Christmas - come and gone

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

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

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

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

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

The Christmas Miracle?? Not quite...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They fit!

Was it the Christmas miracle? Not quite…turns out I’d been putting them on backwards the first time.

Mispronounciations

There aren’t many words that Toby can’t pronounce and for the most part his sentences are intelligible and understood by strangers. But there is one word he inexplicably continues to mispronounce: oatmeal.

We don’t eat oatmeal a lot but every now and then the kid gets a craving for “Opingole” (Pronounced Oh-ping-yole). This morning as he ate away at it and lauded me on my opingole making skills, I corrected him.

“Toby, it’s called Oatmeal.” I corrected him.

“I know,” he said matter-of-factly, “But I like to call it Opingole."

And who could argue with that?

Scales don't lie; Toddlers do

Today I made the mistake of stepping onto the scale. As I apprehensively peered over my huge belly an innocent voice from behind me said, “Two hundred and forty eight!”

For a boy whose ability to count to TWENTY is variable on the best of days, this DRAMATICALLY high (and, I might point out, INACCURATE) number took me a bit by surprise.

But not to fear; it was his turn next to get on the scale and as he did so he proudly announced that he was “Two and a half”.

So it may NOT be that I look like I weigh 248 lbs. It may just be that he thinks I’m two hundred and forty eight years old. What a relief.

Mirror, Mirror On the Wall...

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the order in which they eat a gingerbread man. If you eat the legs first you’re sensitive, if you eat the left arm first you’re creative and if you eat the head first you’re strong willed and independent.

I think I’m usually a left-arm-first-gingerbread-man-eater but this season I’ve definitely been a legs first person. Must be the hormones.

Toby, on the other hand, goes straight for the head every time. Grinning as he munches savagely on the head, there is nothing that so accurately sums up the current stage we are facing -- that of independence and stubbornness. From what socks he wears to daycare to the location of the squirt of ketchup on his dinner plate, there is no step in any process that cannot become a hot topic of debate if it at all deviates from the master’s plan or liking.

Washing his hands and face, for example, is a regular struggle. He’s not QUITE thorough enough to pass mommy or daddy’s standards in terms of cleanliness but yet he INSISTS on walking to the bathroom, turning the light on, soaping up and rinsing all by himself and it’s not until we are granted permission to join him in the bathroom that we can quality control.

Just writing that paragraph makes me roll my eyes and think, “Get a grip, parents. Do you REALLY have such little control over your kid?” It’s ridiculous to think I have no power over the hand washing process until his royal highness grants me access to the lavatory. But I promise you, I’ve lived through the alternative scenario and it’s just not worth it. In general it’s a smooth (although often unnecessarily prolonged) process that sometimes even allows Rob and I a few extra moments to ourselves at the dinner table while Toby takes his time washing up. But every now and then it backfires on us.

The other morning, for example, as I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, I heard the water running and Toby laughing away while saying to himself, “Don’t DO that! Don’t DO that!” Why I didn’t think to go in earlier I will never know. Blissful thinking. When I eventually DID go in I found him splashing water ALL OVER. Not an inch of ht mirror, sink or countertop was water free. And to top it off he was SHOCKED and HORRIFIED when he was rewarded with an immediate time out.

Yesterday night, however, was a different story. He was in a silly mood and took his sweet time getting to the bathroom. We were getting exasperated with his dawdling and frequent attempts to touch the walls with his dirty hands until at last he decided it was time to wash up and as we finished our supper we heard the little prince marveling to his reflection, “Oooh la la! Oooh la la!”

Not only is he independent - - he’s gaining quite the ego as well. We’ll need to work on the French accent, however, if he ever wants to impress Grandma with this new saying…

Ever Changing Christmas Traditions

Like many others, this was the weekend our house got Christmas-a-fied – real tree and all. From changing the 5 disc CD player to all Christmas music to swapping the hand towels in the bathroom, every inch our house has been transformed to reflect the magic of the season. And, I say this without any sarcasm at all, what magic it is when you throw a wide-eyed and eager toddler into the mix.

As I unpacked our bins of Christmas stuff I remembered the mind frame I was in last year as I put it away, full of wonder as to what our life would look like in a years time. Would it still just be the 3 of us? Would my dad still partake as knowingly and eagerly as he did last year? Would Toby actually “get it”?

What a gift it is to know that my dad is still alive and well and able to share yet another Christmas with his beloved grandson, Toby. And what excitement we have in this second child who is waiting around the corner for us. But perhaps the biggest joy right now for me is one I hadn’t anticipated as I packed up the stuff 11 months ago: the enchantment that hovers in the air as we get to watch Christmas unfolding in the eyes of Toby.

Every little detail is noted and commented on; he’s eagerly learning the words to Christmas songs, bonding with Rob over the old classic Christmas movies on Sunday nights, relishing each and every glass of egg nog he is allowed to have, and was almost moved to TEARS when Santa Claus “The REAL ONE, Mommy!!!” finally arrived at the end of the Stayner Santa Claus parade this weekend.

But perhaps his greatest discovery came yesterday as we unpacked the bins of Christmas decorations together. And that was (OBVIOUSLY) my collection of Christmas socks.

I don’t know how, for someone who doesn’t like to collect things, I have acquired such a vast array of brightly coloured Christmas socks, but it captured Toby’s eye right away. And THEN he put them on. For those of you who aren’t well versed in our sport-fanatic-child, the fact that they come up to mid thigh won’t immediately jump out at you as an obvious triumph. It almost didn’t for me until I saw him assume the usual stance and shout in an excitement I can describe with nothing but the words “sheer glee”

“LOOK, MOMMY! These are BASEBALL SOCKS!!!!” he hollered before taking off “around the bases”.

And so, as we work away fighting with Christmas lights and ornaments, our festively clad boy has been wearing nothing but diapers (insisting on only the green or red fuzzy-buns) and thigh high Christmas (er…I mean, BASEBALL) socks while tearing around the house sliding into imaginary bases and chanting a very baseball-like “Ho-ho-ho MERRY CHRISTMAS, Mommy, I got a HOME RUN!”

I suspect that the only predictions I’ll be able to make for this time next year is that life will be very different. I also suspect that the baseball/Christmas sock obsession will have been usurped by some other 4-year-old fixation. I guess there’s nothing like rapidly changing Christmas traditions to remind you of the excitement and unpredictability of this particular phase of life we happen to be in right now.

The story of the Christmas Cow

As the excitement and understanding of Christmas grows, it dawned on me the other day that perhaps we should be teaching Toby about the real origin of Christmas. After all, it’s not all about Frosty and Rudolph and the big bearded man with presents. As I’ve mentioned before, Rob is the religious one in our family, but some things are important, and of all the religious stories, this is one I felt somewhat comfortable teaching him. How badly could I screw it up?

It took a bit of searching but finally I found him a short and colourful book that explains the nativity story in plain English. AND there was a picture of a cow on the front. When we got home from daycare that day I told Toby that I had a new book for him (he loves books) and he got very excited. He got even MORE excited when he saw the cow on the front and eagerly sat down to read it, flipping each page to get to the part where the cow is introduced.

It’s a long time to wait for an impatient-cow-obsessed-toddler; Mary and Joseph were introduced, the shepherds in the field were introduced (sheep are not quite as enthralling as cows), the angel came down, Mary found out she was pregnant, she and Joseph had the “oh shit” conversation, they traveled to Bethlehem, they tried to find a hotel and THEN (and ONLY then) did they end up in a barn with the Christmas Cow.

Needless to say, I wasn’t entirely sure how much of the actual story he absorbed. (Although it was a BIT of a relief that the word “virgin” slipped past his inquisitive mind unnoticed…) Later on that day when we told Daddy about the new book Toby introduced it as the story of “the cow and the baby Jay-Zee”.

