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On the fourth day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me: four Diego drawings, three tasty treats, two U.S. passports and a mushy brain with no memory….
The advent season was off to an excellent start. Not one of the carefully made advent envelopes had been opened. No tree had been procured. And it was December 4th.
Something had to be done.
The professor enjoys the pomp and circumstance of cutting down one’s own tree. Whether at a tree farm or in the Calgarian forest. And I enjoy it too, especially in retrospect. Once my fingers have thawed and my ears have stopped ringing.
But this year I had my doubts about getting a live tree in an elaborate-ritual sort of way. The days fly by, each day seemingly fuller than the one before it. And we’ve got a baby. And we’re tired. And……it’s snowing?
When we woke up this morning there were just enough flurries bouncing around in the air to justify having hot chocolate at breakfast. ‘What if we just get a tree from a lot this year,’ I suggested to the patriarch. Because at the rate we were going it would end up being mid-December before we actually had a tree in the house. The gimpy-footed professor relented. Even he thought walking around in the freezing forest looking for a suitable tree sounded like a bad idea.
So we got in the car-van and made our way to the tree lot near the Gort’s school. The professor walked across the street to get cash while we waited in the car; taking in the majestic trees leaning against each other…in a snowy parking lot. Not how nature intended, perhaps, but man was it convenient.
With cash in our possession, we jumped out of the van, asked for the cheapest and smallest tree. Selected one of the five that met the criteria. Snapped a couple of pictures, and got back in the van within eight minutes.
The small tree fit perfectly inside the van’s ‘trunk’ – no rope required this year. We could even go to Wal-mart afterwards without fear that someone would steal this prime pine specimen from the roof of our car.
When we got home, there was one minor problem.
This year, I didn’t even care. ‘Agh, we’ll just push it back into the corner. It’s fine,’ I muttered. A perfectionist through and through. But luckily the professor cared and with a bit of finagling managed to straighten it out somewhat.
The boys had a blast digging through the decoration bins. And I had a blast trying to keep them out of said bins. Given the size of the tree and how much I loathe un-decorating the tree in January, I only took about half of the ornaments out of the bins. The half that deserves to see daylight, frankly, because the other half is fairly n-a-s-t-y.
‘When are we going to open the first envelope’ my oldest inquired later in the day. ‘We can do it tonight when daddy gets home,’ I replied. Little did he know the first envelope should have been opened….three days ago. But when Jason got home we were engrossed in coloring and forgot all about the envelope.
‘Are you going to give that to my teacher?’ the Gort asked as I was coloring my page. ‘Uh, sure…I bet she’d love to get a Diego coloring from me,’ I replied. ‘Should Daddy give her his Diego?’ I asked. ‘No……it’s not much nicer,’ came the undiplomatic reply. Apparently the Gort is not a fan of Diego with red and yellow hair.
Do they make adult-friendly coloring books? Because coloring ‘therapy’ is pretty enjoyable. But I don’t think I have it in me to do another Diego. Or Tinkerbell, for that matter.
On the third day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me: three tasty treats, two U.S. passports and a mushy brain with no memory…
They say things happen in threes. I don’t really know what ‘things’ exactly. Besides celebrity deaths. And maybe insults.
I’ve had three pretty good ones in the last three months. First there was the woman who congratulated me on expecting a baby…..after I’d already had said baby.
Then there was the woman at a jewelry party I attended recently. ‘Nicola, you look so beautiful!’ she exclaimed. She was surprised, nay shocked, I could tell. Sure enough, she continued: ‘I see you at school (insert hand motions to indicate drab, crazed, frantic appearance) and you look so tired!’
I've always wondered if 'tired' wasn't a euphemism for 'not wearing any makeup' and/or 'terrible hair'. Or just plain unattractive.
I couldn't help but chuckle at her bluntness. I guess I wasn't exaggerating when I bemoaned my less than stellar appearance for kindergarten pick-up and drop-off.
And then my oldest got in on the action as well. When I picked him up from school today, he announced: 'Amy's mom is younger than you. You're older.' Intrigued, at the sequence of events that led to this revelation, I asked: 'how do you know?' It seemed implausible that the two Kindergarteners had been standing around sharing their mothers' ages.
'Because she looks younger than you,’ he explained. Wrong answer kid! And he repeated it once more, for emphasis. Fast forward to several hours later when the professor arrived at home. ‘Hey, why don’t you tell your dad about how you told me that I looked older than Amy’s mom,’ I prompted my oldest. Who was still oblivious to the fact that it may not have been the most flattering thing to say.
