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Risk Averse

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“Wow, Dominic! Look what you found! Good boy… Now go and gently give that to mummy… Maaax, come see what Dominic haaas…”

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Uh oh. From the way Justin is pushing this sing-song lilt through clenched teeth, I can tell that Dominic has clearly found our stash of hand grenades and I’d better ease one away before he pulls the pin. I rush over from the next room, swooping in to save us from imminent explosion. As I swing around the corner I see that Dominic is in fact holding a shiny, orange canister… of hair mousse.

Have Antibiotics, Will Travel
For those who didn’t know, Justin’s nickname is Emergency Safety Juice. One year for Christmas his family bought him the Worst Case Scenario board game. Let the good times roll! Who knew such a thing even existed??? We never travel without a first aid kit, complete array of antibiotics and anti-allergens, a shovel, and a flashlight.

Just don’t call him over-protective… we prefer the term “risk averse”.

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“Max, can you come feel this for a second? Our kitchen floor is uneven. See this tile? The edge is a couple of millimeters higher than the others. What if Dominic trips and hits his head on this raised corner? I think we should get rubber matting for the kitchen floors…”

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Bonne Maman

No doubt every couple has one parent more protective than the other. And I understand that by taking on the role of Chief Worrywart Officer Justin in some way lets me off the hook, because I know he is watching out for Dominic’s safety enough for both of us.

I honestly feel for Justin. Worrying for two is a heavy burden to bear, and the poor guy always feels like he has to play the bad cop, policing me and protecting Dominic from my recklessness.

Would you believe I sometimes even let Dominic play with a miniature jam jar? You know, the single-serving ones that come with hotel breakfasts? He likes to take the lid on and off.

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“I hid that little jam jar way at the back of the cupboard. Its glass, you know. If he falls and it breaks in his hand he could get seriously hurt.”

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I could get all righteously-indignant here and say that I have chosen a more laid-back approach to parenting. That my behaviour is calculated to help Dominic develop his independence and learn caution through a few scrapes and bruises. But the truth is that my mind doesn’t even work that way! Justin sees danger where I see innocence and toys.

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“Hey Max, is Dominic walking around with that plastic flute again? I think he should only play with that while sitting down. What if he trips while it’s in his mouth?”

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Ummm…. So the safe suggestion is to yank D’s toys away whenever he stands up? Sounds like a one-way ticket to tantrum town if you ask me, and a way scarier outcome.

"Careful!"

“Careful!”

Poor Justin, but poor me too! It’s exhausting trying to meet his safety standards and predicting what he might object to!

Bare Baby Bums
In December we went to Cuba on vacation. For several days before our departure I prepped Justin that I would be letting Dominic play naked on the beach. That’s right, naked. NO DIAPER. Even if there were other people at the resort. And sand on the beach. And sun.

Prepping continued through days 1, 2 and 3. By day 4, we literally pulled it off. It involved a little negotiation (Max), lots of sunscreen (Dominic) and many manoeuvrings of lounge chairs to create a moving shade structure (Justin), but we did it!!! Naked babies – woohoo!

Next thing you know…
Justin’s responsibilities as Chief Worrywart Officer extend beyond Dominic’s safety to encompass looking out for our house and belongings, too.

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“Don’t let him see you watering the plants – do it for after he’s gone to bed. Next thing you know he’ll be pouring water all over the floor and ruining the hardwood.”

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Next thing I know… when he can suddenly reach the kitchen faucet???

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“Don’t let him see you throwing stuff in the garbage or in the toilet. Next thing you know your keys will be missing and you’ll wonder where they went.”

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And then Dominic and Justin go and conspire to prove that I should be more careful. Argh!

Last week I couldn’t find my keys. It was one of those gruesome 20-below mornings and I was rushing to get out of the house. I was all bundled up, Dominic was all bundled up and strapped into the stroller. We were one foot out the door for daycare drop-off when I realized I couldn’t find my keys. I worked myself up into a total over-heated snit; late for work, tearing and swearing through the apartment. No luck. Finally I abandoned the mission and just left the door unlocked.

That night I was telling Justin to keep his eyes open for my keys. The little sneak hears me talking and toddles over to the stereo where he slides back the speaker, grabs my keys from where he has planted them, and toddles them back over to me. I was so mad I said, “Oh Dominic, you suck.” He stuck one foot out at me and smiled. “Sock? Sock? Shoe? Shoe, Mummy?” *sigh*. You can’t stay mad at these little squirts for a second.