“No, Toby, the baby’s name was JE-SUS, not Jay-Zee” (how does he know who Jay-zee is?!?)

“Yeah. Jay-zee!” he replied, grinning. This was the start of a dangerous game…

I corrected him one more time and then decided to drop it. I would UTTERLY fail in my quest to teach my son a simple bible story if the end result was his insistence on referring to Jesus as Jay-Zee.

I thought maybe that was the end of the whole story and my contribution to a more wholesome Christmas, until this morning (a week later) when he brought it up again on the way to daycare.

“So…the baby Jesus…” he started musing out loud to himself in the car. (He had obviously been THINKING about this…)

“Yes, what about him?”

“The baby Jesus…his mommy was Mary?”

“Yes,” I encouraged, “And he was born on Christmas day which is why we celebrate Christmas every year.”

Toby thought about this for a bit and then expanded on the story,

“So the baby Jesus was born and his mommy is Mary. And there was a COW and he had to lie down in HAY in a barn.”

“That’s RIGHT, Toby!” I said impressed but still wondering where this was all going…

Skeptically, Toby finally got to his point, “OK…well…but WHO is JOE?!!?!?”

After correcting him on the name “Joseph” I smiled at our mutual accomplishment.

We’re making progress…

"The quiet one" has been deciphered!

I’ve mentioned before on my blog about “the quiet one” and how different this baby seems to be from my verbose-hyper-energized toddler. One of my favourite memories of Toby in the womb was his predictable love of hip-hop. Driving to and from work I would always search the stations for Kanye because I knew it would elicit some forceful and often well timed kicks from him; in my head he was a cool little hip hop dude before he was even 5 months formed. What a shock when he not only came out WHITE, but a hot nonsensical mess.

I feel better prepared for the realities of this baby but despite this, find it somewhat disappointing that I can’t decipher its musical tastes. Believe me, I’ve tried; dance music, country music, kids music – I get nothing. For the first 6 months I even went to weekly hip-hop classes which had the inverse effect of lulling it to sleep. Nowadays, even Raffi (which is on repeat in the car, having long ago stolen the spotlight from Kanye) doesn’t get a rise out of this baby.

So what a shock (and a bit of relief) last weekend when I discovered that this baby DOES have a musical preference (and adequate hearing). During a fabulous weekend in Toronto with the girls we went to see Priscilla Queen of the Desert. It was absolutely fantastic and a definite must see. From the second the music stars it is one great song after another; the baby kicked, bounced and wiggled away the ENTIRE TIME.

So there you go – it took a long 7.5 months to unveil, but my baby is NOT a dud. It just so happens I’m carrying a drag queen.

French Lessons

Since Toby has moved up to the older group at daycare I have lost track of the multitude of things he is learning at circle time each day. Some days he comes home asking what time it says on the clock while other days he analyzes the weather trying to decipher when exactly fall ends and winter beings. My favourite is when he tries to engage me in a debate about what day of the week it is. Needless to say, he has yet to fully GRASP all of these concepts …it’s a work in progress.

Last night at dinner, however, he shocked us. We were (as usual) discussing our plans for the week when he very matter-of-factly turned to Rob and said, “Today is MONDAY and that means tomorrow is TUESDAY and if you want I can say that in French; Lundi, Mardi.”

So there you have it. Apparently he DOES know the days of the week (or at least the first two) and some French to boot. Who knew??

Sleeping Arrangements

Over the past few months we have slowly eased the unsuspecting Toby into his new life in the basement so that the baby can take his old room upstairs. We are not cruel parents; our house is only two levels with our bedroom on the main floor and the living room and kids room(s) in the basement. As we did with Toby, the baby will start upstairs and the Grandparents have the luxury of guest-rooming beside Toby in the basement until the new one is old enough to not have me running down stairs for 3 am feeds…

Toby has done exceptionally well with the move. He LOVES his big boy bed and his big boy room AND his froggy bathroom and proudly shows it off to everyone who comes to visit. In fact, I was showing around a lady who is (hopefully) going to start doing some cleaning for us and Toby just ASSUMED she had come to see HIS new room so bravely overcame his shyness to grab her by the hand and lead her to the downstairs so she could see his room before she’d even glanced at the rest of the house. I’m hoping his charm has won her over ;)

This weekend I realized the transition was officially complete when Toby remarked that this upstairs room was no longer his and WHAT was it going to be used for? I told him that that was where the baby was going to sleep.

He was shocked. And then heartbroken.

Why was the baby going to sleep UPSTAIRS?

I explained why she (OR HE!!!) was going to start upstairs but that when the baby got older (like him) s/he could move downstairs, too.

This brought on a slew of questions that came in quick succession. Where would she sleep when she got older? How would we get the crib downstairs? Why couldn’t she just sleep downstairs right away?

I responded as best I could, answering both the logistical (Daddy could take the crib apart and then put it back together downstairs) and more emotionally sensitive (she or HE would sleep in Grandma and Grandpa’s room downstairs) topics. I then held my breath and waited. After months of being so subtle about the move and not wanting to disturb his world or make him feel at all usurped, THIS was the moment of truth…

As all good conversational pauses go, he took a mouthful of cheerios and thought about things carefully before responding with exasperation,

“But why can’t she just sleep right BESIDE me in my bed?”

Oh, the Guilt!

Part of my daily amusement stems from asking Toby what he did in “circle time” each day. Sometimes his answer consists of a lively song, a question, the mention of a particularly notorious kid who bit or hit someone else or a simple answer, “nothing”.

Yesterday I happened to ask him the question while we were still at daycare, which was good because I could then go and check on the calendar wall and verify what exactly he was talking with. His answer was an excited mess of words about safe and unsafe animals, dogs and cats and whales. As he talked excitedly his emotions fluctuated from concern about the “unsafeness” of his tiger costume for Halloween to a morose lamentation of the fact that he didn’t have a dog NOR a cat at home.

Sure enough –it’s pet week at daycare. Their circle time discussion had centered on what pets were and were not safe to keep as pets. The poor kid had obviously realized that he was left out of the dog or cat ownership clan and then upon trying to make up for it by announcing that he had a tiger (costume) was probably told it was unsafe.

“Well,” I told him matter-of-factly, trying to hide my sadness for his dejection, “You’re getting a baby brother or sister which is even BETTER than a pet,”

He thought about this on the way home and his silence on the matter mistakenly made me assume that he’d conceded.

Not 10 minutes later as I was changing out of my work clothes did Toby BURST into the bedroom exclaiming, “I have a PET, mommy! LOOK!!! I found a PET!!!” Praying it wasn’t a snake I rushed out of the closet to see my little boy remarking over his newfound pet that he was lovingly and carefully carrying over to show me.

It was a dead fly.

I don’t doubt that dead flies are considered “safe pets” by his daycare’s standards, (if you ignore the obvious health risks of handling them), but I hope tomorrow they’ll make some mention of useful vs. not so useful pets and maybe I won’t feel quite so guilty about having made him throw his first pet into the garbage…

Aha! So there IS life after bedtime

Last night we made a shocking discovery; when you sleep in a big boy bed it is possible to actually get OUT of bed without the help of your parents. It may seem obvious to some; it may seem trivial to some others. But to us, this groundbreaking newsflash our two year old discovered is neither and just may herald the start of a difficult new stage…

He has been in a big boy bed since September. The transition was *remarkably smooth. He not only went from being upstairs in his crib, sleeping right next door to us to downstairs in the dark basement all by himself in a big boy bed. He has a little bed rail to keep him from falling out, but other than that there hasn’t been anything stopping him from getting out on his own. Nonetheless, he has always contentedly stayed in bed, sometimes for up to half an hour at a time, playing with his animals if he wakes up before we go down to get him and calling out for us if he needs something.

