Sunday, November 29, 2009

Holidays

TREV: I asked your family if they wanted to come over for Robbie Burns Day in January. I thought I'd try to make haggis.
WORKING: Really?
TREV: Yeah. Nancy said we should probably see if we can order the sheep's stomach from a butcher. Might be hard to find.
WORKING: We could try to order a whole haggis...
TREV: Yeah, she said that too. But I kind of wanted to cook.
WORKING: There are probably plenty of accompanying Scottish side dishes.
TREV: True! I could make oat cakes!
WORKING: Hm. Scottish cooking isn't very... dynamic, is it?
TREV: What are you talking about?! Oat cakes are delicious.
WORKING: We should also celebrate St. David's Day on March 1st. You know, for my side. It's no Robbie Burns Day, but the Welsh have parades.
TREV: Sure.
WORKING: Oh, listen: To celebrate this day, people wear a symbol of either a leek, or daffodil. The leek is patriotic, arising from an occasion when a troop of Welsh were able to distinguish each other from a troop of English enemy dressed in similar fashion by wearing leeks.
TREV: Seriously? "How do we tell each other apart?"
"We're the guys wearing the really big onions." The British soldiers standing next to them, looking at guys wearing big-assed onions on their shirts, wondering, WTF?
WORKING: Yup. Those are my people.

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Thursday, November 26, 2009

Sick Day

I had a midterm today, so naturally Mac was sick-sick-sck. It was just the same, snot-filled cold at first but since he got his shots today, it turned into a fever-laced snot-filled cold that required that he be held in a bear hug at all times because screaming will be elevated to top levels should so much as a toe be moved.

Sigh.

On one hand I feel so bad for the little guy. On the other, I can't help but cheer a little to see his immune system in action. His little lymphocytes are kicking ass and taking names. The body is a beautiful thing (note: my midterm was Anatomy / Physiology).

I'd like to sing the praises of a few products. First, baby acetaminophen. Second, all things hydraSense.* The applicator on the the Ultra Gentle Mist stuff was so much easier than trying to get saline up his nose with a dropper. And my new favourite, the little snot-sucking gadget that I mentioned yesterday, is the coolest thing ever. It's super effective and you can actually see rivers of mucus 'vacate the premises'.

(And no, Tyler, no straw on hand pre-gadget so trust me, I'm ecstatic to have this in my arsenal now)

* I am in no way affiliated with this company. I just dig the product.

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Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Did I Just Do That?

I hesitate to post this because, well, how much of the truth should I tell?

Say it's 3AM. You're tired - no, exhausted. You wake up to the choking, gasping sounds of your infant trying to breathe through a plugged nose. He starts crying because every time he tries to suck his thumb, he can't breathe.

You take him downstairs so that at least your partner will get some sleep and relieve you in a few hours. You consider your arsenal: saline drops, one of those rubber aspirators with the nubby end, baby Tylenol and Kleenex. You get to work, squeezing, squishing, pinching, rubbing... and nothing works. Now the baby is screaming in between snot-filled wheezes. There is just no end to the snot and most of it isn't moving.

You sit and nurse (and surf Facebook) and think and think. What to do, what to do?

Well, I dreamed up a notion that evolved into an idea and became a plan and then before I knew it, a done deal. I will spare you the details, only say that it worked. My child breathed free and clear. And I don't think that I'm the first, because I found this at the drugstore. It was probably inspired by a desperate parent like myself.

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Monday, November 23, 2009

Overheard: Daddy Talk

Trev: (Mac pulls blanket over his face and starts to panic) Are you trapped? Here, I'll get it (removes blanket). There. I saved your life again. And I'm keeping a tally, by the way.

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Saturday, November 21, 2009

Overheard: Daddy Talk

TREV: (singing) Had my baby! What a wonderful way to say we're not gettin' busy anymore...

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Friday, November 20, 2009

My Doodles

I used to wonder why it's such a big deal to get to go grocery shopping by yourself when you're a mother. Yeah, I get it now. I even treated myself to a ginger ale that was the best damn ginger ale I've ever had.

