers had been there by the time the cleaning ladies arrived, and everyone was humming a merry tune.
This past Friday I felt I had things so under control that I dared to utter the words, "I wish I didn't have to go to work Monday. I'm having so much fun with you guys!" Then all kinds of bizarro went on (including police and fire departments being called for two separate incidences -- no one was hurt) and by Saturday I was begging to run to the drug store to buy deoderant so I could be by myself for 20 minutes.
I usually downplay my skills as a mother, mostly because I don't really believe I'm any good at it. But these past two weeks showed me that I'm actually rather awesome at morphing into June Cleaver. I did love (almost) every second I spent with my kids, but that's just it -- I'm completely spent. I just don't know how SAHMs do it! All. The. TIme. (They really deserve a medal and a pay increase.) The four of us couped up indoors, with everyone depending on me to run the ship, well it drove me a little batty.
So I head to the office to recalibrate for a few hours. Safely esconced amidst 20-something lovelies, chattering about gossip blogs and best Boxing Day purchases, I can be "just a woman." For a third of my day no one will need anything more than some copy or a reply to an email; nothing more will hang off me than a necklace and a Marc Jacobs handbag.
And it makes coming home to pudgy, needy hands that much sweeter.
Friday, January 02, 2009
And then there was today
(Warning, this will be long, but well worth it. Will try to edit down, but forgive my verbosity.)
As far as effed up "you can't make this shit up" days go -- today was it. Though through the eyes of a freshly minted four-year-old it was probably pretty awesome. For his pushing-35 mom, it was a day that tested the limits of Supermomdom.
It started OK. We wished Nate happy birthday and had a family snuggle in bed. We got up and did the breakfast thing and then Jan went off to work. I had the entire day planned out, written out to perfection based on what was supposed to happen at each time slot. That was my first mistake.
Nothing ever goes according to plan when you're home alone with two kids. Add being ME into the mix and you're really asking for it.
Lucy's 9 am nap didn't happen. (Yes, I've been noticing that most days she still needs that morning nap.) OK, I thought, no sweat, I'll roll with the punches. I had measured out all the ingredients to make Rice Krispie treats with Nate, hoping that a Lucy break would provide the window of opportunity. No sweat, we'll just do it at her 1pm nap.
The three of us hung out upstairs while I sorted the laundry, paired down the clothes in their drawers, eliminating the need for a huge dresser (that will have to go when I move them in together again next week). I went into my room for some reason when I heard the smash.
I ran into the hall (an exaggeration if ever there was one -- by hall I am referring to the 3-foot ledge between our teeny rooms) to find Lucy had gotten into the hall cabinet and smashed a bottle of Eddie Bauer cologne. Thankfully she was stunned by her actions and hadn't taken a step yet -- thankfully (the other benefit of having a Smurf-sized house is you can get to an incident in three seconds).
I moved her into her room where Nate was playing and she stood at the closed door crying. (No 9am nap = cranky pain in the butt by 11am.) I sopped up the mess with some washcloths (the nearest absorbent thing), chucked them into the hamper and then grabbed the vacuum to pick up the shards of glass. Picked up sobbing Lucy and convinced Nate to put down Lego Batman so that we could have lunch.
Got a pretty nutritious lunch together, had the kids eating nicely -- even managed to feed myself. Had a few laughs and made my next mistake.
"Aw man, I wish I didn't have to go to work on Monday. I'm having so much fun hanging out with you guys!"
What kind of idiot would tempt Fate with such a statement?
That's when the CO2 alarm went off in my bedroom.
Oh it's probably just because the cologne-soaked towels were in the hamper in front of it, I thought. So I took everything down to the basement and shoved it quickly in the washing machine.
What kind of idiot throws all her laundry in with stinky cologne-soaked towels?
Then I came back up to find Nate hitting his sister on the head -- with a baseball bat. I actually had to utter the words, "Promise you will never ever hit your sister on the head with a bat again!"
Of course in this house, no one can say bat and not be referencing blind nocturnal flying vampire birds. "You're silly mommy. Why would I hit my sister with a bat? Bats fly."
Oh. My. Fuck.
It was very tempting to hit him with the baseball bat right there. Fucking four.
I got Lucy down for her nap, went to deal with the laundry when the CO2 alarm went off again. Oh man. What to do now? My gut says it's nothing, but what if my sleeping baby doesn't wake up because I'm an idiot?
