Shut up Saturdays

February 28, 2009

Wow, that was a busy week. No time to post, and no time to even get the camera out to take pictures of The Hurricane.

I know, crazy.

So here’s some of my all-time favourites.

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Right before the exploding shit that hit me in the shoulder ...

Right before the exploding shit that hit me in the shoulder ...

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Timbits + library = Level 4 Hurricane

February 24, 2009

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“Oh Daddy, was feeding me two Timbits and then taking me to the library really such a good idea?”

Late last week, while I was finishing up my holidays, The Hurricane and I went to the local library, with the intent of reading lots of books and playing … uh, quietly … in the kids area.

Unfortunately, I’m notorious for not checking schedules – the library’s, the YMCA’s, The Boss’s – I just assume they’ll be available to me because I want them to be. So, we showed up half an hour early, at 9:30 a.m., pulling on locked doors in the cold, whipping wind screaming off Lake Ontario.

So, instead of heading home for a few minutes and then re-dressing her in all those layers of winter clothes, I figured we’d find a way to kill half an hour, and our first stop was a nearby Tim Hortons (for any American readers, Timmies is a coffee/donut shop that is a Canadian institution – John Lennon would agree that it’s bigger than Jesus here in the Great White North).

I grabbed a coffee and 10 Timbits (mini sugar-encrusted donuts of various flavours), and headed back for the library parking lot. Once there, The Hurricane moved to her rightful place of ‘shotgun’, and we feasted. I snuck a quick three into me, while she nibbled on one, but still it was only 9:47 a.m., 13 minutes until the librarians opened their gates of learning. So what the hell, I gave her a second Timbit, this one chocolate. We made a pact to save the rest for Mommy.

After jamming to some rock music (Queen was the CD of choice that morning – she headbanged to Bohemian Rhapsody at the exact right moment!) it was 10 and we went into the library all nice and quiet like, and headed for the kids section, which was inhabitated by one person – the angry librarian lady who never, ever smiles.

Ever.

As we jumped from bookshelf to bookshelf oohing and aahing with each new find, I realized she was speeding up. Like fast. Crazy fast. And then the running started. The flat-out, fast-as-my-little-legs-can-go running. Throw in the necessary “ahah ahah ahah ahah” sounds created when she hits hyper-speed, and a Hurricane of epic proportions had indeed descended on the library’s main floor.

She ran around the giant square desk at the front, which diverts both incoming and outgoing traffic, the wrong way about 10 times, greeting everybody with a rousing ‘Hi!’, as she whizzed by their legs.

Then she found the empty conference room with the open door and tore that place a new one, screeching and staying as far away from me as she could.

Then, when she saw an opening, she’d go barrelling to the far end of the library (back to where we were supposed to be reading quietly!), making as much noise as possible along the way, before taking a breather with a couple of books or two, and making me think the Timbits were working their way out of her system, and she was finally ready to settle down.

Then, like a shot, she’d be gone again, wreaking havoc on everyone and everything along the way.

Luckily the librarian at the front counter is extremely friendly and has known The Hurricane since she was practically brand new. The woman laughed and teased me for being so stupid (although not using those words).

But the evil librarian didn’t even smile. Not once. Not even the edge of her lips moved, which means she’s either dead inside or a statue. But she picked up the phone, so I think statue is out.

Anyway, I eventually rounded her up, somehow got her boots and coat back on and dragged her out of the building, her tongue rolled out of her head, exhausted, but with eyes that still darted every which way, as she planned her next escape.

Suffice to say, Friday’s nap at 11:30 a.m. didn’t happen as planned either. Oops.

So, if you’re ever heading to the library with a 19-month-old and have a few minutes to kill, I’d recommend passing on the Timbits. You might as well just let them drink your double-double too.


Shut up Saturdays

February 21, 2009

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Oh God, I think she ate poo …

February 20, 2009

That’s right, if the baseball style black streak under her eye is what I think it is, combined with her clean hands, I think The Hurricane had a taste of poo when ‘napping’ this afternoon.

(I’m on holidays this week, so that’s why I’m home in the middle of the day seeing but not believing all this)

The Hurricane naps for everybody but me. What she does when I’m in charge is play in her crib for an hour, then jump up and down, and then drop a huge deuce in her drawers.

Like clockwork.

Today, the jumping started halfway through my sandwich, so I chose to finish eating. Big mistake. Five minutes later, when I went into her room knowing the unmistakble reek of naptime poo, combined with baseboard heater, would greet me upon opening the door, I noticed something under her right eye. It was a black streak, running from about mid-eye and down towards her earlobe.

Being dim-witted, it took me a minute to fit 2-and-2 together, but eventually I realized there was shit on The Hurricane’s face. I grabbed her hands to see if she was covered in it, only to realize they were mostly clean, with only a few traces of poo on them.

And, other than the back of her diaper, where else do her hands spend most of their time? In her mouth, of course.

Again, some math was required for me to piece these facts together, but I’m pretty sure she stuck her hands down her diaper, pulled out a few fingers of poo, marked up her face like the crazy kids from Lord of the Pigs, and then cleaned herself up like any self-respecting 19-month-old would.

I asked her if that’s what she did, and, to her credit, she fessed up.

Then I asked her if she wanted some milk to wash her snack down with and there wasn’t much hesitation with that head nod.

No wonder she still won’t go to sleep, an hour later. I might have insomnia tonight too, knowing what happened in the room down the hall.