But as I was driving, I noticed that I already missed the kid. I enjoyed the feeling of missing him. It's good to step away and take a reading. It wasn't a mad panic to get home or anything, just a slight ache that there is now someone I love enough to miss, even when I'm only gone for an hour. [EDITED: Of course I love you this much, Trev. But I can usually go to Superstore without pining for you. I'm just saying]

As much as I complain about him, there's a permanent Doodles-shaped impression on my soul. And it's more than any schlocky Mother's Day card could ever convey. It's how when he turns his head a certain way, I can see his father in his face and I fall in love even more. Or when he makes a certain expression that sends a pulse down as deep as my own DNA.

I love those moments. Of course, there are other moments, like right now, when he's shrieking at the top of his lungs and peeing on his own face. Blog post-ending moments.

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Tuesday, November 17, 2009

"Client" vs. "Patient"

Here you go, a non-you-know-what related post.

So my studies are going, well, just okay. I tend to get easily distracted by the you-know-what, and of course all of the great television there is to watch. I loves me some good television, particularly when my studies are less than engaging, which one particular course is. Not. Engaging. (cough) I absolutely despise the textbook. It screams make-work project for some overly bureaucratized institution somewhere. It's outright obfuscatory; if there is a convoluted way to relay the simplest Nursing concept, they find it and beat it to death with a confusion stick.

Anyhoo, as a way of distracting myself from a particularly dry chapter (in which I thought I was going to find out what RN's actually do, but no luck, just more words like "needs theories" and "simultaneity theories" that I'll have to memorize for the final), I started a debate on the general discussion board. And if you have time, I'd like to know what you think. You know, as General Public types:
I take issue with the term 'client'. I always have, ever since I heard that's what we're meant to call patients. It makes absolutely no sense to me. To me, 'client' always has, and always will, imply a financial transaction for professional services. Lawyers have clients. Realtors have clients. Doctors have patients. Psychiatrists have patients. Now which category should we be in?

I bring this up now because it's being addressed in Week 10 of Potter / Perry: "By the 1960's, professional leaders recognized that nurses did much more than simply care for hospitalized clients. Because of this, nursing theorists started to use the term *client* rather than *patient*, to refer to the person at the centre of any nursing process." (p. 66 under "Client and Person).

Essentially, it's the argument that the term 'client' offers patients more respect. Well, if the patient is at the centre of care, and people in the general populate are more comfortable with the term 'patient' and think 'client' is just plain confusing and weird (ask someone, anyone, they'll think it's weird bureacratic-speak), then shouldn't we, as a patent-centered profession, respect the patient's chosen terminology? Doesn't that lead to better communication with said patient, as determined by the patient? And if we put it to a patient vote, I bet they'd chose patient. 'Client' is a nurse-chosen word. Worse, it's a 'professional leaders' chosen word. Where is the patient in that?

There is absolutely nothing wrong with the word patient, nor do I believe it affects peoples' perception of nursing. The act of nursing affects the perception of nursing.

Anyway, it's a pet peeve I can't get passed and I'm going to use the word patient until convinced otherwise.

Thoughts?

[UPDATED: I realized after writing this that Psychologists may also use the word 'client', but again there is generally a financial transaction. Social workers are the other field I can think of that may use 'client' (also use the term 'case'?). Still, this doesn't change my perception that people are comfortable with the term 'patient' in a health care setting. As a patient, it kind of makes me feel cared for.]
Thank you.

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Marital Conversations

WORKING: Doodles, stop yelling!
TREV: Listen to your mother!
WORKING: Here. Have your Sophie. Take it! Don't turn your nose up, Sophie cost us $21!
TREV: $21?! We can't be spending that kind of money on a chew toy!
WORKING: Oh yes we can. It's non-toxic, hand-painted using baby-safe paint. And if it's something he's going to be chewing on all the time, I'd rather there were no chemicals.
TREV: Fine.
WORKING: And it was made in France, not China.
TREV: Does that mean we have to give it four months of holidays?

