My Alternative to NHL Hockey

During the last NHL lockout, Texas Holdem' Poker made a big surge.  Men around the country needed a competitive spectacle to occupy their time, and the stars of the poker world were all too happy to fill that need.

Well, now there's another lockout.  And those that like poker have stuck with it.  It looks like the rest of us hockey fans are looking for another outlet.

Look no further.  I am offering up my own nightly ritual as fodder for the masses.  Simply put, I suggest we videotape and broadcast my efforts to change my infant baby's diaper and put on her pyjama.

Here's what I promise to you, the fan:

• Three 20-minute periods, during which the outcome is never a certainty.
• There will be sweating, swearing, usually some hooking, and lots of shame.
• Assuming I manage to get the diaper on, I will give a post-completion interview, where I will discuss my strategy during the diapering, which will likely involve some combination of luck, yelling and a complete disregard for whether or not the diaper is even on properly.
• Headed into the pyjama'ing, I will offer viewers the opportunity to call in an choose the pyjama of their choice.  This will allow you, the fan, to choose a zippered pyjama, or the dreaded over-the-head, buttons at the bottom model.  Because unlike the NHL, I care about entertaining the fans. 
• On Saturday nights, a pre-game show will be available, where fans can watch as I also attempt to feed the infant dinner.  A post-game show will also feature my midnight frustration at the baby's constant wakings.  The post-game show is guaranteed to offer you a grown man's tears.

There you go hockey fans.  Trust me, after you see me doing this, you'll never need another hockey game in your life.  Oh, and for American viewers, I will also have a glowing diaper to make it easier for you to follow the action.

Bonding Made Easy

Today, I hit a new high as a parent.  Well, maybe it was a new low.  No, it was a high. Yeah, a high.  For sure a high.

Today, my daughter threw-up in my mouth.

Understand the high vs low dilemma now?

Context is simple, really.  I get home from work, happy to see my family.  I've been sick for a couple of days, so I have been avoiding Peanut for the most part, keeping from holding her and getting too close. Since I believe the worst of the cold is behind me, I figure, time to get back to hands on parenting.

As I pick up Peanut, she starts to whine a bit.  It's close to her bedtime, so she's a little crabby.  So, I go to my surefire Daddy-make-me-happy move, and hold her up over my head, a la Lion King.

At this point, she throws up.  And since I'm craning my neck looking up at her, a substantial amount of vomit lands in my mouth.  I immediately realize that she had corn for dinner.

Next steps: (1) hand the infant to my wife, (2) head to the washroom, (3) spit, (4) rinse, (5) repeat, (6)  change throw-up stained shirt, (7) curse out wife for laughing at me, (8) receive baby back from my wife and continue evening bonding session.

At least is wasn't crap, right?  RIGHT?

Letter to the outside world

It's been two hours since the infant took me hostage.  It all started innocently enough, with a bottle of milk in one hand and a soothing bedtime melody playing on the radio... a beautiful lullaby, by the great children's musician Noel Gallagher.

By and by, we rocked.  We stared into each others eyes and before long, sleep fell upon the infant... or, at least, a semblance of sleep.

Then, the moaning began.  Powerful, incessant, belaboured moans seemingly designed to drive me up the wall.  Moans so loud neighbouring children were kept awake in nearby chambers.  Moans so long I wondered if my captor was planning on inhaling ever again.

Stockholm Syndrome perhaps setting in, I began to empathize with my captor. 'She's just trying to get to sleep,' I thought.  'Years from now, I'll look back on her moans with fondness'

But not today.

After what seemed like hours (in reality a mere dozen minutes), my captor lay quietly asleep in my arms.  Time for a quick getaway, I figure.  Not so fast, papa.  Not so fast.

The mere thought of laying my captor in her crib beckons the moans, return.  Now, louder.  And in my annoyed state, the moans take on an arrogant tone.  Like a child dangling their finger a centimetre from anothers' nose, as if to say, 'what are you gonna do about it?'

In time, quiet sleep returns.

Then moans.

Then sleep.

Then moans.

Then, sleep?

Yes?

Nope, more moans.

Then sleep.

Then moans.

[Hours pass in the same fashion... ok, about 30 minutes, but that's a long time dammit!]

And then, my escape arrives.  But for how long? The joys of teething.

The Petrified Dad

Backgrounder: I'm doing this 30-Day Blog Challenge.  This is blog post #3, covering the "A problem you have or have had in the past" topic.

I was talking with a colleague of mine at work today.  She's about 4 months pregnant, and I asked her if she knew whether they were having a boy or a girl.  She told me that while they weren't going to find out, she knew one thing for sure - her husband was absolutely petrified of having a girl.

Totally get it.  To most soon-to-be dads, girls represent the unknown.  Girls think differently and act differently; they have hair that needs to be tied, often in weird configurations like pony tails or pig tails; they like glittery art-and-craft-stuffs that make most of us cringe; they wear cute little dresses that we never know how to put on properly. That can be a lot for a guy to wrap his head around, and I didn't even mention the ultimate kicker: feminine hygiene pads.  [Shudder.]

Personally, before the girls were born, I was in the "healthy and happy" camp.  As long as everything was where it was supposed to be, I would be happy.  I knew that, eventually, with coaching and genuine enthusiasm and a whole bunch of trial and error, I could learn the lady ropes.  And then, when the girls were born, I realized that really, there isn't much of a difference between having a baby boy and having a baby girl.  Pee-pee tents and hair accessories aside, it's all the same.

But, while the differences between having a baby boy and baby girl are subtle, the difference between having a teenage boy and teenage girl are astronomical.  And that's the thought that makes me just as petrified as my colleagues' husband.

