Dinner Excitement

Tonight Toby learned the word, “Both”.

We were just finishing up dinner and I offered him the choice between peaches and pineapple. I knew right away it would be one of life’s biggest dilemmas for the poor guy; those are two of his favourites.

Before I’d even finished asking the question he was already on his knees bouncing up and down and banging his spoon on the table while answering in exuberant bliss, ‘PEACHES! PEACHES’. Somewhere in his excitement he managed to hear the rest of the question. The sentence ended with, “BUT TOBY LOVES PINEAPPLE!!!”

The agonizing choice was too much for mommy; I offered to give him both.

“POHT! POHT! Toby wants POHT!”

It had never occurred to us, that a child with such words as “Hippopotamus”, “Bull dozer” and “ambulance” in his vocabulary would not yet know the word “both”. But apparently he didn’t.

As he shoved his excited face with handfuls of pineapple and peach segments, we asked him to practice the consonant, “B”. HE accepted the challenge earnestly and flawlessly, spewing fresh juice all over us in the process. But as soon as the bowl was empty he reverted back to his new favourite, “Toby wants more Peaches and POHT! Toby wants more PINEAPPLE and POHT!”

I don’t know WHAT exactly he thinks "Poht" is, but he sure does enjoy it.

The Dichotomy

Part of me believes I will one day be quoted in the Globe and Mail for this post. The title will read, “Collingwood Hockey Star: Once Timid” or “The Truth About The Great One”. Although slightly blasphemous towards everyone’s hero, Wayne Gretzky, it’s my own motherly pride that leads me to believe my son will be the next “great one” while simultaneously acknowledging this completely dichotomous phase he’s going through.

Toby LOVES hockey. ADORES hockey. Is so completely OBSESSED and ENRAPTURED by hockey that I have developed somewhat of an aversion to it. If we turn the TV on his inquisitive mouth yells, “MOMMY WATCHING HOCKEY!?!?!?” and if I even HINT towards taking a step downstairs to do the laundry or take something out of the freezer he IMMEDIATELY assumes I’m going down there to engage in a game of hockey without him. (We have, for our own sanity, banished all hockey playing to the basement.)

Tonight, in anticipation of a trip to Toronto, I read Toby an ABC book about Toronto. IT was going quite well and I was enjoying a nice break from “Z is for Zambonini” and “1,2,3 Hockey”, when we got to the letter N. In this book, the letter “N’ stands for “Neighborhood” which, in Toronto, involves a street with laundry hanging and lots of trees and, in the distance, a group of boys playing street hockey. Good gracious. I am happy to report that 20 minutes later we finally DID put the book down, but only after backtracking after EVERY LETTER that came after N so that we could ONCE AGAIN see the “hockey page”.

With that preface, does it come as a shock to you that, when confronted with ACTUALY hockey my son is TERRIFIED? He is. TERRIFIED, Don’t get me wrong- -he talks the big talk. All the way to our Durham tournament this weekend he professed his intentions about my hockey game, “Toby is going to watch MOMMY play HOCEKY”…”Toby is going to wear a TELMET and HOCEKY SKATES and hit the PUCK and wear GLOBS and PANTS and SHOOT on the GOALIE” while I would quietly interject with subtle hints at reality such as, “NO, Toby, MOMMY is going to play today, Toby is just going to watch”

But for all the talk, at the end of the day he just couldn’t man up to it. The second he walked into the arena he burst into tears and hid his face in Rob’s neck. He TRIED to watch and bravely pointed out to me that I was wearing a “Telmut” and “hockey skates’ and “globs” when I came over to try to calm him down in the stands, but the truth is that he spent the majority of the first half of the game cradled in his fathers arms, whimpering quietly, as his mother heroically tried to entertain him with his greatest passion.

We lost that first game. Toby only ended up watching, through baited breath, the first half of it, before his attentive father decided to take him home to the safety of his own crib and much less intimidating, 1 ft. hockey stick. This morning, when he recounted the events of his daring weekend to Nicole, his beloved daycare ”mom” he mentioned to her that he had watched his mother play hockey.

No, mommy had not scored any goals, but she WAS wearing a TELMUT, and hockey skates, and GLOBS and a hockey skated and she SKATED on the ICE. No, he had not had fun, and yes, he HAD cried, but had he mentioned that I had been wearing a TELMUT? And...*repeat paragraph...

