happy birthday grandma-ma-ma!

I can't wait to see you at Easter! I am practising running to you for kisses and hugs. See?

Love, Turkey Roll

xo

20 Minutes at Snowflake Kingdom

It should have been A Day At Snowflake Kingdom, according to Uncle Samy's very elaborate email, which apparently none of his jerk friends read. But Boh cried his little eyes out after only a short time, requiring Mommy and Daddy to get out of the cold and into a toasty warm apartment full of red wine, homemade hummus and yummy cheese. (We've trained that baby of ours well.)

Boh's first taste of a Beavertail.

Grumpy (but so very cute).
Daddy and Boh in front of the only ice sculpture we were able to see. Maybe next year, hey Uncle Samy?

fair is fair

"What's he eating?"

"I'm not sure. A piece of a paper napkin, I think."

"Whatever, Boh. You're the one who has to poop it out."

"Just like Gordie. What's good for the goose is good for the gander."

"Yes. That's what that means."

the disappearing baby

babies for breakfast

better than coffee

exonerate me, fully and completely?

A number of you have written to ask what Ferberizing is, or wonder how it is going. On Question #1: Theoretically, the Ferber Method is an approach that trains babies and toddlers to sleep through the night; parents respond to crying only after increasingly extended stints, eventually teaching the child that it's not worth the effort to exert so much energy for so little reward. Practically, Ferberizing is an excuse parents use to make them feel better about taking time for themselves at the end of the day while their kid screams bloody murder upstairs.

And how's it going? Depends on who you ask. I think okay; despite being in the midst of sprouting his upper front teeth, the Babe has had only limited night wakings in the last few days. Ask Boh, and he might tell you he hopes that I am saving - saving for years and years of the therapy that he will surely need as a result of my neglect.

It's all about interpretation, really.

letter from mommy: month nine

Dear Little Man,

Sigh. Today I publish your nine month letter...two days late. Whereas before I drafted these words well in advance of the actual month marker, from now on it will be a race against time to translate my thoughts into type, my heart into my head and through my fingers. These are the deadlines they don't tell you about when you start back at work after parental leave, I suppose. The ones that matter.

Things you've done this month: You venture up the stairs (and promptly fall down them). You continue to babble and coo, but still don't say mama. Or mum. Or moo. Or anything that would suggest to me that you love me at least as much as you love your dad, whose name you've been saying - repeatedly, and in the most heart-breaking sing-songy voice my ears have ever had the pleasure to hear, ever - for over a month now. (And I tell ya kid, I have never wanted anyone to call me moo before, but I want you to. I want you to wake up right now, even though it's 11:30 at night, and say Moo! I love you! Can I watch those cheap adult TV shows that are on Showcase on Friday nights too? Just like daddy is? Because I would say, Yes. Yes you can. But don't get any ideas when you see all those boobies. Because mommy's have been put away, and they can't come out to play anymore. Sorry.)
I miss you, Sweetheart. At work the other day, sitting in a computer room listening to techies drone about how to save files into the fancy computer system they built (um, you press Save, in case you were wondering), I imagined you crawling around through the chairs, under the desks, greedily eyeing the wires before you GRABBED THEM, AND ATE THEM. My mind wandered from the subject at hand - printing (um, you press Print) - and my thoughts turned to your smell. Ahh, your smell. It is my oxygen when you're near me, and the death of me when you're not. And your daddy is so, so lucky (and so are you) for this time the two of you now have together. And this is what I remind myself of, what I say silently, internally, when I need to snap myself back to the task at hand: Searching for electronic files (um, you press Search), or learning about the proper way to format a briefing note (one inch margins, 14-point font, and never EVER over two pages, because THAT is how policy gets made).
And when I want to transport myself back onto your car mat on the living room floor that sops up your spilt milk and which is covered in books, green plastic rings, and more than a few of the six toy cell phones you have now in your possession, I look down at my pant leg at the medley of formula, goober and oatmeal tattooed in an oval just above my knee, the place where you pull yourself up to kiss me as I stand at the kitchen counter to pour my morning coffee just before leaving to catch my bus to work. Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves, but I wear mine on my pant leg, at least until I walk in the door after a too-long day away from you. Then, I scoop up my heart in my arms and inhale deeply, able to breathe once again, at least until the next morning, when the process starts itself again.
And that is what you did when you were nine months old, Mr. Man: You taught your mommy what it means to breathe.

