Miss Mia Turns 4!!!

Little Miss Mia:  Today you turn 4.

You have made it abundantly clear to us that, in turning 4, you are NO LONGER a baby, a toddler OR a little girl.  This transition marks the start of you being a BIG girl.  When you are 4 you will ride in a booster seat (you have been at the 40lb mark for eons it seems and desperate for this car status of maturity).  You will no longer wear diapers to bed (we will see about THAT one!) and you will go to big kid school and ride the bus with Tob-a in the fall.

Well, my dear, I have news for you.  You have been a big “little” girl already for quite some time.  Your independent style and affirmative approach to life has long heralded this impending status of maturity.  You started dressing yourself before we had a chance to teach you, and you practice this independent skill regularly with your frequent costume changes throughout the day.  You tell US when it’s time for nap and you CERTAINLY never let something like a schedule come in the way of your eating.  And one day this spring, not 4 months after your cautious brother learned to ride a 2 wheeler without training wheels, you decided to pick the bike up and ride it down the road.  Just like that.

One of the things we love most about you is your “yes please” approach to life.   I could suggest to you the most mundane of outings and your answer is always an eager affirmative.  You love life, living and just DOING.

And you ALSO love sweets.

Oh, the sweets…. I have NEVER in my LIFE met someone with a sweet tooth like yours.  I blame it on the 2 years of soy formula you were on (it’s slightly sweeter than regular milk) which very clearly honed your palate to the one-dimensional addiction of ANYTHING WITH SUGAR.  You even ate MARZIPAN the other day. WHO eats MARZIPAN?   Of COURSE you do – it’s got some sugar in it!

You do have a pretty sweet life, too, I have to admit.  You are the youngest and the bravest and are doted on by Mom and Dad AND Tob-a.    This past summer your number one girl Candice came into your life; she’s your very own Mary Poppins and the adventures and crafting you two get up to each and every day are astounding. 

This year also marks the year we moved onto Kayla crescent.  It’s a move that made life easier for us in many practical ways, but in your little world it means one very special thing: you now live 4 doors down from your BFF, future husband and true love Jack-Jack.  And NOTHING is sweeter than first true love. 

It seems silly; you’re both only 3 years old, but I don’t doubt you for a second when you tell me with your earnest enthusiasm that you love Jack-Jack with all of your heart.  I know you do.  Alex and I (who, by the way, would be QUITE willing to become in-laws, FYI) had to throw an emergency play date together one evening this Christmas holidays.  Amongst all the travel, family time and festivities it seems we neglected to schedule any time for the two of you and one day after an atrocious 7 days had elapsed without seeing each other you and Jack simultaneously and independently put your feet down and demanded of your respective mothers a play date.

I could go on forever, Mia, about your quirky nature, your eternal optimism and your zest for just about everything.  In many ways I would like to freeze you just the way you are right now, but I’m too excited to see how you are going to turn out and what this “big girl Mia” is going to be like.

But just for the record, kiddo, no matter how old or big you get…you will ALWAYS be my baby
 girl.

The Next Fred Astaire

Toby is a bit of a man’s man. Or, perhaps I should say, a LOT of a man’s man.   He single handedly put to rest for me the whole nurture vs nature debate by demonstrating, from the innocent age of 4 months old an ingrained and intense interest in balls, cars and all things sports.  To this day, my son has a stereotypically keen interest in anything and everything to do with sports, speed and competition.

And he likes his girls. 

In fact, he LOVES his girls. 

It was actually this love of girls that set us watching “So You Think You Can Dance” in the first place.  The first season we watched, Toby was only about 3 years old and he would ask me to fast forward through all the male dancer's routine; “I like to watch the girls dancing better, “ he would say, “They are much prettier.”  But he also loved to watch the tap dancing.

TAP DANCING!??!

Ever since we started watching the show at the age of 3 he has had an affinity for tap.  Family Wedding?  Tap Dancing.  After dinner dance parties at the Henry household?  Tap Dancing.  Catchy commercial jingles while watching TV?  Toby is up and on the floor, doing his best Ginger Davis impression.

I have NO IDEA where he gets it from.  I just kept waiting for this phase to pass while Toby continued to hone his moves and convince me that he’s the next Fred Astaire.

But this Christmas it came to a head.  As we sat down to put all of his hockey games, hockey practices and ski lessons on the calendar he asked with earnest enthusiasm WHEN we were going to enroll him in TAP dancing!?!?!

He’s a busy guy, so scheduling ONE MORE THING into his life wasn’t going to be easy, but he’s consistent and determined so I figured I had to at least give his budding enthusiasm a chance.  I called around and found all of ONE dance academy in Collingwood that has Tap dance lessons for 7 year olds.

