An early Valentine’s

I’ve always despised never been a big fan of Valentine’s Day.

In fact, the first Valentine I sent The Boss – I think it was during relationship 1 of 3 (the current four-plus years of marriage and two years of living together being the third go-around) – was the epitome of romance.

It was an e-card, sent to her Hotmail inbox, as she attended college a mere seven hours away, with no plans for us to see each other for weeks. And this was no fancy, singing-and-dancing e-card that you’d find online now. Oh no. Back in the late-90s, when e-cards were practically brand new, it was a stagnant image that you typed a message into.

My message was along the lines of:

“Well, you know I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day, but I figured I should send you something or else I’m a dead man. So happy Valetine’s Day.”

Of course, a decade has passed and I don’t remember the exact wording, but if I was stupid enough to send my girlfriend an e-card and nothing else on the most celebrated love holiday of the year, then it couldn’t have varied much from that.

But I’ve wisened over the years, and I’m not so blatant with my loathing of Valentine’s Day – but she still knows paying $50 for $25 flowers and $20 for $10 meals busts my balls. But I always come through. And I don’t complain (although she’ll say I complain, but really I just show a lack of enthusiasm leading up to the big day, which is different than complaining if my dictionary is correct).

And y’know what, I’m starting to enjoy it. I pretend I don’t because I love to grind her gears, but I enjoy taking the time for us to be together, one-on-one, at dinner, or watching a movie, or just talking and enjoying each other’s company over a glass/bottle of wine, without worrying about work and bills and all the other day-to-day shit we get caught up in, that for some stupid reason blurs our vision of the bigger picture and causes us to forget to enjoy the awesomeness of being with the person we love every single day.

Not everyone is so lucky, and those of us who are shouldn’t forget that.

So happy Valentine’s Day baby. I love you.

Ahhhhhh, Wipeout

The Hurricane had her first major wipeout last night, and the tears were still flowin’ when I walked in the door after work.

Her Nana and Papa Farm got her a great table and chair set for Christmas, but she still has problem sliding off the hard plastic seat. When she wiggles her way to the end of the chair she can’t quite get her butt off before the legs kick out and she and the chair go skidding across the hardwood laminate flooring.

I guess last night, the position of the chair was in a bad spot and when the inevitable kick occurred, it sent The Hurricane headfirst into the toy box, a cheap chest made of a woven wood but with a fairly solid frame.

By the look of the blood on her chin, I think that’s what made contact with the toy box, although she said her teeth were sore and she kept her finger in there for a while, not letting Mom a peek for a few minutes. Luckily, all the pearly whites are still intact and standing where they’re supposed to.

So, after a bout of hugs with Mom, which I walked into the middle of, and then a quick hug and kiss from me, she was back in action, jumping on our bed (I know, we learn so quickly), then hiding under the covers, finished off with a bout of ripping around the house.

So we all survived her first big fall. Hopefully there’s no more of them, and if there are (duh), we’ll just hope for the same result.

Because kisses are the best way to heal wounds.

The morning after ... still milkin' it

Shut up Saturdays

Touching the ceiling is the newest game

10 seconds of sheer terror

I came across a horrific story out of Michigan about a month-old baby who died while sleeping with his parents.

That was always a huge fear of mine, even though The Hurricane never did and still doesn’t have any inclination to sleep in the same bed as us.

I remember either the first or second night we had her home from the hospital. With all the grandparents around, and a new Mommy trying to bond with her baby, I hadn’t had a lot of time with my new daughter. So, after a feeding, I sent an exhausted Boss to bed, put on the movie The Last Samurai, found a comfortable spot sitting up on the couch, and snuggled with my new baby, who was sleeping soundly.

Well into the movie, I realized The Hurricane, who was swaddled and cradled in my arms, hadn’t moved for a while – not a leg kick, finger bend or little cry – and I started to panic. I remember trying to rouse her while we were still sitting on the couch, but she didn’t respond to anything I did, which admittedly wasn’t much because you can’t exactly shake a baby awake or flick their ears when they’re less than two days out of the womb.

I then remember leaping to my feet and calling her name, doing what I could to wake her up – to get some sort of response - without completely losing my mind. All I could think of was that I had suffocated her against my chest while I watched a fucking movie, and I didn’t deserve to be a parent, and I could never forgive myself for this horrific act of irresponsibility …

And then she woke up. I don’t think she started crying, but just made a peep, just enough to let me know she was OK, and I had over-reacted to a soundly sleeping baby.

What I do remember clearly is the greatest sense of relief I have ever felt – it washed over me like a rolling wave in a warm ocean. I sat back down on the couch with her, stunned, my heart racing.

I hugged her tight, but made double-sure she was still breathing.

I know it was the scariest 10 seconds of my life, and I can’t imagine the pain, and guilt, and self-loathing, and sadness, and heartache those young parents in Michigan are feeling today.

