The Trip to Disney world

Today we travelled to Disney World.

I write that (ironically) in a compact little sentence on the pretence that it did NOT in fact, completely turn our lives upside down, inside out and present us with some of the most challenging moments we have ever faced as parents.

I suppose all that the previous paragraph entails is irrelevant as we have arrived safely, all kids are in bed and asleep and we are still married. So no REAL harm has been done. (Depsite the fact that, lingering in the back of our minds is the horrific knowledge that we will have to do it all again this time NEXT week…)

Disney is beautiful and magical and all that it is cracked up to be. Travelling with a 9 month old is, unfortunately, equally as predictable.

Mia is a wonderful baby. She took to sleep training with such integrity that it is now hardwired into her that sleep occurs at 9am and 1pm on the dot in the privacy of her crib with all of the usual fixins (lovey, sleep sac, white noise fan).

Apparently, this means that it does NOT occur in the following circumstances :

On a plane, in a car, in a bus nor a stroller. In mommy’s arms, on daddy’s lap or in front of any stranger.

(I Dr Seused it up in a desperate attempt at humour.)

The flight was a mixture of inconsolable crying followed by an intense hour of “I can’t feel my right arm but no amount of pain will justify a millimeter of muscle movement on the off chance that it will wake her up” followed by another intense hour of intense fussiness. I would consider aeroplane flying with infants an extreme sport.

There were many moments in the day in which the end was not in sight. If I had been a marathon runner I would have walked. If I had been a teacher I would have thrown down the chalk. If I had been a jaguar I would have laid my belly down in the cool grass of the Savannah and smiled as the Gazelles leaped off into the distance.

Apparently, when you reach this point as a mom, there ARE no such decadent options. There is no ESC button. You just have to close your eyes, suck it up, and deal.

Have I got you jealous about our trip to Disney, yet?

Alas, we have arrived. We found our room, our bed and our sanity in that exact order. We even managed to have some quality family time together at the pool (margarita and beer in tow) before calling it a day.

Toby’s good night song, (in which I recount all the tales of the day to the tune of Brahms’ lullabye) went on and on and on tonight; there were so many details he wanted me to include. (Apparently it wasn’t NEARLY as traumatic for him as it had been for us.)

After I left his room and crawled onto the couch with Rob, pen in hand to plan the rest of our “adventure” I noticed that Rob had his shirt on backwards.

In hindsight, maybe this isn’t the funniest thing that has EVER happened to me, but sleep deprived, exhausted, relieved and excited at the same time united to unveil a moment of adult hysteria at this thought; the longest day of our lives and Rob did it all with his shirt on backwards.

More on Gochar

This Saturday we are taking both kids on a plane, flying to Florida and spending a week at Disney land. It is a time sensitive indulgence; every other year of our children’s lives Rob will be teaching and the token trip to Disney would have to have occurred at either March break (yikes!), Christmas (impossible) or during the summer heat. Realizing that Mia will in no way whatsoever benefit from The Trip to Disney, we are taking this opportunity to spoil at least ONE of our children while Rob is off on parental leave.

It doesn’t hurt that our trip also coincides with the annual Food and Wine festival at Epcot. Which, coincidentally, is where we are staying.

I digress.

The point of this post is to update you on yet another interesting family dinner. Amidst the excitement of packing, planning and preparing for the trip, Toby could think of nothing other to talk of than…Gochar.

I seem to be mentioning Gochar quite a bit in recent posts so I thought I should share with you some of the truths about Gocahr that Toby enlightened us on tonight at dinner.

(Gochar, by the way, is Toby’s imaginary friend. At least…I HOPE he is imaginary. I SOMETIMES wonder if there may be a ghost living in our house with the unfortunate name of Gochar but to keep us all sane we just go with it…)

So here is what Toby (with equal measures of seriousness and earnestness) repeatedly interrupted our Disney planning meal to tell us :

Gochar is tall. In fact, he is the tallest man in the world. (Demonstrated with hand gestures.)