I sent a tentative email.

Would they, this late in the year, accept a little boy who was keen?  Could he just come and observe the first class without committing?

Yes, they replied, they would be HAPPY to have a boy in the class.  He could definitely come to the first class but would definitely have to participate.  Did he have his own tap shoes?

It was the last line that made me realize how novice we are to this – of COURSE he doesn’t have his own TAP shoes!  We were allowed to come “try it out” anyways…

And so we set off this past Thursday night, for Toby’s first dance lesson.   Tap-shoe-less, of course.

You know those moments you get when all of a sudden you realize with CLAIRVOYANT maternal knowledge that you have just embarked on a GIANT parenting FAIL???

Yup.  One of those.

The Collingwood Dance Academy was no joke.  Most of the kids were in matching uniforms with tights, dance shorts, leotards and, of course, tap shoes.   And by “kids” I mean girls.  (Two of whom were in Toby’s class at school.) Toby stood out like a sore thumb in his running shoes, track pants and hockey shirt.  He was pale as a ghost and griped my hand as I left him to the mercy of his new tap dance teacher.  I wasn’t allowed to watch the class but I certainly had no intention of leaving the studio. 

What on EARTH had I just subjected him to…?

The hour-long class seemed to take forever as I sat there patiently waiting. Every now and then the director of the academy would come over and offer me some reassuring thoughts about how great it would be for them to finally have a boy in their academy.  They had even picked out a uniform for him that they were all set to order once I gave them the go ahead.

I smiled back at her, disguising my inside knowledge that Toby would NEVER go for this kind of gig; he was a boys boy through and though.  It was one thing to “tap” away in front of your parents but surely doing it in front of a group of matching-leotarded-girls was not going to be his thing.  I only hoped I hadn’t traumatized his ego for life…But I wanted to be kind about it - - she didn’t know Toby.  I would let her down easily.  I decided I would quietly escort Toby out of the studio and send her an email later telling her what he thought of the class.

And then the class ended.

Toby was the first one out, bounding with new found grace and enthusiasm, the leader of his new group of tap dancing peers,

“MOMMY I LOVED IT!” he said to me loudly, RIGHT In front of the director, “Can we come back NEXT week?”

 

I quickly shushed him so we could talk about this together in the private luxury of our frigid car but not before his teacher had a chance to point out to me that she LOVED having a boy in her class and that Toby was really quite remarkably coordinated and was SURE to make a fantastic tap dancer.

“OK…” I said once we’d gotten into the car, “What did you REALLY think?”

“It was awesome.” He said very seriously,  “I’m a VERY good tap dancer” he added with sincerity.  (His choice in activities may be varied but his sense of self-assurance is a constant…)

I told him I was proud of him but reminded him of the seriousness of this commitment.  IF he ACTUALLY wanted to continue on with tap dance he would have to wear the uniform they gave him, attend classes regularly (and not drop out if he got bored of it after a few weeks) and participate in the end of year dance show.

“Of course, “ he said with the maturity of…(a male tap dancer??)…“But I will continue under ONE condition”

(Why did I suddenly feel like a Dance Agent??)

“Ok” I braced myself, “What is it?”

“I will NOT wear tights.”

Condition met.

And there we have it.  My Toby – the manliest of all boys-boys is officially enrolled in Tap Dance.

Don’t you worry….there WILL be a video to follow….just as soon as I buy him some tap shoes…

Toby on Week #2 of Tap Dance - starting to look the part a bit more...

The 'S' Word

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When you are a younger sibling it sometimes takes WORK to get yourself noticed.  ESPECIALLY if your older sibling is the ever popular and loud-mouthed Toby. In this circumstance, if you want to get yourself heard, you sometimes have to think outside the box.

Mia has always excelled in this area but I think her newest technique  is by far her most ingenious.

It all came about after we moved to town and Toby started inviting friends over to play.  These weren’t family friends, these were now TOBY’s friends, and Mia often got left out of the fun.  That is, until she took this situation into her own hands.  Be it one friend or a whole group of friends, Mia’s approach is consistent; just when everyone is about to get involved in a game that centers around Toby, Mia gathers everyone around her by simply stating, “Hey guys…I’m going to say the ‘S’ word.”

NOTHING gets a group of 4 to 6 year olds’ attention like a good counterfeit act of swearing.

Occasionally someone will break off from the group and come racing over to get me, breathlessly exclaiming with a look of horror in their eyes, “MIA IS ABOUT TO SAY THE ‘S’ WORD!!!”

Sometimes she threatens repeatedly until she is sure that she is the queen bee and has everyone’s attention.

And sometimes she says it.