So he repeated the exchange verbatim to the professor. Jason asked him to elaborate why he thought she looked younger in an effort to understand the young man’s logic: ‘because she’s lower than you’ my oldest replied. Complete with a hand motion to indicate her increased proximity to the ground.
Ah yes. He still associates height with age: since her mom is several inches shorter than I, she must be younger.
On the brighter side of things, I’ve found three tasty recipes to compensate for my lackluster appearance. We’ve made these peanut butter cookies twice in the last week, because they’re so good.
And my friend Jenny emailed this recipe (for Chocolate Cookies, below) to me when I had to make six dozen cookies for a cookie exchange last week. They were delicious. Even with subpar Canadian Chipits and Skor bits. (Note to Canada: Please consider stocking Ghirardelli Bittersweet Chocolate Chips. Thanks!)
The ginger cake recipe is from another friend. It’s reminiscent of the Starbucks holiday ginger bread…but without the icing. I could eat the whole thing in one sitting, and may have come close.
What can I say – I may look old and tired, but I can out-eat anyone when it comes to dessert.
Salted Chocolate Covered Caramel Cookies
(adapted from Culinary Muse)
2 c bittersweet chocolate chips or chunks
1/4 c unsalted butter, room temp
2 eggs
1 1/2 t vanilla
3/4 c brown sugar
1/2 c all-purpose flour
1/4 t baking powder
1 c caramel bits (or Skor bits)
fleur de sel
Melt 1 1/3 cup of the chocolate either in a microwave or double boiler. Stir in the butter until melted.
Whisk the eggs & vanilla together. Quickly whisk in a little of the melted chocolate to temper the eggs. Add remaining melted chocolate & brown sugar then stir until completely mixed. Stir in the flour & baking powder, mix well. Fold in the caramel bits & remaining 2/3 cup chocolate chips. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours or overnight.
Preheat oven to 350 F.
Scoop batter by heaping tablespoons onto a baking sheet that has either been greased or covered with a silicon pad. Flatten the cookies slightly. Sprinkle each with salt & press to make the salt stick. Bake for 15 minutes. Let cool on cookie sheet for 10-15 minutes (you want the caramel to have a chance to set before moving the cookies) then cool on a rack.
Makes 36 cookies
Very Gingery Ginger Cake
3 cups all purpose flour
1 tbsp cinnamon
2 tsp baking soda
1 1/2 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp ground ginger
3/4 tsp salt
1 1/2 cups white sugar
1 cup each vegetable oil and fancy molasses
2 eggs
1/2 cup water
2 tbsp minced gingerroot
1/2 cup chopped crystallized ginger
1 tbsp icing sugar
1. grease and flour 10 -inch 3L Bundt pan; set side
2. In bowl, whisk together flour, cinnamon, baking soda, cloves, ground ginger and salt. In large bowl, whisk together sugar, oil, molasses, eggs, water and gingerroot; stir in flour mixture, one-third at a time. Stir in crystallized ginger. Pour into prepared pan.
3. Bake in centre of 350oC oven for about 1 hour or until cake tester inserted in centre comes out clean. Let cool in pan on rack for 30 minutes. Remove from pan; let cool completely on rack. Dust with icing sugar.
The saga of the pacifier continues.
Last Saturday I came home quite late. The professor was half asleep on the couch. ‘Your son just fell asleep, about fifteen minutes ago,’ he muttered. The Hen? Of course, the Hen. ‘He lost his da and has screamed for hours.’
The twinge of guilt I felt over the professor’s plight was minute in comparison to the relief I felt at having avoided another ‘da’-less night.
I walked upstairs to check on my spawn, who were all sleeping and adorable-looking. As I walked back into our bedroom, I noticed a pacifier lying on the dresser. Covered with blue sharpie scribbles. Suspecting child vandalism, I casually asked: ‘what happened here’ pointing to the pacifier.
‘I thought maybe if I colored it blue, he would think it was his da,’ the professor confessed. Not a child having a heyday with a very permanent marker, but a desperate man trying to get a very unhappy child to go to sleep.
‘How’d that work out for ya,’ I asked rhetorically. There was no need for a response.