A ‘hack’ job

February 20, 2009

There’s a great conversation going on over at Super Mega Dad’s blog about his young kids and how they are used to immediate access to information because of technology.

If they want a movie, it’s on the computer. If they want a TV show, he can bring it up on his cell phone. Need to pause live TV? Hell you can do that too. I can’t because I’m too cheap for a DVR, but he can …

Go give it a read, because not only does he make a lot of great points in his blog, but the comments section touches on a lot of different aspects of kids and technology, without resorting to the, ‘When I was a boy …’ syndrome.

It’s good readin’, so much so that I’m not even ashamed to be mailing in this post and being a complete hack by simply linking to someone else’s blog.


Dada has left the building

February 19, 2009

I went into last weekend as a Dada.

I left as a full blown Daddy.

No, I didn’t have to make a religious pilgrimage into a forest with nothing but a jacknife and a piece of rope, hoping to come out 10 days later a different man.

I just had to listen carefully to The Hurricane when she called my name. Although I wasn’t the first to pick it up – The Boss listened to Ace of Base instead of Guns ‘n Roses in her childhood, so her hearing is better than mine – sometime on Sunday the little one made the move from baby to toddler by declaring the days of ‘Dada’ over, ushering in the days of calling me ‘Daddy’.

And oh my God, it is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.

“Pees Daddy wawa.” (Please Daddy, water)

“Daddy potty.” (Daddy dropped a bomb)

“Daaaaaaadeeeeeee.” (Hey old man, I want you to pay attention to me)

“Daddy high.” (No, I’m not actually high, it means let’s hide under a blanket and tease the dog until she jumps all over us)

The list goes on and on. And, what’s shocking is that at 19-months-old that just scratches the surface of her vocabulary. The Boss signed me up for some parent website about, oh, 20 months ago, and every week it sends me an e-mail with tips and hints and things to watch for with my kid. Yesterday’s e-mail said a 19-month and three-week old should be able to say 10 to 50 words. The Hurricane easily has over 100 – hell she can rhyme off 50 words from just one picture book. In fact, last night when watching Baby Einstein Shapes (which she calls Baby Shay) she turned around in her chair, looked at The Boss and said, “Oval.”

Clear as day.

Oval.

Some words only those closest to her can make out, but it’s still pretty amazing. I’m sure I’ll start a list sometime for the baby book, or to carry around in my wallet to bore amaze people with, because it seems like she knows too much for someone her age.

Her expanding knowledge is great and it’s scary as hell, because not only is she poised to pass me by any day, it also means she’s getting big, and I’m not sure I like that.

* update – I also noticed at supper last night that ‘choo choo’ (which was one of her first non-parental words, along with apple and baby) has been replaced firmly by ‘train’. So now when we hear action on the tracks about a mile from our house, the whistles will no longer be accompanied by a surprised ‘choo choo’, but a matter of fact ‘train’. She’s such a big girl (and it kills me).


Another clarification

February 18, 2009

I knew I wouldn’t come out of this blogging experiment unscathed, and yet I continue to do this.

For you.

My faithful reader.

This is my second official clarification for a blog post (read the first here), although this one is not at the urging of The Boss, as she’s unaware I’m writing this. In fact, she’s dead asleep at 9 p.m. with the Berlin Wall already firmly in place.

This clarification has to do with my early Valentine’s Day post of last week.

On Sunday night we were out for dinner with a group of our friends, some of whom have a sadder existence than I and actually read this blog (wait, is it more pathetic to read or write this drivel? Anyway…). So I’m at the very far end of the table from The Boss (boys on one end, girls on the other, just like a Grade 6 dance) and I overhear her saying that people likely think I’m some sort of hero and great romantic after reading my Thursday post.

She – clearly – was not moved by the heartfelt softening of my anti-Valentine’s position. She said it had something to do with the fact I chucked a card and a bag of chocolate (are you telling me Zellers doesn’t use the finest cocoa beans?) at her after I got home from work Thursday night as we rushed to feed The Hurricane and ourselves, pack our bags and make a short 350 kilometre trek home for the weekend.

Well, if that was wrong, then I am guilty. As charged and as sin.

But here’s the deal. I didn’t – no, couldn’t – do the whole flowers thing because we weren’t going to be home for the weekend and they’d be withered and dead by the time we returned Monday night. That’s logical.

The following isn’t, but here it goes anyway.

I simply couldn’t sell out my buddy Dutch like that. There’s a reason that, come June 6, we’ll have been each other’s best man – we take a bullet when we know (or figure) the other is likely to do something stupid like not even get his fiancee a couple of flowers a few months before they exchange the rings.

How could I let him be the only one who failed to achieve the lofty standards set by my jerk someday-brother-in-law and his dozens and dozens of roses, moonlight walks, singing telegrams and $25 entrees? Well, I just couldn’t (although, Dutchie, a card probably wouldn’t have killed ya – you could’ve picked one up when you were grabbing a pack of smokes or hangin’ out at coffee club, y’know).

It’s the whole ‘bros before h … yeah right, you’re nuts if you thought I was actually going to write that.

So I came up short. Again. And I want everyone to know that. I couldn’t sleep soundly ever again knowing there was one person out there who thought I was a Romeo-incarnate, bound to profess my love for my wife with the greatest of spectacles on February 14.

But next year … oh baby, you just wait.

Dutch and I will start the planning at his stag party.