Ultimately there is something to be grateful for in all this. Nature or nurture, Dominic seems to have inherited Justin’s innate sense of caution. He turns over onto his tummy before carefully sliding down off any step or chair. Holds onto the door frame with both hands before stepping over a threshold. He barely dares to walk in the snow, and last week when he saw my 96-year-old Gramma looking a little wobbly on her walker, he said to her, “Careful!”.

It may be enough to keep his future wife up at night, but in the meantime this mom sure sleeps better.

Like Father, Like Son

Like Father, Like Son

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Mini Milestones

There’s a lot of emphasis on “firsts” in the first year or two of life with baby… first tooth, first words, first tooth, first time sleeping through the night (we’re still celebrating this one 7 months later). Those are the biggies, but sometimes it’s the little firsts in between that really hit home. In a few days Dominic will be 18 months old and these last few weeks have been full of firsts. Maybe some of these mini milestones will hit home for you, too?

It started with Goodbye

I guess every mom knows deep down that one day her little man will waltz out the door and say goodbye… I just didn’t expect it to be at 18 months.

All grown up

“Bye!”

Dominic’s latest trick is to sneak out the apartment door and escape down the hallway. Of course it only happens when I leave the door wide open to indulge this game, but boy oh boy does he think he’s pulling a fast one on me. I’ll call down the corridor to him, “Taking off, Dominic? You going somewhere?” He just keeps waddling down the hall, and will toss a casual “Bye!” over his shoulder, without so much as a backwards glance.

First Halloween Costume

This year I made Dominic his first Halloween costume. That’s right, I made it. I’m of the school that Halloween costumes shouldn’t be bought or rented; they need to be cobbled together to count. Since one of D’s first words was “lion” and he loves to practice roaring, I decided it was only fitting that he dress as a lion for Halloween.

Lion! Rrrrroaaaar!

I’m about as good at sewing as I am at following a recipe (not very) so I tried to figure out the most minimalist costume possible. How little time, effort and money could I spend on a costume that he’ll never understand or remember and yet still make him look like a lion?

Like any good Jewish-Italian mom, of course I claimed this was for his sake. I just want him to be comfortable. I wouldn’t want him to be too hot, too itchy, too afraid of or annoyed by his costume. Better to keep it simple.

A quick trip to Fabricville and $17 later, I had the ends of a roll of teddy bear pelt and a yard of curtain tassle trim. Ta-da! First Halloween costume? Check!

Gettin’ schooled.

Besides “lion”, Dominic now has a good handful of words, and of course most prevalent amongst these are Ma-mee? And Da-dee?

Every day Dominic toddles around the apartment classifying everything he sees. He’ll point to a pair of shoes, a glove or a belt and will identify it as being a ma-mee! or a Da-dee! item. And not just easily-identifiable items, either. Objects that ostensibly look totally neutral get labeled too: this is ma-mee’s laptop, that’s da-dee’s key chain. What’s eery is that he never gets it wrong.

I suspect one rite of passage that all moms go through is the first time your kid corrects you. I am fully braced for him to roll his eyes in disgust as an 18-year-old teen when I will no doubt say something supremely uncool, like Great news Sweetheart! I’ve finally synched all your baby pictures to the Cloud! Lucky me, no need to wait that long.

We are working on weaning Dominic off his baby bottle and onto a sippee cup. HE. HATES. IT. What’s this? I wake up to a serving of warm milk in a SIPPEE CUP??? This is an outrage! From the bloodcurdling protests, the neighbours must think bottle service at our place is worse than at Guy Fieri’s new restaurant in New York.

Use this one, Mummy!!!

Dominic called on his mania for classifying things to set the record straight. Yesterday he teetered over to the kitchen and pulled open the drawer where we keep all his utensils, bottles and dishes. He let me know once and for all which one I am supposed to use for milk, no ifs, ands, or cups.

Drop a load

A new first: today Dominic pooed in the tub. Consider it one more rite of passage crossed, no photo required.

Birthday Bash

Speaking of rites of passage, that first birthday is a doozey. We’ve been invited to a few one-year old birthday parties recently, and it got me thinking… wouldn’t it have been great to take mat leave NOW? I mean, I could’ve easily outsourced that first year of life and dodged some crying, diapers, breastfeeding and night waking. It’s the second year that’s fun! How great would it have been to take this year off instead of last?

But then I would have missed all the big milestones that set the stage for appreciating the little ones, too.

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Tongue Twister

Three weeks ago I wrote about my tongue killing me with sores and blisters… it’s still broken.

