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…

The Sock Dilemma

Some days I wear my craziness on my sleeve.

Today was one such day and it’s all because of YESTERDAY.

Yesterday, in an attempt to be both fit and friendly, I agreed to go for a midday run with my good friend (yes, this is attempt #2 after being rained out on Monday night.) I met her in our mutual place of work and changed in the bathroom.

I admit, I don’t have the quietest voice. And perhaps I do add a flare of drama to my sweeping statements. As far as I’m concerned, all I did was casually MENTION, as I was walking down the halls of her work, that I had forgotten my running socks.

(Plus or minus a few superlative vituperations.)

Out of nowhere, a lady of great esteem emerged from her office and kindheartedly offered me a pair of HER running socks.

I respect this woman WAY too much to mention her by name on my lowly blog post. Lets just say it’s akin to having the principal of your school pop out of his office and offer you his socks.

A principal you REALLY like. And admire. And are a wee bit intimidated by sometimes.

And you’re in grade 8.

With acne.

I had no choice BUT to take the socks and I felt the rush of privilege suffuse up my feet as I put them on.

I have to say; this lady has fancy running socks.

The aura of privilege stayed with me the entire run. I won’t say I ran fast because I don’t. And I didn’t. But I will say I had an extra little BOUNCE in my step, knowing I not only LOOKED more like a runner with my fancy super short Nike jogging socks and knowing to whom they belonged.

It wasn’t until after the run that the reality of the situation sank in and I realized I had a dilemma on my hands. Did I give the socks back right away or did I take them home and wash them? Was it more polite to be punctual with the sock return or present her with a pristine pair that has been politely disinfected?

I asked around and went with the majority.

That night I gathered up whatever I could find to add bulk to my load of ONE PAIR OF SOCKS and did a load of wash. I even stayed up late to ensure they got in the drier and properly dried so I had them in my purse, ready to hand back to her the next morning.

And that’s when the moment of horror occurred.

I’ve HEARD about driers that eat socks, just as I’ve heard about plants that eat bugs. I know that they exist; it just doesn’t make scientific sense to me. I guess it’s like STDs and tax audits – you just never think it will happen to you.

Well here’s your lesson folks; it does, and it did.

I lost ONE sock. One sock of the fanciest pair of running socks I’ve ever had in my possession. The socks that had so generously been loaned to me by someone I’m usually too shy to even say hello to in the hallways of my work. And here I was. Sockless.

There was really only ONE solution to this problem. I would have to go and buy her a replacement. Lesson number two is this; there are lots of different types of fancy running socks out there. Saying to a sales person “short white ones” doesn’t narrow it down.

After 45 minutes of intense sock analysis in the aisles of Sporting Life and a 15 minute pep talk in the parking lot I found myself this morning, wearing my craziness on my sleeve, as I skulked into my superior’s office with 5 different pairs of swanky white jogging socks in my hand and my vulnerability written all over my face.

And after all that build up…apparently she doesn’t work on Fridays.

My bittersweet week

Life with kids is so bittersweet; you just can’t win.

When I’m in the crest of it, I long for the quiet solitude that is so lacking from my day-to-day routine. There is a scene from the movie Date Night where Tina Fey (playing a busy mother of 2 kids) confesses to her husband that her dream is to be alone in a motel room all by herself with a can of diet sprite.

I laughed; everyone laughed. The idea of that being your sole dream in life is absolutely ludicrous.

But later on that night as we were going to sleep I rolled over and whispered to Rob my confession; I could totally see her point. Substitute a glass of red wine and you had me sold.

So tonight I was confronted with a somewhat more palatable version of Tina Fey’s lunch break of solitude in a motel room. Rob, trying to make the most of his parental leave, packed both kids up and headed to Chatham for the next few days to spend some quality time with his parents and ailing Grandpa. I, as always, packed up early and headed to work.

All day I had a mixed feeling in the bottom of my stomach; a longing for my little girl whom I knew I wouldn’t get to see at the end of the day and a little bit of excitement for the prospect of – wait for it – being able to stay at the office for AS LONG AS I WANTED doing…PAPERWORK.

Don’t get too excited, now. I did still have to be home at a REASONABLE hour to let the dog out. But staying until 5:45 was an absolute treat when I am used to spending the hours from 8-4pm RUSHING AROUND to ensure that I’m able to leave work and get Toby from daycare before the monster in him appears.

My only plan for this evening (other than blissfully unpressured paper-work catch up) was to go for a run with a good friend that I never seem to have enough time to visit with.

NOTHING was going to get in my way of either plan.

But alas, life is never quite so straightforward. As the hour of 5 o’clock came and went and my colleagues all drifted off from the office I had my first epiphany; Paperwork is boring. Doing it fast and in a hurry is kind of the right way to do it. Lingering over it just prolongs the agony.

Later on this evening I had my second epiphany:

NO matter whether you have kids or don’t have kids, running in the rain is no fun. I’m just not that hardcore. And, as testament to true friendship, neither is my friend.

And there you have it. After 3.5 year of longing for an evening to do paperwork and exercise in a leisurely manner, I ended up rushing home to my phone in order to quench my addiction with the sound of my 3 year olds sweet voice before demanding to hear every detail of Mia’s day, sleep schedule and eating pattern.