The actual SAYING of the S word quickly dissipates the crowd and many if not ALL of the children usually then run over to me with horrified-tattle telling-glee to inform me that MIA. SAID. THE ‘S’ WORD.

It’s hard to know HOW to react to this scenario.  Especially because I have no idea what said ‘S’ word actually IS.  None of the well-behaved children we hang out with have the guts to actually REPEAT it to me.  And Toby CERTAINLY wouldn’t tarnish his golden halo with the likes of Mia’s shenanigans.

“She can’t REALLY know the word SHIT already, can she?” Rob asked me one night when we were going to sleep

I didn’t think so but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been duped by my angelic daughter.  Perhaps it was something inane like “shut up” or “shoot”.   I wasn’t sure how I was going to find out without mistakenly encouraging her behaviour.  

And then last weekend, quite unexpectedly,  I figured it out.

Our dog Zack had done something typical that infuriated me (I think he’d eaten a loaf of bread off the counter) and I sent him outside while remarking loudly about how low his IQ was.

When I turned around Mia’s face what white as a ghost.  She looked like she was going to cry.

“Mia!”  I rushed over to her. “What’s wrong?!?!?”

“Mommy…” she said VERY seriously, “You just said…the S word…”

I wracked my brains…what on earth had I just said?

Bread – table- dog- STUPID – that was it!

I almost burst out laughing but managed to stop myself just in time.

“You’re right, Mia. I DID say the S word. “ Then, gulping back my pride and swallowing everything I’ve ever thought about Zack since the moment we got him I added, “Zack is not stupid.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

Mia kept staring at me.  I had very clearly tarnished my reputation with her; no longer was I her infallible perfect Mommy.  I had CLEARLY violated some immensely important code in her world. 

Eventually our day went on as usual but the incident was clearly not forgotten.  That night at dinner after we had said what we were thankful for and everyone had dug into their meals, Mia put her fork down, folded her hands and made an announcement.

“Mommy said the S word today.”

Toby dropped his fork and stared at me in disbelief.

Another reputation tarnished.

Rob raised one eyebrow and looked at me questioningly as I smiled back innocently with a forced attempt at telepathy. 

“Yes. I did. I am very sorry. I said the S word.”

“WHY!?!??!”

Toby was not going to get over this.

Mia, on the other hand, had picked up her fork and was smugly enjoying her dinner while I got the third degree.

“Well…Toby…I was mad at Zack and made a comment I shouldn’t have.”

Now Rob was even MORE intrigued.  I didn’t want to SAY the actual S word again for fear that my children would report me to CAS but I was trying hard to explain myself to Toby AND subtly let Rob know that it wasn’t REALLY the word we thought it was and that I HADN’T just made the greatest Mommy-mistake of all times…

Although I managed to make it through our family dinner that night, the incident has not been forgotten.  Every now in then when I least expect it Mia reminds me with a sinister tone to her voice of THAT TIME that I used THE S WORD.

 I have learned two things from this situation:

1. I will from now on only ever refer to Zack’s shenanigans as “Silly” or “Dumb”

2.  My Mia is a force to be reckoned with….we are screwed when she hits her teens…

Mia - victorious after scoring her SECOND dessert while we were out for dinner in PEI

True Confessions : I Kinda Just Slept with my Father

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Sometimes it feels like every time I see my dad I can detect a behavioural change that jumps out and reminds me that his disease is progressing; a taunting reminder that we are losing him, piece by slow piece, to the world of dementia.

We make note of these changes in a series of predictable well-rehearsed stages.  The first stage is humour: a text from my mom informing me that dad has suddenly decided that it’s OK to spit on the floor.  (Most recently accompanied by an EMOTICON - her latest and greatest tech discovery trick…) The phase quietly changes to sadness.  The laughter subsides as we each retreat into our own heads to process the implications of this newest mannerism.  And then there’s the guilt.  The guilt phase is fleeting and unpredictable and shows up in a myriad of facets; sometimes I feel guilty that I haven’t been AS patient as I know I can be.  Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m not around more to help my mom through these changes.  A lot of the time I feel guilty that I coped and received these changes with humour.

This weekend I was faced with perhaps one of the most poignant changes I have witnessed.  Guilt be damned- it’s IMPOSSIBLE NOT to see the humour in this situation.  So I decided to share it.

This weekend my mom took a 48 hr business trip to Vancouver.  She probably spent half of her time away travelling to and from her destination but welcomed the peace and quiet a work trip offered her; she did get ONE nice dinner out in the process.  I was happy to come down and help out with my dad for a few days and glad she had asked.

