The World According to the Peevish Kitty
Mar
30
Well now. I can state with absolute certainty that being possibly dead for the last little while has never been so exciting. I also think that 64 comments of mostly unabashed silliness is more fun than I have had here in awhile — at least, since the Great Beans Incident of Ought-Nine. So my ever-hilarious peeps, I thank you from the bottom of my mostly-undead heart.
So, what else is new (besides possibly not being dead) you ask?
Well, nothing really. We are in for a few days of 23-ish degree weather, which means That Baby and I will be spending some time outdoors. This will be wonderful, if only for the fact that it WEARS THAT KID OUT. And then she SLEEPS. And then I get to pretend I am a single, wholly-independent entity again for an hour or two, instead of the Person Who Is Here To Serve. So I am totally in favour of anything that uses up the energy in That Baby’s tank.
Today we did a walk to the park. I got Stinkerbelle dressed in shoes and coat, I got myself dressed, and we got the stroller out. Now, I made what could have been a HUUUUUUUUGE error in judgment today. As we were setting out on our walk, I asked That Baby, “Would you like to go to the park and go on the swings?”
(Insert alarm bells going off here. Or maybe even that car crash sound.)
Experienced moms are right now doing a collective ::FOREHEAD SMACK:: and thinking to themselves, “Dude. You should NEVER actually SAY those words until you are THERE!” Because most kids? All they hear is “PARK” and “SWINGS” and they will want it NOWNOWNOWNOWNOW! NO WAITING! WANT!
And for a moment there, I felt the urge to suck those words right back down my throat, as they hung in the air, and I waited for a Toddler Freakout of Epic Proportions to commence.
Fortunately that didn’t happen. Stinkerbelle is generally speaking The Most Easygoing Kid on the Planet, which means she tends to be patient. And she’s also WAAAAAY smarter than we give her credit for. She didn’t wig out. She got excited, yes, and there was much shouting of “YAYAYAYAYAYAY!” and much squirming and saying and signing “SWINGS!” But she happily rode along in her stroller and chattered away.
When we go to the park, we go to a park in an older neighbourhood that is well kept, but not used much. It is generally fairly kid-free, which means there’s lots of space for Stinkerbelle to play and, more importantly, no lineup for the swings. So, let’s say for ease of discussion that this park is on Oak Street.
Oak Street is a good 20 minutes walk from here, if you go straight there, and 30-45 minutes if you are walking for exercise and go there as part of one of my longer routes, as is usually the case. So, on our way to Oak Street, we pass the schoolyard park on Pine Street, and the park on Maple Street, and the park on Hickory Street… we pass a NUMBER of parks. We generally don’t stop at any of those parks, though. We stop at Oak Street, and that’s that.
So as I am walking along with Stinkerbelle, and we come upon a park, I used to brace myself for a toddler freakout. ZOMGWTFBBQPARKPARKPARKPARK!
But it never happened. That Baby will yell, and point, and tell me she sees a park, and swings, but that’s about it. She gets really excited if there are kids there, but that’s all it is: baby happy shouty chatter. She still rides along, not freaking out, periodically telling me that we must go to the PARK and go on the SWINGS, I guess so that I do not FORGET.
But then, we turn on to Oak Street, and That Baby sits BOLT UPRIGHT in her stroller. And the SECOND those swings come into view, That Baby starts to get excited fit to EXPLODE.
OMG! OAK STREET PARK! MY SWINGS! GOGOGOGOGO HURRYHURRYHURRYHURRY YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!
She KNOWS. She knows this is HER PARK.
This makes life immeasurably easier for Mom. I can get a workout in, walking with her, before we go to the park, and I know she won’t wig out until it is time to get out and play (well, except for when we are getting close to that little park on Spruce Street, but that’s another favourite little rest stop). She will be patient and talk and sing and generally ride along until it’s time to play.
I am VERY lucky. I know this. And I know it might not last so I am making the most of it.
This is also true of walking. I take Stinkerbelle out of the stroller from time to time on our walks, usually in a quiet neighbourhood or on a long, flat stretch of sidewalk, to let her walk and faff about and dawdle along and explore. Generally speaking, we do this on Pine Street by the school, or on Walnut Street or Cherry Street which, being in quiet suburban neighbourhoods, are virtually empty on a workday morning.