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Monday, November 16, 2009

Dear Mac: Four Months

(Wow, Mac dominates this blog. Tomorrow, tune in for something completely different! That means I have until tomorrow to figure out what that might be. But I have to write the ode to four months today - it's his lunaversary!)

You're four months old! Wow, four months. Really, only four months? Cuz it feels like we've known you for at least a year already. You're getting so big. Accordingly, we moved you into a crib today. "Evil pen of isolation and rejection" to some, "cozy, safe rolling-around place of comfort" to us. You're still in our room, so the cacophony of snoring that erupts from your dad and the dog should provide some familiarity tonight. And I'm particularly pleased that I don't have to maneuver around the cradle to get in and out of bed.

So new on deck:
  • You grew out of all your 3-6 month clothes.
  • You're laughing! It's so cute. Kind of deep, a little raspy, definitely giddy. Your eyes get so huge and round and seem to fill to the brim with happiness. And such dimples!
  • You use your hands so much more. When you nurse you play with my cheek, my chin, you stick your fingers up my nose and hook my lip. You love to pull my hair. You push my shirt up, pull it down, push it up, pull it down. When you fall asleep, your thumb is in your mouth while the other hand strokes my neck. Trev says you've started playing with his beard, too (hours of fun in that thing).
  • I can usually make you stop crying instantly if I pretend to eat your hands. You think it's hilarious.
  • You are using the potty. I shit (ha!) you not. We hold you over it, make a little sound and you let go, both poops and pees. Of course you still wear a diaper and you probably don't notice either way, yet, but we're hoping the potty will already be a natural part of your life by the time your awareness of such things kicks in.
  • You love-love-love the jolly jumper, especially if I clap my hands and cheer.
  • This isn't new, but I don't think I've mentioned it before; you love to be held (well, no kidding, you're a baby). What I mean is, you love to be perched on my arm, looking out at whatever I'm doing, wherever I'm going. I tried you in the sling, no go. Baby Bjorn, nope. Basotho-style on my back, no thanks. You want to be perched on my left arm, which is now totally muscly, thank you very much.
  • You've started making strange with people a little. You don't cry, necessarily, but you stare at them with an overly serious face and no matter how hard they try, you're reserved with your smiles. I feel like I get to see a completely different kid from everyone else.
  • You've tasted a few different foods. No chunks, and just little tastes. So far nothing has really gotten you overly excited. Solids are probably a ways away.
  • You may or may not be teething.

Well, I'm off to gaze at you in your new crib again. You look so small, which is nice, because it felt like you were growing too fast for awhile, there.

Love,
Mommy


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Round Whatever

Apparently this is a sleep journal now! Oh well, better than a boob journal. Or a puke, poop and pee journal. All of which it has been at various times. I'm under no illusions that this is interesting to anyone but me. I do edit these down (you're so lucky). Thank you for indulging.

So, Mac napped for his usual half hour (urgh! So short! Can't do anything! Frustrating!) and started crying like usual. And like usual, I plodded upstairs to pick him up and bring him down for his post-nap feed (which I've jokingly referred to as "his coffee" because he's intolerable until he's had it). And as usual, he had "waking up face" - red eyed, looks like he just snapped out of an intense dream.

I was mid-reach when suddenly I remembered a section of this book I've read off and on since he was born where it says that sometimes waking up isn't really waking up, but rather transitioning. Having nothing to lose (but my sanity), I started to rock him. He cried quite a bit and I almost gave up, but then he popped his thumb in his mouth and went back to sleep and he's been down for almost an hour.

Is it possible all this time I've had a sleep-deprived child? Come to think of it, after those rare long naps, he does wake up really happy...

(insert d'oh)

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Saturday, November 14, 2009

Round Five

We took you to CrossFit. You started to fuss. I was about to give up my workout when fellow CrossFitter, A., who was sitting this one out, picked you up and told me to get back to work. 15 minutes into the workout I looked over and you were sound asleep. Some say A. has a magic touch. I think it's because she's both in law enforcement and the mother of two. You knew she wouldn't take any shit. Round five to A..

