An Interesting Excursion...

There are lots of things I love to do with my mother. In fact, doing almost ANYTHING with my mother adds a splash of energy and a hint of chaos to MOST day to day activities. Sometimes this is a good thing – sometimes not. Last week I discovered something that I should probably NOT do with my mother: shop.

This is not the first time I’ve gone shopping with my mom. It’s also not the first time I’ve dealt with the postpartum awkward stage my body is currently going through. But it’s the first time I’ve mixed the two together. Not. A. Great. Idea.

With Mia’s baptism fast approaching (mainly because we left the planning to the last minute) and my waistline creeping down at a SNAILS pace, I decided it was best just to buy something new for the occasion. Barrie, being halfway between my parents’ house and mine, seemed like a great option. (The fact that there is a mall there was also a bonus.)

This seemingly logical thought process set the stage for where I found myself this time last week; surrounded by lovely clothes that accentuated various rolls and love handles with my mother, wheelchaired father and crying daughter taking up the entire change room, eagerly awaiting their chance to voice their opinion.

It’s not my mother’s fault that I can read her; I have had over 30 years of practice. She did her best to use neutral phrases such as, “That’s a nice colour” and “Well…that looks OK…“ and my favourite: “Hmm…” She was never negative but the dramatic lack of enthusiasm said it all.

Finally, she came out with it and told me what she REALLY thought when I put on a particularly familiar blue shirt. “Oh, now that shirt just makes you look BUSTY. A definite NO.”

It was the shirt I had worn there that day.

I think that clinched it for all of us. As Mia started to fuss and my dad started to wonder where he was, mom and I decided it was a great time to go for lunch.

Thank heavens for Moxy’s Grille. They took one look at my (still slightly enlarged) disgruntled face and cheerfully asked the question that saved the day,

“Would you like the 6 or the 8 ounce glass of white wine?”

One of Those Days...

Today was one of those days…when all I had to do was make a loaf of zucchini bread, but even THAT turned out to clash with Mia’s plans for my day.

Mia had a long stretch last night which meant two things: counter intuitively, I was up more than usual, waking up at the regularly scheduled 3 hour intervals only to spend the next 2 hours sleeping fitfully as I awaited her royal highnesses’ new feeding time. It also meant that I woke up completely engorged and Mia spent the rest of the day trying to eat without making herself sick. She did this by using my breasts as a swim up snack bar, intermingled with brief siestas. After a few hours of this the two things I was responsible for keeping track of were beyond me. Was she crying because she was hungry or tired? Taking cues from a 2 month old is no easy task. Deciphering the different cries is mildly reminiscent of listening to different heart sounds and trying to hear the difference between a split s2 and an early S3. Our day dissolved into a mess of irrational fussiness. On both our parts.

Finally, I resorted to putting her in the swing while I vacuumed. She fell asleep! And she slept. And slept. For WAY longer than I had planned to vacuum. I found myself stalling -- I didn’t want to risk turning the vacuum off and having her wake up, but there is only so much you can vacuum. I did half of the bedrooms and half of the stairs. Why half? Because the central vac will only reach so far and I didn’t want to unplug it.

And that is how Rob found us an hour later when he (finally!) got home from work. I was sitting peacefully eating homemade zucchini bread and Mia was asleep in the swing. And that vacuum was still going in the corner.

The Proud Big Brother

With yesterday being the last day of March break we packed our day full of fun family activities. Toby and Daddy went to church while mommy slept in (OK, not quite so family centered but definitely a perk in my day!) followed by a romp around gymnastics with good friends and then pancake breakfast at Café chartreuse.

After nap time we packed up and went to Sarah’s house for a playdate with Allie. Toby had a great time running around the apple orchard and playing with new toys. He was so well behaved at dinner that Sarah rewarded him with CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM for dessert. We then took some photos of the kids and let him watch the Backyardigans in the car on the way home. Life doesn’t get much better than this...

So at bedtime as I tucked my tired boy into bed, I laid down beside him and asked him what his favourite part of our day had been.

He thought for a minute and then lifted his sleepy head to recall,”When you and Sarah took pictures and I got to hold Mia on the couch.”

Sometimes the grace with which Toby has taken his new roll of "big brother" just astounds me. And the sincerity with which he adores his little sister leaves me speechless. What was the favourite part of MY day? The 8am sleep in was pretty blissful, but nothing could top that moment.

Froggie Rules

Since Toby was just a wee kid we have listened to the same Raffi CD in my car. I TRY to get him interested in other more adult friendly music like hip hop or dance but he always requests “My favourite music” which is basically any Raffi song. As such, I have developed my own favourite; 5 green and speckled frogs.

This morning, there was some perfectly decent upbeat music on the radio but I was urged to switch to Raffi and so I complied, glad to hear that MY favourite was next in queue. As I started to sing along I was RUDELY interrupted and firmly scolded from the back seat,

“MOMMY. You can’t SING this song, only FROGS can sing it.”

His bossiness was followed by some weird wide mouth contortionism and loud gulping sounds. Apparently, this was what it took to be a frog.

NO way I was going to be left out of my favourite song, so I eagerly and animatedly complied and did my best frog act while simulating hungry-frog-grub-gulping.

My next mistake was to jump into the pool.

“Mommy! Has to stay on the LOG!”

Note to self- - I am frog #3 and committing the crime of premature jumping is almost just as bad as singing along without amphibian status. (Note- Toby is frog #5.)

By the third go round of the song I had the rules straight and was permitted to both sing AND jump into the pool. My victory smile soon faded, however, as I realized the dude in the next truck over had been observing my performance as we sat at the red light together. Judging by the look on his face I highly doubt he recognized me as Green and Speckled Frog #3 but PROBABLY thought of me as more of an air-gulping lunatic.