I spent the rest of the evening cleaning up the house (with the novelty of knowing it’s going to STAY tidy for at LEAST 48 hours. The toys may even COLLECT DUST!!!) before getting BACK on the phone with Rob after he’d put the kids down to debrief the rest of his day.

It was after I hung up the phone, in the midst of extreme silence that I realized a few things about My Life with Kids. Yes, it is nice have more time to do my job. Yes, exercising is a bit of a luxury I never fully appreciated when I had all of the time in the world to do it. And yes, kids add a bit of a hectic flare to life…

But WOW. What a gift it is to come home to 3 year old who is so brimming with love for life that he talks incessantly and wants nothing more than your undivided attention to share his exciting discoveries with. And who cares if I have to wake up before 7am every day when I get to be greeted by the toothless grin of a pudgy 8 month old. And what a treat it is to be able to lie my head down on my pillow each night, exhausted, and be able to share all these thoughts (the good AND the bad ones) with the person I’ve chosen to travel this journey with.

I won’t say that these melodramatic reflections ruined my night of peaceful solitude; it was still rather indulgent and quite enjoyable. Lets just say their return, as it was with their departure, brought yet another wave of mixed emotions but this time weighing more heavily on excitement and tempered with a bit more insight into my own delusions of solitude; I don’t think life gets much better than this…

Mia - 6 month update

With the 6-month mark now well behind us, we are starting to see some exciting developments emerge from our little Mia.

To start with, she is now able to crawl.

Backwards.

It’s actually quite a nuisance. Whereas before she was content to sit still and play with toys (ie: put them in her mouth), now when she sees a toy that catches her interest she gets down on her belly and as fast as she can, pushes herself away from it. Needless to say, this NEVER ends well. Our mild mannered child has turned into a frustrated screaming head that pokes out from under whatever piece of furniture she manages to back herself into (or under). The more she WANTS a toy, the more force she uses to try to get to it which just results in a quicker movement in the opposite direction.

I think I’d be frustrated as well.

Thank goodness the gross motor inadequacies are mitigated by some delightful language development. Mia has become quite vocal; when she is not screaming in frustration from underneath a chair, she is busy practicing various sounds, my favourite of which is (obviously) “Mum…mum mum mum mum”

She says “mum” like a proper English school child – quickly and precisely with a little accent. (I blame it on our Welsh friends who have just been over for a visit). After a few days of this Rob decided it was time to teach her “dada” and set to work on it. I kid you not- - the very next morning when I went to get her form the crib I was greeted with a smiling and elated, “Dada…dadadadada”

Our family, once again, is falling into the usual female/male stereotypes. Whereas Toby was crawling around the house at full speed by his 6-month birthday, he was not interested in the least in communicating verbally with us. Mia, on the other hand, is well on the way to proving that she will take after me and chatter away non stop while uncoordinatedly faking her way through the physical side of life.

The Neverending Conversation

The other day I was busy hanging clothes up in my closet when Toby burst in and asked what game I was playing. I explained to him that it wasn’t, in fact, a game, but a rather mundane task that comes with the privilege of adulthood.

HE stared at me with a look of bored skepticism before announcing that HE was playing a game with Gochar and that I was WELCOME to come and play it with him.

“Oh,” I said, “What game are you and Gochar playing?”

I can always tell when Toby is making things up because he assigns the most RIDICULOUS names to his inventions.

“We’re playing HAVOSHANCASHA” he announced confidently.

“Right,” I told him with an equal amount of self-assurance, “I don’t know that game so I’ll just let you and Gochar play.”

Little did I know, my off the cuff dismissal of HAVOSHANCASHA would result in the longest, most ridiculously torturous conversation of my life.

NOT TO WORRY! I was reassured; Toby had LOTS of other friends who could teach me the rule of HAVOSHANCASHA. Would that be to my liking?

Sure.

I hopped in the shower.

The shower door opened. Which one of his friends would I like to have teach me the game?

Politely closing the shower door, I suggested the only “friend” I knew: Gochar.

The shower door opened. Had I FORGOTTEN that Gochar was already busy PLAYING the game with TOBY?

I shut the shower door. No, I hadn’t. Whom, did he suggest, I pick to teach me his game?

I was presented with a list of equally ridiculous made up names. The list went on and on while I shampooed my hair.

Finally reaching the end of the list I felt, beyond the depths of my soap-sud-covered-eyes, the familiar cool breeze as the shower door opened yet again as his demanding little eyes waited impatiently for my final decision.

It was at this point, I think, that I forgot what we had been talking about in the first place.

“Oh, RIGHT.” I remembered, “I have to pick someone to teach me that game. Huh.”

There was an anticipatory silence form the other side of the shower door. I was not going to be let off the hook easily.

DAMMIT. I had NO idea what made up names my 3 year old had come up with. Not only had I not REALLY been paying attention, but even if I HAD been, the weird tonal inflections and unusual consonant pairings made them virtually unrepeatable in the first place.

“Honshi?” I tried.

“NO! Mom that is NOT one of my friends.”

As you can imagine, it took a good number of guesses before the odd arrangement of syllables that came out of my mouth at last matched with the names of one of Toby’s imaginary friends.

“Phew. “ I said, emerging from the shower. “Jagar it is!”

“Ok, mom. “ my bossy son said wagging his finger at me, “I’ll get Jagar, but you’re going to have to pick another one, too. You need to have TWO teachers.”