“Know how big his head is? THIS BIG”

(arms extended as wide as Toby can reach)

“Know how long his legs are? THIS BIG”

(arms reaching down as far as they can reach)

“Know how big his belly is? THIS BIG”

(arms forming the biggest circle Toby can form with his two decrepit little arms)

Yes indeed, there was a visual picture for just how big Gocahr is; tallest man in the world (except for his mom, of course, who is taller than him.) He is also, I have to say, COMPLETELY out of proportion.

“How do you hug him, Toby, if he is so tall?” I asked.

Toby took this question very seriously and thought about if for a bit as he chewed his pizza (I believe we even got in a brief discussion about carry on luggage for Mia) when he announced that it WAS possible to hug him, you just had to “crouch on your tippy toes” to do so.

Other interesting facts?

Gochar likes to cook. His favourite thing to cook is salad and he makes chocolate salad dressing. But his mom always say, “Gochar, you can’t eat that. “ but he does anyways.

Gochar drives a car. It has orange tires.

Gochar has a last name.

Wait for it…

THOMAS.

And so you have it - -Gochar Thomas, the tallest man in the world (except for his mother), recognized by his fancy car with orange wheels and well versed in culinary expertise and wildly rebellious bodily proportions, continues to enrich our lives with his very presence. I wonder if he’s coming to Florida with us…

Meal time Exceptions

At dinner tonight we had a cranky, tired Mia, a cranky, overtired and hungry Toby and one set of cranky, overtired parents.

It was not a great combination.

I’m not sure who started it or how it happened; it had the potential to turn a temper-tantrum filled family meal into sheer pandemonium but in fact, had the opposite effect. Amidst a tray of perogies, mushed up baby food, avocado and banana slices, watered down apple juice and mouthfuls of spit out spinach salad, someone put their utensils down, threw their hands up in disgust and said, “AHHHH!”

Toby stopped spitting out spinach.

My baby stopped crying and throwing food on the floor.

Rob stopped asking questions about our trip to Florida and I stopped sighing in exasperation.

Even the dog poked his lazy head up for a second to see what would happen next.

We all waited with baited breath to hear the sequeale. Was one of the parents going to yell? Would Mia burst into tears? Would Toby resume his spinach spitting?

To our surprise, it was Mia who responded first with a little giggle followed by an “AHHH!” of her own. Now THAT was a sound she knew how to make.

Still shocked by the interruption, I didn’t quite have my mommy hat on straight and immediately “AHHHH-ed” right back at her at the top of my lungs.

This earned a full on belly laugh from my baby-food covered little girl. As her chubbly little cheeks rolled with laughter an equally piercing shriek responded to my own.

It was a verbal food fight. Soon Toby joined us followed closely by daddy.

Our rapidly disintegrating attempt at a cohesive family meal had been miraculously rescued by a spontaneous game of screaming at one another. Not the most CONVENTIONAL of meal times, but it had us all laughing hysterically within a few minutes.

And then, just as quickly as it began, Mia remembered that she was overtired and hates eating, Toby remembered that he has never tried perogies before and certainly never wants to, and Rob and I resumed our roles of meal time parent-police after exchanging a puzzled but bemused look that said it all; "And now back to our regularly scheduled program."

Giving Thanks

This weekend we had the unfortunate task of introducing Toby to his first funeral.

Rob’s beloved Grandfather (Toby’s great grandfather) died last weekend. It was not unexpected, but as it is with all deaths, the news still came as a bit of a shock. Plans got changed. Work got cancelled. Tears were shed.

The hoardes of Blonde relatives made their way en masse to Chatham to pay their respects. When I say, “everyone was there” I mean EVERYONE was there. And that is no small feat when you are talking about a family of 11 children and 19 grandchildren.

Rob’s grandpa lived to be 88 years old. But what is even MORE impressive is the fact that he drew 200 people to his funeral, complete with a police escort to the cemetery that had cars pulled over at the side of the road with people standing at attention, saluting as we drove past.

Now I’ve got you wondering if you missed an important funeral - -I certainly felt important being in that line of cars. But Grandpa was no Steve Jobs- his death didn’t make the headlines; as it is his modest obituary would probably have him rolling over in his grave at the cost. Grandpa Blonde was an honest and true, salt of the earth family man. He was a farmer through and through – never passing up a good meal, an opportunity to be thankful or an offering of praise for good old-fashioned hard work. He was also a devout Catholic. There were many tears at his funeral, but there was an overall feeling of peace and contentment. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Grandpa’s death was as peaceful as it seemed; he had left us for the better place he had worked his whole life to be welcomed into. The fact that so many attended is a true testament to how well he lived his life and what a legacy he has left behind.

