Christmas Carols

The other day I was driving Toby home from daycare when it occurred to me that I hadn’t exposed my son to ANY Christmas songs yet, so instead if listening to Raffi, I turned the music off and told Toby that I was going to sing him some of my favourite Christmas carols. My announcement was met with a blank stare from underneath his winter hat, scarf and bulky snowsuit.

I started with Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer (adding in the extra sayings, of course).

Blank stare.

Then I moved on to Jingle Bells (what kid DOESN’T like Jingle bells?)

Blank stare.

And finally I fudged my way through Frosty the Snow man (I never realized how few of the lyrics I knew to Frosty the Snow man…that’s a complicated song…)

Blank stare.

Finally I turned around and asked him point blank, “Toby?? Don’t you like Mommy’s Christmas Singing???!?!?”

My son responded by bringing his mitted finger up to his mouth and softly saying,

“Shhhhhh, Mommy - -Toby’s SLEEPING”

Mommy's Giant Poinsettia meets Toby's Loud Mouth

Toby has evolved into quite the little chatterbox. Gone are the days when we have to repeat things 4 or 5 times for him to learn it—he’ll attempt almost any word or phrase with gusto and MOST of the time it even comes out somewhat understandably. It’s fantastic to watch but I’m starting to learn that it has its drawbacks.

The other day I made my first big “oops”. It wasn’t an OBVIOUS one like swearing or telling him a big secret. I didn’t even see it coming…

Although Toby has developed some keen linguistical skills, he’s somewhat lacking in the adaptability department. In particular, he doesn’t like transitions, and one of his LEAST favourite transitions is when he has to leave daycare, put his snowsuit on, and get in the car. This kid LOVES daycare so it takes some end-of-the-day creativity on my part to convince him that there’s something worth leaving for.

On this particular day I was coming from the office and I had a GIANT Poinsettia plant in the back seat. It was a Christmas gift from one of my (very generous) patients and it is quite literally the BIGGEST poinsettia I’ve ever seen. It was probably a poorly behaved Japanese Sumo Wrestler in its past life that did something REALLY wrong and got reincarnated as a pink poinsettia plant.

You get the picture.

So I decided to use my lovely plant as my daily bargaining point for leaving daycare,

“Toby - - mommy has a BIG FLOWER in the car. Do you want to get in the car and SEE Mommy’s BIG FLOWER?”

It didn’t sound weird the first time I said it, but as Toby excitedly marched through the crowds of exhausted parents and kids yelling, “Toby see mommy’s BIG FLOWER in the CAR!” I began to turn a nice shade of poinsettia-pink.

I’m not up on my vernacular of terms that describe the female genitalia, but I have a sinking suspicion that “flower” is one of them. And another sinking suspicion that all of the other daycare moms think I have a rather “large” one that my 2 year old did or didn’t get to see when he got to the car.

Tis the season...to be barfy

I don’t like barf. I am constantly told that I’m not ALLOWED not to like barf as a physician, but I don’t. And that’s precisely why I went into family medicine- to avoid barf. Lots of barf in ER, oncology and pediatrics, but not so much barf in family medicine. So you can say, in a way, that my phobia of barf has shaped my career. That’s how seriously I take it.

It’s not that I feel physically sick when I hear someone getting sick. It’s more that I get shaky and anxious. Beads of sweat appear on my forehead at the mere anticipation and as SOON as the first teaspoon of emesis emerges from the retching mouth – I’m out. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing, whom I’m with or what I’m holding. I leave the room.

One time I was working in the ER and a lady was actively having a heart attack behind curtain #2. I was in the process of “thrombolysing her” when she started to gag. I won’t get into the details of “thrombolysing” but suffice it to say that it was quite necessary at the precise moment that I was administering this particular sequence of clot-busting-multi-million-dollar-costing-life-saving-medication that I remain at her bedside. I didn’t actually THINK about what I was doing- - I just politely nodded my head, put the syringe down, and walked around to the other side of the curtain when the vomit started to emerge.

I’m sure the 2 nurses could still see my feet from the other side of the curtain as I tried as hard as possible to remain unnoticed from the other side. “Dr Henry? Could you come back in here please?” DAMMIT. I took my shaky knees and trembling hands back around the curtain and secretly promised myself, in that moment, to become a family doctor where I could excuse myself as much as I liked from Its horrific presence.

You may ALSO be saying that I can’t be a mom and still hate barf. Aha! I am - -and I have been given the gift of the perfect child who never barfs.

Until Tuesday.

Toby was eating a muffin when he started to cough. And then he sputtered and then I heard it - -the first rumblings of what I instantly knew would inevitably soon be upon us. Toby, being the angelic-non-barfing-kid that he is wasn’t sure WHAT was going on so we spent the next 15 seconds simultaneously staring at each other in HORROR. And then it came. Just a bit -- but enough.

Toby instantly burst into tears. I’m not sure if it was the surprise factor or the discomfort or the subconscious knowledge that he was no longer my perfect-non-barfing-angelic-child. The only words he could utter were a pitiful, “Mmmm-uffin??” as he stared at his now disgusting tray.

I did what any logical thinking barf-a-phobe would do in this situation; I phoned my mother.

I am happy to report that we all survived the event. Toby recovered quickly and even finished the muffin remnants that had yet to be eaten. My mother successfully talked me down and through such important tasks as the clean up and the decision whether or not to send him to daycare. And I realized that I AM actually capable of staying in the room despite my great weakness. Sometimes, for the sake of the great loves of your life, it’s easier than you think. I just hope it doesn’t happen again anytime soon….

Snow?

Toby has been learning what snow is. Every morning after breakfast he runs over to the window and points out all the “Snow!!!” on the back porch. Sometimes when he comes in from outside he likes to pick the “Snow!!!” off his boots. And he finds it pretty funny when he runs and falls and gets a faceful of “Snow!!!” I pretty much thought we had the concept of snow down pat.

This morning we had our first blizzard. Toby looked out the window and welcomed the “snow!!!” as usual, but by the time we got out of the car at daycare it was snowing and blowing so much that he got confused;

“Mommy! Raining!”

“No, Toby- - it’s SNOWING!”

“RAINING?”

“Snowing”

“Mommy -- RAINING!!!!”

So maybe we don’t have the weather systems down perfectly. Can’t wait to try to explain to him what the freezing rain and slush is this afternoon….

Poor Old Santa

I’ve officially discovered the worst job in the world. It may not SEEM like the worst job in the world, but attending our first official “Christmas Function – Come Get your Photo taken with Santa!” evoked some pity for the poor old chap in the red suit.

WARNING: If you are under 10, please stop reading right now. Or Santa won’t bring you any presents and you’ll wake up to a stocking of coal and your parents will look at you and say, “what did you DO to deserve COAL” and you’ll have to tell them that you DIDN”T stop READING when you were TOLD to and then they’ll restrict my site on your computer and you will sit in your room all alone every night staring at your tiny pile of coal with nothing to do.

For the rest of you, carry on….

Back to the poor old man at the church function. FIRST of all, he probably got a phone call a few weeks ago that might as well have gone like this, “Hey, Jim! You’re old and fat and you have white hair! Do you want to be SANTA at the church function next weekend?!?!”

And who can say no to that- - because EVERYONE loves Santa.

Right?

WRONG.