The tiny bit of guilt I felt about the professor’s traumatic Saturday night faded instantly when I found the ‘da’ downstairs in the basement after roughly 5.2 minutes of careful searchng. Yes, it was in a very strange place – the bottom of a laundry basket – but still. I think I’d look just about anywhere to avoid having to listen to hours of wailing.
Since the Hen had (eventually) managed to fall asleep without one of his comforts, I suggested we try to keep it away from him. To see if we could wean him of his silicone addiction. Naptime was a success, even if the nap itself was rather short.
But by evening he’d grown weary of our games. It was shortly past eight, he’d been yelling for his ‘da’ for a good thirty minutes, and the professor caved. He walked upstairs, handed the da to its rightful owner, who received it with profound gratitude. Shoved it in his mouth. And plopped down in his crib. Asleep within seconds.
There’s a reason we’ve a love-hate relationship with this piece of plastic. We love the ‘da’ for its soporific powers and its ability to soothe. Instantly. And we hate the ‘da’ for its tendency to get misplaced; for forcing us to spend hours looking for it.
And so we continued, one semi-happy pacified family. Until Thursday night. We’d celebrated Thanksgiving at a friend’s house and when we finally left, we had a ‘ba’ (greyish-white pillowcase that no amount of bleach can restore) but no ‘da’.
It was like a ‘have you seen this child’ situation, as we desperately tried to remember if he’d had the ‘da’ when we entered the house. Forget what he was wearing, or his height, weight and eye color – was he carrying a pacifier? We couldn’t remember. We could only assume he did, after all he never travels with a ‘ba’ but not a ‘da’.
We went home fearing another sleepless night. Luckily he was worn out from dinner and playing with other kids and fell asleep without much of a fuss. The next day I cleaned up the trash pile that was our basement play room. At the end of nearly thirty minutes of work, when I was putting away the stack of books that had been removed from the bookshelf and thrown on the floor, I found the pacifier. Buried in a book.
Such a scholar, that Hen.
I buried it in the back of a drawer in the kitchen, with the hope that I’d never have to reach for it again. Evening came and operation ‘no-da’ was in full effect. I tried everything. His favorite enormous book on monster trucks? It kept him busy for a few minutes before he’d stand up and yell for his da. Perhaps some snacks? I gave him an apple and a cup of water. Aside from the pieces of peel he spat onto the floor, it seemed to work. Except, like a nicotine addict: he kept wanting more apples. And more apples. I feared I’d end up with a child who’d have to eat three apples every night just to fall asleep.
Eventually it was 10.30pm. And I brought him into our bed to read Dr. Seuss. I figured ‘Mulberry Street’ might tire him out. But it didn’t. And finally, at 10.45pm when he had the nerve to demand another story, I caved.
I went downstairs. Retrieved the ‘da’ from the recesses of the kitchen drawer. Walked back upstairs. Handed it to him. And we all fell asleep promptly.
The ’season’ is upon us and the emails from the grandmothers have arrived. What might the cherubs want for Christmas, they ask.
I haven’t replied.
Because I’m trying to think of the ‘perfect’ gift. The gift that will bring them a few minutes’ worth of joy; that I won’t have to constantly pick up, or trip over, or throw in the trash ‘inadvertently’.
I got home from the parent teacher conference today. Jason was lying on the couch, with a blanket draped over him in dramatic fashion. In addition to a much publicized case of plantar fasciitis, he’d acquired another injury: ‘I stepped on a hotel’ he informed me.
I knew what he meant – a Monopoly hotel, of course. I can still see the wheelbarrow embedded in my foot. And I can still feel the sensation of sharp metal leaving thick skin as I yanked it out. And that was probably two years ago.
Vivid. Memories.
The best part? They don’t actually play with the game. They just dump out the pieces and the paper money and the real estate cards. Man, do I love Monopoly! And Scrabble. And Blokus. And Uno.
In addition to an injured husband on the couch, this is what else waited for me as I walked through the door. Over forty markers lying on the floor along with about fifty crayons. Fifteen or twenty marbles strewn across the kitchen floor. Pages and pages of ‘artwork’ lying around. ‘I wan paint’ the Hen announced after I surveyed the damage.
Charmed, I’m sure.
The art craze has taken a major turn for the worse, as the Gort has now discovered tape. Combined with scissors. Which result in exceedingly complicated tape-constructions in the most inconvenient of places. A tape ‘bridge’ in the stairs leading to the basement. A tape and string ‘book perch’ hanging down from the kitchen counter. As I was bustling around in the kitchen trying to get everything ready for a Thanksgiving potluck, I looked over to where the baby was sitting in his bouncy seat.