And how did Toby do at his first funeral?

Fantatsically. It is one of the greatest privileges as a mom to be able to witness your child’s learning in front of your eyes. Toby watched the entire proceedings of the day with great attention. Often he would come and sit on my lap. Sometimes he would ask questions. He took his role of “staying quiet” very seriously and expressed appropriate concern for those who were crying, the lack of legs that Grandpa sported in his coffin and the fact that the “box” looked like it might be too heavy for Daddy to carry.

I was able to take time to listen and relieve each of his concerns; people were sad but it was OK to cry at funerals; Grandpa DID still have his legs- they were just hiding under the “shelf” (as Toby called it) and not to worry, there would be other pallbearers helping Daddy with “the box.”

I had had a bit of forewarning about the possibility of such an event when Toby had watched parts of Jack Layton’s funeral with us. He had been VERY interested and often talked about Jack and the “box” after the fact. Not surprisingly, this started a run of uncanny “Gochar mishaps” that all ended in Gochar dead and in a box (announced quite cheerfully by the innocent Toby). He has been processing this new aspect of life for a while now and this was just one more step in the journey of understanding that which we all struggle with.

At the end of the funeral, Toby was very quiet in the backseat of the car, holding the red rose he had been allowed to take off of Grandpa’s casket, when I turned and asked him if he had any questions. “No.” I then asked him if it had been like Jack’s funeral, seeing Grandpa in his box.

“Oh, NO, Mommy, “ he replied earnestly, “Jack was in a CANADA box.”

And so, this Thanksgiving, along with the usual fixings of turkey and mashed potatoes, we got an extra tasting of what it means to be thankful.

We are thankful for family and our health.

We are thankful for great friends who willingly take our dog on their own Thanksgiving adventures so we would have one less thing to worry about.

We are thankful for colleagues who eagerly covered my practice without a second thought.

We are thankful for Grandparents who pretended to have nothing on so that we wouldn’t feel badly about leaving Mia with them.

And most importantly, we are thankful for the legacy of one simple farmer who, through a life well lived, continually brings us all together, reminding us all that it is the simple things in life that count and, most importantly of all, started the chain of events that brought me my Toby and Mia.

And if Grandpa taught us anything at it all, it’s that at the end of the day, there is nothing more important than that.

A Disgusting Breakthrough

Over the past 48 hours, Mia has gone from a frustrated-stuck-under-the-couch backwards maneuver-er to a full on forwards I’m-motoring-with-a-purpose crawler.

She is reveling in her new skills. We, as always, remain a few steps behind -- simultaneously unprepared and in denial about her latest development

I still perceive my fast approaching 9 month old as a helpless baby. Every day at meal time I am tempted by the Cheerio gods to test her rock hard gums with the terrifyingly choking-potential cereal I know she will love, and then sigh in defeat as I resort to another mushy mouthful of pureed baby food or tiny pieces of Mum-Mums. Using the same mindset, I place her on the floor to play and expect her to be in the same spot I left her in when I get back.

Unbeknownst to me, my little girl is a bit of an adventurer.

She is also, apparently, tired of baby mush.

Today I placed her in the kitchen with a giant pile of extremely stimulating yoghurt containers. Rob and I were both around; the fault is shared equally. I was PLANNING to keep an eye on Mia- - I really was. But a 3 year old’s ear-piercing cries of; “I JUST HAD A POOH IN MY UNDER WEAR!!!! ” is somewhat distracting. For both of us.

It was about 5 minutes later, after the sobbing Toby had been changed, cleaned and settled down that Rob inquired as to the whereabouts of our other child.

“She’s in the kitchen.” I said, knowing, as soon as the words left my mouth, that she probably wasn’t.

The house was eerily quiet. Except, of course, for the sweet little sounds of crunching that came from the front hall.

To my utter disgust I found Mia, knee deep in the dog food. The dry, kibble, choking hazard kind.