I called the fire department (after calling every friend I have who has anxiety issues) and stammered that I thought it was just some stinky cologne issue and they sent someone out to check anyway. Of course, in the midst of all this, Lucy woke up 20 minutes into her nap. And I didn't get my scheduled shower in, nor did I get the Rice Krispies made.
A fire engine and three fire fighters pull up to our house five minutes later. In spite of my maternal ineptitude, I suddenly was a god in my child's eyes.
There was no CO2 in the house, just a potentially defunct detector that needs replacing, thank goodness. But Nate was in love. He was chatting them up in his shy way, telling them it was his birthday. And when he watched the truck pull away his eyes were gleaming. "I can't wait t'tell my Dad dat you bwought me fire fighters for my birthday!"
Score one for Mom.
We all headed upstairs so that I could grab that shower in my least favourite way: With Lucy peeling back the shower curtain to see me and point at my bush and getting the bathroom floor soaked in the process.
Back to my room so I could get dressed. Nate was busy putting construction decals over his bed (they are movable and will be moving along with his cute butt outta my room next week -- please Fates?) and Lucy was in his bed looking out the window.
That's when I saw my neighbour being mugged for his backpack.
It was a weird situation. It looked like they new each other, but it looked like my neighbour was in trouble. What to do? Do I mess with people and risk my own family? But were my children about to witness a stabbing? I debated for a second and then called 911.
So the cops did their shakedown (an even longer more convoluted story) and then came by to get my statement. At this point, my inlaws had arrived and were taking care of my kids in the other room -- but it's no fun to have to deal with the police in front of your family. We already get enough flack for living in da hood.
Hot young copper was very fun to look at. I gave him my statement, realizing I've watched enough crime dramas to know better and take better notes on how a perpetrator looks. "Your street's not too bad," he let me know. "There are way worse streets."
I asked him to fill me in so I don't move to one of them, but he changed the damn subject. Nate walked in and told the constable it was his birthday. They had some chatter and Nate was beaming again. (Firefighters AND a police officer in his house wishing him happy birthday!)
"Don't worry buddy, we caught the bad guy," the constable assured Nate.
"Tanks. I appweciate dat."
The rest of the afternoon was a mad dash. Crappy Tire to buy Nate skates and a helmet for the skating lessons he's starting tomorrow. Grocery store for candles and some pie crusts. A quick whip up of turkey pot pie and some salad for dinner. Feed Loogoo in the middle. Greet guests, squeeze 7 people in my "dining room" for dinner, then 10 for cake and candles. Somehow bathe Loogoo in the middle of all that and get her to bed after cake (and yelling at my mother for feeding her so much cake before bedtime, then my MIL telling me that sugar hyping up kids is a myth).
But my boy was so grown up, so polite, so happy! He was so busy thanking everyone all day that he stopped at nothing. A car honked it's horn and he said, "Thanks car! Thanks for passing by!" He brandished his musical Batman birthday card around for hours. He kissed and hugged everyone and then giggled himself to sleep next to me, chattering about his favourite parts of the day.
My legs ache and I'm exhausted (is there a new word for exhausted?) but it was all worth it.
(But seriously -- that was one effed up day right? Like, this shit only happens to me, right?)
As far as effed up "you can't make this shit up" days go -- today was it. Though through the eyes of a freshly minted four-year-old it was probably pretty awesome. For his pushing-35 mom, it was a day that tested the limits of Supermomdom.
It started OK. We wished Nate happy birthday and had a family snuggle in bed. We got up and did the breakfast thing and then Jan went off to work. I had the entire day planned out, written out to perfection based on what was supposed to happen at each time slot. That was my first mistake.
Nothing ever goes according to plan when you're home alone with two kids. Add being ME into the mix and you're really asking for it.
Lucy's 9 am nap didn't happen. (Yes, I've been noticing that most days she still needs that morning nap.) OK, I thought, no sweat, I'll roll with the punches. I had measured out all the ingredients to make Rice Krispie treats with Nate, hoping that a Lucy break would provide the window of opportunity. No sweat, we'll just do it at her 1pm nap.
The three of us hung out upstairs while I sorted the laundry, paired down the clothes in their drawers, eliminating the need for a huge dresser (that will have to go when I move them in together again next week). I went into my room for some reason when I heard the smash.
I ran into the hall (an exaggeration if ever there was one -- by hall I am referring to the 3-foot ledge between our teeny rooms) to find Lucy had gotten into the hall cabinet and smashed a bottle of Eddie Bauer cologne. Thankfully she was stunned by her actions and hadn't taken a step yet -- thankfully (the other benefit of having a Smurf-sized house is you can get to an incident in three seconds).