Every child under the age of 5 is TERRIFIED of Santa. And every adult who HAS a child under the age of 5 has an innate desire to get the PERFECT photo of their screaming child posing nicely with Santa. I’ll admit it- - that’s why WE went. We got the flyer and I said, “Rob! This sounds PERFECT! We get breakfast AND a photo with Santa and we don’t even have to go to a mall to get it!!!” Rob DID point out the fact that Toby probably wouldn’t like Santa, but hey, a picture with Santa is a picture with Santa.

That was, until my empathy alarms went off.

NO one likes screaming children. And most people don’t particularly like OTHER people’s screaming children. So imagine if you had to sit in a chair in a big red suit and get handed EVERY SCREAMING KID that went by and then have to pose for a picture with them.

That’s what this poor man had to do all morning while the rest of us ate pancakes and decorated gingerbread men. He probably had lots of friends there, but it’s not as if other adults could come and shoot the shit with him - - he was Santa. He had to carry on the pretense for the one or two 8-year-old kids who kept him company by continually running over and whining to him about what they wanted for Christmas.

I sheepishly admit that we DID get our photo with Santa. But I restrained myself enough not to force Toby to sit on his knee- the last thing this poor man needed was a drop kick to the belly. I’m proud to say that he didn’t CRY, but happy as he looks in the photo, he was whimpering the entire time.

We did get ONE good photo of him this morning. This one hails from 15 seconds after he’d finished licking the maple syrup off the tablecloth. They were good pancakes. I hope someone saved some for the old guy in the red suit to enjoy afterwards…

My one man stroller band

I went for a run with Toby yesterday and about 2 minutes in he got bored and wanted to sing songs. “Old Donald! Old Donald and FARM!!” he requested. There I was in the cold, running up a hill, pushing a stroller with child and trying to sing Old MacDonald. It wasn’t pretty. Toby picked up on this immediately, and before I’d gotten to the horrendous duo of gasping for air while making “mooing” sounds, he had politely requested that I stop.

“No, mommy. NO singing. TOBY sing!”

So I took him up on his (surprisingly polite) offer.

I didn’t know that Toby knew all the words to “Old Donald”. I also didn’t know that he could sing. But apparently he does. And he can. (Sort of.)

At first it he started off timidly and I wasn’t totally sure that he was actually trying to SING the words. Off key doesn’t REALLY do it justice; that would imply that he was actually trying to follow a melody. “Old Donald…had FARM and thentherewasthe COOOOOOOOW and eeeiiiieeeeiii MOOOOOO and olddonaldandafarmhada DUUUUCK and eieieieieieoooooQUACK….olddonaldanda FARM and thentherewasthe COOOOOOW and MOOOOOO” As his confidence grew he got louder and LOUDER and LOUDER with it. And then he started banging his feet. Because no atonic song is complete without an uncoordinated syncopated beat.

It was a cross between Marilyn Manson and the singing of psalms at church, but give him a beret and a microphone at some beatnik poetry café and he probably would have had a great act. Thank goodness I live in the middle of nowhere. I’m not so sure I could have lasted too long on the street of Toronto with my one-man stroller band. But I have to give him this much - -it was WAY more entertaining than my iPod ever is…

Surprise, Mom! I'm TWO!

I don’t know how it happened. One night this week we unknowingly put our lovely, innocent boy down to sleep and somehow, sometime overnight he turned into a two year old. No warning. No chance to say goodbye to our beloved 20 month old or our previous life of manageable-chaos. Just the sudden unexpected “SURPRISE” we woke up to that day: our child had turned two.

He’s not set to turn two for another 21/2 months, but for some reason the sudden irrational, unprovoked temper tantrums have started early.

I’ve never really appreciated what hard work goes into being a temper tantruming toddler before. It’s pretty exhausting to have to suddenly stop what you’re doing so you can lapse into hysterical-sobbing-limb-thrashing-screaming-that-makes-you-cough-to-the-point-of-near-vomitting. And to have to DO that OVER and OVER again. Sometimes I just think, “SERIOUSLY, Toby why don’t you just finish your meal FIRST before starting this again so mommy DOESN’T have to wipe you and the floor and the walls down again?”

And then there’s the issue of finding an appropriate “inciting incident”. When you’re two and have a set of parents who love, feed, clean and entertain you, it takes a fair bit of creativity to find things to be angry about. But my child seems to have a knack for creativity. It may not jump out at those of you who have passed this stage in your life, but if you think hard about it, being offered cheerios on your way home from day care when CLEARLY you were thinking you’d rather have a peanut butter sandwich, is a good thing to get upset about. And then when those lame old cheerios are taken away from you after you attempted to throw them back at your mother in disgust, it’s another good thing to get angry at. Because maybe you DID want them after all. And the fact that it took your cheerio-pushing-mother all of 2 seconds to figure that out is even MORE irritating. And by this time, you probably already have snot running down your nose, which become messy when you are snorting and sobbing and shaking your head and waving your arms about.

And DON’T get me started on having your NOSE wiped when you’re busy trying to maneuver the cheerios into your (see above description) mouth without getting them covered in snot.

And that was just the FIRST melt down on the 10-minute drive home from daycare.

The great thing about early onset temper tantrums is that he hasn’t yet lost his I’m-still-not-quite-two-yet distractibility. All is soon forgotten if cows, trucks or Layla is mentioned. So maybe we still have a few good months ahead of us. As many very helpful people have kindly pointed out, “just wait till he hits THREE!”

Can’t wait.

Near death cow gazing experiences

It was raining here this morning so Toby got to wear his bright red rain coat and his bright red pants that match and his shiny green dinosaur boots. It was a cheerful dressing day for all of us. And because I was so cheerful about the unusual smoothness of our morning routine, I joined in Toby’s excitement when we drove by our neighbors place to find the cows out in the front field.

And because I was so cheerful and slightly ahead of schedule, I gave in to his usual chants, “Toby OUT Toby OUT Toby see COWS??!?!?” and pulled over.

Yes, it was STILL raining out (any nominations for mother of the year award, here???) but we got out of the car nonetheless and walked through the tall grass to get to the fence to have a proper look at the cows. It was then that I noticed, just down the fence line, 3 cows that were only INCHES away from the fence. When you are a cow lover like my son is, this is VERY exciting.

So I walked even FURTHER through the tall grass, me in my nice work pants and Toby in his bright red raincoat, pants and shiny green boots. About 1 meter from these 3 confident cows I noticed the steam coming from their prominent nostrils. As Toby cheerfully announced, “Cows looking at YOU! Cows looking at YOU!” I corrected him.

These were not cows. These were BULLS.

There I was, knee deep in tall grass, carrying my red clad son who was bouncing around in my arms in his usual cow-gazing excitement. The cows certainly WERE looking at me. I was PROBABLY the very first red-cape-carrying Matador that has ever graced the presence of their isolated farmyard in Singhampton.

I don’t know much about bulls, but I do remember a certain video from Grade 9 Spanish class of the running of the bulls. This memory reminded me of two things :

1. I probably shouldn’t be waving my bright red son around in front of them and

2. As much as I was tempted to, I probably SHOULDN’T turn and run

It’s hard to leave cow watching at the BEST of times without a temper tantrum, so I knew I had to tread carefully to avoid causing any sudden movements of “the red cape”.

And so we calmly stood there, Toby, oblivious to my anxiety, laughing and pointing at the 3 bulls that stood snorting away at us (who still in awe of their miraculous good luck this morning). After a few minutes I convinced Toby to come back to the car and we slowly, SLOWLY moved away from the bulls and made it safely to the comforts of our car.

My kid is pretty good with his animals. But I think I’ll ask Santa for a book that clearly explains the difference between COWS and BULLS to him so we can avoid any potential rainy day carnage in the future.

