trombone

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We got a rather large present for Trombone on the weekend. We bought him a kitchen. It’s wood and it doesn’t talk (there are an alarming number of talking, plastic kitchens for sale) it was in our neighbourhood, thank you craigslist, and I was so excited about finding it and buying it that I didn’t really give a passing thought to the fact that it’s still 3 weeks before Christmas and this thing is big. It is bigger than kitchens I have paid money to rent apartments around.

(It’s great though, it has a sink and a microwave and a dishwasher and an oven and shelves for all the pretend food. AND Fresco fits in the dishwasher.)

What?

On Sunday night SA and I were enjoying being down a kid while Trombone spent the night at his grandparents’ house. It was a perfect time to acquire the giant kitchen and acquire it we did. But then we had to move it upstairs and “hide” it. I was in favour of putting it in Trombone’s room and having him get his present 3 weeks early because his room is on the second floor and the only hiding place was on the third floor and that is a lot of shoving big wooden things around when I should be drinking. SA, traditionalist, insisted on finding a hiding place. So I went up and looked again at our bedroom closet, which, because it is gigantic, was full of boxes. I moved all the boxes out of the closet and was frankly stunned to be reminded how much space there is in that closet. I vowed then and there that those boxes would NOT go back in the closet, that they would be emptied and their contents distributed around the house or thrown away, as applicable.

Meanwhile, SA was downstairs powdering his hands in preparation for the great kitchen heave so I hied myself back down to make myself useful.

By the time we got to the 2nd floor, a hairpin corner and another flight of stairs looming, SA had almost changed his tune about making it a surprise. We decided to try hiding it in Trombone’s own closet in his bedroom because it, too, only contained boxes (in this case, boxes of cassette tapes) that could easily be moved out and up into our now empty closet.

My plans, foiled! The closet is once again full!

However, with some de and re-hingeing of the closet doors, we did manage to jam the kitchen into his bedroom closet and then jam the doors shut after it. Assuming he doesn’t try to open the closet, we should be golden. Actually even if he does try to open the closet, he will be shit out of luck.

It was through this great movement of boxes and boxes and boxes and emptying of closets, though, that I came across our box of Christmas stuff and did proceed yesterday to use it as a fun, rainy day activity. We have now decorated our living room walls and surfaces with various child-safe items because this year, with the crawling baby and the limit-testing toddler, is not a Christmas Tree Year. I’m glad, actually that we decorated because I love Christmas lights and I love decorations and Trombone does too. We had a lot of fun.

And it was through the sorting of the Christmas box that I found the cardboard packaging from a pair of reindeer antlers that I bought many years ago to wear to work, back when I was The Receptionist With The Christmas Spirit. The antlers have been up in Trombone’s room, getting much play all year round. But I had forgotten about the cardboard packaging. No I don’t always keep my packaging for five years. But look, here’s why:

Caption reads: Wherever you run - The Hunter Will Hear Your Bell!

Wherever you run - The Hunter Will Hear Your Bell!

It is just too bizarre to throw away. From the totally average antler model (I have never seen a model look so much like an actual office receptionist) to the ominous slogan (so – if I buy these, the hunter will catch me? I think I’ll save my money!) they are the decoration that keeps on amusing, year after year. Also they cost $2.95. Kid gets the toy, I get the packaging, everybody’s happy.

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If you search my blog for “loud” you get a handful of returned entries, 90% of which are about Fresco. Also, they are dated one per month, roughly around the 20th of each month. So this is a bit early but here is your monthly installment where I complain about how loud my baby is.

I know, it is so pointless to complain about a loud baby, or a baby of any “kind”. Can I put it this way, does it sound less whiny: imagine you have a baby who is in some fundamental way the opposite of you. You are inherently happy; he never smiles. You are a sports fan; he likes opera. You have a degree in Linguistics; he doesn’t speak until age 3.

Saint Aardvark and I are quiet, conflict-averse people. We have a shouting baby. It is stressing us out. Since I cannot change the shouting baby, I have been thinking about me, how I can change my approach so that I do not go crazy.

We attribute complex motives to the shouting, which says more about us than him. At nearly 8 months old, his motives are pretty clear cut – food, sleep, clean butt, love, entertainment. At X:00 am we are irrational, accusing him of extreme attention seeking behavior, having no self control, no ability to self-amuse, all of which, from us, are some of the worst qualities, other than a tendency to favour Harley Davidson motorcycles, that you could possibly exhibit.