Oh, the things we do for our kids…

Pyjama Day

Today was pyjama day at daycare. Despite Daddy’s attempts to convince him otherwise, Toby came upstairs dressed in khaki pants and his soccer shirt. “Toby!” I pointed out, “Isn’t today pyjama day?”

“UH…Yeah it is!” he said excitedly, “But I’m not wearing my pyjamas.”

His initial explanation was a nonchalant and off the cuff scoff at the thought of wearing pyjamas to daycare (RIDICULOUS) followed by the practical fact that he was already DRESSED in REAL CLOTHES.

This was not a battle I was going to fight as I suspected that he would figure it out himself as soon as he got to daycare. Which he did. Thank goodness for foresighted parents who packed pyjamas in his backpack for him. AND they were his favourite Thomas ones to boot. Some days it’s nice to know we DO actually know our kid.

The Bottle Feeding Gene

I seem to breed children who are either extremely conniving or just plain deficient when it comes to bottle-feeding. Maybe they are both lacking in the bottle-sucking-ability gene? Or, maybe Toby has been secretly passing on his bottle-aversion tips to his sister...who knows?

Toby happily took a bottle until the ripe old age of 6 weeks when he suddenly realized it was NOT the breast and not NEARLY as nice as the breast and embarked on a complete bottle hiatus that lasted long past the time that I went back to work. I spent those 4.5 months with immense guilt over the fact that I was going to go back to work and potentially STARVE my poor bottle-disabled child. I ordered so many nipples online I could start my own store. Finally, with the help of good friends, sippy cups, solid food, and a very dedicated husband, I eased myself back into work and Toby and (and father) managed to survive without me.

It wasn’t until he was 11 months old that, at a moment of weakness, Toby let it slip that he actually DID know how to take a bottle. Still in the ICU of Sick Kids hospital, he had just been extubated and withdrawing from his week-long morphine infusion when the nurse gave him a bottle -- the first bit of sustenance he’d had been offered in over a week. Forgetting his political stance on bottles, he sucked it back happily.

BUSTED.

Needless to say, I have a little less empathy this time. Trying to avoid this problem with Mia, we started her on a bottle even earlier, before she hit the 2 week old mark, once we knew breastfeeding was going well. She took one look at the bottle and innocently and loudly revolted, pretending to have NO IDEA what to do with it while simultaneously keeping up the pretence that I was trying to starve her to death.

It was a familiar scene that instantly took me back and sucked all optimism out of me, replacing it with the impending dread of another 5 months of a three hour leash.

I quickly came to my senses and gave myself a pep talk. This child was TEN DAYS OLD. What did SHE know? Perseverance was going to work on this equally-bottle-sucking-challenged child. Every day I pumped and lovingly coaxed her into taking the bottle. Eventually she took it, but only after being first allowed to breast feed and then with me sneakily and quickly replacing the nipple with the bottle. After a week of this even Rob had success but he, too, had to pretend to feed her on the nipple first before sneaking the bottle into her mouth. (Don’t ask…)

Last night, for the first time in 7 weeks, I left Mia for a heart wrenching hour and a half to go and play hockey. It was completely indulgent and felt both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. I left Rob with a bottle, a soother, a swaddle blanket, a sleeping toddler and about 100 hugs and kisses before guiltily skulking off.

I am pleased to report that all 3 of us survived the ordeal. After complaining loudly to her Daddy for a full 7 minutes it was time to try the bottle. She managed to take all 3 ounces but came off to burp every ½ ounce and then needed a full 5-10 minutes of gaping mouth flailing “OMG I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know how this works!” to remember how to suck again EACH TIME. Once again - - Master-manipulator or complete idiot? Who knows?

By the end of the night we were ALL exhausted for very different reasons.

The bottle taking isn’t perfect, but we haven’t lost the battle yet. And maybe, just MAYBE we’ve learned something from Toby after all…

Ornithology lessons

Rob is reading a book right now that depicts the evils of video games and the deleterious effects they have on children. As such, we spend a lot of time nobly talking about how we are NEVER going to expose our children to them, and brainstorming ways to avoid them.

So what a shock it was to both of us when Toby confidently announced that Mia's new toy owl was an "Angry Bird!"

Oops….do iphone games count?

The Sport of Breastfeeding

I knew this was coming – I had been warned by countless friends that Toby would try to imitate my breastfeeding, but I just couldn’t imagine my manly-boys-boy taking an interest in ANYTHING maternal.

But once again, Toby came through, proving that he WAS normal while staying true to his character. It happened only once, while he was visiting his grandparents, during a heated game of tennis ball soccer-baseball in the kitchen. I suspect he was on break after scoring a point and as he picked up the ball he slipped it under his shirt and announced that there was a baby in his belly.

Being now well versed in the sequence of events, he proceeded to announce that the baby was going to come out of his belly. He then assigned roles – “Grandma, you’re the daddy, I’m the mommy and Poppa you’re the big brother.” The tennis ball was successfully delivered (a much glossed over event, thank goodness) and immediately handed to “daddy”. Toby then positioned himself on the couch, lifted up his shirt and announced that it was time to breastfeed before grabbing the tennis ball back and placing it on his right breast.

"Daddy" was then handed the tennis ball for another brief instant before having it snatched up again by an eager Toby with the obvious explanation that it was time to feed on the other side.

The tennis ball is a much more efficient eater then Mia and my poor parents had barely caught their breath from choking back laughter before it was back to the game. He has not attempted to breastfeed any further pieces of sports equipment, and I suspect he only did it once to let us know that he is just like any other big brother/sister and the new and somewhat unusual act of breastfeeding is not lost on him. But at the end of the day, there are much more entertaining games to play with a tennis ball.