It turned out that Dominic had a case of Hand Foot and Mouth disease, and his very pragmatic pediatrician said “you and your husband probably have the same virus.” So how is it that Justin and Dominic both got better within the week while I’ve made my way through the entire bottle of Magic Mouthwash and I’m still suffering a month later?!?

One night I ate half an orange and was in agony for a week. Another night I had a few glasses of wine and suffered for another week. Every evening I sit on the couch depressed before dinner… hungry, in pain, and not able to eat anything. Worst-case-scenario Husband says, “You better get that checked out, you know. You could be doing permanent damage to your taste buds. You’ll never be able to enjoy food again.”

At this point I’m avoiding anything too crunchy, salty, spicy, acidic or sweet. In other words, I’ve been brushing my teeth with Dominic’s toothpaste and eating little but eggs and yogurt.

Last week I went back to my Doctor for another consultation and she referred me right away to an Ear Nose and Throat specialist. His

name is Dr. Gauze, and in case you happen to be wandering around the Westmount Medical Building, he looks like this:

I stick out my tongue and Dr. Gauze focuses his head mirror on it and starts smacking his dentures. At least, that’s what I think he’s doing until I realize he’s trying to get my attention.

I’ve seen this before. Usually in old ladies. This is trauma to the tongue.

Huh?

You are scraping your tongue against the roof of your mouth and your teeth.

I must have had an initial couple of sores from the virus and played with it so much that I rubbed my own tongue raw, kicking off a vicious cycle. But once there is a sore in your mouth, how can you help but niggle at it? Like jiggling a loose tooth with your tongue, it’s totally subconscious and compulsive. I can practically hear Radiohead whining in my ear. You do it to yourself. You do. And that’s what really hurts.

I can’t believe it. All this pain and suffering and no virus? No antibiotics? No swabs, cultures, lab tests or medications required? It seems so… anti-climactic. OK, so I’m a little embarrassed, but mostly thrilled — I was starting to think I’d have to eat rice and bananas for the rest of my life.

So what do I have to do, doc?

Well, if you are stressed I can give you tranquilizers. But if you drive I don’t recommend it.

Hmm… maybe not. I barely take Vitamin C, let alone tranquilizers. What else you got?

Candies. You can have candies to keep your mouth moist.

He looks me up and down.

Looks like you could stand to have some ice cream, too.

Ugh. I don’t even like candies. More accurately, I don’t even know what kind of candies I like! I went to the pharmacy and was totally paralyzed in the candy aisle. Do I still hate black licorice? Should I buy throat lozenges or gum? Will minty ones sting or numb the pain? What’s worse – sugar or artificial sweeteners?

Luckily I always have my family to pipe in with advice.

My brother says, “So your diagnosis is there’s nothing wrong with you, and your prescription is candies

and ice cream? What a waste! You’re probably the only person in the world who doesn’t want that prescription.”

My sister says, “I hope you got the chocolate-covered caramel ones.”

My dad says, “Vanilla ice cream is best. Don’t get the one with chocolate chips, they always use cheap chocolate.”

My mother says, “You need to see an internist. There’s definitely something wrong with your liver.”

I buy an assortment and suck on candies for a couple of days and it just makes things worse. Turns out the answer is to just stop talking: be quiet and leave it alone. Neither are my forte.

Be Quiet

Speaking of being quiet, here are some of the things Dominic likes to get up to when he’s being too quiet:

  • Scribbling on the white leather chairs
  • Dunking socks/make-up/toothbrushes in the toilet
  • Shaking fish food flakes on his head
  • Pooing on the floor
  • Unravelling the dental floss
  • Making cheese (a.k.a. hiding milk bottles in the plants)
  • Running the dishwasher and microwave

Leave it Alone

Justin and I have often debated that what I call “helping” he calls “meddling”. Example: You pass a car with the trunk open.

Max: Oh no! Someone left the trunk of his car open! We should help him out and close it.

Justin: What if he left it open on purpose? What if he’s just inside getting a big heavy box to put in? Leave it alone.

See? I’m not even good at leaving other people alone, let alone my own mouth!

The three great physicians

I found an old fortune from a cookie in our car today: “Nature, time, and Patience are the three great physicians”. At least I’ve got 2 the first two working on my side.

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Magic Mouthwash and Other Myths

Google Images Infection

The only thing more contagious than Daycare Disease is a Google Images Infection. All I have to do is look at Google Infection Images and I instantly start feeling itchy and feverish.