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Rounds Three and Four

Trevor took Round Three. You screamed for about 20 minutes. Then you 'went to sleep' and just as we were high fiving, you started up again. Round three to you.

I took Round Four. I nursed you ( you still get to feed 2-3 times a night, but not in my bed, yo!). Then I put you down. You started to fuss. I unclenched your fingers and shoved your thumb in your mouth. You started to suck away with me holding your hand and stroking your fingers. You fell asleep. Round Four to me.

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Friday, November 13, 2009

Round Two

You only screamed for 20 minutes! And you sucked on your own fingers! I was about to take the win when I glanced in the mirror and realized that the other hand, which was resting against my chin, was giving me the finger. Round two to you.

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Dear Mac: On the Subject of Sleep

Dear Son,
You and I just had our first big fight. It started this morning when I opened my eyes to the sounds of you fussing downstairs and your dad trying to talk you down. I looked at the clock. 9:20AM. Trevor had obviously called in late to work again to let me sleep as much as possible. But even still, he would have to be out the door soon. I had no choice but to drag my sleep-deprived, exhausted, fuzzy-headed self downstairs to take over your care for another long day of getting nothing done.

I'd like to call you a little shit for not letting me sleep again. It's been about two weeks of this. But if I'm honest, it's all my fault. One night not so long ago I was so tired that instead of getting up, nursing you and putting you back down in your cradle, I brought you to bed and nursed you to sleep. Then I did it for our nap the next day. Then I did it the next night, and the next night after that. It just seemed easier. You were ecstatic, like I was when I learned that our local Sobey's is now open until midnight every night.

Problem: you now need the boob and the pacifier to fall asleep. And since you wake up naturally every 50 minutes or so, I'm whipping the girls out like it's Mardi Gras. Pacifiers are flying around our bed like beads. So this morning, my sleep-deprived brain fought through the fog and came up with a plan. No more pacifier. No more boob.

Oh, how we fought. At first you thought I was joking. You smiled at me and puked down my cleavage. Ha, ha, so funny! Then it started to dawn on you that this wasn't a joke. You thrashed around, latching onto my arm, my chin, my cheek like a rabid piranha. Then you started to scream and, boy, you can scream. Upside, I could finally do a thorough evaluation of your gums from front to back, and your tonsils, too (they're fine. No teeth bumps, either).

You screamed and screamed and screamed, accusing me of betrayal through slitted eyelids. But I persisted. Rocking and rocking, shh'ing and shh'ing. For 40 minutes you screamed and I rocked. I stared at the pacifier on the bedside table. "COMFORT HIM!" one side of my brain screamed, "THIS IS CRUEL!" No, the other side of my brain said firmly. He's been fed. He has your arms around him. This is just anger that things aren't going his way. "YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE," the other side said. Maybe so. But I'm also right.

So I kept going. And then, suddenly, it stopped. Son, your eyes were closed. After I got over my shock, I laid you in your cradle and you sleepily popped your thumb into your mouth. Maybe, just maybe, this could mean the resumption of our beautiful friendship.

Love,
Mommy

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Thursday, November 12, 2009

Dreams

In another lifetime, I used to be a fitness instructor (all my fellow CrossFitters who have witnessed me try to do a pull-up are all like "whaa-?"). I taught the cardio component of a martial art called "Krav Maga", or literally "contact combat" (it is exactly as it sounds). I felt like such a tough guy, flying down to LA to be trained and certified.

I came back all pumped and confident. Then I taught my first class. To say I sucked would be to understate it. In the mirror, as I lost the beat and tripped over my own feet again, I could see the frowns on the faces of my students, and an outright sneer on the face of one of the guys who had been royally pissed that I'd been selected to teach in the first place. I had just proven his point.

"You'll get better," my boss said, "it just takes time" (oh, the parallels I could draw with motherhood).

Despite how hard it was at the time, it's taken this many years for it to come out in my dreams. Yup, I am now having anxiety dreams about Krav Maga. In the dreams, I am called in to teach. It's been years, so I can't remember the steps. The students are waiting and I can tell they're better than me. I can't seem to get my arms and feet to move the right way. I can't remember the combinations. I'm out of shape and out of breath. My boss never shows up. I'm on my own.