Until, of course, last night, when he woke up around 10pm, rolled over, got out of bed and marched down the hall to the TV room to find a very surprised Mommy and Daddy sitting on the cough.

Standing there holding his bear, still in his sleep sac, he gave me an incredulous and speechless look.

I rushed over to see if he was OK and make sure he wasn’t actually a ghost (he has NEVER in his LIFE entered a room without his mouth or excited foot steps announcing his impending arrival first) and then escorted him back to bed. After getting him tucked back in and lying down with him for a snuggle he turned to look at me and very VERY seriously and with a tone of accusation questioned,

“WHAT were you DOING out there, mommy?”

I refrained from telling him that I had been eating ice cream and girl guide cookies while watching baseball on TV; that would have solidified the end of evening freedom for me forever. I chose the most innocuous statement I could come up with,” I was sitting with daddy. He was doing work.”

“OH?” he said, “Daddy was doing work?”

I explained to him in as banal a tone possible that that’s what grown ups do at night -- work. And no, I hadn’t gone into the hospital. When I don’t have to work I just sit with daddy.

This seemed to appease his little mind and settled the issue for now. I heaved a sigh of relief and went back to eating ice cream…er…I mean, sitting with Daddy. I spent the next 8 hours sleeping in innocent bliss, thinking how brilliantly I’d resolved the issue. That is, until I was awoken by my bedroom door being slammed open and the quiet ghost of Toby standing, in his sleep sac, in the middle of my room, announcing, ‘It’s morning time, mommy!”

I’ve said it before and I suspect I will be saying it again; there goes the end of MY freedom!

Things I'll remind him of when he's 20...

I have been blessed with a number of wonderful “Sarahs” in my life and although it was fantastic that we got a visit from two of them (and children) two weekends in a row, it was rather confusing for Toby.

(He's not 3 yet and I’m already prefacing my stories to make excuses for his inappropriate comments…)

To preface the story even further, I’ll also clarify that one Sarah has two daughters while the other has one daughter.

And so as the 2^nd weekend of visiting Sarahs drew to a close and I lovingly tucked my innocent boy into bed I asked him if he’d enjoyed the visit.

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I like playing with little girls.” After a long thoughtful pause he added, “But I like playing with two girls at the same time even better.”

My Alphabet Woes

The more Toby learns the more I recognize my own shortcomings as a teacher. Right now he is learning the alphabet. We can’t go anywhere without him pointing out the letters that he sees. “Look! It’s M for MOMMY!!!” he will say anytime we pass McDonalds. I know I need to cherish the moments of excitement that he has over a McDonalds sign because the M stands for Mommy and NOT because of what he will someday discover it is REALLY all about...

Every letter that he picks out of a word is EQUALLY exciting and said with a breathless exclamation and purposeful point of the finger. Breakfast time takes SIGNIFICANTLY longer because he munches away slowly as he peruses the cereal box searching for letters that he knows. Today was a milestone because he could not only identify every letter in “CORN BRAN” but also in the French “SON DE MAIS”.

Teaching his eager mind the alphabet is an exercise in spontaneous and creative thinking. You never know when you are going to be faced with a NEW letter and be put on the spot with the inevitable question, “What does it STAND for?” I made a fatal flaw with the letter ‘E’ and told him that it stood for Elephant OR Emily. That was confusing on a number of levels, particularly because he doesn’t KNOW anyone named Emily (despite my insistence that I have a very close friend named Emily- - if she’s not in his daycare group she doesn’t count). Now every time we see an E we stop to ponder the fact that it has TWO words that it stands for AND that there is no one at daycare named Emily.

Today, walking down the stairs at daycare he saw the big WELCOME sign and suddenly, in front of all the other mothers, I was on the spot again. What letter was THAT? The letter ‘W’. “OH.” He said matter of factly, “What does W stand for?”

What DOES start with W that a toddler would know? I certainly wasn’t going to hold out on him having a Walter or Wallace in his daycare group.

I went with Walrus and was met with a disappointed look. “WALRUS?” he repeated incredulously with an is-that-the-best-you-can-do? look on his face. “You know, the animal, Walrus with the big tusks” I tried to explain while simultaneously wracking my brain for an alternative W word. “I don’t HAVE a Walrus.” He announced. Indeed he doesn’t. In an attempt to get him out of daycare and earshot of other mothers who had probably taught their kids much better W words I suggested that maybe Santa would bring him one.

As we skulked out of daycare I felt like a double failure in my maternal role. Not only was I severely lacking in the creative alphabet naming part of my brain but also here I was BRIBING my kid with CHRISTMAS presents.

Tonight, after I finish my paperwork and cleaning up from dinner, I’m going to sit down and take a good hard look at the alphabet to ensure I have appropriate words for each letter. (You know I’ll need it when he gets to ‘F’.) Then I’m going to go ensure that I put “stuffed toy walrus” on his Christmas wish list for Grandma…

Creepy Baby talk

As my waistline expands, so too does Toby’s image of his new sibling. It is quite amazing to watch as he grasps the difficult concepts that the miracle of bringing new life into the world begs to have answered. I don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse that my final trimester of pregnancy has coincided with this new “why” stage, but it certainly leads to some interesting conversations.

One of the sweetest conversations occurred today. We were talking about his physician “Dr. C” whom he adores. I told him that she would be there when the baby came out and he asked (you guessed it) “Why?” Couldn’t I just do it myself? I replied that getting the baby out was something that was a little “tricky” (ouch, wince, shudder…do I REALLY have to do it again!?!?) and that I needed Dr C. to help me. After thinking about this for a while very sweetly suggested, “Mommy, can I help you? I can help get the baby out!” (double shudder). I turned him down gently by suggesting perhaps he may have more fun playing with Grandma Lynda. As creepy as it was, I did think it was a rather thoughtful suggestion.

One of the more regular topics of conversation is the baby that’s in HIS belly. He’ll randomly say things like, “You have to be careful with my belly. There’s a baby in there.” Or “My belly is getting big. It’s because of the baby that’s growing in there.” And today, sometime after the sweet conversation from earlier, he announced that Gochar and a few of his other (imaginary) friends were going to be there with him to help get HIS baby out.

It’s all very sweet and probably quite fascinating to developmental theorists, but there is something that has been bothering me a lot lately about these conversations. As much as I know he’s referring to the baby in his belly, he has, over the past few weeks to months, started to refer to it as his COCK. “Gochar is going to help get the cock out of my belly” and “I have a cock in MY belly, mommy” just doesn’t have the same sweet ring to it that “baby” does.

At first I just chalked it up to his 2-year-old garbled speech but its consistency has left me a little worried. WHO has taught him the word COCK and in what context!?!? After reading a few of Jodi Picoult’s novels, it doesn’t take much to make me a little paranoid about sexual abuse. So tonight, while Rob and I listened as he excitedly explained for the upteenth time how Gochar was going to help him get the "cock" out of his belly we stopped him to CLARIFY what exactly he meant.

Toby was, of course, eager to get on with his story and glossed over the question, quickly repeating, “COCK” and going on with his tale. We stopped him again and clarified - -maybe he meant clock? NO, not clock it was a COCK (duh). We suggested a few other similar sounding words without success. Finally, in his annoyance at our constant interruptions he threw his hands up in the air and said, “MOMMY, you know COCK. As in COCKODILE!”

After taking a few deep sighs of relief we set to work on pronouncing the letter “r”.

