Graphic Tales and Mixed Blessings

Posted on 12/17/2008 by cheesefairy

1. Trombone likes to poop on the potty. No! I am not complaining. But he likes to poop on the potty so much that he won’t leave it until the poop comes.

I see why people put this off, this potty training thing. On the one hand, yes, I know it can take time to poop. But on the other, he is smart enough to know that after potty comes nap. And before potty comes 3 books but if I read to him while he’s on the potty he gets 5, 6, 7 books. Half the time the poop comes. The other half I read books for 30 minutes when I could be snacking on bonbons. Who’s the sucker. Adult diapers here we come.

2. Fresco has just learned to clap his hands. He claps when you ask him to. He claps when you sing “If you’re happy and you know it…” and he claps spontaneously when he is happy. (He even clapped when Trombone finally pooped on the potty after 15 minutes of “I know it’ll be here any minute…”) It is pretty adorable.

Just now I was helping him get to sleep, something that is taking more and more time and strength these days. I switched gears and instead of pinning his arms down and keeping the soother in his mouth with my elbow, I put him up against my shoulder, patted his back and started humming a lullaby. He pulled back to look at me, wrested his hands from against my chest and started applauding.

3. As you who read here often already know, Trombone likes to sing. He used to be able to carry a tune. Today all he will sing is “Jingle Bells” and “Nonsense Words to the Tune of Jingle Bells” and his own version of “Jingle Bell Rock” that goes, “Jingle bell jingle bell jingle bell RIGHT jingle bell jingle bell jingle bell RIGHT jingle bell jingle bell…”

Well, you get the idea. The first few times I tried correcting him, but most of you know that correcting a 2.5 year old is folly.

I don’t know if he is imagining a sleigh ride going in squares or if he is stating a political preference or if he has a speech impediment involving the substitution of the word RIGHT for ROCK in which case I can’t wait until he forms that Queen cover band (We will / we will / RIGHT YOU!) and frankly I don’t much care. It is cold, windy and snowy outside, we are inside thinking about how I was going to get the snow tires put on the car last week, the baby keeps crawling into the fireplace and I just want to not hear the tuneless, loud voice of my firstborn chanting nonsense at me until I shatter into tiny pieces. I do not think that is so much to ask.

Whenever Trombone does this nonsense chanting / singing I am reminded of (and comforted by) this post by the hilarious Mr. Isoglossia, who also does the most wonderful (and sometimes chilling, considering I am approximately 2 years behind him with my own dear boyspawn) monthly reports to his two boys.

Happy note, see? Leaving you on a happy note. Alrighty.

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Dear Neighbours

Posted on 12/15/2008 by cheesefairy

Almost 2 years ago I wrote a bitter little post about the lack of considerate, snow-clearing home owners in our neighbourhood. I moderated my criticism somewhat by acknowledging that some people might be of an age or ability that shoveling their walks would be impossible. However, you will be unsurprised to hear that I have held a healthy grudge against these people and have paid attention to the upkeep of the offending houses during all four seasons.

Yes, I walk the same route a lot. Because of the grudge-holding, mainly.

I have noted that:

Exhibit A: in spring, summer and fall, the houses are kept up by the owners: I have seen old dudes (not gardeners) mowing & pruning & cleaning gutters
Exhibit B: their giant trees shed leaves that are then raked and bagged by same old dudes
Exhibit C: all the houses have Christmas Lights Galore on display, many lawns feature those light up reindeer that move their heads (incidentally, Trombone is not a little obsessed with these) and I have seen the owners of the houses doing the decorating: old dudes on ladders, plugging things in, etc.

and have determined that these people are just lazy and / or assholes.

(Exhibit D, not strictly relevant, is that one of the houses has a big Oldsmobile [it’s called an ETC if you can believe it] in the driveway and in the past 2 years it has acquired a commemorative Olympics 2010 [don’t sue me!] license plate and everyone knows that people with commemorative Olympics license plates are assholes or at least bad drivers. Oh yeah? You don’t think so? Next time someone cuts you off in traffic or does something so boneheadedly stupid you almost bite off your tongue, check the license plate. Dollars to doughnuts it’s either a vanity plate or an Olympics plate [offer valid in British Columbia only][god I love parentheses!])

My fantasy list of things to do in the next three months (top 3: yoga class, sleep 6 hours in a row, remember to floss) includes getting a bunch of business cards printed with the following:

Hi. Buy some salt. Put it on your sidewalk. It’s really fucking icy.

But! Should my fantasy cards include a graphic? And if so, what should it be? (What? An Olympics logo! Perhaps of a luge? You saucy minxes!)

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I am Scared of Some Parties

Posted on 12/12/2008 by cheesefairy

This morning Trombone and I went to a Christmas party at the local drop-in play-gym. It looked just like the usual drop-in play-gym, except there were balloons everywhere, stations for decorating cookies and paper ornaments, and there was Santa. Hell of a deal, actually. $3.25 gets you in, an emailed photo, a cookie and non-stop FRENZIED SCREAMING ENJOYMENT.

We saw Santa first. Trombone was very serious, the way he gets when he rides a train. It’s so funny, he gets on a train and sits there, hands folded, looking around. “This is my train face.” Other kids are whooping and hollering. Hell, I am usually whooping and hollering. Trombone is just, “I am on a train.” Like it’s his place of worship. So he went up to Santa and sat on his knee, very solemnly. The photographer and her assistant (both community centre volunteers) tried to make him smile. He just looked at them. Granted, they were using a tambourine, like he was a 3 month old infant. They could have just said, “Smile, little boy,” and he probably would have. She took two photos. “Well, it’ll be funny,” the photographer said to me.

“All our photos are funny,” I reassured her.

“What did Santa say to you,” we asked Trombone later.
“He asked what I wanted for Christmas.”
“What did you say?”
“Anything.”

There was also a supply room filled with balloons and kids could go in and jump around. I was talking to another mom. I said, “That freaks me out.” Not for the kids – they all looked like they were having fun – but for me. I would not have wanted to go in there. Every once in a while a balloon would pop and kids would shriek and it was slightly dark. No thanks. The other mom said, “I know. I would hate it in there but my daughter keeps going in.” Lesson: Kids love dark rooms full of balloons. Moms think they’re creepy.

There was cookie decorating. The cookies were actually Ritz crackers and then you could spread pink or green icing on them. This one kid, about 5 years old, just spread and spread and spread. Dumped star shaped sprinkles all over the icing. He was so happy, he ate the whole thing in one bite and made this “Wheeeeeee!” noise while he was chewing. It was a perfect Christmas cookie moment. Trombone took a slower approach but enjoyed his cookie immensely. This woman came in with her daughter, spread the icing for her daughter, gave her three sprinkles, said, “Here you go, now be careful, don’t get icing on your dress.” Fun, mom. Thanks.

We left just as the place was heating up. The shrieking and the floor stomping and the sugar rushes in full swing. Studio 54 at 4 am. I lured Trombone home with the promise of a fig bar and his beloved mama nonna (who was at our house looking after Fresco) waiting to play with him. He went quietly.

Here’s today’s Christmas-themed photo. I see in Santa’s eyes a certain longing, a love lost. I think that love is holding the camera. I hope they find community-centre-employee happiness.

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Unpacking

Posted on 12/10/2008 by cheesefairy

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.

Posted in cardboard, funny, home, trombone | Tagged , , , , | 8 Comments

Because Self-Therapy is Free

Posted on 12/9/2008 by cheesefairy

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.

***********************

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.

*************************

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.

Posted in , Fresco, more about me!, the parenthood, trombone | Tagged , , | 3 Comments