I am struggling to think of him as a person who has a collection of attributes, rather than as a fully formed personality who is defined by his attributes. He likes, dislikes, not he IS, he WILL BE.

And what do I fear about that handful of characteristics anyway? Isn’t it true that we dislike in others what we dislike most in ourselves? Am I an attention hog? Am I unable to self-amuse? Am I (gasp) needy?

I think a lot these days about how we grow up; what we are born with and what we gather from our experience. The person I am now a product both of genetics and of my experience as an only child of (loving), sensible, strict parents. Where would I be now if I were more assertive, less conflict-averse, more willing to make noise, say, Hey, OVER HERE, once in a while instead of demurring, No, I’m fine, everything is fine. If I had been less obedient (to a point), more overtly rebellious instead of taking my rebellion under cover; stealing, lying, hiding food under the bed. I don’t remember why I did those things, I only vaguely remember doing them. Writing it out and analyzing myself I would guess that it was my way of expressing my anger, my frustration, my darker self, without making any noise or attracting any attention while doing so. Be a good girl. Mind your manners. No I won’t but I’ll make you think I am.

(Why do I write? Am I afraid of the sound / fury of my own voice? Do rage-fueled blog entries count as shouting? I don’t think so.)

Better to shout then. Better to express, be bold, be boisterous, take a stand.

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In the summertime, Trombone, Fresco and I were at the park. It was around a long weekend and Trombone found an empty popcorn bucket on the ground. He picked it up and put it on his head, said, this is my popcorn hat. I said, OK. We walked uptown to get some groceries and he wore his popcorn hat the whole way. We were on the receiving end of a lot of smirks, shrugs, outright laughter. A toddler with a slightly soggy popcorn bucket on his head is pretty amusing. But he didn’t look at anybody. He was completely serious about his hat. And I thought, I love that my kid wears a popcorn bucket on his head. He doesn’t know it’s funny. He is just doing it because – well, who knows why. But he is not afraid to do it. He feels compelled to do it and he just does it.

I want to be like that, I thought. I want to be brave like that. I want to wear a metaphorical popcorn bucket on my head.

Then I forgot.

But now I am remembering.

Metaphorical popcorn bucket.

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Anyway, it was probably just his teeth. He actually gnawed on my wrist knuckle (is that what they’re called? the knob on the wrist?) today and it hurt like a bad ass full of cannon fodder. Only time will tell if I have the only baby in the world who has NO TEETH at all but the lungs of Braveheart.

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Hey good news! Everyone who commented on my last post gets a prize! ONE FULL DAY with Fresco!

I figure after 2 weeks I will want him in my house again.

Can’t think of a new way to phrase this. That baby is LOUD. Previously it was kind of endearing. Shows character. Makes him *him*. Last week, the day after his vaccinations, he spent the day being clingy and whiny and when he gets clingy and whiny, he shouts. Shouts if you put him down, shouts if he can’t see you anymore, shouts if he wants a toy and can’t get the toy. I am not used to this. Trombone would cry. I figured he was normal – I have heard that babies cry. The experiment is not a fair one; when was at home with Trombone crying, there was no one simultaneously saying, “Can I have a treat? Can I have a treat? Can I have a treat NOW? Can I have an Aero bar?” (thank you, Halloween.) So it was stressful, the crying, but at least I was only accountable to me and the infant. And I don’t remember Trombone being so fretful all day long like this.

Also, Trombone slept through the night at an early age. This baby still wakes up twice a night. I am plenty tired and short-tempered on a good day and then, THEN I spend the day being shouted at? And it’s not a “hey, could I get some service?” sort of shout. It’s a “HEY BITCH, WHERE MY FUN AT?” sort of shout. It is imperious and it echoes and it makes everyone around it cringe. Yes, I have that shouting baby at the grocery store. A million apologies.

So he did it this past Thursday. All day. But Friday – Sunday it was all sunshine and rainbows again so I figured Thursday was due to the vaccinations. Then Monday. Shouting. Tuesday. Shouting. This morning, I woke to the sound of shouting. I felt like a big piece of glass about to shatter into a million pieces. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t smile, couldn’t do anything but hold the baby, jam the soother in his mouth, keep him from shouting.