Swish and Spit

Last week I caught a rash on my tongue. Not kidding.

I had blisters, my tongue felt swollen in my mouth, I couldn’t talk in meetings, concentrate on my work, and it was painful to eat. Now a Max who can’t talk or eat is not much good to anyone.

My tongue started burning right after the Indian take-out so at first I thought it was the lamb Madras that had done me in. But when my tongue still hadn’t cleared up by the next day I went to Google to self-diagnose. Biiiiig mistake. The first link said tongue sores could be a symptom of Hand Foot and Mouth disease, most often caught by toddlers in daycare. One look at the image results and my tongue starts foaming, turning white and I could feel raised bumps forming. Uh-oh.

Justin!!! We received a notice last week that there is Hand Foot and Mouth disease going around at Dominic’s daycare! I’ll do drop-off tomorrow and I will be asking some some serious questions.

The next morning at daycare drop off…

“So you think you caught Hand, Food and Mouth disease? Really? Hmmm. Well, it’s rare that it passes to adults, and only one kid from another classroom had it and he stayed home all week, but let’s see. Do you have any spots on your hand? On your foot?” No, no. “Does Dominic have any spots on his hand, foot or mouth?” No, no, no.

“A-ha. I see. Well, it doesn’t sound like hand foot and mouth disease, then.”

Back to Google. Says here you can get a cold sore on your tongue! Who knew? “Known to be quite painful… may make it difficult for the sufferer to eat or talk… Can be due to weakened immune system… abnormal amounts of stress… “. Well I’ve definitely been burning the candle at both ends lately. These images are more gruesome than the last batch. A quick glance and my tongue starts burning and swelling. See? proof!

Justin! I figured it out – it’s a cold sore on my tongue! I’ve been stressed! My immune system is weakened! That’s it; I’m taking this round of anti-viral meds right now to kill it.

The next morning, no improvement. Never at a loss for bad news and worse images, Google offered up a new diagnostic theory: thrush. “The lesions, which may have a “cottage cheese” appearance, can be painful and may bleed slightly.” Ugh. I scan the page for keywords… hormonal changes, pregnancy, babies, breastfeeding… Hmm. Its been 6 months since I’ve breastfed and 15 since I was pregnant. What’s the statute of limitations on claiming hormonal changes? And it’s usually babies who get thrush in the mouth and the mamas who get it downstairs. Then again, Dominic did recently have a diaper rash that turned out to be a yeast infection, therefore it stands to reason that I should have it in the mouth; symmetry in the universe dictates it. I have two yogurts and call the doctor in the morning.

Magic Mouthwash

The Doc has no idea what I have either. What does she do? Turns to Google Images, of course. Somehow, she still knows enough to reassure me that whatever I have is not contagious and to write me a prescription for Magic Mouthwash. “I can’t tell you exactly what’s in it, but if they don’t know what it is at the pharmacy, tell them to call me.”

I hand my Magic Mouthwash prescription to the pharmacist who grills me for symptoms in his best Brooklyn.

“Oy. I had the woist case of Hand Foot and Mouth dey eva seen at the Jewish. Shoulda seen me. All the skin came off my feet. Caught it from my grandson. Seven yeas. Seven yeas since they seen a case so bad.” Thanks. This is what I need to hear. The worst case scenario from the one-up-me pharmacist.

“Whaddaya wanna do. Come back tomorrow? We can send it to ya. It’s gonna take ova an ‘owa. We gotta mix the powdas. What flavor you want. Tutti Frutti? Tutti Frutti is good. Hides everything. I got mintchocolatevanilla. I got twelve flavours. Got ‘em all. Minty Tutti Frutty with Vanilla. That’s good. Hides everything. Come back tomorra.”

I have no idea what the heck is in this Magic Mouthwash, but it comes with an ice block and instructions that say “Keep Refrigerated. DO NOT FREEZE”. It’s helping.

Great White Sharks

When it’s my turn to put Dominic to bed I always rock him for a bit first in the big chair. I try to pretend I’m asleep and take slow, deep breaths to transmit a feeling of relaxation. Underneath this calm façade I’ve got teeth clenched, ears pricked for changes in his breathing patterns, all senses on high alert for any limb limpness so I can cut to crib transfer ASAP and sit down to grown-up dinner. I sometimes wonder if he can tell… A better question would be, why not actually relax instead of just pretending to relax?

I once saw this documentary called Shark Water about a guy who goes diving with great white sharks. He relaxes to the point where he can slow down his heartbeat to the Crustacean Era and the sharks think he’s one of them. Think he’s just faking it on the outside? Probably not.