The Quiet One

As the process of bringing another child into the world speeds by, I thought it only fair to spend at least ONE post mentioning this little being who is quickly taking over my heart…but not, as of yet, a huge amount of my time; Toby does enough of that for the both of them.

One of my favourite times of day (OK who am I kidding- - my FAVOURITE time of day) is bedtime for many reasons. A) I get to lie down B) I get to read C) I have no naivety about the upcoming road ahead and am hoping to please the baby sleep gods by being FULLY appreciative of every full nights sleep I am thankfully enjoying now…but most importantly, it’s the 5 minutes I spend with my hands on my belly just enjoying the little kicks and movements of the baby. Rob has started to enjoy these 5 minutes with me and commented the other night “Isn’t it funny that the baby ALWAYS seems to move at THIS time and never at any other time of day???”

I contemplated this for a second before I pointed out that the baby probably DOES move a lot at other times of the day but, unlike the first pregnancy, I just don’t have the luxury of time to recognize it and stop what I’m doing to acknowledge it.

How disappointing it is when we personify the fetus in utero based on their kicks and movements and then realize how lacking in marbles they really are when they come out a wailing, irrational hot mess. I remember Toby always kicked to Kanye when he was still in the womb and I pictured him as this cool little hip-hop kid. Needless to say, he didn’t come out that way and is only now acquiring a taste for MY kind of music ;)

Nonetheless, I can’t help but do it again with this next one and am already picturing him/her as a quiet little thing who waits patiently for my 5 minutes of attention at the end of the day and then sweetly and softly kicks away to let me know they're alive and well and excited to meet us.

I SUSPECT that, just like the last time, I’m in for a rude awakening…but until then, these 5 minutes are ones that I look forward to all day and I’m treasuring the opportunity to watch my belly and heart grow all over again.

Doctor Toby

What purpose does a hammer, 2 pieces of jigsaw puzzle, 3 clothes hangers, a toy stethoscope and a bag of bagels serve?

You mean it’s not OBVIOUS??? (It wasn’t to me either…)

They just so happen to be the random array of “things” Toby gathered together before announcing that he was “Dr Toby” and then coaxing me to the floor for a medical exam. I was in the middle of paying bills and normally don’t submit to his bossy demands, but was SO INTRIGUED that I promptly abandoned my paperwork and obediently lay down.

I have to say, my child gives a rather random by somewhat thorough physical exam. As it turns out, the little hammer was unfortunately (yet correctly) used to assess my reflexes. Apparently his “doctor books” didn’t give much suggestion in the way of techniques and he went at my knees like someone would attack a 21-inch nail. The bag of bagels turned out to be ultrasound gel, which was imaginarily squirted onto my abdomen. After pausing to think a little and ask me if it was cold (which of course it was) he then applied some more onto my chest and around my neck and then my forehead. It sounds like quite a potentially messy situation, but thankfully it turns out that the little pieces of jigsaw puzzle were for scraping the gel OFF of my forehead. (Technically, I still have imaginary ultrasound gel on all of the rest of me…)

I’m still a bit baffled by the coat hangers. They were strategically placed on my knee and my abdomen and I was instructed not to remove them or jiggle my legs in case they fell off. He then listened to the baby and my heart with his plastic stethoscope BEFORE gently removing the coat hangers.

All in all, I got a clean bill of health. Which is a good thing, because I’d HATE to see what sort of medicinal concoction he’d find in the fridge…

A Trip to the Doctor's

We took Toby to the doctor yesterday because (you guessed it) the kid has a cough. Again. This kid gets coughs and colds so often I’m beginning to wonder if he’s half seal. We don’t usually rush him in so he hasn’t actually seen his doctor all THAT often, but this cough has persisted for 3 weeks and was getting wetter and a bit worse so we decided it was time to take him in.

In preparation for “the big visit” we read, “Farley goes to the Doctor” every night this week. Toby LOVES the book and was ECSTATIC to hear that he was going to get to go to his very OWN doctor and do exciting things like taking deep breaths and opening his mouth and saying AAAAAH. He even brought his beloved bear with him to share in the exciting experience. The excitement lasted all morning right up until the moment that Dr Clarke walked in the room; then he decided that maybe he didn’t want to see her after all. And he CERTAINLY didn’t want to sit on the exam table by himself and there was no WAY he was going to open his mouth and say AAAAH OR take a deep breath.

Sigh.

But he made up for it. My generous family doc offered to save me a trip in and do my prenatal appointment while I was there and, in an attempt to engage my stubborn child, asked if he would be willing to help out.

Toby didn’t say anything but promptly jumped up onto the examining table on which I was sitting and positioned himself behind me while attempting to wrap his little legs and arms around my back. He sat there like that without saying anything until I had my blood pressure taken and then whispered reassuringly into my ear, “Don’t worry mommy. Just take a deep breath…”

I would like to say that it was ALSO a special moment when Toby heard, for the first time, his little sibling’s heart beat…but to be honest, he was WAAY too captivated by the cold jelly that had been squirted onto my belly to even notice. (I did hear later that he had spent the rest of the day making offhanded comments to his babysitter about how he had “gotten to talk to the baby”.)

All in all, we had a great trip to the doctor’s. Toby doesn’t need antibiotics, the baby is growing well with a good strong heartbeat, and I now know that if I’m ever nervous about anything, my little boy will be there for me in a heartbeat. Three simple things that made me feel I was on cloud 9 for the rest of the day. Sometimes life is so simple…

Toby's Jokes

“Mommy!” I was jolted out of my dinner enjoyment, “You need to go to a time out!”

“Why?” I asked after politely finishing my mouthful.

“Because,” Toby informed me, wagging his finger in the air, “You were being RUDE.”

“What!!?!?” I answered dramatically with a smile creeping over my face, “I most certainly was NOT being RUDE!” I played along.

“Yes, you were, Mommy” I was informed, “You were. And now you need to go to a time out.”

Within seconds his serious face crumbled into peels of devilish laughter. After all - - WHAT could POSSIBLY be more ludicrous than a MOMMY being RUDE and then having to go to TIME OUT? When it comes to 2 year old jokes, I had to hand it to him, that was a pretty good one.

What came next, however, caught me completely off guard.

“Mommy?” Toby gasped as his mass hysteria subsided, “You’re my best friend…”

The grin on his face told me this last statement was NOT a joke. I don't know where he learned the term or even the CONCEPT of having a best friend, but I'm feeling like a very lucky mommy tonight to have been chosen as his.

Anatomy Lessons

The conversation was inevitable. It has been building for months and months and I’ve been avoiding it as best I could; changing my clothes in the closet and hopping out of the shower and into my towel quicker than his inquisitive gaze could follow. But it has only been a matter of time before I could avoid it no further...

Rob and I have always believed strongly in teaching Toby the correct anatomical terms for genitals and basic bodily functions that so fascinate little kids. He has known for a long time that he has a penis but despite the number of times I’ve been asked, I just can’t muster up the nerve to use the term “vagina” with him. I want to be honest with him and answer his questions but when I go to say it, the word just lodges in my throat and won't come out. My brain has obviously found something innately “risky” about teaching my word-spewing toddler the term “vagina” despite the attempts of my more rational mind to concede.

But today I was ambushed. It was just the two of us driving in the car when out of the blue Toby announced, “You don’t have a penis, Mommy.”

“No I don’t.” I answered honestly.

“Daddy has a penis. And I have a penis,” he continued and then paused with the inevitable question hanging in the air.

Taking a deep breath I finally let my rational brain win over and with as much normalcy as I could muster answered,

“And mommy has a vagina."

Toby thought about this for a moment and then replied,

“You have The Giant? Toby has a penis and Mommy has 'The Giant'."

After months of wondering, he seemed quite satisfied by this.