No Neen, Neen

The Hurricane’s Aunt Janine – or Neen Neen in ‘Cane-speak – is coming to visit this weekend, along with her fellow sinner Curt.

The Boss asked the little one at supper tonight if she was looking forward to seeing her Aunt, who we haven’t seen since Christmas. Her reply was quick and emphatic.

“No Neen, Neen.”

Once, it’s a fluke. But then The Boss asked again. The Hurricane’s answer?

“No Neen, Neen!”

I very much concur.

A million dollar arm

I am not going to be one of those parents.

You know, the parents in the stands at their kid’s sporting events yelling and screaming and carrying on over what, in the grand scheme of things, is a meaningless recreational activity.

This isn’t easy for me to say, because I’m an athlete. Maybe not a good athlete, but someone who loves sport, and winning, and being competitive, and working hard at all times when playing the games we love.

But I refuse to go down the road that so many parents do and begin living vicariously through my child’s sporting exploits. The Old Man didn’t do it with me — either because I wasn’t good enough at anything, despite many championships that prove otherwise (damn, I was going for humble there …), but more likely because he was smart enough to know I wasn’t going to play in The Show.

So, like many things in life, I’m going to try to follow The Old Man’s lead when it comes to The Hurricane’s participation in sport — a more than willing coach, tireless practice partner, advice giver, chin-picker-upper, and strategizer — but I’m not going to start pushing her to become the first female pitcher in Major League Baseball.

Believe me, this is a big statement for me, because this chick has a million dollar arm.

Wait, that’s a dated saying. She has a billion dollar arm.

Although we don’t encourage her to throw things around the house, we do let her chuck The Mutt’s toys, because otherwise she hits the poor dog on the nose repeatedly, before one of them tires of the game. So, yeah, fire away kiddo, before you cause even more brain damage to the long-haired black thing you already torture at every turn.

But over the past couple of days I’ve really noticed The Hurricane’s developing form, when throwing items. Gone is the noodle arm and wrist flick that results in a throw that might go two feet ahead, three feet to the side or even a foot behind her. That’s so what’s expected of an 18-month-old.

But, with yesterday being her 19-month birthday, she has suddenly developed a cannon. She’s throwing rubber ducks clear across the living room and bouncing them off the window, while The Mutt looks stunned and The Boss dives for cover.

Last night, she hit me in the upper arm with the same duck when she popped up from behind the bed in the spare room, while I pretended not to see her because there were no lights on in the room. I totally could see her, but I didn’t see the rifle action of her throwing arm coming, until after I took the blow.

There was velocity. There was aim. And, of course, there was laughter. And still I managed to stamp out visions of The Hurricane in a Toronto Blue Jays uniform shaking off the catcher’s call for a curve when everyone in the park knows the punk at the plate can’t catch up to her 100 mile per hour heater.

So my kid officially has a lightning bolt for an arm. She’s like Nick Laloosh (Tim Robbins in Bull Durham for those who haven’t seen the greatest baseball movie of all time), with her million dollar arm, but hopefully only her Daddy has the 10 cent head.

So I’m not going to be that parent — no way, no how — but Daddy’s Little Superstar is already making it tough on me.

A girl, a flashlight and a dog

The Hurricane has known for some time that The Mutt chases light.

Reflections, flashlights, shadows — anything that moves on a wall.

So when The Hurricane got a hold of a flashlight, well …

Are fat kids being abused?

An Australian medical journal says doctors at a childrens’ hospital say the growing prevalence of severe obesity in kids is leaving many health workers unsure if they should notify child protection workers when parents fail to follow medical advice.

So, in Canadian terms, if your kid is obese and you, as a parent, don’t do all you can to trim them down, doctors and nurses can call the Children’s Aid Society.

Is that excessive?

The easy answer, I think, is no, that’s perfectly acceptable. Parents are responsible for their kid’s health and if they’re raising a gigant-asaurus that can’t walk up a flight a stairs then maybe their kids would be better off in a foster home where better-positioned parents can get the kid on a treadmill and feed them properly.

But I don’t think it can be so cut and dried, because there’s plenty of reasons today’s kids are so obese, and I don’t think it’s all a parent’s fault.

What about technology, which doesn’t make it necessary to walk outside and meet someone to learn every single thing about them?

What about poverty, which stops low-income earners from providing their families with fresh fruit, vegetables, milk, and meat, instead of boxes and boxes of processed shit?

What about the computer, television and video game industries that turn kids into couch potatoes and zombies that live in a fabricated world?

What about the cost of organized sports, where a low-end hockey stick is over $50?

What about big business, which expects people to work 10 or 12 hour days, leaving children to their own devices?

What about the education system, which continues to cut recess time and stifle playground activity with generic, boring equipment because a kid maybe, just maybe, could get hurt on a slide that has a six-inch drop to the ground and bang, you got yourself a lawsuit?