Ensconced in a ‘tent’ made of paper towel and masking tape. Luckily the sides had been left open, otherwise I might have freaked out a bit. ‘He’s in a tent!’ the Gort exclaimed. Delighted.
In an effort to keep the boys’ sticky fingers off our printer paper supply, the professor brought in a stack of neon orange and green and pink paper. Which means the house looks like a burgled surf shop.
So I don’t really know what the boys want for Christmas, but here’s a list of things ‘they’ don’t want.
Markers. Crayons. Pens. Pencils. Paper. Marbles. Games containing pieces or cards. Cars. Trains. Puzzles. Play doh. Moonsand. Tools. Books (see ban on paper). Toys with pieces (i.e. blocks, magnets, lego, lincoln logs, tinker toys, mr. potato head, and other building/stacking/ toys). Tape. Stickers. Stuffed Animals. CDs. DVDs. Clothes. Socks.
So, basically, ‘they’ want a gift certificate to a fancy restaurant or a day spa.
At the risk of sounding ‘anti-education’ I have to say Kindergarten is sort of a….bust for me. At least so far.
As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one thing in the ‘pros’ category: the entertainment/occupation/advancement of my oldest son. The ‘cons’ category has a few more items: driving to school twice a day; inconvenient time slot (12-2.45); fundraisers (casino night, coupon book sale drive; Scholastic book fair and card sale drive….and that was just the first three months); remembering the jillion events on the school calendar (‘no school’, library day, reading day, school pictures, class pictures, kids’ yoga etc.) and homework.
We had a reprieve for the first nearly two months. The kid went to school, and he came home. And that was it. Then, one blessed day in mid-October he came home with a blue folder in his backpack.
The Home Reading Program.
The folder contained a tiny (Scholastic) book sealed in a ziploc bag. And a log – so that you, slacker parent, can record how often you read this book with your child. The instruction sheet also contained a reminder to send the book back to school every Tuesday so it could be replaced with a different book. Not to be confused with library books and library days. Even though it is…confusing.
The books feature awesome prose, like: ‘I like big dogs….I like little dogs….I like wet dogs….I like cold dogs….But I really like….hot dogs.’
I think the goal is for your child to magically absorb the oft-repeated words (I, like, dogs) and in the future be able to spontaneously recall them from his memory bank. ‘Hey, that’s dogs!’ or something like that. Clearly I’m not an educator.
The thing that is tricky, aside from trying to maintain one’s patience when one’s child wails ridiculous things like ‘I can’t read’…’I will never read ever again’, is finding a window of time to do the work. Especially when you have a two year old and a nearly three month old hanging around. I mean, it seems counter-intuitive to put the two year old in front of a movie…..to work on reading with the five year old. ‘Here, you watch a movie while I work on your brother’s brain?!’ But the other option is to do it at 7pm when he’s tired and I’m ready to draw the curtains on the parenting experience.
And just when I was starting to fret about finding even ten minutes of alone time with my boy each day, another folder appeared in his backpack. The black, duotang folder. With homework pages. And another log: evidence of your ‘commitment’ to your child’s education.
This week’s page: a list of the colors in Spanish. So now, in addition to reading fun things like ‘I like big dogs’ I also have to review the colors in Spanish and listen to arguments from my oldest about why he wants to call light-brown ‘marron’ instead of ‘cafe’. Or why he wants to call pink ‘rosa’ instead of ‘rosado’.
The other night I was counting from 1-100 (as requested by the Gort) while cooking dinner to the soundtrack of one infant and one toddler screaming. It felt like a bizarro IQ test.
Yesterday was report card day. The Gort’s first report card. It brought back all of my own anxieties and issues with report cards. Which I was trying very hard not to pass on to him. We got in the car after pick-up and I tried my best not to rip the backpack off his back to get my hands on the report card. ‘You need to read it in the car,’ he instructed, ‘my teacher said you have to read it in the car,’ he advised when I tried to postpone the experience until we got home.
So I calmly removed the blue folder from his backpack. I reviewed the grading system (4, 3, 2, 1) and quickly scanned the 32 areas of assessment for any marks of brilliance; any signs that we have a genius on our hands. There were none. Not a single ‘4′ anywhere. ‘Demonstrates an awareness of personal health and safety’….a 2?! What does that even mean? And art – his milieu, his forte…a 3?!’