Who gets up at 5 am just to shout? It’s not civilized.

Possible causes of Shoutapalooza include: teething. Can’t quite crawl. Bored. Tummyache from apricots. Diaper rash.

The shouting makes me tense. It makes Trombone tense. It makes me more tense with Trombone and vice versa. Everything is aggressive and in-your-face and like we are living at CNN on the first day of a new war. One day was rough. Three has nearly killed me. I am hopeful there will not be four.

We walked to the Most Depressing Mall in the Universe this morning. It is getting decked for Christmas, which means a Santa’s village and a bunch of mid-mall vending tables. Mostly the vendors are for hand-sewn dishrags and quilt raffles but there was one for Dead Sea Skin Products. I felt bad for them. There was a big, exciting booth and several hotties of both sexes, waiting to accost passers-by with “Would you like a sample of our new skin regime?” but the only passers-by, of course, are very old people, very poor people in from the cold and very addled, rather rude people like me.

I was sitting on a bench, eating my Bacon N Egger while Trombone ate his ham and cheese croissant (we compromised on a “healthy” treat; hey it’s better than an Aero bar) and Fresco looked at the lights. A middle aged guy, tall and gangly with huge sneakers and really big hair stopped to say hi. “Is this your family?” he said. He spoke like he had a hearing impairment. I said yes. “It’s good,” he said. “I grew up with foster families. Real family is better.”

Choose your own ending. Both of these are true things I thought:

1. My heart seized. You stupid woman, I thought. Just appreciate your damn babies and shut up.

2. So I decided to keep the shouting baby after all.

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I consider myself photogenic in a fairly specific way. If I am captured on film doing something I enjoy, while I am actively enjoying it and am in no way aware that the camera is on me? I am pretty nice to look at. (Unless I am singing at karaoke and then I look batshit insane. Just like you do.) But any other time, it’s hit and miss. I ham it up if I know the camera is there. I have a collection of shit-eating grins I haul out for pictures. I am not very good at smiling with my eyes. My angles are kind of funny; my mouth is crooked so if you photograph me in repose I have Mean Mouth, my nose is getting bigger by the day and my hair is often unruly. Unruly like an LA riot.

To sum up: I am a creature who looks best when animated. If I were on a reality show about models, (and that is the biggest, most scornful IF you will see all day, my friends) the host would say, “In PERSON I get a model, but her film is TERRIBLE.”

Fresco has inherited this characteristic. In person, he is freaky cute. On film he looks like an angry old man. Partly this is the curse of the camera, so attractive to him that he must concentrate on catching it and eating it and cannot unfurrow his brow for one second to look adorable. But mostly I think it is just the way we are in our family. I should say, our family excluding SA and Trombone because I think they generally photograph quite well.

(The caveat here is that I take the most pictures of my kids and I am not a professional and I am using a simple point & click camera. With a real photographer, and I know there are lots of you out there, Fresco might be Canada’s cutest baby but no, actually, I think he’s just got lots of Personality and needs to be seen up close and personal to be believed. Don’t forget your earplugs, though.)

When Trombone was 3 months old we went to Sears for our first family portrait. I think we did it because we were at the mall and needed something to do and Christmas was coming. It turned out well – Trombone was young and easily amused and grinned it up nicely for the camera. Last year we sent Trombone on his own because we had to work but we wanted photos for our Christmas cards. He happened to be coming down with a really bad flu that day so the photos are kind of sad looking. There was one where he was actually crying but trying to smile through the tears. Very Liza Minelli.

This year we went with both boys and got one portrait of all of us and then a bunch of just the boys because they are way better looking than us. I think it is because they are getting full nights of sleep and we are not. Oh and because they don’t have to deal with themselves all day.

When the photographer offered us her favourite, most popular background we said sure, until she rolled it down and it was this crazy Donald Trump / Thomas Kinkade Christmas tree, all gold and green and lights and freaky ornaments – okay it doesn’t sound that weird but go to that Thomas Kinkade link (incidentally, holy shit I had no idea there was so MUCH Thomas Kinkade crap out there!) and you will see what I mean except imagine it 7 feet tall and behind you – I would bet money that in 5 more years there will be a Make-Your-Own-Blinky-Light-Christmas-Portrait with this tree in it. We shook our heads, well actually, I was all “Oh hell yes!” but SA was more, “Oh hell no!” so we went with a nice calm snowdrift background. And then the poor photographer tried to get what she would call “good” pictures of us. Classic family poses.