Maybe it’s OK to relax sometimes? Or would that be perceived as a sign of weakness by the circling sharks and one-year olds?

A Chink in the Armour and Chocolate Chip Cookies

I kinda like to pretend I’m invincible. No signs of weakness here, no Sir. Actually, it’s more than that. I like to think it, I believe the myth, and I perpetuate it as best I can. After all, as Justin says, it’s part of my brand.

However, like many of my Greek demigod friends, every once in a while I am struck down for my hubris, and the tongue rash is one such case. In honour of Yom Kippur week I will therefore atone for pretending to be invincible by clearing the record. Here are some of the myths that circulate about me and confessions of the real deal:

  • I never nap. — True
  • I never get sick. — True. Except for twice a year, like everyone else.
  • I never get tired. — True. Until every night at 11:00 p.m.
  • I never eat chocolate. Or cookies. Or chocolate cookies. — True, unless you count afternoons.
  • I am 100% confident at work and never second-guess myself. – True of course.
  • I believe I am funny. — True, even when nobody else thinks so.
  • I can leap buildings in a single bound. — True. Just not tall ones.
  • I can be a mom, wife, sis, blogger, daughter, Account Director and Personal Trainer, without giving up my social life or basic hygiene. — To be determined!

Whew. Now you select few know the terrible secret truths about me, so don’t rat me out! After all, it’s my brand.

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Baby Bilingual in the Deep Blue Sea

So fun… Dominic is learning to speak!

I want more. And you can put it right here.

I’ve been trying to speak to him in French ever since Christmas when I noticed at a family gathering that two of Justin’s cousins were doing so with their kids. I figured if they can make this effort in Ontario, surely I could do it in Quebec! Short term I wasn’t sure if it would confuse Dominic or slow down his speech acquisition, but in the long run I’m a pretty big believer that multilingualism is one of the best gifts you can give a kid. That, and a Canadian passport.

Dominic has already won the citizenship lottery by being born in Canada, and we’re taking advantage of the opportunity Quebec offers to bring him up in both English and French. And the good news is, it seems to be working! So, hot on the heels of the provincial election, let’s take a moment to celebrate baby bilingualism.

D’s vocabulary is growing quickly and he now has a repertoire of several syllables, including ha, na, no, ne, lo, ma, mee, ba, bye, da and boo. The great thing about this little handful of sounds is that Dominic can string them together in such a way as to convince me he can speak both official languages. Wishful mom-thinking, you say? Maybe... you tell me!

“Ba” is for bottle. “Ba” is also for pointing to his tub. See? He knows bath, bain, and bateau. He even knows the answer to “Que dit le mouton?”. Sure, you have to be holding up a picture of a sheep for it to work, but then he says, Baaaaa!

“Na-na” is an easy one, that’s banana. I’m pretty sure it’s also canard. (Poor kid can’t make a “k” sound yet…)

“Ba-boo” is as close as he can get to blueberry and as such has become a stand-in for any fruit. He likes to shout this down the grocery store aisles: Ba-boo, ba-boo, baaa-booooo!!!!!

He uses “boo” for both book and debout. He hasn’t mastered the “p” sound yet, but a pair of strategically strung-together “boo”s mean going number two.

He sometimes gets a bit confused and tries to say the same word in two languages at once. He’ll touch his finger to his nose and proudly declare “nez-no!”

When Justin or I hold Dominic’s hands to practice walking, we often sing marchons, marchons. He approximates this as best he can with “ma-non, ma-non” whenever he wants us to help him walk.

Meee is for Marie, his favourite babysitter. Maman is for his grandmaman. And of course he can say “mum-mee” and “dadd-ee” and is happy to use these interchangeably to mean me, Justin, or the iPhone.  

At daycare they told me his first word was neither mummy nor daddy, but “money”. Come on, I said. Maybe he’s trying to say his own name, and ‘Minic is as close as he can get. “No Max. He’s not saying ‘Minic. He’s saying MONEY”. Well, didn’t I tell you he’s advanced?

He gets tons of mileage out of ha and lo and has figured out he can use them in several situations. Haa-looo! is his standard greeting whenever we walk through the apartment door. I also hear him practicing it to himself alone in his crib when he wakes up. Haaa-lo. Ha-lo! Ha-loo? When he wants a sip of water, it’s “L’eau? L’eau?”, and jumping in the pool gets an “à l’eau!”, too. And ha-lo comes in especially handy when holding a remote control to his ear.