‘During large group and teacher-led activities, he likes giving his opinions and sharing ideas. He still needs daily reminders to raise his hand in order to talk and not interrupt the teacher or his peers.’
Wha? (Oh, wait, I can see why she might have said that.)
I thought about our upcoming conference with his teacher and how I was going to have to give her a piece of my mind about her woeful under-assessment of my firstborn.
Thankfully it was still a week away. And rational Nicola had a brief window of opportunity to make an appearance in the twenty four hours that followed the shock over the first report card. When a modicum of sober judgment returned, I determined that his teacher had merely left room ‘for improvement’ as it were. Clearly, if the Gort was going to have all 4’s by the end of Kindergarten, he had to start off with mostly 3’s. Otherwise, why finish the year?
Rational Nicola also concluded it would be best to send the professor to the teacher’s conference. Alone. He’s more likely to be ‘reasonable’ and not ‘defensive’. However, I will be sending with him a small portfolio containing my child’s work which refutes her assessment, point by point.
Es un autentico genio, Senora.
I knew the day was coming. How could it not? The Hen had made his way through his stash of ‘acceptable-to-him’ pacifiers. He was down to two. And then there was one. And every day since we’ve been afraid he’d lose ‘the one’ and we’d have to find the toddler equivalent of a methadone clinic.
His obsession with his ‘da’ started casually enough, as it has with all our boys. They emerged from the womb smacking their gums and, in an effort to avoid being permanently fused to them, I gave them a pacifier. Personally I don’t understand why anyone would want to suck on a piece of silicone for even three seconds, but apparently they want to.
So, it’s a win-win situation, except when the kid wakes up the minute the silicone nastiness leaves his mouth and can’t stop crying until it’s back in his mouth. That’s more of a lose-win situation. At least for me.
I think it was around the time we arrived on Canadian soil that his attachment to pacifiers expanded to include pillowcases. Preferably white, 100% cotton pillowcases. With the highest thread count possible. It was also around this time that the pacifier matter took a turn for the obsessive. With a dingy white pillowcase in one hand and a pacifier in the mouth, he could face anything. Without them, he could face….not much. At least not for very long.
And, thanks to his penchant for carrying these items all over creation and setting them aside when his interest in a particular toy outweighed his need for comfort, we’ve lost a lot of pacifiers. A LOT.
The Hen has personally lost about fourteen of them. By the end of summer two of the fourteen remained. Because in addition to being picky about having a pacifier…he only wants a certain kind of pacifier. A not-made-in-Canada kind of pacifier. Anything else gets thrown across the room…disgustedly.
The first of the last was lost a few weeks ago. Which left one. One blue newborn MAM pacifier. A two year old walking around with a tiny newborn pacifier in his mouth is quite a sight. Especially when he’s also dragging a white pillowcase behind him.
‘If he loses this one then it’s time for him to be done,’ Jason and I have been saying to each other the last couple of weeks.
Almost as if (a) we’re calling the shots and (b) we’d ever find the mental fortitude to listen to that kid scream at the top of his lungs for the better part of an hour.
And so, tonight arrived. The professor was off at the soccer fields trying to maintain the Eldorado Kickers’ newfound winning streak. I was alone. The Hen was tired. He’d only had a twenty minute nap in the car.
‘Whe my ba-da?’ he asked insistently as I changed his diaper before bed.
I hustled downstairs to get his majesty’s ’stuff’. The ‘ba’ was lying on the floor by the dining table. And the ‘da’ was….nowhere to be found.
I searched in all the plausible places – play room, living room, dining room, pants pockets, coat pockets – and came up empty-handed. He was screaming by that point. I looked with more fervor. Finally I went upstairs to deliver the news.
In total disbelief, he grabbed me by the hand and led me downstairs to the drawer where I keep the pacifiers. He stood waiting, expectantly. I opened the drawer and handed him one of the ‘back-ups-that-he-refuses’. He looked at it and threw it on the floor. Wailing all the while, heartbroken by my callous refusal to produce the ‘da’.
I took him upstairs where he lay sobbing on the rug; throwing clothes and toys at his older brother who was sitting on his bed minding his own business. He even threw a shoe at the poor kid. When he saw that the shoe lit up when it hit a surface, he was intrigued. Much like Curious George, I couldn’t help but think.