A million sloppy Boh kisses, C'est Bon. I love you so, so, so, so, so, so much.

Mommy

breaking the news to daddy

Dear Adoring and Wonderful Husband,

After throwing a load of laundry in downstairs, I came up to find the Babe - your son - eating cat puke. Please don't hate me.

Signed,

Mommy

t-minus seven hours!

Hope this helps you get through the day, Dad!

two birds with one slobbery stone

Would love to chalk up the scarcity of syntax on this blog of late to two things: fodder that's been mulling over in my mind that I don't really want to publish publicly, but can't think of anything else in its place; and a Babe who shimmies up to the laptop everytime it's opened and lunges for the screen, because screens? I WANT TO EAT IT. Thought I would let him get some curiousity satisfied at the same time as some sort of configuration of language could be strung together to cut and paste in this space. Herewith, I give you, Blogging By Boh:

J HJ Bbbbbbbbbbbk .i=;>.no
d007Adxxxz

I had to stifle his creativity midway through the drooly session so that: a) the excessive amount of liquid seeping into the keyboard wouldn't act as a conduit from his face to the electrical impulses just dying to make their way out of the hard drive and onto the TV show, "Stupid Mommy Tricks"; and, b) I could save the "alt" and the "x" keys from an impending final resting place otherwise known as Gordie's stomach, since the Babe, in his valiant effort TO GRAB IT, AND EAT IT, ripped them off during his stroke of genius. (Don't worry sweets; they're back on, good as new. See? x x x x x x)

I'm not sure what exactly Boh was trying to communicate to us in the above, but I figure it is probably one of the most profound things you or I will ever find on this blog. In fact, I am 100% certain of it.

Standy Stettner

setting mommy straight

Oh He Of Dirty Knees says: "Daddy, forget a skull watch. This is what mommy really needs for Christmas."

Dear Daddy, I learned to crawl while you were at work today. Love, Boh

A couple nights ago, our good friend C. called us to say that he was coming to O-town for the weekend. The law finals sure to incarcerate him in his tiny Kingston apartment in just a few short weeks apparently are calling him to the bar early. Likely a couple bars, actually; bars that are likely in Hull. While just over a year ago we would have started the party right then and there with a quick trip to the store to buy both beer and clam chowder in bulk (don't ask), our response on Wednesday night was less than subdued. It was almost catatonic. "Really? That's great," we whispered, fearful that even the slightest increase in the volume of the spoken word on the ground floor of our house after 8:00 pm would re-awake the Babe upstairs, two rooms over, fanning the flames of another crying fit of fury that Adoring and Wonderful Husband just put out minutes earlier with the promise of a car at 16. A fast, red car at 16, one that will surely give Mommy ulcers in case there was any doubt she has them already. "You should really call us when you're in. Stop by for breakfast Sunday morning before you go back." And that was pretty much the end of it. These days we don't even pretend that we might make an appearance somewhere on a Saturday night, and certainly not an appearance together. As I've said before, Sunday afternoon is the new Saturday night. So C., in my mind I am speaking very loudly, and with much excitement, when I say this: "Sunday afternoon. Come see Boh and watch me make perogies. It'll be more fun than a night in Hull, I promise, mostly because you'll remember it, and I might even send you home with perogies."

The other thing we'll be doing on Sunday? BABY-PROOFING.

the itsy bitsy belligerence in mommy got worked up, and up went the post that freaked the grandmas out

"Maybe I shouldn't put so much rice on the spoon and more would go in his mouth instead of everywhere else? Yeah. And maybe I shouldn't breastfeed him in a bar and give him plastic bags to play with and let him watch TV all morning. But a mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do, ya know?"

for daddy, by special request

I debated on what I should call the following series of videos. The Rice is Right? Why We Have A Dog? Yummy, Yummy Rice: A Trilogy? Finally I settled on, C'Mon and Find Me Child Protection Services - I Am a Mommy Who Likes to Pimp Out Her Son for the Sake of Her Blog.

take two sloppy Boh kisses and call me in the morning

A quick trip to a daycare last week to see about fee schedules and visceral reactions resulted in one baby with a cold and two people posing as adults figuring out ways to break it to their own parents that the Babe? He will likely be an only child, because responsibility? We can’t afford it.