Mommy's demons

Toby was up in the middle of the night last night. We’re not really sure why - -teething? his stuffy nose? the new night light? After the second episode of crying I decided to go in and within a few seconds he was settled down in my arms.

No one enjoys the middle of the night heart racing jolt that your child’s crying awakens you with, but after what we’ve been through, being able to soothe him so easily is not taken for granted. The feel of him snuggling in my arms and almost instantly calming down to my raspy singing voice is one of the greatest gifts of motherhood.

It all takes me back to those 24 hours in the Orillia hospital where my natural momminess just didn’t do the trick. Where I paced, and rocked and kissed and shushed and yet still there was no relief to his frantic breathlessness. Where I cried and prayed that he would either turn the corner or that they – someone -- ANYONE- would intubate him to ease his suffering. It’s an odd thing to pray for in hindsight…

The memory of that is like a demon that haunts me. It lingers in the background of our happy life, ready to pounce at opportune moments; long monotonous car rides, running outside on a beautiful day, reflective moments on my own. Tonight the demon resided in my pillow, waiting for me as I lay my tired, victorious head down after successfully comforting him back to sleep; “remember the time when you couldn’t….”

My Morning Smile in 4 Acts

Act I: The wake up in which mommy wears a necklace and then regrets it

This morning was a special day for me because it was the first day I got to work in the palliative care clinic that my friend Kate and I have worked hard to get started. So today being a special day I decided to wear a necklace; just a simple one with a few pearly type things on it that matched my sweater.

Toby’s astute eyes didn’t miss a beat,

“Good morning, Toby!”

“Mommy – pretty! Necklace…BALLS!!!”

“Yes, mommy IS wearing a necklace today. These are PEARLS, though, not balls. Can you say PEARLS?”

“Balls. Toby KICK balls?”

And so we turned my necklace of lovely balls into a learning opportunity in which I taught him that it’s not nice to kick people in the neck.

Act II: Guess who’s coming to Dinner?

“Toby,” says mommy excitedly as he eats his breakfast, “Guess who’s coming for dinner tonight?”

“Emma?” he guessed without hesitation

“Nope – guess again…”

This time he thought a minute before answering, “Cookie Monster?”

I laughed a little (how can you NOT laugh at that…) but encouraged him to try ONE last guess…

He really thought hard for a minute before raising both hands in victory,

“BABY COMING!!??!”

Yes, he is STILL stuck on the baby coming.

The correct answer was Grandpa. When I told him this he broke into peals of laughter. As if the idea of GRANDPA coming to dinner was SOOO much more ridiculous than having COOKIE MONSTER show up.

ACT III: These are the people in his daycare class

After he calmed down from the hysterical suggestion of having my dad over for dinner, he started his usual musings as to the whereabouts of his daycare friends. Sometimes he asks me where they are, or sometimes he just thinks out loud to himself about them, “Hannah sleeping…” or “Owen - day care?” This morning, he seemed to realize they were all still at home. The only problem was that for some reason he added an “O” to the word home and punctuated his statements with “YA!!!” at the end. So it went something like this,

“Emily – Homo! Ya!”

“ Taylor - Homo! Ya!”

“Mikey – homo! Ya!”

And so it went on. Toby went through each and every kid in his daycare class, calling them all homos and then cheering. He sounded like a Dutch gay rights activist.

ACT IV: Watching for the Garbage Truck

Fridays mornings are somewhat easier than other mornings because it’s garbage day, so I can usually count on 2 minutes to myself as Toby stands on his stool at the window and watches excitedly for the garbage truck to come down the road.

This morning, as he waited impatiently and I tried frantically to multitask, Toby suddenly BURST into tears and JUMPED down from the stool, yelling, “BUG! BUG! BUG!”

I ran over to save him from what I assumed was going to be some large deathly tarantula, but instead found a tiny little fly that had obviously become victim to a toddler’s death grab.

As we say in palliative care, this fly was nearing the end stage of his disease; Chayne stokes breathing on my windowsill while my kid was having a conniption fit in the background. Unlike what we do in palliative care, I quickly euthanized the poor fly, cleaned up the remnants and escorted my son back to the window just in time to see the garbage truck go by.

I know I have complained before about how busy it is being a single parent in the mornings. But this morning, after having laughed and smiled repeatedly with him, I hugged and kissed my squirmy little guy goodbye and thought how absolutely wonderful my mornings with Toby are.

My Sensitive Boy

Tonight, as always, Toby didn’t want to get into the bath. Who can blame him? Every night, about an hour after he’s got us all together again, one of us has to interrupt his fun by announcing that it’s bath time. It’s a sure sign that the night is over and before you know it you’re going to be alone in your crib, waiting for the sun to rise so you can head off to daycare on your own again. Can you tell that we are knee deep in the midst of daycare guilt right now??

This time, however, the usual bath time temper tantrum was quickly followed by a novel diversion technique (implemented by Toby this time) that perhaps he wanted to pee on the potty. Rob and I always LEAP into action at the mention of “Pee! Toby! Potty!”

It seems our kid is always one step ahead of us.

He has yet to produce ANY semblance of urine on his much loved potty, but oh so enjoys the extra attention and the chance to sit naked on his very own urinal.

Realizing I’d been duped YET AGAIN into believing that I had given birth to a miraculous I-can-be-potty-trained-before-I’m-two-years-old child, I delved deep in the depths of my innovative brain to come up with an enticing transition from the non functioning potty to the inevitable bath.

“Toby!” I said in excitement, “Listen! I hear your doggies crying! They are sad because they MISS you and they are in the bath ALL ALONE”

Toby promptly let go of his beloved penis and put his hand to his ear (pretending to listen). He then LEAPED off his potty and RAN to the bathtub.

I AM A GENIUS.

That is. I THOUGHT I was a genius until I realized what EMOTIONAL TRAUMA I had just subjected my son to. Who knew he was so attuned to the emotional needs of his beloved bath doggies? Toby immediately picked up all THREE of his plastic bath doggies and HUGGED them and then proceeded to lament, “Doggy CRY…” in the saddest, brokenhearted voice I’ve heard him muster. (See video…) “Doggy SAAAAD…”

Rob and I tried our BEST to negate my emotionally destructive statement. We tired EVERYTHING; I HUGGED the dogs, I KISSED the dogs, I threw them up in the air in mock excitement; “Toby – Look! The dogs are HAPPY!” (Thank God our house isn’t bugged or we’d have people from both the dog rescue AND the insane asylum knocking at our doors)

He didn’t buy it.

About 15 minutes later when bath time was coming to a close and Toby was still going on about “doggy CRY” and “doggy sad” Rob tried a different technique.

“Toby,” he asked, “How do you know the doggies are sad?”

“Mommmy…” he cried, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction.

“But mommy says the dogs are HAPPY now! Do you think the dogs are happy?”

Toby thought about this for a minute and shook his head, “Doggy sad. Tuck tuck, doggy.”

And so we put his little washcloth over the three sad little doggies and tucked them into bed on the side of the bath tub. I then took my tired, emotionally drained little guy into the comfort of his bedroom and put HIM to bed. It’s all a learning curve, this motherhood thing. I think I’ll do it differently tomorrow night.

Toby's Trip to the Farm

This is Toby telling me about his trip to see the animals at Riverdale Farm.

He seems to have quite the knack for embellishment...I wonder where he got THAT from??

