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.