I suppose in about five years I'll start having dreams about final exams that I forgot to study for.

As a side note, when I was training in LA they were really big into the keeping it overly positive and making contact with our students to encourage them. You know, a touch on the shoulder, a pat on the back, a hand on the arm to enforce a movement. That "touch is essential" was hammered into our heads and we were even marked on it during our practical exam.

After a few weeks of teaching back in Canada, my boss pulled me aside and said, "the students don't want you to touch them. It makes them uncomfortable." I was mortified. Now I chalk it up to a cultural difference between LA and, well, the rest of the world.

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Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Trevor

When I first met him, he had a cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth and a Globe 'n Mail under his arm...
Note: At the time of this photo, Mac had just peed on Trev's head. I still don't understand how it happened and I'm not going to ask.

* * *
TREV: Look at what's become of my life. And it's all your fault!
WORKING: ME?! You're the one who was shooting that loaded gun everywhere!
TREV: You told me we couldn't get pregnant! You're the one with the bad math!
WORKING: Why is it always me who has to be responsible for all of the math in this family??
TREV: Because I don't understand the equation! It's girlgebra!

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In Remembrance

I always think of my Granddad today, Remembrance Day. Here is his story, which I composed on a previous, now defunct blog:

2005-02-14 @ 5:06 p.m.
Peter Smith

“How are you holding up, Granddad?”
“I’m ok. It’s lonely, you know.”
Oh Granddad, I thought, she died last May. You have to let her go.
“We had some hard times,” he continued, “but that’s what you get when you have a German and a Welsh girl together. Both hardheaded. There was a time I almost said forget it all. I was going to wait until the kids were old enough and then I was going to leave.”
“What stopped you, Granddad?”
“My faith. I prayed. And the Lord, he told me to stay. I have her picture now beside me. On our wedding day. And we almost had 60 years, but she just couldn’t hold on. She is so beautiful in that picture. She had red hair. I really miss her.”
“I know you do, Granddad. How does a marriage stay together for almost 60 years?”
“You have to pray. You just have to have faith.”

I could not have known it would be my last phone conversation with him. My mom called today, Valentines Day, to tell me he had died of a heart attack. “He had a broken heart,” she said through her tears.

My Granddad is gone. That firm, strict man who insisted there was a proper way to do things but who definitely had a sparkle of fun in his eyes. He had an impeccably trimmed mustache, well pressed clothes and wore slippers and cardigans around the house. He did his army calisthenics every morning – one push up for every year of his age, he told me – and loved to putter around, putting things in order. He was the one who took us outside with the toboggan.

There are so many stories from Granddad, and now I can only hope to remember them right. How he was born to German-speaking Austrian parents in a northern part of Yugoslavia. How he came to Canada when he was six and his father promptly left him and his mother*/**. How he worked his way across Canada doing farm work and how he loved to walk, camp, travel, and smoked a pipe for over 40 years, which gave him the emphysema that later plagued him. How his car and his room and his books were always neat and how he had that cuckoo clock that he wound every day and a canary named Cicero that whistled until you put the cover over its cage. And how he had a workshop that smelled like a workshop and produced all sorts of handmade toys out of bottle caps and pieces of wood. How he had a scratchy black and white-checked recliner. How he had an absolute, unwavering faith in the Catholic church.

But perhaps his greatest story started around May, 1944, when he was a young Canadian soldier waiting in London, UK, to be deployed. He was bored one night and almost went to a movie or something but decided to go roller-skating instead. The announcer called a break and the skaters left the rink, save for a short, sparkling redhead who could barely skate. Like any hero, my Granddad, skated over and helped her off. She was a Welsh girl who had a job at a hotel. He asked if she would go out for a cup of tea with him. She said she would.

A few weeks later he shipped out across the Channel, having missed D-Day by mere days (as an engineer, he had his own army issued radio and listened to the landing from the British coast). Granddad spoke fluent German and was assigned to a unit that would push further into Europe. I think it was Holland where they came across a German road barricade. His unit took cover.