A trip to the pharmacy

I am the “pill person” of the family. And in any family in which there is an 82 year old man with multiple medical problems, it’s quite necessary to have a “pill person” who is available, on call, 24 hours day, to answer pill questions or call in emergency supplies of forgotten meds. This weekend, as my mom boarded her flight to Edmonton, I got a frantic last minute phone call. My dad had just informed her that he was out of atenolol. (Good timing, dad.) Was atenolol important? It’s the pill that controls his irregular heart rhythm and prevents him from having a heart attack. So yes, I’d say his atenolol was important. He would need a refill sometime before Saturday morning.

I arrived in Toronto at 4pm on Friday. Have you ever driven in Toronto at 4pm on Friday? Not a glowing recommendation from my end. But yet as Toby started doing running jump kicks at the china cabinet and my dad banged his cane on the floor, lamenting the fact that my mother had gone to Edmonton without him and that he hadn’t been out of the house ALL DAY LONG, the drive across Toronto to the pharmacy didn’t seem like THAT bad of an idea.

It took me a little while to gather my boys up. Dad with his cane, and his big orthopedic shoes and his wheel chair; Toby, with his feisty abhorance of foot wear and various balls, books and snacks that would be required of a potentially long car ride. I was already STARTING to wonder just how good of an idea this outing was even before we were out the door.

About halfway across Toronto, in bumper to bumper traffic my father leaned forward and asked me, “Lyssie - -where are we going?”

“To get your pills”

“Oh.”

Five minutes later he quietly remarked, “Well I don’t know where you think my pills are but THIS sure isn’t the right way to go!”

If I hadn’t been going less than 20km/hr I would have slammed on the brakes.

Now here’s a fun game- - try asking an elderly man with a poor memory which pharmacy he goes to.

At first he came out with some vague, “OH YOU know…the one with that nice pharmacist with the glasses.” When asked for more specifics he confidently announced that the pharmacy was not, in fact, ON a street. Or at least, the street didn’t have a name.

Dad – this is TORONTO. EVERY street has a name.

Well, this one street that contained HIS Pharmacy DIDN’T.

Luckily I continued to drive because I was half way there and my dad’s credibility was murky at best. When finally we arrived at the pharmacy I THOUGHT he used, my dad perked up.

“OH…I know where we are, now!” (I pointed out to him that the street DID have a name – for next time). As we unloaded my dad, his cane, the wheelchair, the kid, the shoes he had kicked off and the waiting-in-line-at-the-pharmacy snacks, books and activities that he required, my dad congratulated me on having FOUND his pharmacy.

He casually asked what we were getting and I told him it was for his atenolol.

“Well, that’s very interesting that they have them for you,” he thought outloud, “Usually I have to call in advance…”

No, there is STILL no baby coming...

Bedtime with Tina went off without a hitch last night, but this morning when I poked my head in he was already in position, standing at the end of his crib with his hands in the air asking, “BABY COMING?”

You can’t put ANYTHING past this kid. Who knew he loved babies so much and so desperately wanted one to come to our house?

I THOUGHT he was over it when he started throwing his cereal around and asking his usual questions as to the whereabouts of Fiddie and Papa at breakfast. We made a phone call to Grandma to ask, but as soon as I put Toby on the phone he announced to my poor mother, “BABY COMING!”

Luckily, I was able to grab the phone from Toby and explain it to her BEFORE she’d opened the bottle of champagne in celebration - -no, I was not pregnant, I just happen to have MENTIONED the word “Babysit” to my hopelessly observant child yesterday and THIS is what I was now stuck with.

My mother very USEFULLY pointed out to me that, although she in fact BELIEVED me when I said I wasn’t pregnant based on my excessive wine consumption this past weekend, MOST people would probably NOT believe me and think it quite cute that Toby was going around announcing the arrival of a new sibling in such a loud, earnest and endearing way.

So here is my preemptive strike against the rumour mill : I am not pregnant. There IS no “baby coming” despite what my 20 month old may tell you. Sorry to disappoint.

Silly English Language

On the way home from daycare I told Toby that Tina was coming over to babysit tonight and that she would be playing with him and then putting him to bed. It’s the first time ANYONE other than a Grandma, mommy or daddy has put him to bed. We’re TESTING the waters on this, so I thought some forewarning was necessary.

He thought about this quite seriously for a little bit before starting in on the questioning, “Tina? Baby coming? Tina?”

I reiterated the fact that YES, Tina was coming but just to BABYSIT- not to BRING a baby. Again, he asked when the baby was coming.

Eventually my careful, wordy explanations gave way to, “NO BABY. There is NO BABY coming”

By the time Tina got to our house he was very excited but THREW his hands up in despair when he realized that she’d arrived empty handed.

He GOT that Tina was coming but WHERE was that BABY I’d promised???

Super fast Kitchen Shots

After a fun-filled Halloween Weekend, while most people are busy downloading photos of costumes, parties and trick-or-treaters, my mother found herself disappointedly faced with a camera full of photos of her kitchen.

Random.

It took us a while to decipher it, but it turns out that that’s what you get when you combine a fast paced grandson dressed as superman and an outdated camera with a red eye reduction delay.

Here’s a glimpse at the little terror that transformed into a super cute superhero for the day. It took him a while to get used to the costume. After several attempts at ripping it off (some successful, some not), he eventually gave in to the extra smatterings of attention and grew to accept that he would spend the day with an extra layer of clothing AND a red cape for the bonus of having all eyes on him and the reward of his very first CHOCOLATE BAR in return.

We never DID quite capture his run with his arms ahead of him that he so eagerly practiced. But hey, the kitchen shots will come in handy if they ever decide to renovate…

The Low down on The Flu Shot

I’m going to post something today that is a little off the wall for my blog - - it isn’t a post about Toby’s latest development OR my father’s most recent memory lapse OR my mother’s literary graces. It’s a post about the flu shot. Go figure. (You may stop reading here if you like - -I won’t be offended. In fact, I’ll never know…)

I’m not writing this to preach or tell anyone what to do. I’m writing it because it’s at the forefront of everyone’s mind right now and something I am asked about 100 times a day. In fact, when I die, I think I may calculate up the number of hours of my life that I have spent discussing “the flu shot” and “vaccines” and the fact that they are NOT LINKED TO AUTISM, and ask The Man with the Authority for those hours of my life back.

In an attempt to preemptively salvage some of those hours, I thought I’d post all 2 of my cents on my blog for those of you who care to know my opinion.

The flu is coming. It is not just the sniffles and runny nose or vomiting and diarrhea as we so colloquially refer to “the flu” as. This flu is “the influenza”. As in the bug that leaves you feverish, achey, nauseated, short of breath and bedridden for about a week. As in the bug that killed 50 % of pregnant women in 1918 when it last reached pandemic proportions. As in the bug that we are STILL not very well equipped to treat despite the “marvels” of modern technology.

I very much respect the influenza and urge you to do the same.

Respecting “the influenza” means washing your hands, buying a thermometer, coughing into your forearm and not going to work if you are sick. It also means sucking up the fact that your arm may ache for a few hours afterwards, and getting the flu shot.

The flu shot is not perfect, but it’s not going to hurt you. And at the very least, it will protect your more vulnerable loved ones from contracting the influenza virus from you. A great analogy that I once heard was comparing the flu shot to your seatbelt. It won’t protect you from getting hurt, but in the event of an accident, it sure is better than NOT wearing one.

This season there are 2 influenza vaccines.