We had a low key evening together that consisted of countless retellings of the whereabouts of his “beloved wife” and an up-to-the minute countdown to her impending return home.  When I put Mia down in her bed I told her I would be sleeping down the hall in Grandma’s room and that she was welcome to come in and get me when she woke up.  Usually I sleep in the basement so this was a key piece of information for an anxious and early rising 3 year old.

Dad and I watched a dumb movie, ate pizza, and at 11:30 I told him it was time for bed.

“OK…” my anxious father said reluctantly, “Where am I sleeping?  Can I sleep with you?”

I assured my dad that he could NOT sleep with me.  That he had his OWN bed in his OWN room where he slept every night and would be just FINE.

“Of course.” 

It made logical sense to him for most of the walk upstairs.  By the time he reached his bedroom and the quiet darkness of nighttime he had changed his mind.  I barely had my pajamas on before I heard my mom’s door creak open and the thump of his cane as he hobbled down her hallway to her bed.

Reiterating my previous statement was ineffective.  He looked at me dumbfounded, “WHAT??!?! But I ALWAYS sleep in here!” he stated indignantly.

I pointed out the obvious fact that it was usually when my MOTHER was ALSO sleeping there, not when his DAUGHTER was sleeping there.  (Note – my father does NOT always sleep in there.  He does have his own bedroom where he spends most of the night.  Although he is a bit of a night wanderer so I have no doubt he spends at least some of the time in there…)

Again – dumbfounded.

Couldn’t he just lie down with me for a LITTLE bit?  Maybe while I read my book?

I had a moment.

You know those moments, when you suddenly look around the room frantically asking someone –ANYONE- is this REALLY happening?  And what’s the right answer here?  Was I fighting him off because I selfishly didn’t want to share a double bed with him and his night wandering habits or was I legit in my feelings of serious creepiness at sharing a bed with my father?

I shrugged my shoulders and told him he could lie with me for a few minutes until he got sleepy.

PERFECT.  He said and LEAPED into bed.

Alright, fine, it was more like a hobble, but I swear I would have gotten the exact same response out of EITHER of my kids if THEY had scored the jackpot prize of getting to sleep with mom.

I lay down on my side of the bed and attempted to read my book.

My quiet reserved father was suddenly chatty.

“So…” he asked, “What are we doing tomorrow?”

I gave him a brief rundown of the plan.

“Ok!” he said brightly, “And where’s your mother?”

THAT question again?

“DAD.” I reprimanded, “IF you’re going to lie here you have to be quiet”

“OH, alright.” He said and was blissfully silent for all of 10 seconds when his feet suddenly got itchy and he decided to roll them both back and forth up and down the bed in alternating succession.

That’s when he got evicted.

Dad reluctantly hobbled down my mom’s hallway and off to his own bedroom.  And I rolled over in what turned out to be failed attempt #1 of sleep.

It was a long night.  Each eviction and subsequent sleep attempt was quickly succeeded by another innocent plea and bargaining attempt by my father.  He didn’t have very many arguments but reverted to the same two lame attempts at reasoning

1.  I ALWAYS sleep here.

2.  I’m lonely.

One of which was an outright lie, the other of which broke my heart.

It was an interesting exercise in morality; balancing your innate need for sleep, your own guilt and compassion, and this engrained disturbance by the whole situation.  I toyed with the idea of going to sleep in the basement or up in Toby’s room but had also promised Mia that I’d be in grandma’s bed when she woke up.

By 4 am I finally heard the sweet sounds of his cacophonous snoring and I knew I was safe to sleep.  I closed my eyes, settled my brain, and lay there.

 Silently. 

Wide awake. 

 As I puzzled over the fact that I was not immediately sleeping I realized that every muscle in my body was tense and my brain was on high alert.  I supposed this is what one would classify as a natural response to having a wandering octogenarian with dementia intent on sleep cohabitation in such close proximity.

I’ll tell you one thing: if I were a cave man I would have survived; I have a solid alert mode.

I supposed I did doze off eventually, after the repeated shots of middle-of-the-night-wake-up-adrenaline wore off.  I slept just long enough to make my daughter’s 7 am arrival one of pure agony.  I managed to stave her off with the ceremonious handing over of the ipad and rolled over for a few more minutes of sleep. 

Twenty minutes later I was again woken by a little voice,

“Lyssie?!?” said my father

Good god he was up again.  My fight or flight response was back in full swing.

“What are YOU doing here?” he asked with kindness and genuine excitement to see me.  Clearly our recurring conversations in the night had long been forgotten.  He was so happily surprised to see me that my sleep-deprived grogginess was overturned with a sense of adoration for my poor old dad.   

The sweetness of the moment was quickly tempered by the addition of his familiar clause,

“And WHERE’S my darling wife!?!?!”

Here we go again…sleep be damned, it was time to get up for the day.