I moved her into her room where Nate was playing and she stood at the closed door crying. (No 9am nap = cranky pain in the butt by 11am.) I sopped up the mess with some washcloths (the nearest absorbent thing), chucked them into the hamper and then grabbed the vacuum to pick up the shards of glass. Picked up sobbing Lucy and convinced Nate to put down Lego Batman so that we could have lunch.
Got a pretty nutritious lunch together, had the kids eating nicely -- even managed to feed myself. Had a few laughs and made my next mistake.
"Aw man, I wish I didn't have to go to work on Monday. I'm having so much fun hanging out with you guys!"
What kind of idiot would tempt Fate with such a statement?
That's when the CO2 alarm went off in my bedroom.
Oh it's probably just because the cologne-soaked towels were in the hamper in front of it, I thought. So I took everything down to the basement and shoved it quickly in the washing machine.
What kind of idiot throws all her laundry in with stinky cologne-soaked towels?
Then I came back up to find Nate hitting his sister on the head -- with a baseball bat. I actually had to utter the words, "Promise you will never ever hit your sister on the head with a bat again!"
Of course in this house, no one can say bat and not be referencing blind nocturnal flying vampire birds. "You're silly mommy. Why would I hit my sister with a bat? Bats fly."
Oh. My. Fuck.
It was very tempting to hit him with the baseball bat right there. Fucking four.
I got Lucy down for her nap, went to deal with the laundry when the CO2 alarm went off again. Oh man. What to do now? My gut says it's nothing, but what if my sleeping baby doesn't wake up because I'm an idiot?
I called the fire department (after calling every friend I have who has anxiety issues) and stammered that I thought it was just some stinky cologne issue and they sent someone out to check anyway. Of course, in the midst of all this, Lucy woke up 20 minutes into her nap. And I didn't get my scheduled shower in, nor did I get the Rice Krispies made.
A fire engine and three fire fighters pull up to our house five minutes later. In spite of my maternal ineptitude, I suddenly was a god in my child's eyes.
There was no CO2 in the house, just a potentially defunct detector that needs replacing, thank goodness. But Nate was in love. He was chatting them up in his shy way, telling them it was his birthday. And when he watched the truck pull away his eyes were gleaming. "I can't wait t'tell my Dad dat you bwought me fire fighters for my birthday!"
Score one for Mom.
We all headed upstairs so that I could grab that shower in my least favourite way: With Lucy peeling back the shower curtain to see me and point at my bush and getting the bathroom floor soaked in the process.
Back to my room so I could get dressed. Nate was busy putting construction decals over his bed (they are movable and will be moving along with his cute butt outta my room next week -- please Fates?) and Lucy was in his bed looking out the window.
That's when I saw my neighbour being mugged for his backpack.
It was a weird situation. It looked like they new each other, but it looked like my neighbour was in trouble. What to do? Do I mess with people and risk my own family? But were my children about to witness a stabbing? I debated for a second and then called 911.
So the cops did their shakedown (an even longer more convoluted story) and then came by to get my statement. At this point, my inlaws had arrived and were taking care of my kids in the other room -- but it's no fun to have to deal with the police in front of your family. We already get enough flack for living in da hood.
Hot young copper was very fun to look at. I gave him my statement, realizing I've watched enough crime dramas to know better and take better notes on how a perpetrator looks. "Your street's not too bad," he let me know. "There are way worse streets."
I asked him to fill me in so I don't move to one of them, but he changed the damn subject. Nate walked in and told the constable it was his birthday. They had some chatter and Nate was beaming again. (Firefighters AND a police officer in his house wishing him happy birthday!)
"Don't worry buddy, we caught the bad guy," the constable assured Nate.
"Tanks. I appweciate dat."
The rest of the afternoon was a mad dash. Crappy Tire to buy Nate skates and a helmet for the skating lessons he's starting tomorrow. Grocery store for candles and some pie crusts. A quick whip up of turkey pot pie and some salad for dinner. Feed Loogoo in the middle. Greet guests, squeeze 7 people in my "dining room" for dinner, then 10 for cake and candles. Somehow bathe Loogoo in the middle of all that and get her to bed after cake (and yelling at my mother for feeding her so much cake before bedtime, then my MIL telling me that sugar hyping up kids is a myth).