“Tell them to surrender,” his senior officer ordered. Granddad shouted out in German. Shots were fired.
“Tell them again to surrender,” barked the order, “make sure they hear it!”
So Granddad had to raise himself up enough to be heard. He shouted out in German and before he could drop back to the ground, a shot rang out, nailing him in the chest. The bullet nicked his heart.

His recuperation in the UK took months and the redheaded Welsh girl kept close. When he was well enough, they made a trip to Wales to meet her family and her brothers took him out and got him drunk. With her family’s blessing, they married. And 50-some years later, they were still together, settled in Winnipeg with a decent civil servant pension, three kids and seven grandkids.***

Peter Smith, my Granddad, I still miss you. I hope you have found your redheaded Welsh girl.

*Granddad's parents made him chose. They took him to a restaurant, sat him down and said, "do you want to go with your mother or father?" At six years old, he knew he was choosing to lose one parent, possibly forever. And being only six, he chose his mother. He wouldn't reconnect with his father until he was in his sixties, Great-Granddad Nick in his eighties.

**Apparently Great-Granddad Nick ended up spying on the Russians in Toronto for what is now CSIS.

***Since this composition, two great-grandsons have been born, Isaiah and Mac. I see Granddad in the shapes of their mouths.

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Monday, November 09, 2009

Marital Conversations

TREV: Ooooh!
WORKING: Did he get you?
TREV: Puked all over me. (to Mac) You're a mess! I'm a mess! Your mom's a mess! This house is a mess! Our yard is a mess! All we need is a car up on blocks in our front yard.
WORKING: Come on, now, it's not that bad. Excuse me if we have other priorities right now.
TREV: At least I got all those cans to Sarcan today.
WORKING: Oh right! How much did we make?
TREV: $30. I bought a roast and some salad and we have $15 left over.
WORKING: Score!
TREV: And by the way, they don't take glass jars.
WORKING: Oh really?
TREV: Nope.A guy with extreme bedhead told me that he'd take them this one time but that next time we have to go to the 'land field'.
WORKING: Er, you mean landfill?
TREV: Nope, he said 'land field.'
WORKING: Well, it probably makes perfect sense in his mind.
TREV: Yup. You have a field where farmers grow land. And where we put our garbage.

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Sunday, November 08, 2009

More About Sleep

I don't check my stats, though, you should know that many of you come to mind when I'm writing. I really do feel like I'm writing to a bunch of friends. Hi Schmutzie! Hi Tyler and Tracy! Hi Ang D. and Leya from Crossfit! Robin and Aaron! Naomi and Dan! Hi Rick and Susan and Kerri! Hi Nancy! Hi sisters-in-motherhood, Nova and Risa! Hi Counting Sheep! Hi Chris, Brenda, Naomi, Dan! Love you, Dad, Sonja and Mari! Hi Nicole! Hi Jack and James and Laureen and Tina! Hi Dawn! And of course, hello my beloved husband.

And hello to all of you I haven't listed, but who I do think about, and of course those of you who I haven't met outside of the blogosphere. Judging by comments, you stop by consistently and it means a lot to me. I love comments. I read them religiously. Don't hesitate to say hello if you're stopping by.

So the kid, he still does not sleep. So many theories out there. I read somewhere about 4-month regression and it makes sense. It also makes sense that he's learning so many new things right now and his little brain can't settle down at night. Then it also makes sense that he's transitioning into big people sleep and therefore waking up at the end of each cycle. You and me, we just roll over, right? We don't even wake up. But maybe he does. Every theory makes perfect, logical sense. But knowing that does nothing to help me get any more sleep.

He freaks out. He thrashes. He kicks. He wants to nurse but he doesn't want to nurse. He wants his sucky but he doesn't want his sucky. And he certainly doesn't know how to put himself back to sleep yet.

Co-sleeping has helped in part. He starts out in his cradle and moves in with us somewhere in the middle of the night because it's just easier. But then he eats too much and pukes all over the bed, not to mention the increase in diaper malfunctions. It ends up with the three of us crammed over onto the 'dry half'. I'd say it's not a long-term solution. We're going to need a back up bed at this rate.