Not all changes are good changes, but not everything is entirely bad.  In many ways watching my dad’s dementia progress is like the reverse of watching my kids grow up; the days and months march on, marked by mini losses of his abilities and contrasted starkly by my kids acquisition of new language and skills.  But just as time unveils for me the true characters and likeness of who my children are, so too does my dad’s sweetness emerge; a side that he never really let out before.  And we greet both milestones good and bad with the same familiar statement which highlights what it means for all of us:  How fast time goes.   How quickly they change.   How precious this time with them is.

“Enjoy every second” the old ladies at the grocery store say to me “It will be over before you know it.”

Generational Traditions

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I’ve mentioned to you before about the many childhood weekends I would spend at my Grandparents house, eating meals around the Formica table and playing cards until all hours of the night with my beloved Grandma.  Almost every story about them revolve around some sort of mischief my grandmother and I would get into that would culminate in one of us me rolling around on their ugly brown rugs, laughing so hard we could barely breathe.

My grandfather’s role in these weekends was that of best supporting actor.  He forever played the straight man for my grandmother’s various antics and served as the voice of reason for our late night endeavours - with the exception of the KFC surprise night, of course.

There was another side to my strict and practical grandfather, though, that came out each night at bedtime.  Perhaps in an effort to quell the stimulating effects my grandmother had had on me all day, or maybe just to show me affection in his own unique way, my grandpa would tuck me into the blue bed a the end of the hallway and then sit down and play the organ for me until I fell asleep.

I can remember clearly the thin, peely, blue duvet cover and the tiny crack of light that would stream through the bedroom door; I always insisted he leave it open a crack so I could be sure to hear him play.

I have no idea how long he would play for, but I remember the calmness and sweetness of those moments, lying perfectly still, trying desperately to stay awake so I could hear his organ playing until the very end…

I am happy to report that the grand piano that I bought on kijiji has made its way safely to our new house and has now since been exposed to the more sophisticated works of Beethoven and Chopin (in addition to the occasional round of Old MacDonald Had a Farm, of course - -a classic is a classic…)

Seeing as it is in the very front open room of our house, its majestic sound echoes through every crevice and room of our house when it is played.  I don’t think I’ve ever played something with such a gorgeous sound, but having young kids around means limiting my playing time to be that of awake time…when the kids are both preoccupied and not in need of my attention…which doesn’t amount to much! I often play for them on weekend mornings while sipping my coffee, or after dinner when we feel like dancing to some music.  Tonight, I tried a new technique

As I was putting Mia down for bed I asked her if she’d like me to play her a song while she went to sleep.  She thought that sounded like an EXCELLENT idea, but knowing Mia it was probably just a calculated scheme to get to stay awake later…Toby thought it was a good idea, too and even suggested I start with Chopin’s Raindrops Prelude because it was raining out.

I sat down and played Chopin’s Raindrops prelude to the quiet darkness of a house post bedtime with the soft sounds of the rain in the background.   I finished the piece with a pause before I heard in the background the sounds of Toby holding his breath from the top of the stairs.

“Mommy…” he whispered cautiously, “Could you please play me something else?”

I was so touched by his enthusiasm that I neglected to reprimand him for being out of bed.

“Sure, honey” I responded, “What else do you want to hear?”

“Ooh…BEETHOVEN.” He said, “One of the ones that go LOUD and then SOFT.  And THEN I want to hear the Moonlight sonata.  Cause it’s night time and the MOON is out…”

It was JUST what I was in the mood to play.

As I was about to sit down and play my son’s sweet requests he whispered one last thing to me,

“Mommy…” he said (still at the top of the stairs…he is a master bargainer, this one…)

“Yes, Toby” I said from the piano bench

“…. I just wish you could play for me all night long.” He said in the most earnest and genuine way possible.  “I just love listening…”

As I sat down to play my son some Beethoven to fall asleep to, I was overcome with happiness and contentment at the ingenious the circle of life.

For the first time in a long time I thought of my grandfather.  I have such fond memories of his organ playing, but was suddenly hit with a new appreciation for it, seeing it now from the other side.  I don’t know if he knows how much I enjoyed it, but I sincerely hope I thanked him enough for all the hours he spent playing for me, and I hope I did so with the same unadulterated excitement that Toby now has for mine.  I’m so thankful for the good, simple things in life that can be passed down from generation to generation…

Kijiji and Me

I have made many amazing discoveries on Kijiji.  I have bought everything from a snow blower, to used kids toys, to tickets to TFC games on the site.  Even Zack (our dog) came from kijiji.  My kijiji obsession has saved me countless dollars, fostered a plethora of unlikely friendships and taken me on some interesting road trips across Southern Ontario. 