But my boy was so grown up, so polite, so happy! He was so busy thanking everyone all day that he stopped at nothing. A car honked it's horn and he said, "Thanks car! Thanks for passing by!" He brandished his musical Batman birthday card around for hours. He kissed and hugged everyone and then giggled himself to sleep next to me, chattering about his favourite parts of the day.
My legs ache and I'm exhausted (is there a new word for exhausted?) but it was all worth it.
(But seriously -- that was one effed up day right? Like, this shit only happens to me, right?)
Two Thousand and Whine
Originally published on Sweetspot.ca
First off, a very happy New Year to you all! Today is significant because the holidays are over and:
1. I can start to feel guilty about all the resolutions I should have made.
2. The major stress has passed, meaning I can breathe again -- just not with my pants done up.
3. I'm Armenian Canadian, which means there is actually one more major eating event on the calendar. (Armenian Christmas = time to buy new pants.)
4. There are still gift bags filled with toys littering the dining room and they desperately need to be dealt with.
5. I can't ignore work any longer. (Thankfully, that'll keep me out of the kitchen.)
6. It's bye-bye holiday colds (which means the kids'll be sick again by Monday).
7. My credit cards seem to be sick too.
8. Mylittle tiny baby son turned four.
How did this happen? I know everyone tells you it will go by so fast, but there is no way you can possibly gauge this until it happens to you. And when it happens to you, everything in your entire life becomes one big cliché. I find myself saying, "Gosh, it feels like just yesterday..." or "Where did the time go?" I have selective memory too: "Oh he never cried, he was such a good baby!" (I have four and a half years of blog posts to disprove that one.)
Mostly though, he was a good baby who has grown into a good boy. One that likes to wear his Batman costume to special occasions and covertly sneak M&Ms out of the bag when he thinks I'm not looking. But also, a boy who patiently helps his baby sister out of her winter gear, giving her a kiss while telling her he loves her chubby cheeks. He's a boy who has love and smiles for almost everyone once they've earned his trust. Though I curse motherhood often, I would never want to know a life without him.
Sometimes we look at his baby photos together and he looks up to see me in tears. "Why are you sad Mom?" I try to assure him that I'm not sad, that I'm happy he's growing and I get to witness it, but it's a half-truth. He is perfect RIGHT NOW and at least once a day I catch myself so present in a moment with him that I want to freeze it, bottle it, capture it somehow. (If only exercises in futility burned calories...)
I think my bloggy friend Andrea once said that parenthood is the only job in life where the end goal is loss. And that's the other half of the truth -- I am already sad at the thought of Nate no longer needing me. Which seems odd considering how much I complain about all the tedious, mundane tasks that come with being his mom. But anyone who has loved a child can agree to this, I think -- children's birthdays are bittersweet. Much like the yummy brownies (and Rice Krispie treats) I'm baking to mark this day, childhood is spectacular in the moment but gone far too fast.
Happy Birthday Little One!
First off, a very happy New Year to you all! Today is significant because the holidays are over and:
1. I can start to feel guilty about all the resolutions I should have made.
2. The major stress has passed, meaning I can breathe again -- just not with my pants done up.
3. I'm Armenian Canadian, which means there is actually one more major eating event on the calendar. (Armenian Christmas = time to buy new pants.)
4. There are still gift bags filled with toys littering the dining room and they desperately need to be dealt with.
5. I can't ignore work any longer. (Thankfully, that'll keep me out of the kitchen.)
6. It's bye-bye holiday colds (which means the kids'll be sick again by Monday).
7. My credit cards seem to be sick too.
8. My
How did this happen? I know everyone tells you it will go by so fast, but there is no way you can possibly gauge this until it happens to you. And when it happens to you, everything in your entire life becomes one big cliché. I find myself saying, "Gosh, it feels like just yesterday..." or "Where did the time go?" I have selective memory too: "Oh he never cried, he was such a good baby!" (I have four and a half years of blog posts to disprove that one.)
Mostly though, he was a good baby who has grown into a good boy. One that likes to wear his Batman costume to special occasions and covertly sneak M&Ms out of the bag when he thinks I'm not looking. But also, a boy who patiently helps his baby sister out of her winter gear, giving her a kiss while telling her he loves her chubby cheeks. He's a boy who has love and smiles for almost everyone once they've earned his trust. Though I curse motherhood often, I would never want to know a life without him.
Sometimes we look at his baby photos together and he looks up to see me in tears. "Why are you sad Mom?" I try to assure him that I'm not sad, that I'm happy he's growing and I get to witness it, but it's a half-truth. He is perfect RIGHT NOW and at least once a day I catch myself so present in a moment with him that I want to freeze it, bottle it, capture it somehow. (If only exercises in futility burned calories...)