If you’re over 65 read this paragraph :

Lucky you! You’ve probably already encountered some form of the H1N1 influenza virus in your lifetime so you likely have natural immunity to it. You are less likely to contract the H1N1 virus BUT if you do, are more likely to have a worse outcome. People who have poor outcomes from “the flu” often do so because of a secondary pneumonia that they contract while their body is busy fighting the virus. In fact, 30% of mortality from H1N1 has actually been because of a bacterial pneumonia. My first word of advise to you is to you is to make sure you’ve had your pneumococcal vaccine. It’s offered to everyone over the age of 65 and is good for 10 years. My second piece of advice – get the regular flu shot. It’s still lingering around the corner, waiting for H1N1 to step out of the spotlight so it can have its annual moment of glory, and you are still it’s biggest target.

And last but not least, once your arms have recovered from the pneumonia vaccine and the regular flu shot, wait a bit and then get the H1N1 shot. Just for good measure.

If you are under 65 :

You are eligible for the H1N1 flu shot. The priority goes to pregnant women, children under the age of 5, health care workers, people with underlying medical conditions, and people in contact with any of the above. If you are not listed in the above group of people -- Welcome to Earth! I hope your return flight to Mars is uneventful.

There are 2 types of H1N1 vaccines available –the adjuvant and the non adjuvant. That’s a fancy name for “The kind we are stockpiling and the one we are not stockpiling”. Basically, the adjuvant kind is one that is mixed with a concoction that boosts our immune system so that we only require a small amount of it to reach the desired level of protection against it. The derivative that does the immune boosting is a natural ingredient of Vitamin E and some other compounds. The adjuvant vaccine, because it is dispensed in multi-dose vials, may also contains the preservative Thimerosal.

SHOCKED SILENCE

NO ONE PANIC. It’s not as bad as you think.

Thimerosal is a small small small (as in, if you put it on the table you wouldn’t be able to find it unless you put your Grandpa’s coke bottle glasses on and got your grade 8 microscope out and looked as hard as you could and then pretended the speck of dirt was it because you were tired of wearing your Grandpa’s glasses and squinting through a lense to see something that is so small it’s invisible) amount of mercury that is used to preserve the vaccine when dispensed in multi-dose vials. Probably my mother-in-law’s pickles have more thimerisal in them and I eat them by the jarful. I’m telling you - -marry into a family who knows how to pickle things and you’re set for life.

Anyway - -back to this tiny amount of thimerosal. This is the CULPRIT in the world’s STUPIDEST and LONGEST STANDING debate – that vaccines cause autism. It has been disproven COUNTLESS times, yet still parents are worried sick that the MMR vaccine causes autism. I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Your kid turns 4 and before he starts kindergarten he gets is “pre kindergarten vaccines” (which, previously, contained a MICROSCOPIC amount of something that you had trouble spelling) and then he goes into kindergarten and 2 weeks later the teacher says, “Hey- this kid doesn’t socialize normally” so OBVIOUSLY it’s either what he had for dinner the night before or the particulate amount of the chemical that is hard to spell that he got 2 weeks ago. Couldn’t POSSIBLY be due to the fact that he is being faced with his first real socialization-under-pressure-experience. Nope - probably that Thimerosal. Even though we’ve disproven it a million times over.

We (the collective WE) even went as far as taking Thimerosal OUT of childhood vaccines and yet still, I find myself explaining this OVER and OVER and OVER again to patients. No, your child will NOT get autism from their childhood vaccines.

I don’t actually mind when patients do ask about this topic. I’m just using the monotony of the repetitive explanation to prove my point to you; that the flu shot is benign and the fact that it may contain thimerosal is not a good enough excuse NOT to have the H1N1 flu shot.

I suspect my post is long enough. I leave you with these concluding words :

We don’t know WHAT is in store for us this year as flu season approaches. Hindsight will be 20/20 and I bet you’d rather say, “Gee, that wasn’t a pandemic after all - -too bad I had to get an extra vaccine this year for nothing” vs. “Wow. My whole family is dead. Maybe I should have had the H1N1 vaccine…”

Nuff said.

Toby wears socks.

Have I mentioned that Toby is a man’s man? Just in case we weren’t PERFECTLY CLEAR on his place as a man in this world, he reinforced it to me this morning as I was getting dressed.

“Bra! Mommy Bra!”

He NEVER gets that excited when I put any OTHER item of clothing on- - just the bra.

In an attempt at redirection I calmly answered,

“Yes, mommy wears a bra. Does Toby wear a bra?”

“NO!” he looked appalled, “Toby – SOCKS!”

Love, according to my 19 month old

I had to say goodbye to Toby for a few days today as he’s off to visit with his cousins in Chatham for the weekend while I host a Stagette party for one of my good friends. So this morning when I left for work I lingered a little on the goodbyes. I gave him an extra long hug and 100 extra kisses and when I got to the door, turned around and said, “I love you!” one last time.

Toby, who was at the couch by this time, responded to my declaration of love by smiling and then wrapping his arms around himself in a huge hug before throwing his hands over his eyes and then blowing me a kiss.

Toby is told quite regularly that he is loved but he does not say it back. It’s a hard concept to teach a 19 month old who is still barely grasping the concepts of colours. And we never DID teach him baby sign language. But somehow he conveyed back to me exactly what he thinks the definition of love is: loving smiles, warm hugs, games of peekaboo and blowing someone a kiss as they walk out the door.

I think it’s a good definition for motherhood as well….

Damn you, winter attire!!!

How do you decide what to wear each day? The weather? The occasion? After work plans?

Not me - -my daily attire depends SOLELY on the carefully calculated risk stratification and probability score that my brain frantically calculates in the short 5 minutes of dressing-showering-accessorizing-waking-up-me-time that I am allotted each morning. It’s this probability score that helps me to determine the daily potential of snot/food spillage from my son. Some days, when he’s particularly green, snotty and overtired, I go for the casual look. On other days, when my mom is around, I branch out to my nicer clothes and even sometimes wear a blouse.

I THOUGHT I had my self-dressing system down pat until today.

Today was the day I made my fatal error.

If I were a computer I would have frozen, crashed, beeped, blank screened and then completely shut down and ignored the world no matter how many times someone pressed my reboot button.

It was THAT bad.

I woke up to a nice white blanket of fresh snow. Which made me happy - -mistake number 1 – NEVER let your good mood tempt you into wearing something that should not be worn. ALWAYS REMEMBER the CHAOS that lives with you.

Mistake number 2 - -I got wooed by the weather. It was snowing and sunny and bright. And I was cheerful for those 5 minutes of dressing, and decided I’d waited LONG ENOUGH to bring out my new light pink knit sweater and lovely pleated-likely-will-require-dry-cleaning plaid pants. Because they were my new winter clothes and I couldn’t wait ONE MORE DAY to wear them.

Those of you who don’t have kids may be thinking that there’s nothing WRONG with wearing your nice new winter clothes on the fresh crisp first day of snow fall. AHA! There’s the CATCH! Because not only did the first fresh day of snowfall mean a new outfit for ME - -it ALSO meant a new outfit for Toby…specifically, winter boots, a hat, his winter jacket and….mitts.

We had numerous temper tantrums this morning. The first three being about the boots, the hat and the mitts and the fourth and fifth ones being about his then runny nose being wiped on my clean pants and new sweater. (Respectively.)

Finally, we reached a snotty-nosed compromise and settled for no hat, no mitts and his RAIN boots. (He DID wear his winter jacket – that was my only victory of the morning) I assured him that ALL of his friends would be wearing winter boots but hey, if he wanted to be the ODD BALL of his daycare, he could go ahead and wear his shiny RAIN boots if he wanted to.