It always starts with a casual thought; “Hmmm…wouldn’t Rob love it if I surprised him with a snow blower for Christmas” or “Mia’s getting to the age where she might like a real doll house."  Even “I think our family might be ready to get a dog…’”

The passing thoughts are then followed by a bedtime “quick look” on my iPad followed by a harmless response to one or two adds.  

And then I’m on a mission.

These missions USUALLY culminate in one pivotal moment when I’m hooked and declare THIS VERY __________ (insert current kijiji item of obsession) as the VERY BEST one in ALL of Ontario.  And I then need to buy it INSTANTANEOUSLY before ANYONE ELSE discovers it.  My causal search then takes a nose-dive into frantic.  The very last step in my lunacy culminates in a very responsible text to my husband “I’m going to be late tonight.  If I don’t come home give this address to the police.  I’m off to buy a ______!!! (Fill in the blank)

At first Rob wasn’t all too thrilled about my texts.  The first time, just as I was about to ring the doorbell to see the set of kids’ skis I so desperately wanted, he called me and demanded to know where on earth I was and what the hell I was doing. I reassured him that I was in a suburb in the middle of Horseshoe Valley with very poor cell phone service but I would call him as soon as I had my hands on the most PERFECT pair of used skis for Toby.

He has since gotten used to my spontaneously creepy warning texts and has chalked it up to one of the many thrills of being married to me.

I think.

I have also met some very kind people on my kijiji quests.  Buying Rob a snow blower for Christmas one year when I was 8 and a half months pregnant was particularly memorable and stands out in my memory as one of my greatest purchases, one of my MOST poorly thought out plans and one of my greatest feats of pregnancy.  (Which says a lot when the grand finale of the whole thing is to expel an 8-pound child out of…) 

I digress.

  The 80-year-old man who sold me his snowblower took one look at my belly and then very kindly offered to call his daughter over to help us move it into my car.  I don’t know how I had THOUGHT I was going to hoist the 500-pound machine into the back of my Rav 4.  All I knew was that I had to get it home by 5pm so that I could hide it before Rob got home.

The man’s daughter had a broken leg but she pulled her weight better than the old man and my bulging belly.  Between the three of us invalids, we managed to get it in the car and he even gave me some blood stained blankets he had lying around in his garage so that it didn’t scrape up the back seat of my car on the way home.

I didn’t ask.

This week I went on one of my favourite kijiji missions ever: I bought our family a lovely baby grand piano.

I have been looking around for a while and had my eye on this one in Barrie for quite some time.  As all things go with kijiji and me there came a day (which happened to be this Monday afternoon) when it suddenly clicked and I could wait no more.  I called the owner and arranged a STAT visit.  I phoned a moving company who promised to deliver it the very next day (assuming I bought it) and I left work early to head out on the road to check out my latest discovery and seal the deal.

I took one step into the man’s house and knew instantly that this was the piano for us.  It was gorgeous.  The man was a violinist.  I bonded with him for the first 15 minutes as we talked about music and sound and pianos and acoustics.  I felt the need to prove to him that I was worthy of his beautiful and beloved piano and we shared countless stories of our mutual love of music and piano and he admired my ability to play the French horn and I marveled at his ability to play the violin.

He made a big show of opening up this beautiful piano.  He raised the huge black mahogany lid and lit the candle-like light that stood on top of it.  He pushed the pristinely polished black leather bench forward and then ushered to me with a graceful hand motion.

“It’s yours.  Play.”

After all that build up, I put my bag down, rolled me sleeves up, sat down and positioned myself on the bench.

I had forgotten to bring my music.

He looked at me expectantly.

Being a mom of young children, there is only one song I know by heart.

I put my head down, lowered my hands onto the beautiful keys and began to play.  And soon the beautiful baby grand piano filled his house with the sweet sounds of….

Old MacDonald Had a Farm.

I played it first at Middle C.

Then I played it up a few octaves to try out the high notes.

Then I played it down a few octaves to try out the low notes.

I am QUITE sure that the man, at this point, thought I was a complete LUNATIC, trying out the various cadences of Old MacDonald on his big fancy grand piano.

If I had anyone I knew well with me I could have made a joke of it,

“And now the SCARY VERSION” I could have said before playing it on the low notes.

“And now the FAIRY VERSION!!” before playing it on the high notes.

But I couldn’t.  This man was far too sophisticated for that kind of joking.  And I was about to make far too large of a purchase to do so without testing out each and every key, even if it meant having to play Old MacDonald 6 times in 6 different octaves in order to make sure I hit every note on the piano at least once.

My testing complete, I was happy to say that each and every key on that lovely grand piano worked quite nicely and can adequately carry the tune of Old MacDonald Had a Farm.