She knows these spots now, and although she will ask periodically if she can get out and walk, she won’t fuss if I tell her no. She just waits for one of these regular walking spots to come along.
This also makes for a good walk for both of us. I am usually ready for a break in one of my 8 or 10 km walks when these streets come along, so slowing down so Captain Dawdlepants can stop every three feet and look at a stick or some schmutz or a spot on the pavement is way okay by me. I can have a drink and a rest and she can have some free time.
I know that this, too, might not last — so I am enjoying it while I can.
A lot of this is, I know, down to Stinkerbelle’s laid back personality. But a lot of it is routine. We walk as frequently as we can, and we are as consistent as we can be about the rules. She knows where she is allowed to get out and play, or where she can walk. It’s routine.
But also, we’ve worked really hard to establish some basic Rules of the Road, if you want to call it that. She knows that she MUST stay on the sidewalk, and that when I say “STOP!” she must stop IMMEDIATELY and wait for me. And she knows that she has to hold someone’s hand if we are crossing the street.
A lot of this is down to repetition. But we walk so far, and so often, it’s what has to be done. No questions. And we’re lucky to have a kid who’s okay with that.
Let’s just hope I can remember all these rules and locations and whatnot when, sometime in the future, That Baby is pushing ME around in my chair. And let’s hope I am as easygoing about it, or I won’t get to go to our favourite park on Oak Street.
Mar
28
So, my peeps, I have told you, MANY MANY TIMES, that Teh Internets are not a safe and friendly place. They are filled with many people with ill intentions, which is why I never post our names, or unprotected photos, or any of that stuff. I mean, we’ve been hacked in the past, but this week we’ve learned of another shady character lurking around blogdom.
Oh yes. We have discovered A BLOG STALKER.
Between 1 am and 2 am on March 23, somebody did a LOT OF SEARCHING through my blog.
A lot of people have had really nasty experiences with blog stalkers. They can be really nasty pieces of work. Now, to be fair, in this case, it seems that this is DEFINITELY NOT the case with our blog stalker.
Generally speaking, most blog stalkers are just stupid people who try to glean information from your blog, and most of the time, they are looking for gossip or, more specifically, if you are talking about THEM. Because they do not care about what you are writing — unless it is about THEMSELVES.
It is always, in fact, ALL ABOUT THEMSELVES.
So we are not too worried. A look at the searches our blog stalker employed to get around in my blog are full of terms that let me know, quite specifically, who they are and what they were looking for. The Google-fu, it is NOT strong with this one. Oh no.
(I can’t lie. The search for “cinnamonopus air conditioner dad” just about made me pee my pants.)
Also? We have two stats counters on the go, so we know where they are, and what their IP address is… so we are not concerned.
We are, however, endlessly diverted. It has been hilarious looking through this stuff and seeing what they were searching for. And equally fun was knowing that they were stonewalled at every search. Because, DUDE. I am SO not going to post that kind of stuff on TEH INTERWEBS.
I mean, COME ON.
So we had a giggle about it. In fact, quite a few of them.
But then Kelly emailed me this morning to tell me that my stalker showed up on HER blog. And here’s the kicker: they googled “cinnamonopus death” to get there.
CINNAMONOPUS DEATH. Did you SEE that?
DUDE. They were searching for ME, and DEATH.
Now, I am famous for getting email from remarkable people. Santa emailed me once. Also, so did the Pope. But the piece de resistance, the spam-to-end-all-spam, was of course when I got the email from DEATH. So I got to thinking, and there are a few possible scenarios:
1. Somebody was searching for me because they think I am dead. DUDE. Would I still be blogging if I were dead?
2. Somebody thought that by typing in “cinnamonopus death” that it would send a command out into the universe and I would, instantaneously, drop dead. Well, that is CERTAINLY some optimism right there. Either that, or they are not really clued in on how this whole Internets thing works. Either way, I gotta think they are disappointed right now. Possibly they should have started small, with “cinnamonopus toothache” or “cinnamonopus sick” or something.
3. Somebody knew I got an email from Death, and was trying to horn in on my action. Well all I can say to that is: Honey, you want to get in on my fantastic spam email? Too bad. You need to start SMALL, and work your way UP to the likes of Santa and The Pope and Death. Try talking to Kelly. Her appliances are ALWAYS emailing and insulting her, and I am SURE she’d be happy to pass on your email address to them.