What about a medical system that just throws prescription drugs like Ritalin at kids instead of discovering reasons for their behaviour, and helping parents harness that energy into something productive?

What about you, because, well, have you hugged a fat kid lately?

Are all of these ills the fault of parents? I don’t think so. Sure, ripping that Happy Meal out of a kid’s hand now and again and replacing it with an apple is important, but does the fact your kid is fat make you an unfit parent?

I think there’s plenty of ways to share that blame.

Shut up Saturdays

Jumping in with both feet

As we age we have fewer and fewer ‘firsts’.

In fact, it’s a rare occasion when we divert ourselves from the day-to-day monotony of adulthood to explore new areas, try new foods, or take part in new activities.

As adults, we’re just too busy going to work, picking little ones up from daycare, getting supper on the table, and finding time to play with the kids before jettisoning them off to bed, before crashing on the couch for an hour or two.

When you have kids, it’s a Monday to Sunday routine, and I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that. In fact, just being in the same house as The Hurricane on a daily basis is all I need to keep me going.

But there are times where I long for an adventure, something completely new and exhilarating, something I can look back on in a few years and say, ‘Wow, that was really awesome’.

I guess the last time I had that feeling was in 2004/05, as The Boss and I backpacked across New Zealand and Australia, after quitting our jobs and selling our house in Alberta and moving back to Ontario with no plans except a whirlwind trip around parts of the world The Boss had always wanted to see. Luckily, she convinced me over a year or so that I wanted to quit my job, leave the security of a company I had a good future in, and become a backpacker too.

Since we were the most senior of rookies on the backpacking tour — I turned 25 early into our journey, while The Boss turned 24 a day or two before we left — and we were the only married backpackers we met (tourists aren’t the same), we soaked in as much of the experience as we could, knowing full well it would be our one and only chance for such a carefree life, unlike the 18- to 21-year-olds, who said they’d see the Great Barrier Reef “next time”. Sha. Right.

But the experience that still sticks out in my mind the most, even after all this time, is skydiving in Taupo, New Zealand, with the mountain used in the Lord of the Rings trilogy as a backdrop. I’d love to say I was first in line, ready to be strapped to my dive partner, and eager to feel the wind on my face. Instead, I was the pussy who hoped he was too far over the 190 lb. weight limit (they made an exception for my 10 or 12 extra pounds), then paced the building like a man in a maternity ward in the 1950’s (I don’t know what that means), and finally only signed with shaky hand after an ecstatic 70-something woman came running in off the tarmac after her successful jump and The Boss looked at me with those “What, are you gonna let some Grandma outdo you?” eyes.

The flight up was nice — great scenery that Taupo — although the benches that slanted towards the open door were a bit unnerving. Then people started to disappear. They were actually jumping out of the goddamned plane! As people in front of me dropped to what I assumed was their sure death, my partner began pushing me towards that gaping door. Although I dug my heels in like a cowboy dragging behind a roped steer, I was no match for this experienced skydiver. We got to the door, he sat me down on the edge and my feet dangled into oblivion. I looked down at Lake Taupo below and, in hindsight, it was beautiful, but at the time, I think I pooped a little.

Then he forced my head back onto his shoulder (to avoid my head snapping back and knocking him out) and we fell into nothing.

You lose your breath, y’know, those first five or 10 seconds. But when it comes back, and you are weightless and screaming towards the earth at 1,000 miles an hour, and your mind is racing but not with fear but pure glee — giddiness even — it is an unexplainable feeling.

Then the parachute gets pulled, your nuts get ripped up into your throat, and you begin your slow descent towards the earth, whooping and screaming and telling your partner he has the greatest fuckin’ job on earth about 200 times, and taking in the breathtaking scenery, and realizing that you have just experienced the most amazing minute of your entire life.

After landing, and being freed from my abductor, I ran towards The Boss, who was the last to land. We hugged and jumped and screamed and talked over each other, because neither of us could form a complete thought, but we had so much to say.

The reason I’m reflecting on this today is because The Hurricane has discovered the 18-month-old’s version of free falling — the two-footed jump. Last night, instead of skipping around in a circle, she was getting full air. Bending both her knees and jumping.

Now, she’s not ready for the NBA just yet, but there was definitely daylight underneath those feet, and, judging by the smiles and screams of delight coming from her, my best guess is she was sharing the experience I had in 2004.

It may seem like the two are unrelated — one a 9,000 foot drop from a plane, the other an inch high ‘leap’ into the air — but can you imagine the feeling of freedom a child must have the first time they are airborne?

The first time they experience gravity (at least intentionally, butter fingers). The first time they reach for the sky, lift their feet from the ground, with no net below them and nobody catching them and then stick the landing.

Wow.