My children will be pleased.

As for the lovely owner of the piano, I'm not so sure... he accepted my cheque with tears in his eyes.

He’s a kijiji novice, apparently.

I promised to send him a picture of his piano once we had it in our house.  He nodded silently, still probably wishing the last few notes he had heard out of his baby hand't been "e-i-e-i-o".

Perhaps if I had been a wee bit more prepared and actually taken some music with me I could have avoided the embarrassment of my Old MacDonald playing.  But that’s part of the excitement of my kijiji buying.  You just never know where or to whom it’s going to take you next.  I’m already looking forward to my next adventure…

A Trip to Loblaws

Does the title of this post seem redundant and ominous?  It is…feel free to stop reading right now if you would prefer not to relive the mistakes I have previously made.  Or go ahead and read along and shake your head at me thinking “WHY DOESN’T SHE LEARN!?!??”  I did the same thing to myself on my way home.  It wasn’t IKEA but it was an adventure nonetheless…

 I once again found myself again in Toronto this weekend with both kids and my dad and a full day to fill.  Rob was watching soccer and Mia was napping and I thought, “Hey, why don’t I give you a peaceful hour or so to yourself and take my dad and Toby shopping at Loblaws”…

Is this starting to sound familiar?

Not to worry- this would be NOTHING like our last excursion to IKEA.  I am a well seasoned shopper at the Loblaws at St Clair and Bathurst.  I know exactly where to park, where to drop dad and Toby off so they can see me the ENTIRE TIME that I am shopping, and where to buy them coffee and a muffin while they watch me.  In fact, the last time I shopped with them there happened to be free face painting and cake.  I don’t know what they were celebrating but we all had a good time.  The members of previous excursion who could remember such were VERY keen to return.

And so I set out, loading an excited 6 year old and an eager 87 year old into my car; we were off for another great adventure with visions of free cake and face painting dancing in our heads.

As soon as we got to Loblaws it was all wrong.  Where was our favourite parking spot?  What happened to the little bakery that sold coffee and muffins right at the entrance?  And WORST of all…WHERE was the RAILING that let people from the upper floor café WATCH the shoppers?!!?   This was the most devastating change.  My ability to shop with my crew hinged on the fact that they could both see me at all times.  I enjoyed my false sense of freedom to shop and roam around on the understanding that I would look up, smile, wave enthusiastically and shout “HELLO UP THERE!” every time I put something into my cart.  Toby and dad would always return an equally enthusiastic smile, wave and incoherent shout and then I would carry on to the next item on my list.  My railing of freedom had been replaced with a BRICK WALL, painted a modern colour of brown and accessorized with a baby grand piano in front of it.   The smile, wave and shop game came to a quick halt.

It was with a sense of horror and impending doom that I suddenly realized WHY there had been free cake and face painting the last time I was there.

THEY WERE CELEBRATING THEIR UPCOMING RENOVATIONS.

When your convoy consists of an 87 year old with dementia and an anal 6 year old with an impeccable memory, changes do NOT work in your favour.

I put on a cheerful face and tried to make the best of the situation.  No, they would not be able to get muffins but there were CROISSANTS and COOKIES at this new bakery.  And no, they could NOT watch me shop, but there were lovely big windows so they could watch all of the action on St Clair which (perhaps???) was more exciting than watching from above as I chose bananas.

My suggestions were met with skepticism.

Maybe one of them would like to play the piano?

The skepticism was soon accompanied by a displeased arm crossing.

I left the two of them sitting by the big windows and promised to come back with some sort of baked delicacy shortly.  I decided my best approach was to do a staggered shop.  (Was this even allowed?!?!)  I grabbed a cart and did a mad dash through the produce section.  I looked like a crazy woman, grabbing fruits and vegetables, throwing them into the cart un-bagged, and unexamined.  I got what I thought was about 50% of my list before going back to this new FANCY bakery and ordering them each a drink and a treat.  I settled for these extra large chocolate chocolate chip cookies, a coffee for dad and ludicrously expensive lemonade for Toby.  I left my cart by the bakery’s unimpressed barista and raced up the stairs to find my boys.

I have never been met with such a welcome before.  “Oh, Lyssie, thank GOODnes…” dad said, “I thought you weren’t coming back!”  I gave them each a hug.  They both agreed that the uber large chocolate chocolate cookies were adequate stand-ins for the muffins and greedily grabbed their drinks and set to work devouring both.  I listened patiently to their tales of the adventures on St Clair Ave and then told them I would be back shortly after I had finished my shopping…I promised not to be gone for long…

On the stairwell I transformed back from attentive caregiver to mad-crazy-don’t-think-I-won’t-push-you-over-if-you-get-in-the-way-of-my-cart-shopper and hit the meats and frozen foods section.