I heaved a sigh of relief; I had tried my best. And at least “The Giant” isn’t as weird sounding as “foo foo” or “vee-jay”. In fact, I think for now ‘the Giant’ will do just fine.

Skunky Kittens

You know how sometimes when you are talking to your toddler you find yourself having a ridiculous conversation? Yesterday I had an equally absurd one with my husband. It was late at night and I was sitting in our basement doing a jigsaw puzzle when a cat walked by outside, looked in the window and meowed at me and then kept walking along the perimeter of our house. I called to Rob to come see. It looked like a kitten. Rob came running down and I said, "There was a cat outside!" and went to open the door.
"ALYSSA! DON'T open the DOOR" I was scolded, "How do you KNOW it was a cat? Was it ORANGE?"
I responded that it wasn't orange; it was grey with cute little whiskers.

Rob then proceeded to ask how I knew for SURE that it was a cat and not a SKUNK. I wasn't sure how to answer that- -because it was a cat. Yes, but was I SURE it wasn't a skunk? Finally, after MUCH convincing, I was allowed to open the door but obviously the cute little kitten was gone. So I never DID manage to convince him that I know the difference between a skunk and a cat and he went back to work muttering to himself, "I bet it was a skunk".

Toby's Tennis Antics

Don’t ever say your kid can’t learn things from watching sports on TV. For the past few weeks, Rob and Toby have bonded over the US Open. IN fact, we’re going through a bit of tennis withdrawal now that it’s over. Toby loves to watch and emulate any and every sport that he is exposed to and it was no different with tennis. Despite the fact that he doesn’t own toy tennis rackets and is not allowed to play with tennis balls in the house, he managed to put some of his new antics to the test despite our obvious attempts at curtailing his tennis playing.

It took me a while to figure out just what he was doing as he ran around patting the soccer ball and then throwing it overhead. But what gave it away was how he incorporated the blanket. “Hold this mommy and sit there” I was instructed. Excited not to have to actually run around during a game of “sports” I gladly took my position in the corner and held onto the blanket unsuspectingly. Toby ran back and forth across the room, hitting his soccer ball in his hand and jumping into the air and hten periodically running over to me and burying his face in the blanket.

It took me a while to catch on but soon I got it; I was the towel guy and he was running over to wipe his face. You can’t put anything past this kid! He doesn’t ask why, but eagerly accepts his keen observations as key parts of the new game of “tennis” that he is working hard to perfect. Judging from my view on the sidelines, I think he’s got the forehead sweat wipe down pat.

The Truth about Gochar

Yesterday morning Toby and I were comparing “bellies”. The fact that there is a baby in mine is becoming an increasingly popular topic of conversation. It has been pointed out to him on numerous occasions when he has indulged in such toddler behaviour as kicking or performing surprise jumps onto me from the other side of the couch. But despite the fact that this baby is hampering his temper tantrums and surprise jump attacks; he has grown increasingly more curious and fascinated by this “Baby in the belly” phenomenon.

Yesterday, after his third bowl of cereal, he wanted to know if there was, perhaps, a baby in HIS belly too. Despite the fact that it did sort of look that way, I explained to him that only mommies could have babies. Would it be coming out soon so he could meet her? (He is consistent that it’s going to be a little sister…) I told him it was a bit of a wait still and my belly was going to get a lot bigger before the baby came out.

“Mommy.” He said excitedly, “When the baby comes out it’s going to have BLUE eyes just like you and me!”

“Oh, really?”

“And I’m going to be the big brother!” he continued with enthusiasm. “And I’m going to HELP you”

Cherishing this conversation and not wanting it to end I delved deeper and asked what the baby was going to be called.

Toby got quiet and then quietly revealed to me a secret he was obviously keeping close to his heart,

“She’s going to be Gochar.”

Sometimes I can’t follow his little brain, but in that instant I suddenly understood. Gochar, his beloved imaginary friend, who now takes up an extra place at the table and joins in on all of our songs and games and keeps Toby company when we make him play by himself, is his preparation; Gochar is his little sister.

The very thought of the way he tenderly stated Gochar’s name as he let me in on his secret and the way that, even in his imagination, he lets Gochar win running races and have equal turns singing nursery rhymes and playing eye spy with us made my eyes well up with tears. What a great big brother he is already turning out to be.

I only hope he isn’t TOO disappointed when we DON'T give the baby an alien name...

...And then there are things I CAN'T figure out...

Toddlers make a lot of random statements. Toby is constantly surprising me by expressions or phrases he has obviously overheard and integrated into his ever expanding vocabulary. Sometimes they are phrases I hope to hear a lot of, other times they are things I never would have intentionally taught him. MOST of the time I know exactly who or where he has picked them up, but yesterday I was stumped.

He was sitting at the counter bouncing in his chair eating big messy spoonfuls of cereal while I was emptying the dishwasher when he cocked his head to the side and endearingly asked, “Mommy…Am I your bugaboo?”

“Yes, Toby” I answered just as lovingly (Bugaboo is, for whatever reason, one of my pet names for him.)

Still smiling lovingly (and obviously on a roll) he then asked sweetly,

“Mommy…am I your sister Rosie?”

Dress up day at Daycare

Today was Princess, King and Dragon day at daycare. I suspect they were reading a book or fairy tale of some sort on the topic. Maybe they were tackling Henry the 8^th. Who knows -- all I know is that all week long there were signs up saying, “What are YOU going to be on Friday? A princess, a King or a dragon?” I’m not always the most organized daycare mom and it wouldn’t be the first time that my poor child showed up without costume. It didn’t matter so much at first as he was too little to notice, but I made a conscious resolution to be better at it this year.

So last night as I picked him up at daycare I asked him, “Toby, what do you want to dress up as tomorrow?” I didn’t even have to give him the options, “A PRINCESS!” He announced excitedly from the back seat.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes. I want to be a princess.”

Toddlers never give you enough warning for moments like these. I wish I could have use a lifeline or called a friend - -I was so unsure how to proceed from there. I am all FOR gender neutrality and letting him explore his feminine side, but on a PRACTICAL note I didn’t want him to get teased and….we just don’t HAVE any PRINCESS costumes at home. Hoping not to scar him for life, I gingerly explored the topic with him,

“Toby…what do you think princesses wear?”

“A dress and a crown."

(He had obviously been thinking about this)

“I don’t know that we HAVE any dresses. Are you SURE you want to wear a dress to daycare?”

“YOU have dresses, mommy. I want to be a princess.”

He was starting to pout and I was obviously getting nowhere so I did what any good mother would do in this situation,

“Of course you can be a princess, honey. After dinner tonight you and DADDY can go through our costume trunk and pick out your costume together.”

He went as a dragon.

Nursery Rhyme Epiphany

Toby has taken to singing himself to sleep these past few nights. It’s really very sweet to hear his soft voice soothing himself to sleep with his number 1 hit, Twinkle twinkle little star. That is, for about the first 40 times you hear it. Then it gets tiring.

The other morning he woke up at 5:45 am. Thankfully, he recognized that it was still the time that MOST people are asleep so he started in on Twinkle Twinkle Little star in, what I assume was an attempt to put himself back to sleep.

At about the 25^th go round, I realized that not only was Toby NOT going to go back to sleep, but neither was I. Earplugs, extra pillows and even the white noise of our fan couldn’t drone out the monotonous repetition until, all of a sudden I heard something novel. I sat up in bed and pulled out my earplugs to listen closer. THANK GOODNESS he was on to the next song…or so it seemed. He was now singing the Alphabet song but - -it had the SAME TUNE!!