4. I am dead, and nobody bothered to tell me. Well, I HAVE been tired recently. But you would think SOMEBODY would make mention of it if I were actually DEAD.
So, blog stalkers of the world, you’re going to have to get up PRETTY EARLY IN THE MORNING… no wait, you did that, and it didn’t work.
Lemme try that again: Okay, blog stalkers, you can’t beat the power of the stats programs to monitor your every click and search. We’re watching you, and having a whole helluva lot of fun doing so.
And for the rest of my friends out there, to set your mind at ease, I just have to quote Mark Twain and let you know that “Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated”.
Mar
25
I am in need of a 12 Step Program. It’s true. I am an addict. A YARN addict.
I know I need help. I know I have WAY more yarn than is possible for me to knit in a YEAR. And yet? STILL BUYING.
There is a sale on at one of my local yarn stores right now. Stinkerbelle and I stopped in and browsed, and then picked out some yarn. I kept the damage to under $40, which I thought was very restrained of me.
The upside is that I don’t knit anything but bibs and blankets and scarves and squares. So although there is much gorgeous, soft, expensive yarn to be had, I really have no need for it. I knit in cotton, and that’s it. Washable, dryer-friendly cotton yarn. For washable, dryer-friendly stuff.
I tell you, though, wandering around this morning through all the soft, gorgeous, expensive wools and bamboos and alpacas in all their brilliant, rich colours was very tempting. High end yarn is very sexy. It’s like dangling a sparkly, shiny trinket in front of a magpie. WANTWANTWANT.
It’s very tempting. But I am able to resist. I gave up knitting sweaters years and years ago when I discovered it was no fun for me. It requires too much thinking.
Instead, I knit things that do not require much thought, that I can do while watching a movie or as That Baby putters around me or while having coffee and visiting with friends. And these are generally hard-wear items, like bibs and blankets and washcloths. (I LOVE to knit blankets and bibs. I could go into business knitting blankets and bibs, except for the fact that I am slow.)
So I have no need for the fancy-schmancy yarns. But still, there was a sale on today, and I could not resist some CottonTots in lovely blue and green and yellow. Another blanket for That Baby.
That’s not counting the super sale on bulk yarn I encountered a month ago at Zellers, wherein I bought 24 balls of cotton, suitable for ANOTHER blanket. So yeah — Stinkerbelle will be well and truly set for blankets until kindergarten, at this rate.
So, it’s safe to say I have enough cotton to keep me in knitting for quite some time. Oh, and that also doesn’t take into account the sale at Michaels a few weeks ago where I picked up some skeins for bibs. And beyond that, well… I have yarn left over from old finished projects, and old not-yet-started projects, just waiting to be cast on.
And I have not even mentioned the baby-melting acrylic I have accumulated over the years for toys and dolls and other projects. Or the yarn blends.
My yarn stash is becoming unwieldy.
When we buy our next house, when we win the lottery, I will have one room dedicated to crafts. And the walls will be lined with storage for my yarn.
Mar
23
It’s Tuesday, right? Isn’t it? We used to have swimming lessons on Tuesday mornings but now that they are finished, I have nothing regularly scheduled in my week until Wednesdays to tell me what day it is. Some days feel like two days crammed into one; others whiz by and you’re not sure what just happened.
So here are some of the things happening in our world today.
Mar
22
I am, and always have been, an animal person. I am much better with animals than I am with people. In social situations, I am loud and I sometimes say things that are careless or blunt or tactless, so people don’t much like me. And I don’t much care for a lot of people, either. But animals… I know they are inherently good, and they aren’t hurtful, and they are non-judgmental.
I have always been someone who cares for animals, even the wild ones. Animals like me and trust me, for the most part. I feed the birds and squirrels on our patio. I leave the seed heads on my plants in the fall so the birds have something to eat over the winter, and I leave the old foliage up so birds have someplace to sit and shelter, and the rodents have something to eat. I pitch old potatoes and carrots over the fence for the deer, and I worry about them when winter is cold and inhospitable. I worry too much about the local wildlife, some would say.
My father used to think it was a character flaw, the way I feel for animals. He never expressed any fondness for animals, and in some cases professed great hatred for them — like the mice and squirrels and chipmunks who came into his yard. But he is a complicated character, and so I suspect he just hid his true feelings from everyone — I had to have gotten this empathy from somewhere. My sister is much the same as I am, so it must be something we inherited.