He is so excited to be able to successfully connect a sound, an object, and a meaning that demanding l’eau has become a bit of an obsession these days. Dominic had his very first restaurant dinner outing last weekend in honour of my mother-in-law’s birthday and spent the entire time insisting on “L’eau? L’eau!”. He refused to eat his vegetables unless he could dunk them, bite by bite, à l’eau in his water glass.

As for his daycare, they really are teaching him stuff. Last week they had “farm animals” theme and Dominic came home saying ya-i-yo, ya-i-yo. I guess they’ve been singing Old MacDonald. In addition to English and French, Dominic’s daycare is also teaching him sign language. I tend to think most of this is pretty useless… I mean, really, it’s a bit abstract to be teaching a one-year-old kid the signs for janvier, fevrier and mars at the best of times, but when it’s barely September???

Then last week over breakfast he suddenly started poking his finger into his palm. It was an obvious and very deliberate signal – too bad neither Justin nor I had any idea what it meant. We asked the daycare ladies about it and they confirmed this was sign language for “more”. Over the next few days I wanted to be sure that he was associating meaning to the gesture and not just doing it by rote whenever he heard the word “more”, so I asked him in French, “Encore, Dominic? En veux-tu encore?” Sure enough, the kid nods his head and pokes his right index into his left palm. This was a real indication to me that he actually understood what he was signalling! In case there was still any doubt, vigorous palm poking whenever baboos or nanas are in sight was the clincher that he knows very well what it means.

Dominic is practicing another gesture/syllable combo this week that is getting a less warm reception at home… He has starting saying “No! No! No!”… and wagging his index finger at me to boot. Who does this kid think he is, and moreover, where could he have learned such behaviour?!?

A hurried search on Baby Center turns up the advice that parents should to try to limit their own use of the N-word. Argh! What about my grand designs to discipline him early so that he could know his limits by age one and bypass temper tantrums by two???

It’s pretty hard not to snap out a knee-jerk “No!” in response to some of Dominic’s favourite pastimes. There’s wiggling his fingers in the toilet bowl, kicking his heels into pooey diapers, and flinging carefully-halved blueberries to the floor, to mention a few.

He’s also having a bit of a No! moment with his shoes these days. Socks are swell; he loves having his socks put on. But try to put shoes on and it’s a hysteria of No! No! No! Try to take his socks off and it’s another wave of No! No! No!  I’m currently taking bets on whether he outgrows the No! or the shoes first.


Look Ma, no shoes!

Here I am trying to curtail my use of “no” with Dominic, while magazines and pop media are always telling us moms we need to learn to Just Say No. “No” to another request for a favour, to another demand on our time. Although it can be a bit discouraging to see your positive, smiley little guy spouting a stream of negative “no”s, it’s also so funny that most of the time Justin and I are just trying not to laugh.

I think a few well-placed “No”s are a good thing. So instead of wondering what I’m teaching Dominic, I’ll take a page from his book enjoy I can learn from him: Ask for the money, kick your shoes off once in a while, and Just Say No!

Bonne fin de semaine tout le monde! And Vive le Quebec not-so-libre!

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The Beaver, the Bee and the Ant

Busy as a Beaver

I must like it, right? I mean, I do it to myself.

Multitasking

Does this count as multitasking?

Recently my BFF sent me this article from the New York Times, The Busy Trap, calling us all out on our tendency to complain about how busy we are as a badge of honour… See? Aren’t I important?

I’m not sure if it makes me feel more important, but I do like being busy. And I don’t like being not busy. When I first started back at the office after a year away, things were slow… Slowness was a reminder that work life and projects had gone on without me. The days dragged, and not being needed definitely made me feel unimportant.

Recently things have swung to the opposite end of the spectrum at work. We had been two Account Directors at the agency but as of last week my colleague no longer works here and they won’t be replacing her, so I’ve inherited her clients, team and responsibilities.

Outside the office, I’m currently working towards my personal training certification and studying for the written exam on evenings and weekends.

Haven’t heard from me lately? Here’s why: At the office weekdays ’til 5:00pm. Train at the gym Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays after work. Take turns with Justin putting Dominic to bed by 7:30. Make homemade dinner and eat together. Break out the textbooks around 9:00pm and study till by brain shuts down around 11:00pm.

Weekends have been chockablock with family reunions, guests, trips out of town, friends at the chalet. Fit in a set of sprints on Sunday if I can. Try to see my dad, Gramma, and Justin’s mum at least once a week.

