November 20, 2007

I am having a miserable time trying to find “the right” gift for my brother for Christmas.  I hate it when people don’t tell you what they really want.

So we’re posting what we really want.  Little Red will be 3 years old next week which means he needs his own pass for Disneyland.  He has more toys than he knows what to do with, and he has enough clothes.  The pass is reasonably-priced but beyond our current means.  We are accepting donations instead of gifts toward his disney pass.


I Eat Cupcakes for Breakfast

November 19, 2007

Saturday night I lay on the floor, toys carefully, deliberately strewn around me.  I knew I couldn’t sleep, but I’d welcome any form of rest at that point.  I envisioned my husband coming downstairs, rested, in the morning to find me exactly as I was on the floor, but with a worn-out baby using me as a pillow.  It made me smile to picture what I hoped would come. 

The baby, of course, had other plans.  He was happy to have me all to himself, he was happy to have the toys all to himself.  He alternated between playing with the toys and pulling out my hair.  That’s fine.  Bald is beautiful.  Hair will regrow but I can never regain the sleep I’ve lost.

When I sat up to give my poor scalp a break I saw the proud buddha pat his belly and smile delightedly at me.

At 2am I finally gave in and moved to the kitchen.  I needed more strength.  I began with some cupcakes lefter over from the birthday party.  The icing had melted so I had a second one to ensure my remorse in the morning.  With  my veggies and dip I camped out on the tile to watch him play with his reflection in the oven door.  Finally I opened the Cheetos.  There was a party in my tummy, and Cheetos, yes those MSG-laden chemical sticks, were invited.

It was then that he decided to give in to the prolactin.  I nursed him and put him to bed and sleepily brushed my teeth.  We napped for 45 minutes before he was up and ready for more.  He was still warm from his fever, and still clearly feeling crummy, so I couldn’t just make him cry it out and go back to sleep.  We didn’t really sleep until 4:30, and his brother was up within two and a half hours.

My neighbour, Angela, is two weeks into motherhood.  She’s mentionned several times that she doesn’t know how I survive without coffee.  I just smile when she says this.  I have my own vices. 

It’s Phobia Time!

November 16, 2007

Yes folks, that’s right, Little Red has reached that beloved developmental stage: phobias.  I had hoped he’d develop a fear of something obscure and out of the house, as Kyra had done when she was afraid of a mannequin at the Science Center.  Unfortunately, his phobia is within our home.

Now before I tell you what it is, let me preface by saying that RockStarNextDoor has turned down the volume, intensity, and frequency of his practicing in the past month and a half.  It has done wonders toward improving the spirit in our home and I am grateful.  (It improved only two weeks after I spoke to my landlady.  Coincidence?)  However, his previous lack of consideration has clearly left a mark: Little Red is afraid of the wall.

Last night he was quiet at suppertime and Paul asked him what he was thinking.  “The wall,” he replied quietly.  Paul followed up to inquire what he was thinking specifically with regards to the wall and Little Red replied something about wanting to break it down.

Now I’m heartbroken that this phobia bothers him so much, and concerned at this first show of real violence.  The poor little guy.  I hope this doesn’t last too long.  It’s been a month already that’s he’s vocalised to us his fear of the wall.

words words words

November 14, 2007

Little Red eats with his shirt off.  I’m not at all ashamed of that.  We discovered when he was very young that it was much simpler to strip him down and let him feed himself (he had to learn eventually, right?) than feed him and clean the clothes afterwards.  At playgroup one day Marcy teased me that she could imagine him at sixteen, on a date.  He’d sit down in the restaurant and immediately begin to undress.

Of course I insisted that we only undressed him at home, and that in restaurants and at the homes of others we kept his clothes on.

Now he’s weeks away from turning three, and at home it is an instinct to take his shirt off before he climbs into his chair.  He has still never undressed at a restaurant or at the home of a friend.  But on Saturday, at Peekaboo Playland for Big Jack’s birthday, we turned around to see him sitting beside Kyra at the table, ready for pizza, shirt off. 

Marcy’s words from two years ago came back to haunt me and I tried to talk Little Red into putting his shirt back on.  I reminded him that he is a very good eater and he won’t get any pizza on his beloved robot shirt.  I also instructed him to look around the room and notice that everyone else had their shirts on.

Just then, Jen walked by.  “That’s right,” she said to me, “teach him to be like everyone else.”

I gave up.  His shirt stayed clean.  The other parents had stories to tell when the party was over, of the half naked boy sitting beside Cinderella.

Without Memory, What Do We Have?

November 11, 2007

I wore my poppy, and the adults all expressed concern that I was going to stab my babies with my pin.  I asked the primary children if they knew what I was wearing.  A flower of no significance.  So I took a few minutes to talk to them about the day, the time (it was just after 11 am,) and our freedom.  I even tied it in to the theme of the month and our article of faith (the 11th.)  None of the children looked to have ever been told the meaning of Veteran’s Day, and I did my best not to cry.

Afterwards, Judy R. told me she appreciated that I had taken the time to talk about it because no one ever does anymore.  “And that poppy reminds me of the ones the Legion used to sell.”  Used to sell?

Whatever you call today, Armistice/Rememberance/Veteran’s Day, it’s worth understanding.  I’ve really struggled with the lack of collective awareness for the holiday since I moved to the States, but this year it makes me especially miss my Grandad.

Treats without Tricks

November 6, 2007

He practiced saying “Trick or Treat!” at the top of his lungs, but as soon as the homeowners opened their doors he meekly said, “trick or treat.”  He always said, “thank you” for the candy, and followed up with wishing the homeowners “happy Halloween.”  They gushed over him and his manners before they let him visit other homes.

So I’m told.  By Halloween night I had succombed to the boys’ misery and stayed home with Boy Blue while my husband took the Carrot out.  I had been reluctant to let him go trick or treating, as asking strangers for candy is quite the opposite of what I have tried to teach him.  However, once I decided he could go this year, I was very disappointed that I missed it. 

He came home, so grown up, full of smiles.  His father was full of stories detailing how happy he had made people.  I was proud, but sad I missed it.  I am, however, the only one really interested in the candy, so I guess it’s not all bad.