Most people think I am a little nuts when it comes to animals. It’s fine. I am used to it. But it can be terribly trying some days, and my poor husband, who is tenderhearted to a fault, is often caught up in my animal situations through the goodness of his heart.
This morning, I tossed out some peanuts for the squirrels and blue jays, as I do every morning. They come and feed at their leisure, and they are fun to watch. But this morning, something different was happening.
A grey squirrel had come up to the patio. We hadn’t noticed him coming. We just noticed him sitting there, eating a peanut. BDH likes the grey ones the best, since they are so pretty and fat. But there was something strange about this guy. Squirrels are generally, in my observation, frantic and excitable creatures, constantly moving and hopping about. But not this fellow. He was hunkered down in the corner of the patio, quite low, eating slowly and deliberately.
He looked tired. It was almost as though he was falling asleep on his feet. His eyes were not as alert as they should be. And he moved so little, and when he did, it was slow.
BDH watched him for awhile. At first we thought he was cute, like he was tired out or contented to be there or something, but after a few minutes, we began to suspect something was wrong. He just didn’t move around enough. He was staying put way too much. BDH was the first one to say, “Perhaps he’s just very old. Or perhaps he is sick.” Well, he was eating well, so being sick was not so much an issue as perhaps he was injured.
Mostly, though, we thought he might just be very old. When he got down off the patio for a moment to get another peanut, he struggled to get back up.
I was dwelling on him. Our neighbourhood has cat owners who think it’s okay to let their cats out (don’t get me started — I think it’s irresponsible to let cats outside at the BEST of times, let alone next to a conservation area full of raccoons and other bigger, more dangerous creatures! in a town known for its coyote population!) so I was concerned for his safety should a cat come by. But more than that, I was just worried for the old fellow. It’s hard being old at the best of times.
He continued to sit and eat, sheltering against the post, and I went about getting That Baby her breakfast. I kept checking on him. He seemed okay.
I turned away for a little while, to get Stinkerbelle her milk, and when I went back to the window I saw the squirrel being chased — by a neighbourhood cat. Stupid cat. I ran to the window to scare the cat away, which fortunately worked, because the squirrel was struggling to get up the fence and would have been easy prey for a smarter cat. He made it to the top of the fence and then almost fell off again.
I was in tears. He managed to hold his footing, and I just watched him lying there on the top of the fence. My heart was breaking.
Now, I am not stupid. I know that this is the way nature is, and I know that there was nothing I could do for him. All I wanted to do, if none of that was a factor, was to go out and pick him up and put him someplace safe, with food and water and a warm, comfy place to sleep. And get him vet checked, and perhaps, if it was necessary, sit with him while he left this world. My heart wanted to help, but my head knows better.
And that is why I cried.
My husband, good man that he is, will do just about anything in these situations to help an animal in need and a wife in tears. He has spent a day or two rescuing a lost and terrified feral kitten. He has tried to free a fawn trapped in our backyard, to the extent that he was willing to cut open our chain-link fence. He has put up with the huge vet bills and damage to property that comes with living with one sickly and peevish old cat and three younger and considerably less smart ones.
So today, while he should have been getting ready to go to work, he was trying to work out what to do about this squirrel. And he came down in old jeans and sweatshirt, looking for something to put the old fellow in until we could figure out a course of action.
I love him for his kind heart. But as much as I wanted him to swoop in and rescue the squirrel like some humane superhero, it was not practical. If the animal was sick and bit him, or diseased and we brought disease back into the house with our cats and child, or if it got injured more in fleeing from an approaching human… all of these were good arguments for doing nothing.
Doing nothing was all we could and should have done. It was the right thing to do. I could tell it was breaking his heart. It was breaking mine.
We stood at the window and watched. The squirrel looked injured but did not move.
Then, next door, our neighbour let out his dogs. He recently got two small ratty yapper-type dogs. They are confined to the deck, but their noise is not. Fortunately, it was just enough to spur our little squirrel into action. He got up and very shakily, very gingerly made his way down the fence and back towards the conservation area. This was good. He could find a safe place, away from predators, and recover. Or maybe go home to his nest and die.
There would be no way to know. But it was the best possible outcome.
BDH went back to getting ready for work. I cried some more. Stinkerbelle went about her morning playing and watching Sesame Street.