ARGH. What are the CHANCES I thought to myself, throwing my head back on my pillow in frustration? WHY on EARTH would the inventor of children’s songs not RECOGNIZE toddlers' incessant need to REPEAT things and at least switch the TUNE up? I started cursing the Alphabet song/Twinkle twinkle little star song writers and began to wish that Toby had chosen to get fixated on ANOTHER song. Like – Baabaa black sheep?

As that song rolled in my head I made another shocking and equally disappointing discovery.

IT ALSO has the SAME TUNE!!

Frantically I began to sing every nursery rhyme I knew out loud. Did they ALL follow this same tune??!?!? Was I the ONLY PERSON on the PLANET to not KNOW this!?!??! Was I SERIOUSLY lying in my bed, wide awake at 6am singing myself NURSERY rhymes!?!?

I made up my mind then and there to do things differently with the next kid. Forget this boring, redundant tunes the other kids follow. I’m going to teach my next kid a Baa-baa black sheep version that follows the tune of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman”. Try it out yourself. Maybe it was the labiality of my 6am state at the time, but I for one think it sounds much better.

The 20 week Experiment

Today was a beautiful day. It was one of those pristinely calm, warm, not a cloud in the sky days that always entice me into a good run on my favourite route in Collingwood. Being 5 months pregnant I haven’t actually BEEN on a run in a long while as I have a perfectly good excuse NOT to on all those days unlike today when it is either raining, too hot, not hot enough or just not the kind of thing I had the energy to do that day.

Can people actually JOG while this far along in their pregnancy? I wasn’t so sure, but after a long and busy call weekend, I left the hospital and could think of nothing I’d rather do than set out to find out.

About 10 yards into my run, I was so short of breath it looked like I’d been running for hours. It was only a few minutes after this that my notorious bladder started acting up. I had JUST GONE to the bathroom so, determined not to be defeated, slowed my pace a little and did a slight knee inversion to maintain my continence and kept going.

A few paces later the bouncing on my bowels starting calling attention to that region with even more potentially disastrous consequences. I still carried on, squeezing my bum cheeks together.

A few paces later my nose started to bleed.

If I hadn’t turned back for my bladder OR my bowels, I CERATINLY wasn’t going to let my now feeble mucous membranes ruin my experiment so I carried on, gracefully using my forearms as a Kleenex.

That’s about when my butt-clenching-knee-inversion form started called attention to my sciatic nerve, which has a tendency to blast shooting pains down my right side without the least bit of provocation theses days. WHY I hadn’t anticipated THAT I don’t know. But there I was, with blood streaked arms, hobbling down the path trying not to relieve myself of ANY lower bodily functions while dragging my sorry right leg behind me.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse my cell phone went off. It was the hospital. Gasping for air and pinching my nose so I wouldn’t drip blood on my iphone I hobbled over to the side of the trail to speak to the ICU nurse, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the high pitched nasally tone I had from pinching my nose. After explaining what she was calling for she asked,

“Dr Boyd, are you OK?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine” I tried to sound professional, “Please give the patient diazepam 10mg rectally in the event of a seizure and give the calcium carbonate po instead of IV”. I sounded like Daffy duck and looked like an escaped convict. I wish I could have taken a picture of the LOOKS I got from other people on the trail. I suspect they thought I was in some sort of danger and pretending to be a doctor to some poor unsuspecting sucker at the other end of the line.

As I hung up the phone I decided that my experiment was over and WALKING the rest of the way was probably the noblest and least-conspicuous option. I lamely hobbled back the rest of the way to the hospital, still covered in blood and intermittently having to stop as my painful right leg gave way on me.

I may not have put the beautiful running day to good use but I DID manage to answer my own question that I now share with you all as both fact and warning;

No, you cannot go for a run while 5 months pregnant.

The Alien Influx

Over the summer we have had an influx of inhabitants into the Henry household. Most of them appear to have come from outer space as is inferred by their alien names; Gochar, Atar, Heenie and Gomchat. There are lots more, but these are the ones we hear about the most. The one we “encounter” the most is Gochar. I’ve never actually SEEN him, but I know he’s around because he regularly runs races with Toby (and wins), takes up an extra seat (or sometime’s Toby’s seat) at meals, and plays games of volleyball that I am frequently requested to watch (and cheer for).

It’s a good thing I had imaginary friends when I grew up or I would be seriously questioning the sanity of my child. As opposed to Toby, I only ever had ONE imaginary friend. Its name was Dorothy and, as I proudly announced to my grandmother one day, “Dorothy is a man”. Perhaps the androgynously creative alien names are his way of not having to classify gender at this point; he’s obviously very open minded and I’m proud to see him taking a gender-neutral approach to his imaginary friends. At the same time, I’m relieved to know that he’s getting a proper sibling to play with in the near future…

So stay tuned for more exciting tales of Gochar, Atar, Heenie and Gomchat. My child never ceases to astound me…you just never know what’s coming next!

Saying Grace

Despite our vastly varying religious up-bringings, Rob and I have made a point of saying “grace” at dinner each night. We both feel it’s important to show thankfulness and enjoy the opportunity to reflect on our day as a family while highlighting to Toby what is important in life.

Toby loves grace and often reminds us if we’ve forgotten to say it. He also sometimes suggests we say it before breakfast, snack time and lunch and makes a big show of WHO gets to say grace. He USUALLY picks me, but occasionally picks my poor mother who has probably the least amount of religious background of anyone he is related to, but always rallies to the occasion for Toby and does a wonderful job of it. The one person whom he NEVER chooses to say grace is himself.

Tonight we were halfway through our casual mommy-Toby dinner of grilled cheese when his mouth fell open (dropping peas and grilled cheese on the floor) to gasp in horror, “MOMMY! We didn’t say GRACE!!!”

I suggested, since it was just the two of us, that maybe HE could say grace tonight.

Much to my surprise, Toby agreed and promptly bowed his head.

Very slowly, he began as we always do, “Heavenly father, thank you for this food. And thank you…”

I waited with baited breath to see if our 2 years of nightly grace had taught him anything…I was so curious to see what HE was actually thankful for and IF he grasped the concept or not. Would he mention the baby? Would he add anything of his own?

Finally he continued…

“Thank you…for all the kings horses and all the kings men who put humpty dumpty back together again. Tamen!”

How to Torture a Pregnant Lady

There’s an old torture technique that is used on pregnant women these days called the 2nd trimester ultrasound. Today was my lucky day.

Like all of the painful/traumatic experiences our pregnancies bring us, the 2nd trimester ultrasound’s unpleasantness quickly escaped my brain as I was introduced to my first-born, and further receded into the vault of negative pregnancy experiences as I became pregnant with my 2nd. In fact, the memory is so long forgotten that as today approached I allowed myself to grow increasingly excited to meet my new baby for the first time…

And then I drank my first 8-ounce glass of water. (I was instructed to drink FOUR of them within an hour of the test). Within five minutes, it all came flooding back.

Not the water, of course -- I’m referring to that feeling of utter and complete urgency with not hope of relief in sight that a full bladder in my situation brings. It’s akin to loading up all of your grandmother’s very best china onto your grandfather’s head and making him stand there for an hour.

Without his cane.

In a giant windstorm.

For those of you who aren’t shuddering in recollection right now, here’s the deal:

Pregnant women have trouble holding their urine because their uterus crowds out and squishes down their bladder. Add to that an ever-expanding little fetus that bounces on top of it and it’s a wonder there aren’t more pregnant women walking around with catheter bags on their hips.

Pregnant women who have already had a vaginal delivery have even MORE difficulty holding their urine because what is left of their vaginal floor muscles is similar in strength to a piece of salami.