I rushed her to the sink and cleaned her off. She had 3 pieces tucked into the folds of her neck fat, multiple segments of pieces in her tight little fists and a plethora of oozy, smelly dog food drool coating her chin and belly.

I’ve done barf.

I’ve done diarrhea.

I’ve drained anal abscessed.

This, however, was utterly disgusting.

It wasn’t until about 5 minutes into her impromptu bath that I discovered the lone victorious kibble, still lodged in the side of her cheek for safekeeping.

I probably wouldn’t readily relive those horrifying moments of discovery and stomach turning clean up, but I will acknowledge that I gained a little respect for my daughter tonight. Not only has she successfully proven to us that she CAN now crawl, she has also demonstrated to us that she has both drive and determination and maybe a sense of humour to boot. But most excitingly, she has proven to us that she CAN handle something with a bit more texture to it than mushy baby food.

And her reward for the deathly defying act of kibble crunching?

For the first time in her life, I fed her cheerios for dinner.

And she loved them.

Baby talk

Hot on the heels of Toby’s recent revelation to us that he can spell, Mia continues to regale us with her abilities to say “Mama” and “Dada”. Alternating between the two on command, however: not so impressive.

Tonight at dinner Mia was on her usual “Mama” tangent. Over and over and over she repeated it: quickly, then slowly; loudly, then softly; sometimes she varied the intonations and sometimes she just said it over and over and over again in rapid succession.

After about 5 minutes of this Rob managed to silence her by suggesting that she say the word, “Dada”.

Mia promptly threw down the piece of toast she had in her chubby little hands and shut her mouth.

Silence.

You could tell she was thinking SO hard it was almost comical. (The rest of us were too busy enjoying the sudden silence to mention it, however…)

Finally a look of triumph sprang to her face and she banged her fists on her tray before staring Rob back in the eye and opening her mouth, sticking her tongue out and spitting raspberries at him in an act of satisfied victory.

Although raspberries are USUALLY seen as endearing, in this instance it was very clearly translated from baby-speak to mean a decisive “Up yours, Dad”.

Two lessons for the price of one

Toby is working on his alphabet. I know he has had a keen interest in letters for some time and that it was “ABC’s” week at daycare 2 weeks ago, but I couldn’t tell you WHERE exactly his alphabet skills are at; a point that was driven home to me today while we were in the car on the way home from swimming.

Toby was snuggled up in Mia’s blanket when a sudden epiphany hit him. As it is with Toby, sudden epiphanies don’t happen quietly.

“MOMMY!!!!” he exclaimed with enough volume to deafen the 3 other passengers in the car, “This blanket has M-I-A on it! That spells MIA!!!!”

It would have been a discovery second only to walking on the moon had I not shattered its unique coincidence by pointing out that it had been done on purpose; it was, after all, Mia’s blanket.

You’ve got to love kids; even this deflating piece of evidence didn’t dampen his enthusiasm.

“Mommy - -how you do spell YOUR Name?”

Having had this conversation with him several times before, I knew to ask whether he wanted the spelling of the name Mommy or the name Alyssa. (Toby always loves to be given options.)

I first spelled Alyssa (he oohed and aahed – it’s VERY exotic in its spelling with TWO S’s and a Y in the middle…crazy…) and then Mommy.

The conversation picked up as I was then asked to spell Mama, Mom, Daddy, Dada, Dad and…Zak.

As you can probably imagine, I was only half engaged at this point in the toddler driven spelling bee but was caught off guard when I was suddenly corrected.

“What did you say, Toby?”

“I SAID, Mommy, that you FORGOT the C.”

(What had I been spelling? Oh, right…Zak)

I looked at Rob for help and he confirmed, “Yeah, he’s right. Zak is spelled Z-A-C-K.”

I guess it’s the first time (in the 4 months we’ve had him) that we had actually stopped to discuss HOW his name was spelled. Apparently, by spelling Zak without a C, I was dead wrong. Toby and Rob, who spell it with a C, are cleverly correct. As always.

In all the discussion that ensued about how you should or shouldn’t spell the name ZAK it never occurred to us until afterwards to marvel at the loud mouth troublemaker from the back seat and his brilliant alphabet analysis skills.

I wonder what ELSE he knows how to spell…