I still look out the window occasionally, just in case he is nearby and needs help. Mostly, I just feel terribly sad that there was nothing, is nothing, I can do to help him.
BDH hugged me this morning and said, “You can’t save them all”. Many people have said this to me over the years, most with disdain and not nearly with the sympathy and caring that BDH felt this morning.
But the problem is that, forty years on, I still wish I COULD save them all. The difference it, age and experience has taught me that I can’t, and that hurts my heart.
Mar
19
Okay, my mommy peeps. I have a question.
Do any of you have kids who pull out their own hair?
Stinkerbelle has started the somewhat alarming habit of pulling out her own hair. Usually, it’s during naptime or in the morning, when she is alone in her crib. We will go in and find hair all over the place. Curls litter the blanket, the sheets, the floor beside her crib. Right now, when I went to get her from her naptime… holy hell, the mess! I gathered it all up, and there’s a hairball the size of a cottonball in there.
I am starting to get a little concerned.
When she first started doing it, we thought that the hairstyles we were putting in (mostly puffs) were hurting her. She was jamming her fingers in where her part was up in front, and we thought maybe it was just pulling and tight and bugging her. But she was doing it enough that it was starting to get a little thinner up there. So this week, we’ve been leaving her hair all natural in just a headband. And it has actually been getting worse.
I did a search on Teh Intertubes, and I guess kids do this. For some it’s self-soothing, when they are upset or anxious or bored. Well, That Laid Back Baby is definitely not anxious, and she’s not upset at all when she’s in her crib. She is, if anything, bored. So, this is what she does when she is alone and bored? NICE. It’s not like she hasn’t got a CRIB FULL O’ TOYS in there. Surely there’s something she could play with?
So, if this hypothesis is right, and she is bored… am I supposed to forego naptime so that my kid is not in her crib unattended, and getting bored, and pulling out her own hair? Because that is nuts. Kids NEED to nap. Or at least to have a rest time. And so do moms. And if I have to pass on her naptime, when I can get a shower and have a little time to do whatever by myself, then it will be ME pulling out my own hair.
Still, seeing the floor littered with hair when I walk in there is really alarming. And her ‘fro is puffed out HUGE from all the messing around she has done with it during today’s naptime. I guess we are going to have to go back to styling her hair, since it seems our hypothesis about the hairstyles hurting her were incorrect. And I guess we should start trying to put a nightcap on her (which she will, of course, take off) and see if it helps.
Me, I’m tempted to get it all cut short and keep it that way until she outgrows this habit.
Honestly, when I thought I would have to learn how to care for my kid’s hair — this is NOT what I imagined.
Mar
17
Okay, I am totally THAT MOM. Who dresses her kid up funny.
Behold, the geek bibs (click to embiggen):
I know! It’s a TARDIS! *squee* It’s still on the needles and hasn’t been blocked or anything but… A TARDIS!
Well, at least That Baby likes Doctor Who. I have also made a pattern for a Punisher skull — that’s for Daddy.
(Don’t worry Grammy. I am also making bibs with kitties and hearts and flowers and stuff on them. Even a cute music note. And a big letter Z, so she’ll look like a baby Superhero.)
Mar
15
She didn’t stand a chance. That Baby, the daughter of two computer geeks, is fully, completely initiated in the ways of geekdom.
She’s used to looking at photos on a laptop. She watches Sesame Street online or via podcast. She watches music videos on YouTube and dances along. And she signs “computer” just as easily as she signs “bowl” or “milk”.
And now? Now she’s playing our Wii Fit. Sure, she needs a little help sometimes. Like, stepping up onto the balance board, for example. But once she’s there, watch out! She’s unstoppable.
Okay, not really. Mostly she does stuff with our prompting, a little lean in this direction or that, or exhortations to “Jump! Jump, baby! Jump!” And ski jumping is mostly ski CRASHING, but that’s okay, because she thinks the crashing is HIGH-LARIOUS.
But by some fluke of balance, lean and distractedness, she’s now the family record-holder in the downhill slalom. And that one she did all on her own.
She prefers watching, though. She finds the hula hooping particularly fun, wiggling her little hips and cheering us on. She sings along to the tune of the step aerobics (which, admittedly, is an earworm. We’ve all got it stuck in our heads.) Today, I did a jogging game, and she shouted and cheered me on the entire time. She even trotted along in solidarity. And when you are pooped out from your efforts at whatever game you’re doing, as soon as the game is done, she signs and tells you “More. More. MORE. More!”