And hence, pregnant women who have trouble holding their urine, have a thin piece of salami for what is left of their pelvic floor muscles and 32 ounces of water sitting in their bladders are not happy campers of the waiting room of the ultrasound department.

And I have one more woe to throw into this: I have allergies. Which means that every now and then when I least expect it…I sneeze.

The only thing that made this situation worse was the ever present threat that one of my patients could have, at any moment, walked into the ultrasound department and required me to engage in semi intelligent conversation while I did my desperate jiggle, AND that the tech was 20 minutes late and that finally - FINALLY - after I was taken in to the room and had my lower abdomen slathered in cold gel (I’m feeling the urge to urinate again just writing this) I was told that my bladder was TOO full. I was then given a cup and told to empty 2 cups worth from my poor shuddering bladder.

That’s like asking grandpa to remove the 4th dish from the bottom.

It is with great pride and humility that I happily announce to you that I (once again) made it through the ordeal without soiling myself, the bathroom floor OR the waiting room of the Collingwood hospital today. And I didn’t strangle the ultrasound tech, either.

And it is with even GREATER contentment that I can now write that I have a beautiful little baby in there that is growing perfectly and is healthy. And at the end of the day, that’s all that matters.

Toby-isms

Toby loves to talk. They say by two they should have 2 word sentences; I think his current average is about 18. People often comment to us about how “advanced” his language is - - my response is always just that “he gets lots of practice”. It’s fantastic to know that he’s meeting his milestones and very convenient to have a constant running commentary on his life, but at times like these, even for those of us who AREN’T pregnant, it can be exhausting.

His most recent saying, asked with a slight tilt of the head and the perfect inquisitive inflection to his voice is, “So…how’s your day, mommy?”

It’s a handy phrase to have; it fills the natural lulls of conversation quite nicely and often gets a response from first time listeners. After a few months of this, the phrase has lost it’s cutesy appeal ESPECIALLY when I am asked first thing in the morning BEFORE my coffee or shower as I drag my pregnancy-drugged-sleepiness out of bed to sit with him while he eats his breakfast.

My response, at that time, is usually a snarl.

His latest interest is being naked which he calls, “Nakey” and then rubs his belly and comments on how he does or doesn’t have a baby inside of it. (The response varies depending on his mood.) Sometimes he goes as far as to wag his finger at me and warn me to “be careful with me mommy, I have a BABY in my belly.”

Yesterday when he took his shoes off he noticed he was in his bare feet and excitedly remarked, “Look, mommy! I’m in my TOES!” .

As advanced as he may seem, we obviously still have some work to do on human anatomy…

Our Family Roadtrip

We’ve just returned home from our very first Henry family road trip.

I’ve been on trips before. I’ve even been on trips with Toby and with Rob before, but never before have all 3 of us set out -- WITHOUT GRANDPARENTS - -on our own.

We headed down to West Virginia, stopping in Niagara Falls, Hershey PA and Washington DC. It was two weeks of 115 degree weather, long car rides, hours and hours in swimming pools, frantic searches for highway parks, apple juice drink boxes and new levels of temper tantrums.

There was a little stress and a little longing for home, but the predominant emotion was that of utter contentment. Spending every day as an inseparable threesome was absolute heaven and fulfilled my daily longings to have more time with my husband and my son that my hectic life brings me. It was a good sign that both Rob and I (and even Toby) were a little sad to say goodbye to our final destination. This was soon quenched by our realization that the car-saviour DVD player had been scorched to death in the Virginia heat and we had 17 hours of kid to entertain in the car. Needless to say, the closer we got, the more excited we got for home.

DVD player be damned, we made it. We were both exhausted but Toby (who had been cooped up in a car all day) was high on life and filled with beans. We both had to quiet that part of our brains that needed to unpack everything and play with Toby until bedtime. Finally - -FINALLY - -bedtime arrived. As we put our exhausted kid to bed I gave him the usual hug, kiss and “I love you”, but this time I added on, “Thank you for a great trip, Toby. I’m a very lucky Mommy.” Toby pulled away from our embrace and with a serious look directly into my eyes replied, “I’m lucky, too, Mommy.”

Like a Simon in the Sky

...And then there's Toby's opinion

Toby is growing increasingly interested in “my belly” and the baby that is hiding in it. He often comes up to me and innocently tears my shirt out of my pants so he can have a look for the baby. It’s not the GREATEST thing to have your increasingly flabby belly flaunted to the world at a moments notice, but it’s nice to see he’s interested. It is certainly much better than his initial reaction when we first told him he was going to be a big brother.

I believe he was eating cheerios at the time. He stopped chewing for a second and stared at me. Intently. Then took another mouthful. I rephrased what I had said and added something nice about how he’s going to get to be a big brother. Another mouthful of cheerios. This time the stare was more of a glare, but still no verbal clues as to his understanding.

Finally I asked him a question, “Toby don’t you think it’s great that Mommy is having another baby?”

“Nope!” he replied, spewing cheerios as he spat the words out, “I just like baby Toby.”

His other fascination (other than my belly) is my stethoscope. He likes to come over and listen to my heart and lungs and tell me whether or not I need medicine. (He is KIND OF the expert on respiratory illnesses, having survived a fairly significant one himself.)

Tonight he got the clever idea of listening to my BELLY with the stethoscope. Finding this rather endearing, I asked him if he was listening for the baby,

“Yes!” he said excitedly.

“What’s the baby saying, Toby?”

He thought and listened for a minute and then very sweetly in a tiny voice said,

“Meeeooow!!”

No wonder he’s excited. He thinks I’m having a cat.

I'm Back! With some Exciting News to share...

…And I’m back.

My apologies for the month (maybe two?) long hiatus from blogging. But I have a somewhat good and somewhat lame excuse.

I’m pregnant.

Don’t let the boringly-punctuated-single-sentence-sans-superlatives give you the wrong idea - - Rob and I (and, to a much lesser extent, Toby) are very excited and can’t wait to meet the 4^th member of our family!

The boringly-punctuated-single-sentence-sans-superlative is there to ironically emphasize the fact that this tiny change in my uterus, of something that is apparently only 4 inches in length and 2.5 ounces in size, has thrown my entire universe out of whack such that...I stopped blogging.

My nightly ritual used to consist of playing hard with Toby after work and laughing with him as our wild adventures swirled around my head, aching to be put down on paper. After the lights were out and I sat quietly with a nice glass of red wine, relishing my alone time to reflect on my day and make some sense of it all in the form of my blog posts.

Not 2 days after this 2.5-ounce delight entered our world, my nightly ritual changed.

“Playing hard with Toby” consisted of inventing games that revolved around my lying on the couch with a blanket over my head, choking back nausea. “Wild adventures” were replaced with rapidly alternating feelings of intense hunger and nausea. Keeping up – kitchen-bathroom-kitchen-bathroom – took up a lot of my time that was spent off the couch. After the lights went out? So did mine. And oh, that relaxing glass of red wine…that is a mere 15-week-old memory at this point that has only recently started to resurface as my nausea has eased off. There have been many times in the past 4 months that I have found myself reflecting, marveling and anticipating, but those thoughts, I knew, would have to wait until it was safe to share them.

So I’m back. My posts, without red wine, may be somewhat tamer, but I’ve got new things to share and a great journey ahead with this 2.5 ounce. Thanks for sticking with me…

Broken Balloons and Trike-a-thons

I can’t believe how long it has been since I have written in my blog…I’m so sorry to anyone out there who is still checking!!! Life has been BUSY.

For example, this week held the exciting annual Trike-a-thon at Toby’s daycare. It’s a fundraiser for his daycare and all the kids get dressed up and decorate their tricycles and drive them around a big circle.