The tears stopped. He shoved the three-sizes-too-big shoe on the wrong foot and began stomping around. So he could see the lights.
I had a vision: of a pacifier-free child wearing one pair of Skechers size 11 light-up shoes 24 hours of every day for the rest of his life. It wasn’t a pretty picture, but at least he’d stopped crying. Surely not the first person to drown his (or her) sorrows in a pair of shoes.
Women have their Jimmy Choos and toddler boys have their Skechers, I guess.
But as with all material goods, the light-up shoes quickly lost their luster and the crying resumed. In search of some earplugs, I headed downstairs, bracing myself for a long night of weeping and gnashing of teeth. Why oh why couldn’t this have happened on Jason’s watch?
I thought about baking some brownies, so I’d have something to drown my sorrows in. But, for the first time…ever…I didn’t want to bake. Could this be the night when we’d both be delivered from our respective addictions?
I glanced at the ridiculously messy-crowded kitchen counter. I saw a blue Mam pacifier lying amongst the rubble of dirty dishes. I ran upstairs. The crying ceased immediately.
Maybe another night.
We were at the mall last week, trying to find some snowboots for the boys. On our way out of one store, we walked by a woman and her son. Instead of the usual cursory nod and semi-smile, she stopped to talk to us.
To tell us that one of the children’s clothing stores was having a big sale.
Even though I wasn’t planning on buying the boys any clothes, I appreciated her passing along the good news of a sale. I mean if there are shirts and pants on sale for $5.99, I like to be in the know.
I thanked her for the information and kept walking, trying to keep the contingent moving before tears erupted or store property got damaged. Or the new truck we were buying our oldest got dropped on the floor…again.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the woman was still going on about the sale to the professor. Apparently she really sensed we needed to know about this event because, in her words, ‘I see you have a big family.’
A big family?
The thought hadn’t occurred to me. Nor had it been uttered by a complete stranger. Until now.
Is a family with three kids – a five person family – big?
I guess I’ve been operating on the assumption that it’s not. Because when people ask if we’re going to have a fourth, I usually answer ‘no….because four kids….that’s a LOT!’
Three kids….is sort of middle of the road isn’t it -the 21st century version of the 20th century’s two parents-two kids configuration? I mean, (in my best Carrie Bradshaw voiceover) isn’t three the new two?
I’d assumed that the Johnson party of five was still within the parameters of a small-ish family. But the woman’s comment put us in Duggar territory, practically.
Curious, I conducted a very scientific poll. I made a list of the names of families I know reasonably well. Of the fifty-five names that came to mind, twenty-one (21!) are families with three children. And twenty-five (25) are two-kid families. That’s a fairly even split.
Either that or I’m hanging around with a bunch of Duggar-wannabes.
I will say the grocery cart is a lot fuller than it used to be. With kids – not food. Now, when I do the shopping with all three in tow, the cart is entirely filled with boys. I barely have room for groceries. Yes, the alternative is to insist my oldest boy-child walk through the store instead of ride in the cart. But then his brother will want to walk as well. And I’ll end up with more mysterious, unwanted food items in my grocery bags.
Like the large can of ‘fruit cocktail’ that made it all the way from the shelf to my grocery bag without my noticing.
I mean I’m used to the professor filling the cart on the sly with things like sweetened condensed milk or butterscotch ice cream topping. Or pop-tarts. But now the children, too?
As I was pushing my cart in the Superstore parking lot last week, a chicly dressed woman whizzed by me. Not a difficult feat by any means, since I was moving at a pace of roughly one mile per hour: trying to push the cart while corralling the oblivious-to-traffic-children focusing on their respective candy bars (bribes).
‘You’re my hero!’ she called to me over her shoulder. ‘I have one at home, and don’t even bring him….you have three!‘
We made breakfast at home last weekend: eggs, bacon, french bread. Jason was in the kitchen manning the stove and when he finally came over to the dining table, where the two bigger boys and I were sitting, munching on bread, the baguette was nearly gone.
He picked up the remaining crust and gave me a look. ‘What?’ I pseudo-apologized ‘I’ve hardly had any.’
Which was true. The blondies had eaten about eight pieces…each. Dejected, the professor walked back to the kitchen for a slice of loaf bread.
Big or small, one thing is certain. We are no longer a one-baguette family.
It’s Remembrance Day here in Canada. Or, Veteran’s Day in the States. It’s about remembering people who fought in wars; who made tremendous sacrifices; for the greater good.