She’s a geek kid of geek parents. She never stood a chance. Good thing technology is so much fun.
Mar
10
I’ve been unplugged and gone for a couple of days. Where have I been, you ask?
OUT IN THE BIG, WIDE WORLD. WALKING.
I know. Crazy talk. Walking? In March? Well, let me tell you, it has been sunny and warm this week, so I have done some great long walks all over the place with That Baby. It was warm enough on Tuesday that I was out in a t-shirt. My hands are already suntanned from walking and pushing the stroller.
I did 10 km on Monday, and liked it so much I turned around and did another 10 km on Tuesday. It was so nice to be out again. I have missed walking, given that we walked almost every day last year — or at least, every day with reasonable weather. And I have been so tired being cooped up all winter. That Baby didn’t think much of it either, so she was loving the outdoors time. And it is a great way for me to get through our current 100 Day Challenge (day 69 today!) which is really nice. (Maybe I’ll put all my mileage together on a map and post it. Like, if I was walking to Nova Scotia or to the cottage or something. It’d be fun to see how far I’ve gone.)
I am feeling it today, with sore muscles and joints, so tonight I did my exercise on our Wii. But tomorrow, I’ll be out walking again. It’s our weekly play date with Austin and his mom, and we’re getting together at a local sports complex which is a trailhead for one of our local trail systems. It’s paved, so it will be good for strollers or for little runners to run with only foot and bike traffic to contend with. And I think that we’ll be on an 8 km segment start to finish, so hopefully we get through a decent walk.
I’ve missed walking. I’m glad winter is just about done.
Mar
8
My kid has gone all “toddler” on me. I am SO not prepared.
It could be worse. She’s thrown exactly one tantrum so far, and she lost interest after about 10 seconds. And this is the one part of toddlerhood I WAS getting prepared for.
It figures. She probably anticipated that, and is trying to keep me off balance. These toddlers, they are TRICKY. It’s all part of their fiendish plot to rule the world by keeping the adults confused.
Mar
6
It was bound to happen. Our hard-done-by old machine, Fred, cacked again on Friday. The poor bastard is on his last legs, but he keeps chugging along. Anyway, when he died on Friday (actually it was overnight Thursday) BDH had to do some quick ‘n’ dirty repairs — he works again, but at this point, we can’t access some data. And in particular, we can’t get to our photos.
What that means is… if you are looking for some recent photo postings in my Project 365 (or, Grammy, in the 365 we are doing of That Baby), you’re going to have to wait awhile. It will take some time for BDH to work his magic and make all our data accessible again.
But I tell you what — we are SO saving up to buy a new computer. And we’ll give Fred a decent burial when we do. Poor old bastard.
Mar
5
Okay, this is effing AWESOME: OK Go does a Rube Goldberg machine. Perfect way to end a week.
Enjoy, and props to BDH for the link.
Mar
5
It seems some weeks that parenting a toddler is just an endless series of battles. Some you win, and some you lose.
Often times they are battles of will. Toddlers are learning to express themselves, and in so doing you get their exhortations and demands for what they want. Lately around here we are teaching “please”. Stinkerbelle has become quite vocal in expressing what she wants, usually by repeating “More! More! More!” at a very high volume and signing it like mad. She will repeat it with escalating urgency and volume until you acknowledge her. She knows how to say please, and has done for a year or so, thanks to sign language. But she is learning, as we often shush her and tell her to do, that saying “please” will get things done MUCH faster. She seems to think this is good. This is a battle we are winning. And everybody is happy.
One we are sort of holding our ground on is a battle over eating. That Baby STILL has issues with textures and chewing, and so we’re still feeding her the mushy stuff. (Hey, you find yourself waking up one day with a mouth FULL of teeth, and tell me how you get on.) But she is learning to crunch and tear and chew, which is great progress. She still hasn’t figured out that if she just keeps it in her mouth and swallows… VOILA! Eating! But that will come. On the losing front, though, is that she has a remarkable capacity for holding a mouthful of food in her mouth. She can talk and sing and breathe around this mouthful FOR. FREAKING. EVER. And it drives me to distraction. Mealtimes, consequently, can take an hour or more. We win some food battles, and we lose some. But in the end, the whole eating thing will work out just fine, so it’s best not to stress it.