Don’t get me wrong! I love the sense of accomplishment at the office, and I’m really excited about the personal trainer certification. And I’m sure you know someone busier than I am… but this is a little busier than I’d like to be!

So much for friends, novels, and long baths. Folded laundry is a luxury… we just yank clean stuff out of the dryer (thanks Dad for folding a load this week!). And sometimes Justin or I discover that a top from the dirty pile has magically cleaned itself if it happens to match really well with that day’s choice of skirt or pants.

Maybe I put too much stock in multitasking. I write blog posts while the baby naps. At red lights I send text messages AND do Kegels. I find Skype frustrating because it requires me to sit still, whereas the glorious phone, on the other hand, allows me to catch up with someone while I walk to work or tidy the kitchen.

When Justin watches Dominic so that I can study, I look up from my books and get jealous that they just hang out together and play. Of course I could just play with him too, but when it’s my turn to watch Dominic I spend the entire time trying see what else I can get done while minimally ensuring he doesn’t stick a fork in an electrical socket.

Busy Little Bee

One of my favourite things to do is actually to watch Dominic play when he doesn’t know I’m observing him. That kid is SO BUSY!!! He never sits still for an instant. Pick something up, put it down. Put it on a ledge… aaaand bring it back down. Let it go, pick it back up. Pretend to let it go, change his mind. I find it amazing to watch because of course there is no sense of stress or urgency to his busy-ness… it’s just part of his natural discovery process of interacting with the world around him.

The Industrious Ant

Where do I get it from?

My sister’s favourite iPhone app is “talk and text”. It turns on your camera phone at the same time as your chat window so you can look right “through” your phone screen, allowing you to see the side walk. In other words you can type instant messages, walk in high heels, and look fabulous all without tripping on your face.

My mum’s friends call her La Fourmi. Constantly puttering around reorganizing the dimes and nickels, making sure the rubber bands and twist-ties line up. When she’s around, glass jars in the pantry each occupy their rightful place, the dried legumes keeping a respectful distance from the dried seeds, nuts and cereal grains.

After university I spent a year in South East Asia where, over time, I slowed down to the pace a rice paddy. I knew two seasons: wet and dry. Riddle: When does a Lao bus leave the station? When it’s full. I spent countless days wandering around sleepy fishing villages, sitting in temples, contemplating streams, dawdling through markets and going to bed early.

I moved back in with my mum for a bit upon my return and found her level of busy-ness jarring. I sneered at her in my most self-righteous, 22-year-old voice, “Geez Mum, we’re called Human Beings, not Human Doings. You’re allowed to sit still for five minutes!”

Lord knows where I got the gall to be so snarky. On that same trip I had participated in a ten-day meditation retreat in rural Thailand. Sounds relaxing and exotic, right? I nearly lost my mind.

I’m not sure what I’d been expecting, but whatever I’d imagined was a long, long way from the reality. Check your Sony Walkman and paperback copy of The Beach at the gates. Don’t talk to any other participants or even make eye contact. Act as though you are there all alone. Get up at 4:00 am for two hours of meditation before breakfast. Another four hours of sitting before lunch, followed by two hours of “quiet time” in your cell, then another four hours of meditation before dinner.

Of course I’d had no idea what I was getting myself into and would never had done it had I known! Instead of playing by the rules, this retreat was the height of my “prolific period”, making weak drawings and writing worse poetry on the contraband notebook and coloured pencils I’d snuck in. But it was an experience, right?

In a way, being busy is all about packing in the experiences. The way I figure it, we haven’t got that much time to do all the exploring there is to do. I’ll live to be 100 for sure. But lop off the first and last twenty years when I’m unlikely to be independent enough to do much. That leaves only 60 decent years and only 5 senses to take in a whole world and lifetime.

Of course, there’s something to be said for actually enjoying that time. All the best Buddhists say so. After all, you can’t really enjoy the clubs of Bangkok if you’re wishing you’re on the beach in Rio the whole time. Trust me, I know!

by

Daycare Disease

Surely, you must be joking.

Eat your fruit!

Melon Monster!

Sometimes I let myself off the hook for being obnoxious on the grounds that someone else is more obnoxious than I am. Surely they’ve seen worse?

When I’m at Nieman Marcus and I’ve sent the shop girl back to get eight different shoes in size 7… and then to get all of them again in 7.5 before eventually walking out without buying any, I tell myself surely earlier that day some gum-smacking, hair-done, nails-did girl sent her back to fetch nine pairs, right?