I think my bloggy friend Andrea once said that parenthood is the only job in life where the end goal is loss. And that's the other half of the truth -- I am already sad at the thought of Nate no longer needing me. Which seems odd considering how much I complain about all the tedious, mundane tasks that come with being his mom. But anyone who has loved a child can agree to this, I think -- children's birthdays are bittersweet. Much like the yummy brownies (and Rice Krispie treats) I'm baking to mark this day, childhood is spectacular in the moment but gone far too fast.
Happy Birthday Little One!
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Four-tu-NATE
Nate, when you wake up this morning, you'll be four. FOUR! I'll be scraping my jaw off the floor as I mentally calculate what this means. Oh sure, the Mommy Math involves counting diaper changes, but it's more about determining how many years before you no longer want to hold my hand (even on occasion) or tell me I'm the best mom in the world.
While I'm sure we'll have enough photo and video footage to give the adult you a rough idea about what you were like at four, let me just interject with some maternal bias. At four you are perfect. You even think so yourself. "Someday, when you're bigger and have a family of your own," I start. You are so quick to interrupt with a pout, "But I don't want to be bigger! I want to stay just like this!"
(At which point I feel guilty for making you feel like you need to stay small -- because what a disappointing heartbreak that will be when you realize it's impossible.)
Right now you are obsessed with all things Batman. I think you identify with Batman because he gets to hide who he is. You insist on wearing your costume to parties to mask your shyness. And as I type this I realize that I can't tell your story in this medium for much longer. I have to respect who you are. You are a boy who likes secrets, who doesn't want to give it all away. It would be a betrayal to not switch to writing these in a journal or keep them private. (Thank goodness Mommy has plenty of material to share about herself.)
It's amazing how suddenly the trucks and trains that so captivated you a year ago no longer hold such magic for you. While you're still fond of them, you are craving more complex stories and details in your everyday play. You instruct us on elaborate storylines now, constantly asking us, "Who are you?" (As in, "Which superhero are you?" To which I reply each time, "I am always Wonder Woman.")
You are obsessed with watching Handy Manny and the Sesame Street "Count on Sports" DVD I brought home from San Francisco last summer. Whether it's due to Ernie and Bert or your dad's influence, you have become quite interested in the idea of making your own show. You'll be getting a video camera tomorrow to help start you on your way. Will you stick to it, or will this become another passing fad like Spiderman or Superman? Only time will tell, but your dad and I feel that we need to encourage you to stretch your creative legs, so that you can figure out what's going to fit you best for the long haul.
You've been reading a ton of comics with us now and the Tiny Titans series has got you into telling jokes. Your jokes make no sense but they always make us laugh. "Why did the chicken cross the road? Because he wanted to tell his mom and dad that he did good at school today!"
You're also into rhyming thanks to Abby in Wonderland.
Nate: "What rhymes with thick stick?"
Me: "Picnic?"
Nate: (beaming) "Picnic! Aw great! That was really good Mom! What rhymes with picture?"
Not a heck of a lot lovey, but oh do we ever have fun trying to come up with things!
I should clarify that your obsession with Batman is somewhat limited to Lego Batman (and these awesome videos on YouTube). Perhaps it's because it makes Batman seem less scary. You really love Legos right now and while I am terrified about the choking hazard this presents, you are doing a pretty tremendous job taking care of your new things considering your age.
Your love of family is one of your best attributes. You are not satisfied unless it's the four of us (at least) and love having "Flamily Time." Your heart stops at no one. Distant cousins, friends' dogs, it doesn't matter -- if we socialize with them, you feel the connection. Your love for your grandparents and your aunts is immense and I am so happy they live close enough to really develop a close bond with you. I am happy that all these people have a hand in shaping who you ultimately become.
By far the greatest progression of the past year has been watching you develop as a big brother. Your tenderness towards your sister makes me take back any negative thing I may have said about having two kids. The past year was tough, REALLY TOUGH, but seeing you and Loogoo play together, just hearing you call her name so sweetly or make an affectionate comment about her chubbiness makes my heart swell. The other day, you helped your sister out of her winter coat and that image will be burned into my mind for a long time.
You are kind, loving and affectionate. You tell me you love me, unprovoked, pretty regularly. You still beg for me at bedtime, no matter how much fun you have with your dad during the day. You know that I am weak, that I will always give in to that request for "one more story", that I will indulge in more cuddles and let you fall asleep in my bed before moving you to your own.