As frustrating as it is to humour his hockey obsession with wimpy basement games that involve imaginary equipment and 1foot sticks, I’m going to enjoy the mesmerized respect my son has for my hockey playing abilities while it lasts. I have a sinking suspicious that one day I will be eating my words…

The Inheritance of the Whipped Cream Trait

My maternal grandmother was a woman of great charisma and whit. She was someone I always aspired to be like, and still do to this day. Her loud innocence and exuberance made her stories robust, naive and inspiring all at the same time. And she ALWAYS crossed the line. What line? Any line. It was her greatest quality. My open profession of love for my grandma is well known to all of my closest friends but the quiet heartache that her passing has caused is something I rarely talk about. Her photograph has always sits, subtly displayed, on the top shelf of Toby’s bookcase and many nights while rocking him to sleep, I would watch her sparkling eye and wish that I could have shared him with her…

So tonight it was with great joy and a trace of nostalgia that I noticed, for the first time, a glimmer of my grandma shining through in my exuberant boy’s life.

The epiphany occurred over a spoonful of whipped cream.

Grandma loved whipped cream. And whipped cream loved HER. Even in her 70th year, I have a picture of her licking the “beaters” of the whipped cream batter for a cake my mom was making. My grandmother was NOT photogenic, but this was one fantastic photo. I was 10 years old at the time. I was not in the picture. I don’t remember my exact whereabouts of that day, but I can assure you that I was not unlike most 10 year olds and probably put up a hard fight to get a lick of those beaters. But my Grandma, in her witty and probably somewhat inappropriate way, OBVIOUSLY won the privilege of licking those beaters off. ALL BY HERSELF.

ON her 80th birthday we took her out for a fancy dinner. For dessert, we ordered a chocolate éclair; her favourite. With whipped cream.

It had been a wonderful evening. We all politely sang to her and she smiled appreciatively. But as soon as the waiter left our table, the gold fillings of her teeth started to show as she raised her fork and snarled to all of us “Stop LOOKING at my DESSERT. It’s MINE..” Not only were we NOT rewarded with a bite; we were not even allowed a GLANCE at her precious whipped cream covered éclair. In peaceful solitude, she enjoyed every mouthful.

Tonight, for Easter, I made Toby and Rob a blueberry pie. At the last minute I found in the fridge some whipping cream, which is, I have been taught, the perfect accompaniment.

At first, Toby was a little skeptical. Usually, for dessert, he enjoys peaches, orange slices or yoghurt; on special occasions we give him pineapple. So the poor guy was a little shocked when I pulled out a BLUEBERRY PIE.

With whipped cream.

Initially he didn’t want any but I CONVINCED him to try some by ASSURING Him that it was filled with nutritious fruits. I was about to launch into the antioxidant benefits of blueberries when he raised an apprehensive bite to his mouth.

As he chewed in reflective silence, Rob decided to give my pie a try and boldly stole a forkful of Toby’s pie from his plate.

Toby’s silence turned to RAGE as he looked at Rob accusingly and said, with a raised fork for emphasis, “SPIT. THAT. OUT!, DADDY!”

Toby doesn’t even have a full set of teeth yet, but I swear I caught a flash of my Grandma’s gold fillings in that whipped -cream-hoarding-frenzy that crossed his face. Or maybe it was just a familiar twinkle in the eye…nevertheless, it was great to see her again.

April Fools Day

Today is April fool’s day. It should be a national holiday for my family; growing up my mother instilled in me a hatred and then love of April Fool’s day that made the anticipation of it almost as exciting as Easter or Thanksgiving. Alas, I have yet to successfully dupe the QUEEN of April Fools pranks (my mother), but enjoy the annual challenge it presents. I have had some success over the years with my friends, but each successful deception ensures an even more challenging task for the following years, as my group of friends grows more and more leery of me as the years go by.

I knew I had just about used up all of my April Fools innocence when I called my best friend this morning and not 2 minutes into the conversation did she warn, “don’t even bother- - I know what day it is and I don’t believe anything you’re about to tell me”

See what I mean by challenging?

So today, after I called my mom to tell her about my victorious prank that I played on my resident, she told me about her plans for the day. I knew right away that, once again, she had won with the simpler, but somewhat more ingenious idea. It may not seem fair that her victim was an 83-year-old man with a short-term memory the size of a gnat, while I was faced with a brilliant medical doctor student. But I got to hand it to her and give praise where it’s warranted.

Before I explain to you the prank I need to give you some pertinent facts about my father:

1. He showers on Fridays

2. He HATES showering on Fridays.

3. Every Friday my mom puts a yellow sticky note on his bathroom mirror that says, “Harry, Today is Friday. You have to have a Shower” and then stands outside and listens to him curse and swear until he turns the water on.

4. His favourite question, “what day is it” is usually asked hourly throughout the course of the day. Which is funny because it’s not really relevant to his day-to-day routine. Unless, of course, it’s Friday.

5. Today is Thursday

And with that lead up, can you guess what my mother did to my poor father for April Fool’s day this year?

She told him it was Friday.