When the phone rings and its long distance (it’s always long distance) and I’m ordering a coffee and a sandwich, I don’t get off the phone. I tell myself that these barristas have seen it all before; surely they deal with Jappy girls all day who never even look up, let alone get off the phone, and they’re probably ordering complicated skinny soy lattes with whip cream and a half squirt of caramel on ice no froth pleeease. At least I take mine simple and black. Sheesh.

And when I bought stuff online that never arrived I felt no shame in writing an all-caps email subject line: PURCHASED ITEMS HAVE STILL NOT ARRIVED!!!

I’ve sometimes been tempted to test the theory that worse is out there. Bad idea. For example, once I had a breakdown and cried hysterically on an airplane. It was before take-off and I had one of those “bad feelings” you hear about. You know, when some lady gets interviewed on the news after a horrible crash and she says she disembarked because she had a “bad feeling” on the tarmac. I asked the flight attendant between sobs and hiccups, “I guess you see this all the time, right?” “No, Miss. Not really.”

I’m not joking. And don’t call me Shirley.

This week I kinda sorta made a complaint at Dom’s daycare. Well, actually this was my second complaint. Ok, fine! It was the third complaint I’ve made to them, if you must know. But I deliver these complaints so gently and mildly that “lodged” sounds far too violent. Now I have to make a note here that they take very good care of him, and are very sweet and he is not unhappy there.

Every day, Dominic gets a report card on what he’s eaten, how much milk he’s had, his nap sleeping and waking times, pee and poo production, etc. A couple of times I noticed that the report card said “Dominic really enjoyed going outside today.” He’s now been at daycare for six week. Is this to mean that on all the days where his report card doesn’t mention an outing he hasn’t been outside? Crazy as it sounds, it seems this is the case.

If this kid takes after me even one little bit, there’s NO WAY he can stay indoors all day – in a single room, no less – and not go stir crazy! What kind of cruel and unusual punishment is that, Stationary Confinement?

I gently suggested to his teachers a little “trick” I know… that if they ever wanted to snap Dominic out of a cranky or whiny mood, a little time outdoors would chill him right out. “Yes, well you know, the yard is used by the big kids and we don’t want the little ones to get trampled and sometimes they’re napping and then they need a hat and sunscreen and by then it gets too hot and and and…”

I wanted to scream. Are they kidding??? It’s summer! What will they do when winter hits??? But I just murmured “Yes, of course. I understand. It must be tricky.” The last thing you want is for the people caring for your kid all day to resent him/you.

The second thing I mentioned to them was about wiping his face. Every afternoon when I pick him up his nose and upper lip are all crusted up with snot and his fingers are sticky with dirt jam. So gross. Needless to say, since he’s been at daycare Dominic has had a continuous string of daycare disease, including runny nose, fevers and scratchy throats. Within ten days I came down with a case of daycare disease myself and needed antibiotics to kick it.

I know they have other kids to look after, but I had to ask them to just give the kid’s nose and hands a wipe, for Pete’s sake. Even if it’s only a pretense at five minutes to 5:00pm to give me the illusion he wasn’t crusty and/or crying all day.

“Hi there, would you mind, it would be nice, if you could, if it’s not too much to ask, just a little wipe, pretty please, thank you so much…”.

“Yes, yes, of course, no problem, we will, totally understand.”

No change.

This week I was reading yet another studies on the dangers of eating refined white flours and sugars and how it’s causing an epidemic of Type 2 diabetes and obesity.

If he were in a $7/day daycare I’d pack Dominic organic lunches all day long. But at our current spot at $65/day, I can’t believe the white-bread food this kid is getting at school!

I don’t mind a pizza Friday once in a while. It’s the muffin Mondays, tortellini Tuesdays, macaroni Miercoles, interspersed with lasagna, grilled cheese, breaded chicken, breaded fish, French toast, pancakes, muffins, and fruit “in their syrup” I object to. Terrifying. These kids will all have Type 2 diabetes by the time they’re four!

When I mentioned to his teachers that I found the menu high in refined starch and sugars, I had to ask: “Surely I can’t be the only mum who has concerns about this?”. “Actually, Max, you are.”

Well, maybe it takes being the squeakiest wheel sometimes. Maybe I’ll put my call on hold the next time I’m about to order a coffee and maybe I’ll even smile at the cashier. But if it means getting this kid fresh air and fresh fruit, I’ll be the most obnoxious mum in town. Just dare me!