A battle that we are losing is the naptime battle. That Baby still does not nap longer than 45 minutes most days, after many, many months of a good 2-hour nap in the afternoons. (Except today. 2 hours! I am SO happy!) She’s going on fumes some days, she is so tired, but since the start of February her napping has been all off. And it’s making me not a nice person. I am not having my best mommy days when that child wakes, inconsolable, after 45 minutes — and to be honest, they’re not her best days either. I am NOT willing to just surrender napping. She is too young. So we will just have to keep working on it. Warmer weather will help, because as it gets warmer, we can go outside and she will be able to run and play and tire herself out before naptime rolls around.
Other battles are just disappearing of their own accord, which is nice. We will not have a battle over weaning from a bottle, because That Baby is cool with sippies and cups — but it won’t be an issue until we figure out the eating thing and I can be sure she’s full throughout the day. We also are finding we are able to go back to the grocery store with the crazy checkout ladies because now that Stinkerbelle is older, heavier and less snuggleable and less baby-like, they seem less interested in carrying her off. The main culprits can’t even remember her name, which is most excellent news. And the ones who are respectful of not freaking her mom out are still loving up That Baby while leaving her in her stroller or shopping cart, which I wholeheartedly endorse. And a lot of battles, over getting out of the stroller and walking, or wanting to go on the swings or whatever, are going by the wayside because Stinkerbelle’s comprehension of what we’re saying is increasing by leaps and bounds, so all we have to do is talk to her and she understands and is fine with it. I know that won’t always be the way, but being able to communicate, rather than being frustrated, is something we both are enjoying.
As That Baby grows, into the Terrible Twos and Tumultuous Threes, we’re soon going to learn how to pick our battles and learn some ways to cope with the tantrums and willfulness and needs for independence. They’re going to be battles of a different sort, I am sure, and some will be won and some lost. But right now at least, we’re winning enough on each side that both parties are happy most of the time, and so hopefully we’ll remember that as we carry on.
Mar
3
When things are good, they are really good:
But when they are bad, they kinda suck:
Meh. It is probably a good sign for me NOT to play the lottery this week.
Mar
1
Whoa. Post-gold medal hockey. A hangover, this country has one.
It was totally worth it, though. I love the collective roar that went up when Our Boy Sidney put the puck in the net. From coast to coast to coast, and overseas as well, Canadians erupted in a collective dance of jubilation. Houses full of families gathered around the TV or computer screen hugging and cheering. Bars full of people drinking themselves into happy oblivion. Drivers endlessly honking their horns. Streets full of people singing the anthem on a loop — one group would finish singing, and another one would start up.
Our anthem is a sing-along song, a song where you throw your arm around your neighbour’s shoulder and sing with all your heart. This gave me endless happiness for the past two weeks, but last night capped it perfectly.
I didn’t watch The Game (as it will be known for a few generations). I couldn’t. I am highly superstitious when it comes to sports, and although BDH assures me that whether or not I watch a game has no impact whatsoever on it’s outcome — I don’t believe him. I hadn’t watched all tournament long and they were doing fine, so I was NOT going to screw with karma last night. So I didn’t watch. BDH watched in the next room, and I tried to keep an even keel in another. Finally, after the third period, it was just too much stress, and I had to take That Baby upstairs to the attic until I heard the scream of joy. Then it was safe to watch and enjoy the moment. (I am a superstitious freak, and I am okay with that. If I played hockey, I’d be one of those players who didn’t change their socks all tournament or whatever.)
Hockey is such a huge part of our national identity. I know people who don’t like hockey will complain and say “it’s just a game”. But they are wrong. It IS a big part of what makes us who we are as a country, from the smallest of towns to big cities with franchises, and the naysayers just have to suck it up and get over themselves. I mean, I don’t watch NHL hockey, but even I can admit that winning Olympic gold is a Very Big Deal and get excited and cheer along with the rest of the country.
And we did. We cheered a lot. We stayed up way too late, not just last night but for two solid weeks of the Olympics. And I am feeling it today. It may not be a hangover from a few too many beers, but it can definitely be attributed to a few too many late nights and choruses of “O Canada”.
I don’t mind nursing that kind of hangover, one that comes from celebrating together and sharing a night of national pride. But I will admit, I am kind of relieved it only happens once every four years.
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