Unfortunately, that’s not exactly how we spent the day chez Johnson.
The morning began with reveille from our two year old. I noted he now screams ‘mommy’ or ‘daddy’ while bouncing vigorously in his crib. This might be because no one comes to his aid.
We’re too tired.
‘Is this my morning?’ the professor croaked. Meaning, I suppose, ‘his’ morning to ’sleep in’ – as in, not get up at 6.30am. I politely and lovingly reminded him that I’m the one who gets up in the night with the kids and he’s the one who gets up in the morning with them. After which he protested ‘but I’m a veteran’.
A veteran of ‘the Lord’s army’ he later clarified. Yes sir.
We managed to bumble along until nap-time in a remarkably civilized manner. Unfortunately the Gort doesn’t nap, or ‘rest’, for any amount of money. He instead likes to spend nap-times working on some art project and waking up any adult trying to nap to show them his progress. Repeatedly.
As the professor found out today when he was trying to take a nap downstairs. I’ve learned my lesson and no longer bother with such exercises in futility. I just drink another cup of coffee.
There was a palpable malaise in the Johnson home following nap-time. So I suggested a walk. Outside.
‘Raise your hand if you don’t want to go on a walk,’ my five-going-on-fifteen-year old replied before extending his arm into the air. With certainty.
Silence filled the room as the professor silently (visibly) debated the pros and cons of going on a walk with everyone or staying home alone with his son who hates naps.
We went on the walk. To sweeten the deal, I promised Starbucks beverages afterwards for any and all happy participants. While the walk itself wasn’t a raging success, it was without incident, so I made good on my Starbucks promise.
The blondies and I went inside the coffee shop while Jason stayed in the van with the baby. We ordered two hot chocolates and an eggnog latte (the mere smell of it makes me ill) and a caramel brulee latte (how is this different from a caramel macchiato).
I gave the boys their hot chocolate and, with a latte in each of my hands, we began the journey back to the van. Having been around the block a time or two, I worried one of the boys would drop their drinks. But after we’d successfully navigated the big step in front of Starbucks, I thought we were in the clear. Four seconds later the Hen dropped his cup on the pavement and his hot chocolate spilled. Everywhere.
His face turned red, his mouth opened wide – the outrage and heartbreak so acute he couldn’t even make a sound. I ran to the van to rid myself of the drinks so I could assist the boy wonder. By the time I returned the silence had given way to intense wailing. Strangers were stopping to look at the little kid who was crying and pointing to the ground.
Since there was a rather lengthy line of people waiting for drinks inside, I picked up the little ball of tears and promised I’d make him some hot chocolate at home. Which was zero comfort to him. And he wailed the whole way home.
As we turned onto our street, the professor muttered: ‘I should have raised my hand.’
Minutes later, the Hen was happy as a clam, sitting on the kitchen counter munching on a scone and drinking his homemade hot chocolate. I, however, was not a happy camper. The pizza dough I’d made right after lunch had not risen at all. Which meant dinner wasn’t going to happen any time soon.
Feeling the need for some no-crying time, I decided to let the kids watch a movie. ‘Who wants to watch a movie,’ I asked and they ran downstairs clamoring with excitement. As I started clearing off the dining table, I noticed one of the Gort’s nap-time art projects: twenty or thirty tiny red stickers affixed to the table top.
I summoned the young man back upstairs to pay his dues (i.e. get rid of the stickers). Which resulted in more wailing and gnashing of teeth and ridiculous sounding phrases like: ‘but it’s really hard to get the stickers off,’ and ‘I’m tired of cleaning stickers off the table.’
You think?
Remember this: only patronize Starbucks’ with a drive-thru, even if you have to drive lengthy distances to get to one.
Remember this: stickers are the devil. Do not, under any circumstances, give a child a gift of stickers. There’s a 99% chance they will end up in places you do not want them, like car windows and dining tables. I speak from experience, as a person with a wreath-like pattern of stickers on the back of my shirt.
Apparently the little guy wasn’t just being ’sweet’ and ‘affectionate’ this afternoon while I was changing his brother’s diaper. He was slapping stickers on my back.
Save being the main subject in the family photographs, the littlest member hasn’t gotten much press. For now, he’s sweet and cute; he sleeps and eats and smiles. And he’s remarkably accurate with getting his fist in his mouth. I could say he seems pretty relaxed and easygoing, but what choice does he have? In this house, he’s kind of third on the totem pole. Feedings, diaper changes and naps all revolve around kindergarten drop-offs and pick-ups and other scheduling commitments.
