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…