Dealing with Boh’s first cold had me thinking a lot about what makes me feel better when I am sad or under-the-weather myself. Logic goes out the window when you are dealing with a child, because babies don’t understand that the ability to pass oxygen through the nasal cavity is regained after you blow your nose to get rid of all the icky boogers temporarily camped there. All babies know is that, MOMMY, I CAN’T BREATHE, AND I AM SCARED THAT I WILL FEEL THIS WAY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

It’s a feeling I can relate to, though thankfully not that often. And so in dealing with the Babe and his mean little virus I had to think hard about all those things that unconsciously lift me when I’m down in the dumps. Thing #1: Timeliness. When someone wipes my tears away before the salty wetness can get into my ears, I know everything will be okay. But if the tears make it to my lobes, it’s game over, at least for the next half hour, because all I can do then is whimper and wait. Thing #2: Hugs (of course), but the kind of hugs where the other person’s arms are wrapped so tightly around you that your world shrinks down to the size of a cocoon, and your hurt or sadness shrinks too, and becomes manageable, something you know you can deal with. Thing #3: Faith. Actually, this is one the Babe is teaching me. To put your head on hold and trust your heart. Trust that mommy’s hugs will be enough to make you feel better. Trust that everything will turn out okay despite logic and reason. Trust that logic and reason sometimes aren’t necessary - sometimes all you need are Cheerios.

(Turkey Monkey is doing just fine, if you’re wondering. A few coughs here and there but other than that he’s happy as a clam.)

letter from mommy: month seven

Dear Turkey Monkey,

Yesterday you turned seven months old. I would have written earlier, but I was too busy yelling at Gido for letting you have some of the ice cream cake from Dairy Queen that we got for Uncle Harvey's birthday. "What are you DOOOIIIIIIIIINGGG? He can't have SUUUGGGGGAAAAARR before bedtime! He can't have MIIIIILLLLLKKK before he's a year old!" I whisked you out of Gido's arms as though he was shovelling uranium or boogers into your mouth - or something even more awful, like Super Baba's head cheese - and five minutes later, I realized I have to get a grip. Because you're seven months old now. You might as well be a teenager. A drooly, sometimes smelly teenager who can't walk (or crawl) yet, let alone steal mommy and daddy's car to joyride over the bridge to Hull to see strippers with Lucas. It's just a matter of time, I know...

Speaking of which, I think you must be a leg man, because this past month you started drinking formula from the sippy cup with such gusto that it's almost like you've forgotten about mommy's boobies altogether. Which may be just as well, since you just cut your bottom two teeth, and we all know nipples and incisors don't mix. At least not all the time.

By far your best parlour trick is waving hello and good-bye. I don't think you know what you're doing it for, but you still do it, and this morning when we pulled out of Grandma and Gido's driveway to catch the plane back to Ottawa from Halifax and you waved good-bye to Grandma, I think you made her very proud and broke her heart all at the same time. Or maybe that was just me.

Boh, when I first met your daddy I knew he was the one for me because I could share my air with him. We could lie together, nose to nose, and I wouldn't have to move my face so I could breathe my own oxygen, so I didn't feel like I was choking, which is how I would have felt with anybody else. I could breathe with him; that's how I knew. It's how I knew he would be the great love of my life, how I knew he would be the daddy of my babies.

I feel kind of the same way about you, except for you? For you I would not only share my air, I would give it to you if you needed it. All of it. If only one of us was allowed to breathe, there is no question who would get the O2. This is how I know; this is how I know you are my baby and I am your mommy, how I know I love you more than anyone or anything that exists in this world.*

Boh C'est Bon, I love you so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so much. And so does your daddy. Now could you please just put the learning to crawl thing on hold for a couple more months? Thanks. Owe you one.

Love,

Mommy

* Caveat for potential future children: I love you all the same. Swear.

keepin' it in the family

"I think he looks like your dad."

"Really?"

"Yeah, out of both sets of parents I see your dad in him the most. The hair, the eyes..."

"Ummmm, yeeeaahhh. Maybe you should have told me that when he wasn't sucking on your boob."

good morning Grandma!