As we pulled up to daycare, my lovely new winter outfit covered in snot and drool and his lovely new winter accessories scattered all over the car, I prepared how I was going to justify sending my kid to daycare in RAIN boots while it was SNOWING outside.

But I didn’t have to - -the line of outdoor shoes that morning consisted entirely of….RAIN BOOTS.

So apparently we’re NOT the only family suffering from winter-transition-crisis.

Thankful…

This weekend posed such a dichotomy in my heart that I need to blog about it just to make some sense of it...

Friday afternoon we headed back to our old stomping ground; Thunder Bay. It was a reunion. It was a homecoming. It was a wedding. And it was over in the blink of an eye.

There is something about coming home to Thunder Bay that makes me feel jubilant and yet so settled; every time we go back it is as if we have never left. The conversations with friends pick up without missing a beat and there is a comfort and ease to our visits that is so refreshing. And the town itself - with its rugged beauty and quiet modesty; I am always so proud to say I once lived there.

Rob and I lived in Thunder Bay for 3 years. It was the town we moved to together and shared our first home in. During those 3 years we shared the ups and downs of residency, being away from family and friends back home, wedding planning and job hunting. It was in Thunder Bay that Rob and I became a family.

Our life in Collingwood is everything we want. With the ski hills and the Bruce trail it has the beauty and activities of Thunder Bay without the 17hour commute to family. We have both found our dream jobs and we have a community of friends we couldn’t live without.

And we have Toby.

At the wedding I reconnected with friends I haven’t seen since medical school and residency. I gushed to them in my usual superlative ways about Toby and life in Collingwood. (I even carried my iPhone with me to provide video evidence of my crazy son…yes, I WAS that mom…) And yet as we left Thunder Bay on Sunday morning, well rested, fed and sauna-ed and my voice HOARSE from talking, I felt a strange sadness come over me.

Wouldn’t life be so much easier if you got married and worked in the town you grew up in? Then you’d never have to MISS all of the other places you’ve grown accustomed to, and you’d never find yourself trying to decipher the strange contented sadness that lingers after what should have been a purely EXCITING weekend away.

I know deep down that I am lucky to feel this way; to know there are numerous places in the world I can call home and feel just as comfortable in as my own. It reminds me of a quote I used in my highschool graduation blurb,

“How lucky we are to have loved something so much that saying goodbye could be so hard…”

Thanks for a great weekend, Thunder Bay. We’ll be home again, soon.

Cow Gazing

Just your regular rainy Saturday afternoon here. We were all going a little stir crazy being in the house all weekend, soToby and I decided to take a road trip to Singhampton to get the Globe and some Sherry (for the soup Rob is making...) and on the way home I casually decided to take a back road detour to see if we could find any cows.

Why, you ask? Do I ALWAYS go looking for cows? Well, no, not USUSALLY…until about a week ago after we took Toby to the Great Northern Exhibition and we spent (what felt like) HOURS gawking at the cows. They are now officially his FAVOURITE animals and EVERY TIME we get in the car he asks, “cows? COWS?” And USUALLY, no, we’re NOT going to see cows. So today I thought, “Why not? Lets go find some cows.”

I am happy to report that the cows on Concession 8 were out in full force despite the rain. And they were up to all the usual exciting-things-that-cows-do, such as standing still, eating grass and mooing. JACKPOT.

Toby INSISTED that we get out of the car to see them and so we did. In the rain. He then questioned WHY we were not sitting DOWN to see the cows (as we had done at the exhibition). After I’d convinced him that standing on the side of the deserted road in the pouring rain was good enough, he proceeded to watch. And watch. And watch. After 10 minutes of WATCHING (in the rain) I made the offhand suggestion (SUGGESTION) that MAYBE we leave....BIG mistake.

And so we kept watching. Because the only thing that makes cow-watching-in-the-rain-on-concession-8 WORSE is to do it while trying to hold down a temper tantruming 19 month old.

And so the cow watching continued with such exciting moments as the mommy cow peeing and one of the baby cows mooing. And, occasionally, they would walk a few steps to find more grass.

Fascinating.

I was 5 seconds away from getting the cooking Sherry out of the car when Finally – FINALLY – my silently-mesmerized boy opened his mouth to point out, “Cows….Hat? Shoes?”

What? SERIOUSLY? We stand out here in the RAIN on Concession 8 watching COWS for 30 minutes and all you can come up with is HAT? SHOES?

But then I got it…and it was indeed a good question…why IS it that this particular species is allowed out in the rain WITHOUT their hat and shoes on? Everyone ELSE has to wear them!

As we chatted about why cows don’t wear hats and shoes EVEN in the rain, we made our way over to the car and I was FINALLY allowed to leave. As I got him into the car seat Toby was still straining to get one last glimpse of his mirage of cows and I said, “Say bye-bye to the cows!” Two minutes later I heard his first 5 syllable sentence; “Bye bye to the cows!”

I guess it was an enjoyable outing afterwards. And I didn’t even have to crack the sherry.

THe Name Change

You may have noticed that the object of Toby’s affection’s name has suddenly changed. That’s because I have found this child/predicament WAAAAAY too entertaining to omit from Toby’s blog. I also have an uber-practical husband who ruthlessly pointed out to me, after reading my last “un-edited” blog entry, that, although it was funny, I would probably be pillaged, sued and burned at the stake for using the REAL NAME of this unsuspecting 2.5 year old in such an oh-so public (that’s referring to all 5 of you who read my blog) venue.

I hereby Christen you, love-of-my-19-month-old’s-life-and-crazy-day-care-chick-who-likes-to-eat-markers : LAYLA.

Layla

After much anticipation and a great deal of build up I finally met Layla today.

We walked into daycare and as all of the other 18 month olds rebounded into the arms of their parents in heartbreaking-I-had-such-a-great-weekend-I-don’t-want-it-to-be-Monday-already-please-don’t-leave-me sobs, Toby leaped into the room and bounced over to meet a little girl whom he IMMEDIATELY introduced to me as Layla.

“Layla! Mommy - -Lay-LA!” he repeated with his finger about a millimeter from her face. The kid is NOT subtle.

As any good mother would do when meeting the love of their son’s life, I knelt down and smiled at my competition.

“Hello! Is your name Layla?” I asked sweetly.

She said nothing, so again, I asked,

“What’s YOUR name?”

Not. Even. A. Smile.

Oh come ON, kid. Have your parents taught you NOTHING about INLAWS?

I’d like to give this little girl the benefit of the doubt – but not only was she NOT blonde (she was brunette), but she had NONE of the attributes I had imagined would be required by my golden boy’s standards; smile included. And I don’t know if I’d say she’s 3. More like 2 and a half.

My skepticism about this Layla chick were even further reinforced as we left daycare today, my exhausted son trailing behind me as I tried to ignore his lamenting sadness about leaving “Laaaayyyyylaaa…”. On our way out we happened to run into one of the other daycare workers and I explained (in case she found his incessant Layla-ing creepy) that he “talks about Layla a lot”.

She snorted and chuckled and then with a wink said, “I’m not surprised!”

Good gracious, and here I was worried about him catching swine flu at daycare- - now here we are facing an even more potentially disastrous predicament; Layla….

How to get Daddy's attention

Rob went downstairs this morning to get something from the basement. Toby quickly ran to the top of the stairs and very sweetly called down for him,

“Daaaa-daaa!...”

he paused a few seconds before trying again,

“Daaaa-dddyyyyyy!….”