I’m sure people without kids would find this concept EXTREMELY lame. But for those of you who have had kids and remember back to the days of having a 2 year old – I suspect you may remember the thrill of having a full 2 hour long activity that the kids are EXCITED about and entertained by AND that allows you to socialize with other adults and your spouse. JACKPOT.

In preparation for this great event, Toby (obviously) wanted to decorate his tricycle. Rob and I both got home early the night before and helped him decorate his trike with the decorations of his choice; gold yarn and yellow balloons with smiley faces on them. Toby helpfully ran around the garage in excited circles kicking various soccer balls while we worked hard to get the decorations on his trike. He was FASCINATED by the art of blowing up balloons and insisted on trying but then had difficulty calming down enough to actually stand still long enough to blow one up. When finally we had 2 balloons on his trike he played with them and bounced them and laughed. And then one of them broke.

It scared him at first and then the world went into slow motion. Rob spoke first in a very calm and measured voice, "Don't worry, Toby, I'm going to blow up another one. It's OK. It's not your fault". By this time I was by his side with my arm around him just WAITING for his world to fall apart.

He looked at Rob. He looked at me. Slowly he pointed to the broken balloon on the ground as his lower lip started to quiver and he let out the LOUDEST and SADDEST WAIL I have ever heard. Hysteria.

"MY BALLOOOOOOOOOON!!! It BROKE!!!!!!!!!! Fix it, Mommy," he sobbed, "FIX IT!"

Rob rushed to blow up another balloon but it didnt' solve the problem of the BROKEN one that still lay on the ground.

We couldn't help but laugh becuase the whole situation was SO DRAMATIC and yet SO RIDICULOUS. Finally we regained our composure and amongst his lamenting sobs we said to one another in unison, "We should bring some extra balloons tomorrow..."

Mr. Manners

Toby is working on his manners. It’s a bit of a slow process, but he’s catching on. He’s at the point now that he USUALLY says thank you and will gladly say please (when prompted) so long as it’s not peri-temper-tantrum.

Tonight, in eager anticipation of his impending apple juice, he commanded me with breathless excitement to “Get me an ice cube for my apple juice!!” Granted, when you’re THAT excited and already have a full 8 words in the sentence, tacking on a PLEASE must seem rather daunting to a 2 year old. But I calmly remained seated and explained to him that he hadn’t asked very politely.

Without missing a beat his tone changed as he cocked his head to his side and cooed, “PLEASE, Mommy DEAR??!?!?”

He may be a man’s man, but he certainly knows how to charm the ladies…

I got him the ice cube.

Mother's Day Cards

Toby spent a great deal of time making a mothers day card for my mom this weekend. At first he seemed a bit skeptical about putting his hockey stuff down long enough to engage in ARTS and CRAFTS which goes COMPLETELY against every ounce of morality that the poor guy has. But he soon grew excited by the fine array of firemen, sports and automobile stickers that I allowed him to choose from. He even found a lovely sticker of an eyeball that I’m sure grandma will GREATLY appreciate having on her card.

Once he had plastered the card in boyish stickers he decided to colour and eagerly handed me crayon after crayon with instructions on what to draw. His old standard is to ask that I draw “Hannah” (from daycare). Hannah is a lovely girl in his group with curly blonde hair. Quite appropriately I drew a stick figure with a dress, two dots for eyes and a mouth as well as some yellow hair. (See above - -not too complicated.)

When I was finished my fine portrait Toby looked down at it and GASPED with HORROR.

“Th-th-th—th-THAT’S not HANNAH, Mommy!” he bellowed, ‘That’s ABBY!!!”

I was then instructed to “DO IT AGAIN!”

Not only is the kid bossy; apparently he also has quite the eye for detail. I, on the other hand, need to work on my stick figures.

Garage Door Lessons

On the odd occasion that Rob gets home before Toby and me, he always opens the garage door for us. It’s a small gesture, but a kind one that always makes me feel happy; Rob’s way of welcoming us home. I guess I must have expressed some of this sentiment out loud to Toby because he has started taking note of the status of the garage door each night as we arrive home. Tonight, for example, we arrived home hours before Rob was expected, but as I opened the door with my remote garage door opener, Toby announced excitedly from the backseat, “LOOk, Mommy! Daddy opened that garage door for you!!! Isn’t that NICE?!?!”

When I tried to explain to him that I had, in fact, opened the garage door all by myself, he would have NONE of it. “No, mommy, DADDY opened the garage. He’s SOOO nice.”

I decided not to argue his point but smiled proudly at the realization that I had inadvertently delivered to our son his first lesson in chivalry.

Spring is Great but Hockey is Better

With spring comes a whole new world of outdoor discoveries. We’ve had so much fun after work these days, playing on the swing-set, lounging in the hammock, doing some gardening, and (of course) playing hockey on the back porch. Toby partakes in all of these activities with an eagerness that sheds new light on the remarkable world of nature that spring unveils.

Today he was digging in his sandbox while Rob and I were weeding the garden when he made a discovery. He quickly dropped his sand pail and came RUNNING over to us exclaiming, “What’s THIS, Mommy? What’s THIS Mommy?” I was expecting “this” to be either a leaf or a rock but it turned out to be a partially crushed worm, writhing away in a desperate attempt to survive the toddler-mauling it had just endured.

I explained to him about worms and where they live and how to properly handle one. It was all VERY exciting, however, he DID refuse to eat his burger at dinner for fear of harming any worms that may have been inside it. (YIKES!)

After dinner we called Grandma to tell her of our great discovery and Grandma wisely pointed out that Toby had already learned about worms when he watched the Robin pick some up off the ground to feed to her babies. We pointed out to our eager worm-catcher that he was not unlike the Robin in his ability to seek out worms.

It was at this point that Toby’s excited bounce stopped and the smile on his face turned to a furrowed brow as he stomped his feet and stated, “NO! I’m NOT a Robin! I’m a HOCKEY PLAYER.”

Spring is fun and all, but lets get our priorities straight!

And then sometimes I DON'T take after my mother...

My mother is not much of an athlete. By which I mean she almost failed grade 10 gym for her inability to do a somersault and often finds walking dangerous when combined with another activity such as drinking coffee or talking on the phone. I am fortunate enough to have a rather gifted athlete for a father so have only inherited a half dysfunctional gene for athleticism, the result of which allows me to cover up my athletic shortcomings by being an avid gym-goer and runner (neither of which require much athletic skill – just a little determination and a good pair of shoes.) It has taken me 32 years but after much perseverance and the recent purchase of an obscenely expensive stick, I can (finally) say with pride that I play hockey.

Rural hockey has been fantastic, but living out in the country has curbed my jogging. Sometimes when absolutely necessary I go for a run near my house. A round trip to the stop sign and back is about a 5 km trek that usually involves a life-threatening encounter with a scary dalmation and a loud mutt of a farm dog who threatens to chew my leg off. (In dog language, of course.) So there’s a great sense of freedom and excitement when I find an hour to myself in Toronto and can enjoy a leisurely run along a path or a busy street where there are things to see and dogs on leashes.

The only barrier to my complete enjoyment of my Toronto runs is my mother.

I’m not sure if it’s her own innate need to “look out for me” or the fact that it’s the only thing we don’t have in common; it’s probably a combination of the two. Without fail, my excited announcement that I’m “going for a run” is almost always met with a look of horror and a motherly warning. “That sounds like a bad idea” is the most common tidbit of advise I hear, but sometimes she gets creative and warns me about the perils of cars or that I’m going to get sweaty.

Today she outdid herself. Granted, it was starting to spit as I ventured out for my run, but as she shrugged her shoulders she sighed defeatedly the most athletically-ignorant statement of her life; “Well FINE then but make sure you take an umbrella…”