It reminds me of the one time we went dog-sledding in northern, excruciatingly cold Minnesota. In December. It was vastly different from the nearly romantic image I’d had in my mind: sitting in a dogsled, being whisked in and out of spectacular scenery…
Instead it was brutally cold and we were woefully underdressed. And the ride was incredibly bumpy and also….like that horse carriage ride on Seinfeld….the dogs poop while they’re running. So you’re sitting there, beyond frozen, and then a nasty whiff of excrement finds its way to your nasal passages. The musher, in fact, commanded them ’sh*t and run….sh*t and run!’ Which we’re still chuckling about, nine or so years later. But, when you’re trying to win the Iditarod, there’s no time for potty breaks.
And that’s sort of what life is like for the baby of the house. ‘Nap and run’…’eat and run’…’poop and run’.
A few weeks ago, I was feeding the little tyke when his brothers required some urgent disciplinary action. And then it was time to go to Kindergarten. And…..an hour and a half later, he was able to finish his lunch. Good thing he has some ‘fat reserves’ in those little rolls on his thighs.
Another ‘drawback’ of being the baby – he’s either being held by someone or sitting in his bouncy seat. Meaning…the kid has zero ‘tummy time’. A realization that just occurred to me the other day. ‘I think he’s lazy,’ I told my sister over the phone. ‘He doesn’t do anything…the other boys had both rolled over when they were his age.’ (Just from tummy to back, but still.)
That’s because the other boys spent time playing on the floor. But these days, if we put the baby on the floor there’s a good chance he’s going to be ‘accidentally’ trampled by one of his brothers. So, for safety’s sake, it’s better to keep him elevated.
Hopefully he’ll figure out how to roll over before he gets to Kindergarten.
The Johnson boys at around the 2-month mark
The professor abandoned us on Saturday. To go and gamble away our life savings for a good cause. That may be a slight exaggeration. It is not, however, an exaggeration to say he left me alone with three children on a Saturday night. Without any eggs or milk in the fridge. Which means I couldn’t even make myself a faux-latte at home. And I couldn’t bake. Anything. I wracked my brain trying to come up with some kind of option for dessert. But, when you have no chocolate chips and no fruit of any kind. And no eggs. You don’t have a lot in the way of sweet options. Besides eating a cupful of whipped cream. Or a bowl full of dry Golden Grahams.
Much as I yearned for something delicious, I had zero desire to take the boys to the grocery store after six o’clock at night. It just seemed like a recipe for disaster.
I concluded that some kind of outing would be necessary for my continued sanity, so I helped them get ready. Their outfits could not have been more spectacular. The Gort wore Buzz Lightyear pajama pants and a mismatched top with a ‘regular’ shirt underneath. Puffy vest. Snow boots. His newest baseball cap. And….earphones?
The Hen wore a ‘regular’ shirt with pajama pants featuring palm trees. And a puffy vest. And too-big tennis shoes.
I piled them into the van and headed….for the Starbucks drive-thru. On the way there the Gort shared his latest musical composition – a song he’d just made up about ghosts. Even though he dutifully sang it twice, I couldn’t really tell what was going on.
But the lyrics I managed to hear, I loved. ‘Wouldn’t it be chilly with no skin….on.’
Take that, Elton John.
After picking up a tall latte and slice of holiday gingerbread, we headed home. Just me and my three boys driving in our awesome minivan on a Saturday night. I’ve never been one for going out on the weekends, but this may have officially pushed me into middle-aged mom territory. If I wasn’t there already.
When we got home we spent some time outside ‘looking at shadows’. Which basically involved the older boys running up and down the path leading to our front door until I got cold and told them we had to go inside.
Then we watched Tom and Jerry on my bed.
‘Is that the FDI Morning?’ The Gort inquired when the Warner Bros. logo popped up on the screen. ‘You mean FBI Warning?’ I clarified, even though it wasn’t that. ‘Yeah, I mean the FDI Morning.’
I don’t really know which is better – the animated cat and mouse antics, or watching the boys laugh hysterically about the antics. Even if I had to be parental and periodically remind them that putting matches in a cat’s claws and lighting them, is a really bad idea. Ditto for playing with dynamite.
The professor came home poorer than when he’d left.