And we've become so obsessed with minutiae. "Maybe if we wrap him this way instead of that."
"Maybe if you rock him like this."
"Maybe if you use long shhhhhhhh's instead of short shhh's."
"Maybe if we turn his cradle an inch and a quarter towards true north..."

My fledgling mothering instinct says that he'll figure it out in his own time and that whatever we try to do is only to make ourselves feel better. Though, I may wean him off the sucky because he seems to enjoy his thumb and it would just be one less thing I have to wake up for (I have developed some mad find-the-sucky-in-the-dark skills). I may curse myself when it's time to wean him off the thumb.

We don't want to over think it, but after so many nights in a row of no sleep, I can see why parents are ready to try just about anything. I want that other baby back! The one we had a month ago! Only, then there wouldn't be baby laughs. And those are almost worth the lack of sleep.

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Friday, November 06, 2009

ZZZzzzzzzzZZZZz

A couple of you have reached out with words of comfort about the no-sleep situation. I really appreciate it. It's a difficult, humourless time right now, but I'm always aware that things could be a lot worse. This phase seems to be normal part of baby development. The best we can do is cope and hope the next night will be better.

Boy, it's hard to keep your head without sleep, though! I honestly don't know how any of you with insomnia survive. I have a whole new appreciation.

It's a sunny, warm day out there. I just enjoyed some spinach-spaghetti squash au gratin that Trevor made and later I'm going to pack up the Mac and go watch my 4 year-old nephew play his first game of soccer. And maybe, just maybe, there will some sleep going on around here tonight.

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Thursday, November 05, 2009

Marital Conversations

(Trev's having a bath in our tiny bathroom. I've put Mac in his bouncy chair facing the tub so I can brush my teeth)

TREV: Oh great. Now Kiwi's in here, too. Why doesn't the whole damn family just move in?!
WORKING: You'll never bathe alone again.
TREV: (to Mac) Daddy hasn't had an uninterrupted bath since his bachelor days.
(splash splash)
Do you think we could all live in here?
WORKING: In where?
TREV: In the bathroom.
WORKING: All of us? No.
TREV: Not all of us. Just me.
WORKING: Oh. Well, it's the size of a closet. So no?
TREV: I bet I could. The Murphy bed could pull down this way over the tub. When it's up, you could pull a little table down this other way...
(scrub scrub)
Course, it's kind of gross with a toilet in the middle of the room.
(splash)
I bet the Japanese could find a way. They could do it.
(splash splash)
Hell, they'd probably find a way to put a hallway in here.
(splash)

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Wednesday, November 04, 2009

Liar, Liar

What is it about this blog that turns me into a LIAR every single time? I said we were catching more of Mac's poops and pees than ever. Today everything is coated. Everything. I've changed three times and we have to rewash the floors in three separate rooms.

So, in that vein, let me shout out to to the Universe that MY LIFE IS HELL BECAUSE HE WILL NOT SLEEP FOR LONGER THAN TWO HOURS AT A TIME AT NIGHT, 30 MINUTES DURING THE DAY.

(Pause. Wait for sounds of snoring from the cradle?)

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Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Potty Training

Little dude has an owie on his pee-pee. Yes, those are technical terms. Imagine if you had a rash on your genitals. First, I bet you'd be shitting your pants. And he is, only literally, and hence the rash. Second, you'd probably be damn miserable, too.

So he's been getting A LOT of naked time. And accordingly, we've been getting better at 'catching' poops and pees in the bathroom sink. I know, I know, it's gross but it works. In fact, it works so well that now all we have to do is take him to the sink, make a 'pss, pss' sound and he lets 'er rip.

So far we've caught more than we've missed and we continue to improve on our timing. If I can figure out how to keep all parts pointing down whilst holding him, we may take the experiment to the toilet.

Oh, and I understand if you want to find alternate facilities to use while visiting us.

* * *
(Trev is holding Mac, who looks across the room at me)
TREV: Don't look at her. It'll just make you hungry.

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