Your dad and I are drunk from holding you, from smelling your perfect head of hair or staring at your incredible feet. We argue about a lot, but the mere mention of you and all is forgotten for the time being and we can agree. You kids are our greatest achievement, born out of pure love, bringing us joy everyday. We are lucky to know you, honoured at the privilege of watching you grow each day.
Happy Birthday sweet boy. Thanks for being mine, if only for a little while longer.
While I'm sure we'll have enough photo and video footage to give the adult you a rough idea about what you were like at four, let me just interject with some maternal bias. At four you are perfect. You even think so yourself. "Someday, when you're bigger and have a family of your own," I start. You are so quick to interrupt with a pout, "But I don't want to be bigger! I want to stay just like this!"
(At which point I feel guilty for making you feel like you need to stay small -- because what a disappointing heartbreak that will be when you realize it's impossible.)
Right now you are obsessed with all things Batman. I think you identify with Batman because he gets to hide who he is. You insist on wearing your costume to parties to mask your shyness. And as I type this I realize that I can't tell your story in this medium for much longer. I have to respect who you are. You are a boy who likes secrets, who doesn't want to give it all away. It would be a betrayal to not switch to writing these in a journal or keep them private. (Thank goodness Mommy has plenty of material to share about herself.)
It's amazing how suddenly the trucks and trains that so captivated you a year ago no longer hold such magic for you. While you're still fond of them, you are craving more complex stories and details in your everyday play. You instruct us on elaborate storylines now, constantly asking us, "Who are you?" (As in, "Which superhero are you?" To which I reply each time, "I am always Wonder Woman.")
You are obsessed with watching Handy Manny and the Sesame Street "Count on Sports" DVD I brought home from San Francisco last summer. Whether it's due to Ernie and Bert or your dad's influence, you have become quite interested in the idea of making your own show. You'll be getting a video camera tomorrow to help start you on your way. Will you stick to it, or will this become another passing fad like Spiderman or Superman? Only time will tell, but your dad and I feel that we need to encourage you to stretch your creative legs, so that you can figure out what's going to fit you best for the long haul.
You've been reading a ton of comics with us now and the Tiny Titans series has got you into telling jokes. Your jokes make no sense but they always make us laugh. "Why did the chicken cross the road? Because he wanted to tell his mom and dad that he did good at school today!"
You're also into rhyming thanks to Abby in Wonderland.
Nate: "What rhymes with thick stick?"
Me: "Picnic?"
Nate: (beaming) "Picnic! Aw great! That was really good Mom! What rhymes with picture?"
Not a heck of a lot lovey, but oh do we ever have fun trying to come up with things!
I should clarify that your obsession with Batman is somewhat limited to Lego Batman (and these awesome videos on YouTube). Perhaps it's because it makes Batman seem less scary. You really love Legos right now and while I am terrified about the choking hazard this presents, you are doing a pretty tremendous job taking care of your new things considering your age.
Your love of family is one of your best attributes. You are not satisfied unless it's the four of us (at least) and love having "Flamily Time." Your heart stops at no one. Distant cousins, friends' dogs, it doesn't matter -- if we socialize with them, you feel the connection. Your love for your grandparents and your aunts is immense and I am so happy they live close enough to really develop a close bond with you. I am happy that all these people have a hand in shaping who you ultimately become.
By far the greatest progression of the past year has been watching you develop as a big brother. Your tenderness towards your sister makes me take back any negative thing I may have said about having two kids. The past year was tough, REALLY TOUGH, but seeing you and Loogoo play together, just hearing you call her name so sweetly or make an affectionate comment about her chubbiness makes my heart swell. The other day, you helped your sister out of her winter coat and that image will be burned into my mind for a long time.
You are kind, loving and affectionate. You tell me you love me, unprovoked, pretty regularly. You still beg for me at bedtime, no matter how much fun you have with your dad during the day. You know that I am weak, that I will always give in to that request for "one more story", that I will indulge in more cuddles and let you fall asleep in my bed before moving you to your own.
Your dad and I are drunk from holding you, from smelling your perfect head of hair or staring at your incredible feet. We argue about a lot, but the mere mention of you and all is forgotten for the time being and we can agree. You kids are our greatest achievement, born out of pure love, bringing us joy everyday. We are lucky to know you, honoured at the privilege of watching you grow each day.
Happy Birthday sweet boy. Thanks for being mine, if only for a little while longer.
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