See, I think of the Sears Portrait (or department store portrait of your choice) as High Cheese and that is the point for me. I want us to look like us, in front of an amusing backdrop, in poses we don’t normally strike. I am muzzy on this, like the rest of my memories but way back in 199something, Sarah won a free portrait from The Bay and it was 11 x 16, mounted, and we went in the two of us and chose a painter’s dropsheet background and pulled out cans of fake paint and paint brushes from the prop box and insisted on posing with them. THAT picture will be in the Department Store Portrait Hall of Fame, right at the front door.

But the photographers who work in the studios, they have to take it seriously. Because people do, they come in with their 2 day old infants dressed in Christmas Finery and then spend half an hour blowing on them to keep them awake to capture the moment. In all seriousness. I saw it happen while I was waiting to pick up our pictures the other day.

Which is cool. I’m not dissing your baby or her pictures. It’s just not why I go to the Sears portrait studio. I do it for fun.

Now Trombone is great. He follows directions, knows how to say “STINKY” on cue to make a cute smile, yes, has a home-done haircut but whatever. He’s cute. SA and I, well, we know no one is really looking at us anyway and we are 36 and 34 respectively so we can manage to smile for 10 minutes straight and still attempt to wrangle our children. But Fresco, king of the flirts, smiliest baby of all, just stared at this photographer like she was The Satan. Would not smile. Would not laugh. Would not look at the dangly birdy. Just. Kept. Staring. Who are you and why are you shaking your HOLY CLEAVAGE! in my face?

Many poses followed. We got some we liked. Then the photographer said, OK now let’s do my favourite shot. She brings back the crazy Christmas backdrop, gets a fake glass of milk from the prop box, hands it to Trombone. She gets a fake plastic plate with chocolate chip cookies glued to it, hands it to Fresco. She gets an elbow-length Santa Claus glove, hands it to SA, tells him to put it on. SA is out of the shot but his Santa hand is in it, reaching for the cookies and milk. And I guess the kids are supposed to look at him and be all, whee it’s daddy! but on film it will look like, whee it’s Santa! I don’t know. Mr. Jay was not there to speak to the artistic vision.

First, Fresco shoves the plate in his mouth. He’s teething, you see. Then Trombone has a look at the plate and manages to pry one of the glued-on cookies off. Fresco reaches for that, too. The photographer is peeing her pants laughing because I guess she’s never photographed a baby that puts things in his mouth before; in other words it must have been her first day. We got a few shots and then put her out of her misery and left.

Even though the Sears Portrait studio will never put any of our shots on their wall for other customers to look at, to me, ours are perfect family portraits. I love them. When I look at them on my Portrait Wall (oh I am so serious) in 5 or 50 years, I will remember what everyone was like, how we all felt, that poor photographer yelping, “HEY BABY LOOK AT ME BABY!” the baby giving her his best Withering Stare and Trombone silently wishing he was back in the waiting area playing with the talking Dora the Explorer Kitchen.

Our photo session captured so many moments that accurately represent my offbeat, super animated, decidedly not picture-perfect family. And so, department store portrait studios, you will always have my heart and my money.

(This is the one where Santa was supposed to be taking the plate of cookies away. To the photographer’s surprise, we ordered two 5X7s.)

<i>You know what, Santa?  I DON'T BLOODY THINK SO.</i>

You know what, Santa? I DON'T BLOODY THINK SO.

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Turned on the radio in the car today. Thought I was on the CBC FM and was half listening as I drove. Heard a host say, “So, uh, we know that drugs and alcohol play a part in making us, uh, happy. But what are some things that would make you happy?”

There was a pause and then a woman said,

“Well if my drugs were stronger, I’d be happier.”

Everyone laughed. The man who had posed the question rushed in to clarify but someone else said, “No, let her finish.”

So the woman went on. “These days on the street, like the stuff I buy? Half the time it isn’t as strong as it used to be. And they’re cutting the drugs with other stuff. And the price is the same.”

“That means you should go to another dealer,” someone interjected, “boycott the bad dealers. It’s the only way they’ll learn.”

OK, the CBC, you have my attention.