I got ALMOST everything on my list and was heading to check out when suddenly I got the innate maternal sense that my boys needed another check in.  So I left my cart strategically located in the dog food section (because it was the least populated) and raced back upstairs for a quick check-in before heading to the checkout.

Rounding the corner at the top of the stairs I was met by a very solemn Toby (who now felt the chocolate chocolate chip cookie had been TOO large and was upseeting hi stomach) and a very EMPTY table by the window.  Where the HELL had my father gone?!?!?

“Papa had to go to the bathroom.”  Toby said matter-of-factly and then pointed down the looooong hallway to the bathrooms. 

He hadn’t gotten far.

There he was, without his cane or his wheelchair, holding onto the side of the lovely, modern brown-painted-brick WALL, hobbling himself towards the men’s washroom.  I raced over to him and promised to get him his wheelchair.  Those 50 feet he walked unassisted in his desperate quest to get to the washroom was probably the most amount of exercise he has had in years.  I quickly rescued him with his wheelchair and got him the rest of the way.

“There you go, Dad,” I said, wheeling him right up to the door.   “You go in and go to the washroom and I’m going to check on Toby.”

I raced back down the long hallways and found Toby sitting by himself at the table, working on his colouring book, still lamenting the fact that I had fed him TOO large a cookie and that it made his stomach hurt.

It could easily take my dad 20 minutes to tend to his business in the bathroom and suddenly my mind went back to my cart that was sitting unattended in the dog food aisle.  I couldn’t even conceive of the disaster that would ensue if someone stole my cart and I had to start again.  We would be here until next weekend at this rate.  So I decided I would take Toby with me, get the cart, and come back up to get my dad after he was done.

The Loblaws at St Clair and Bathurst is a LARGE store.  This was no small feat.

And so we returned 10 minutes later, cart and kid in hand, to find my dad patiently sitting in his wheelchair outside of the men’s washroom.

I went running over to him, “That was quick!”

The look on his face told me I was wrong, “I haven’t even BEEN yet!”  He said to me, “I couldn’t FIND the washroom!”

OH GOOD GOD.

So I took Toby and the cart back to the window and then went back down the hallway and this time WALKED my dad INTO the bathroom, PAST the urinals and directly INTO one of the toilet stalls.  I smiled to the man who was using the urinal on the way back out.

I had no choice but to sit and wait with Toby this time as my dad did his business.  Toby and I coloured 5 pictures, counted all the blue and red cars that went by and watched my ice cream melt as we waited for my dad to finish.

Finally I looked up and there he was, back in his wheelchair, sitting outside the men’s washroom.  Before I could get all the way down the hallway another man came out of the bathroom and was chatting to my dad.  I could tell he was being enlisted to rescue my dad from his predicament so I picked up my pace. 

Just before I arrived I heard my dad say to him, “Oh, THERE she is!  Thanks for your help!”  The man gave me a sideways look of disgust and carried on down the hallway towards the elevator.

“Oh, I’m SO HAPPY to see you!” my dad exclaimed, “I was just starting to worry that you weren’t going to come back for me!”

“Dad,” I said, crouching down, “I would never leave you.  I was just down the hall.  Now…what was it you said to that man?”

“I told him I didn’t know where my wife was!” he said triumphantly.

Oh, shit.  No wonder the creepy stare.

“And you do know I’m not your wife, RIGHT?!?!”  I clarified.

Dad thought this was REALLY funny. 

The look on the man’s face (who was waiting by the elevator when we walked back by) was NOT amused.  And it got even less amused when Toby cheerfully welcomed him back with a big suggestive, “Hi, Papa! How was the bathroom?" 

Why, oh WHY could I not have taught my kids to call him GRANDPA instead of the ambiguous ‘Papa’?

I swallowed my pride.  The worst of the hurdle was over.  My kid and my father were safe, toileted and fed and I had a cart full of the necessary groceries (including a now fully melted tub of ice cream).  I had one more hurdle and that was the checkout.

I am happy to report that checkout and delivering the groceries to the car went off without a hitch.  I returned to the men out of breath but with a great sense of accomplishment.  Dad rejoiced at the fact that I had (once again) come back for him and Toby joined in his triumph.  As I wheeled them out of the horribly changed Loblaws dad asked, “Where to next, Lyssie?!”

“How about a quick stop at the LCBO on the way out, “I suggested “I feel like maybe having a glass of wine when we get home.”

“Good idea!” dad said. 

And lo and behold, just as it always was, there was the LCBO right in front of us at the exit...At least Loblaws had the good sense not to change EVERYthing in their renovations...