Finally he’d had enough of not getting a response and in as loud a voice he could muster yelled down the stairs,

“ROOOOOOOB!!!!!!!!”

He knows how to get our attention.

The Other Woman..

I’ve been replaced.

Before this morning, there were only 5 people in the world that Toby would mention without provocation from us ; Mommy, Daddy, Gaga, Bapa, and Wee wee. He will repeat people’s names to us if we ask about them - - but doesn’t usually INITIATE conversation about them…that is, until this morning when he woke up and immediately asked for “LAYLA"

LAYLA?!!?!

I ignored his request the first time thinking he must have wanted a book or something strange for breakfast, but still he persisted. Finally, I clued into the fact that Lola was someone at daycare. (Or some THING as we have learned after the Bag-bat incident…) I tried other words that started with L like Lunch or Laura…nope, it was only LAYLA he wanted, or “Leeeeeeeyyy-Lah!” as he would say it in his soft, dreamy eyed, long drawn out way…

So when I dropped him off this morning I casually asked Nicole (his new daycare mom) if they happened to have a Leyla at their daycare.

It seems they do. Not only is her name Layla, but, according to Nicole, she is VERY cute, blonde and "Quite a bit older" than him. (I think she’s 3)

So there you have it; only three weeks in and already I’ve been usurped by a hot broad named Layla.

National Punctuation Day!

Today is National Punctuation Day. They have a day for EVERYTHING! But this is definitely a GOOD one….

There’s an article on page A19 of The Star that MAY have been written by a long lost Robinson relative of ours…based SOLELY on our similarly dramatic reaction to misplaced apostrophes that can ONLY be explained either by genetics or a close proximity to my mother. In his article he references a website Apostropheabuse.com. As someone who has been INFUSED with the HORRORS of bad grammar my entire life, just perusing the signs on the website made me cringe. And the more I saw the more visceral the reaction – something parallel to what dogs must sense when children release balloons in slow agonizingly high pitched squeaks of rubber on rubber air leakage….

I know, I know, I shouldn’t point the finger. You are all well aware of my own grammatical deficiencies - in particular, the confusion over its vs it’s. For some reason, my apostrophe alarm neglects all words that start with “it”. BELIEVE ME, it is not something that passes through my mother’s grammatical security system unnoticed. In fact, sometimes I throw in the odd misspelled “its” just to make sure she’s still alive and reading my blog.

So maybe I’m not one to talk. But I think that Punctuation Day is a fine way for the grammatical neurotics (or the unfortunate children of such) to channel their energy in more constructive way’s.

(I did that on purpose – if you didn’t catch it, please check out www.apostropheabuse.com if you STILL don’t get it…well, perhaps a date with my mother is in order?)

One more strike against Technology

I called my mother today to make arrangements for their visit tomorrow. She was out so I got my dad, who was BESIDE himself with boredom.

At first I tried to rationalize with him that, although he was home alone this afternoon, mom would be home this evening and then TOMORROW they were coming to see me.

THAT didn’t work. He was bored NOW and not only was he bored, he was good old tug-on-the-heartstrings-LONELY.

So I suggested he see his friend Ed. Ed, as in the saintly man who lives around the corner and LOVES visiting dad and can spend hours sipping coffee and listening to his same stories over and over again without complaints.

“ED!!?!?” Dad grumpily exclaimed, “I haven’t talked to Ed in MONTHS!”
“Well, all the more reason to call him!”
“Bah - -I don’t have TIME. I have too many little things to do…”

(I guess he was forgetting his claim of boredom from 30 seconds ago…)

“What do you have to do today?”

“Well, I’m trying to call my old friend Wally London. We played football together in the 1940s.”

“Well that’s great! You SHOULD call him”

“I already tried once this morning and….well….I don’t know what happened…he picked up and said he was UNAVAILABLE at the moment and wanted me to leave a message. Isn’t that STUPID?”

“No Dad, that’s called an answering machine”

(Dad was too far into his rant to hear my last statement)

“…I mean what does he mean by unavailable…I keep HEARING that all the TIME when I call people”

“DAD!” I interrupted, “It’s called an ANSWERING MACHINE”

“Oh….WELL…I think it’s ANNOYING.”

I pointed out to him that he was really making himself seem OLD and CRANKY, not knowing what an ANSWERING machine was. He thought about this for a minute before breaking into a chuckle..

“Yes, well…I suppose I am…”

Sometimes Life is just CONFUSING

Today was a confusing name day for Toby. I know that because I can hear him right now, recapping his day out loud for me from his crib as he tries to get it all sorted in his head before he goes to sleep.

All weekend I’d been gearing him up for a visit from Ga-ga and Ba-pah (Grandma and Grandpa Henry). Only THIS Grandma and Grandpa were coming from Chatham and, although he loves them dearly, were NOT the Gaga and Ba-pah he was expecting. He was quite excited to see them nonetheless and was even MORE excited to see that they had brought his 3 year old cousin Mikella (Ka-ka) with them.

The downside to THIS set of Grandparents visiting is that they do not come with a dog. Specifically, my mother’s dog, Fiddie (Wee-wee).

So not only did he have Ga-ga and Ba-pah and Ka-ka and no Wee-wee to contend with, but we complicated things further by taking him for a hike with my friends Gwen and Katie and their dogs Charlie (Cha) and Brodie (Bro-bo). A couple of times on the hike he looked at the dogs and then asked about “Wee Wee?” (Which, previous to this hike, was the only dog in the WORLD to him). And asking about Wee-wee obviously got him thinking because a few minutes later he would inevitably start asking about Ga-ga and Ba-pah and where THEY were this weekend.

SO tonight, in his crib, I hear him trying to sort through these TWO sets of grandparents and THREE dogs.

It went something like this :

“Mama…dada…Gaga? Ba-pah! Ka-ka! Wee wee? Bro-bo…Cha…Ma-ma…WeeWee? Ga-ga? Ba-pah?….Ka-ka! Dada…Gaga?...Mama…Wee wee?”

The nice thing was that it always came back to Mama and Dada. We’re obviously the pillars of strength and consistency in his fast paced–ever-changing-world. If only for the fact that there is only ONE of each of us and we don’t own a dog.

Mount Snot

Lesson #1 from daycare – kids get sick. We had about 1 successful no-tears day at daycare before the runny nose and intermittent fevers started. The rule at daycare is that runny noses are OK but fevers are not. So Rob and I find ourselves frantically checking his temperature three or four times a day and coming up with nightly contingency plans for who or how we will stay home with him should the fever spike...

So far this is the tally : 1 day off, 1 early pick up, 1 trip to the ER, 1 dose of steroids, 3 sleep ins and 21 anxious and fitful sleeps for mom and dad. Thank goodness for grandparents. My mom seems to have this incredible ability perform a last minute warp to her busy schedule that allows her to come up and babysit on a whim. I think it’s a grandparent thing.

This morning when I went in to get him I did my usual shot out to whoever the celestial being of children’s health is, and apprehensively went in his room. He was smiling up at me as two torrential downpours of green snotty framed his grin.

Seriously –I have NEVER in my LIFE been witness to such an impressive display of snot. It was like Mount Vesuvius erupting green molten sputum from the depths of his brain. And whenever he breathed, laughed or coughed, a snotty bubble display showered any and all neighbouring THINGS. Including his bear, his clothes, his food and, of course…Mommy.