Except of course it wasn’t, it was co-op radio. A show called From a Whisper to a Song, presented by the Western Aboriginal Harm Reduction Society.

I love co-op radio.

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The other day I fed Fresco some banana. He has had banana before but I guess not this much banana because he didn’t poop for 2 days. And then? Today? He pooped so hard it shot up his back and over his shoulder . And he was sitting up at the time! (because if he had been lying down, it would not have been such a feat, you see.) I did not know that this could be done. I keep thinking it must be some kind of skill I can exploit but all my thoughts return to “No. Seriously. No one cares but you.”

And you guys, right?

Right?

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I went to the doctor today, for a smear of the pap variety and to get a referral for massage therapy because of my tingling shoulder. I also asked her if she does IUD insertions.

She said, “No. I would have to refer you for that.”
So I said, “OK. Or I could go to Planned Parenthood. I used to volunteer there. I know they do them.”

Then she frowned at me. She FROWNED at me!

“You don’t REALLY want an IUD, do you?”
“Uh, yes, I think I do.”
“They’re not very effective.”
“Well, 99%, give or take.” (I’m pretty sure. The training I took was a long time and 2 babies ago)
“No, no, the only thing that’s 99% is the Pill. IUDs are closer to 70%. I have had lots of people in here who got pregnant with an IUD.”

I debated arguing but decided against it. Now it is true, the only (2) people I know who have had IUDs inserted did have bad experiences. But those two bad experiences don’t refute everything else I know about this method of birth control.

“I have this tingling shoulder? Chiropractor or masage?”
“Massage.”
“Can you write me a referral please.”
“Here you go.”

I have said it so many times my lips are chapped but I will say it again. Where are the doctors who became doctors because they like people? Are there any? Shouldn’t it be on an exam or something? “Do you actually like people?
A) Yes
B) No
C) Not always but if it becomes my job to help them I promise to SUCK IT UP AND NOT BE AN ASSHOLE.”

Bitch, please:

1. You are wrong about the effectiveness of IUDs. You have obviously not been keeping up on your reading.
2. Your job is to either help me or, if you don’t know how, to find me the help I need. It is not your job to tell me what kind of contraception I want.
3. 1 (ignorance) and 2 (unwillingness to admit ignorance) make me not so confident in your ability to be a doctor. Combined with the fact that you didn’t even look at me while you wrote me a referral for my tingling shoulder, didn’t even look at my shoulder, asked me twice whether it was back pain, in my lower back? while I said Shoulder, Shoulder blade, I am sensing you are already on vacation in your mind. Of the permanent variety. In other words, I think you might be an idiot.
4. And then there’s the dimwit you had replace you when you were on vacation for real last year.

(Also, I have had more friendly service from people who make an eighth as much money. If the Starbucks barista can ask me how I’m doing, then the person poking my cervix can do it too.

That’s just a nice-to-have, though. Really, all I want from a doctor is that she not be stupider than me and that she listen when I talk.)

Here’s a conversation I had at my last appointment with my maternity doctor, a few days after I birthed Fresco. This is the dream doctor, whose office is 45 minutes away by car, otherwise I would add myself to his patient roster in a heartbeat. This man is how I know that there are good doctors out there. Or, at least one.

Him: “Thought about birth control?”
Me: “Yes I think I want an IUD.”
Him: “Cool. If your GP doesn’t insert it and tells you to go to an OB / GYN, you come to me. Anyone who knows their way around a cervix can insert an IUD, you don’t need a specialist. I’d be happy to do it for you.”
Me: Great, thanks!

So I know it is possible. The good doctor. He or she is out there. In the meantime, I continue to be grateful for my good health, that my doctor’s visits are preventative ones. I continue to be grateful for my intelligence and my experience; that I know about alternatives to my dissatisfying medical care and that I will never believe wholesale what I am told simply because the person telling me is better schooled. And I will continue to hope that a giant, silent tumour does not grow in any part of my body until I have found The Good Doctor because I have absolutely no faith that my current doctor would suspect a thing until the giant, silent tumour reached out with its sticky hands and pinched her bum.

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Trombone with one of his many telephones: Brrring! brrrring!
Trombone: Hello? Yes? You will remember it? Goodbye.

Me: Who were you talking to?
Trombone: Mr. Sir Coco. He is bringing the ice cream. Don’t worry.

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