So when I dropped him off (late) today, I had a chat with his daycare worker about Mount Snot and without even answering me she pointed to the rest of the 18 month olds who were also running around spewing the lovely liquid out of THEIR nasal passages as well.

Lesson #2 from day care : your child is never the only one.

BUT, as we have learned, Toby always likes to do it to the EXTREME and with his own little flourish. And as I left the daycare this morning I felt a little twinge of satisfaction that Toby’s snot was still the MOST green and the most PROLIFIC of the bunch.

The marvels of modern technology

I was reminded the other day why modern technology and people born in the 1920’s don’t mix. It’s an old story, but a good one, so I thought I’d share it…

There are 4 facts that you need to know in order for this story to make sense.

1. My last name is BOYD. I didn’t change it. Not because I don’t think the idea of completely obliterating my previous existence with a pile of government forms isn’t TERRIBLY romantic….it was just SO much easier NOT to.

2. Rob’s last name is HENRY.

3. When we moved to Collingwood we listed our phone number as Henry-Boyd because it made it just a WEE bit more difficult for patients to track me down, if only for the fact that way we’d be listed in the H’s instead of the B’s.

4. My dad’s father’s name was Henry.

So a few years ago we moved into our lovely house in Collingwood, called up Bell, got our phone connected and called up my dad on a casual Saturday afternoon just to chat.

My dad almost fell off his chair.

In fact, I think maybe he DID fall off his chair.

Right- - I forgot fact #5...my parents have caller ID.

Which my dad read before answering the phone in an unusually apprehensive whisper…

“Helllloooooooooo?”

(Fact #6 : My grandfather is dead. And has been since 1978.)

Oblivious to the fact that my dad was thinking he was having a near death encounter with the ghost of his dead father, I carried on in my usual conversational style with him before I was rudely cut off by the sudden return of his voice,

“WHO ARE YOU AND WHERE ARE YOU CALLING ME FROM!?!?!?”

It took me a little while to clue in, but finally I did, and I quickly adopted a softer approach...

“Dad?...”

“Lyssie?...”

“Yes, dad, it’s me…I’m calling you from my house…everything is OK.”

I won’t pretend that the explanation can be contained in a single blog entry. Or that it came easily. But EVENTUALLY I managed to convince my aging father that I was NOT the reincarnated ghost of his dead father calling him from beyond the grave. I ALSO managed to convince him that EVERY call comes with a “caller ID” and that, in SOME circumstances it is both useful and no-quite-so-scary. After some time, he even began to answer the phone again.

Morning Phone Calls

There is nothing sweeter than being privy to the immeasurable bond that my husband has with our amazing child…..

As much as I have complained about the sudden change in routine for ME, I think Rob’s return to work has affected me the least. Poor Rob has now gone from spending every waking moment with Toby to a class of 13 year olds and poor Toby has gone from spending every waking moment with his Dada to the day care ladies, Nora, Ruth and Emma and a multitude of other kids.

He loves daycare, now, and he loves Nora and asks about her on weekends, but by FAR the person he asks about the most his wonderful Daddy.

Every morning when I go to get him up I am met by a big grin and an immediate accusation, “DADA!!!?!?!” As if I have single handedly banished him from Toby’s morning life. Oh, no, little guy, my life as well would be MUCH EASIER if Dada were around in the mornings. But still the question persists. As I get him out of his sleep sac, “Dada?” and as I change his diaper, “Dada….” and as I make him breakfast he wanders around the house calling, “Dada!...Dada?”

It is quite heartbreaking, despite the fact that I know that Dada is merely doing his job and that Toby will be reunited with him in 8 hours or so….The other morning I just couldn’t stand it so I came up with the idea to call Dada on his cell phone (he was on his way to work- -it’s a 40 minute drive…)

So I called up my uber-practical-don’t-call-my-cell-phone-unless-your-water-has-broken-or-someone-is-dying husband (no, I’m NOT pregnant again, that rule comes from a time…about 18 months ago…). I quickly reassured him that the house had NOT in fact burned down and that the child WAS still alive but that we both missed him SO MUCH that we just had to call and say good morning.

He paused.

And then I put the phone up to Toby’s ear. I heard Rob’s cheerful greeting and a HUGE smile crossed Toby’s face. He looked up at me and thanked me with a satisfied whisper, “….dada…” before shoving his cheek back into the receiver. “MORE!” he said and Rob and Toby engaged is the most heartwarming conversation over the phone. It was pretty one sided as Toby has fairly selective language at the best of times. But I could see the grin and hear the delight in Rob’s voice every time Toby marveled over “dada’s” presence and repeatedly asked for “more.”

The next morning it wasn’t US that called, but Rob.

“Oh, hi, nothing wrong, I was just checking in….is Toby up yet?”

And so we have a NEW morning routine….

Our Morning Routine

Since Rob has gone back to school and Toby has started daycare, I have noticed a dramatic CHANGE in my usual morning routine.

Rob leaves before I get up. Or Toby gets up. Or even the SUN gets up. Which is, in my opinion, WAAAY too early. But he’s a morning person so he does it cheerfully. And hey, if you’re going to be woken up by SOMETHING it’s nice that it’s a happy husband’s whistles than a cranky moan. Which is the way I usually wake up…

The moan escapes my lips the moment my eyes open and I realize that :
a) it’s morning
b) the kid is awake and banging on his crib to get up
and
c) I have all of 2 minutes to get myself up, showered, dressed and looking presentable before he discovers how to climb out of his crib and comes to get me himself.

Once I am 100% ready to go, I get him up and the fun begins. 100% ready to go meaning whatever I happen to get accomplished in my 2 minutes of morning solitude….

I sometimes wonder how I was ever LATE before I had a kid. I mean, seriously, what is there to make you late when it’s just YOU? I don’t cry and kick my legs and wiggle my bum when I try to get my underwear on. And I don’t run around the house in circles, naked, trying to engage someone in a game of tag before putting on my clothes in the morning. (Ohhhhh no…the days of that are LOOOOONG gone…). And I don’t spill my breakfast over my belly and then get upset and smear it into my hair and cry until the snot drips down into my mouth and yoghurt. And I don’t require a thick application of suntan lotion on all 4 of my fast moving extremeties before going off to work for the day. And, perhaps most importantly and the current BAIN of my existence, I don’t come with an automatic-at-all-times-HAT requirement.

Mornings at our place take great SKILL and EFFICIENCY. By 8:15 when I leave the house, and everyone else in the world is probably sipping coffee while reading their newspaper, I can quietly gloat to myself about my sense of accomplishment for the day.

So this morning, when I realized that I had managed to get myself AND the kid dressed, cleaned, diapered, suntan-lotioned, fed, caffeinated and ready to go (hat and all), I was excited. And when I realized that I had done ALL of that WITHOUT getting yoghurt, snot, coffee OR suntan lotion on myself I got even MORE excited. And when I realized I had done ALL of that and it was only 8:14am ….I got cocky. And that’s when I made my fatal mistake.

I decided to go and brush my teeth.

I blame it on a lack of concentration. And I know it doesn’t take MUCH concentration to brush your teeth. But this last minute tooth brushing occurred in the context of a dressed-fed-suntanlotion-ed-hat-wearing-ready-for-daycare-18-month-old who was hopping from foot to foot, tugging on my pants while yelling “MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!” at a cacophonous rate.

Have YOU ever tried to do anything while someone stood beside you and yelled your name on repeat at ear splitting decibles?

In any case, I lost my concentration and forgot to close my mouth and drooled my mouthful of toothpaste all…..down…my…..clean ….blouse…..

No gloating today!