I've been thinking a lot more about these differences lately, after Amanda Todd became a household name in Canada and around the world.  I've been thinking about the video she made and about the incessant abuse she faced for months before making a truly tragic choice.

I fear that my girls will face challenges that I will never be able to understand.  I fear that girls use different tactics to put each other down; that we as a society have allowed the physical to dominate our judgement of others, especially in and amongst our little girls, and that teenage girls more so than boys feel the need to 'fit in' at the expense of another girl being marginalized.  And I don't know how to handle that.

I know what my approach would be with a boy... teach him to throw a mean right hook, and to never start a fight, but to always finish one.  It might not solve all of the problems, but it's a good place to start.

With girls, though, the challenges they face are unlikely to be physical.  Girls play psychological games with one another.  They harass and torment and ostracize one from the others.  Their attacks often leave no visible bruises or cuts, but internal wounds.

My point isn't to say girls have it worse than boys.  No matter the gender, bullying of any kind hurts and is unacceptable.  My point is that I believe things are different between the sexes.  I have an idea - good, bad, or otherwise - I have an idea as to how I would approach things with a boy. With two girls, the abuse they could potentially face as teenagers is foreign to me. Therein lies my petrification.

So, I've decided that my approach will be to remind them as often as I can that their self-worth has nothing to do with how they look or about what they wear.

I will remind them as often as I can that their self-worth isn't allowed to be dictated by anyone else's opinion of them.

I will remind them that it is never acceptable to treat anyone with anything less than complete respect.

I will remind them as often as I can that there will always be people who want to be ahead of them socially or academically or physically, and that's OK.  Let them think that way; just be comfortable with who you are, and in the end, nothing else matters.

And most importantly, I will remind them that I will always be there for them.  'Cause that's good to hear, no matter what challenges they face.

Horrible Boss

If Pea was an employee of mine, she'd be on a serious performance improvement plan relative to her dinner time insubordination.  Every day, she looks me in the eye, ignores my requests, fails to deliver on agreed upon deadlines, and whines whenever she doesn't like the nature of her work.

This weekend, she took the cake.  Yesterday, dinner at Ikea went about as well as dinner at Ikea can be expected to go.  She balked at her tilapia, spat it out on numerous occasions, and made us seem like 'those' parents who don't have any degree of control over their kid.  Rightly so.  Oh, the tears.  So many tears.  None of which flew from Pea's tear ducts.

Tonight, the shenanigans continued with a 75 minute dinnertime performance.  This event included everything from a series of pop song interpretations to complaints over a concerning lack of corn in the pasta.  It's a hard knock life, indeed. 

Sure, she's a good worker.  She's cute, extremely smart and incredibly creative.  So she gets to stay.  But we're keeping a watchful eye on her performance.  

Oh, and any suggestion that her poor performance is a direct result of bad management is nonsense.  It can't possibly have anything to do with me... I eat EXTREMELY well... too well in fact, especially if you ask the scale in my bathroom.

Ridding myself of my karaoke demons!

I hope Pea doesn't let the tone deaf ruin a potentially good time.

In Pea's room, right beside the chair that the Pod and I sit on to put her to sleep, sits a dry-erase board.  Affixed to said board are several pictures of people that are dear to Pea, the Pod and myself.

One of these photos is a picture of the Pod and I, partaking in karaoke.  It's one of my favourite pictures of us, hence its appearance on the Pea wall of fame. It reminds me of a different time in our lives, when we were young and free to stay out late drinking and singing the night away.

Ironically, this girl can sing!
She actually sings the anthem
at Blue Jays games.  Regularly.
(And no, this is not the photo
of the Pod and I.)

At the same time, I loathe the photo, for it is a constant reminder of my hypocrisy.

You see, I hate karaoke.

Why would anyone hate karaoke, you ask, perplexed? Let me explain.

Not many people know this, but karaoke was invented as a torture technique during the Japan/China War of 1767.  Japanese soldiers would force chinese POW's to sing popular songs of the day, to 1) humiliate their foe and amuse themselves at their expense, and 2) determine who would be killed in a daily culling.  The soldiers that were released after the war continued the practice as a way of honouring their fallen comrades.

So, I can't enjoy anything with such a horrible tradition.

All right, I made that up.  The Japanese are not evil like that.  Hell, there wasn't even a war between the two countries in 1767.  At least not as far as I know.  I apologize for misleading you.

The actual truth is that I once saw a 55-year old man sing Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer" in a hotel restaurant/karaoke bar.  This guy's rendition came complete with horrifying gyrations every time he sang the chorus, and a 65-year old back-up dancer rubbing herself against him for the duration of the song.  It was like interpretive dance set to a horror movie soundtrack.

All right, that's not really why I hate karaoke (but sadly, it is true).

The truth is I can't sing to save my life.  That is literal people.  If Justin Bieber were to approach me right now, and threaten to cute me to death if I didn't sing "Baby" to his liking... well, I don't even want to think of a world where Justin Bieber is incarcerated.

More to the point, most people can't sing to save their lives.  But, with enough alcohol in our systems, we can convince ourselves that we can, in fact, sing effectively and to the pleasure of others.

Yet, despite my highly publicized hatred of karaoke, I have been dragged on at least three occasions to sing for others, and plied with alcohol until I too lost my senses and picked-up the microphone.

Now, I'm not an animal.  Once in the moment, I get into things.  But God help me, I don't want to.

As I was putting Pea to bed recently, I found myself mulling over the complex emotions enshrined in that photo of the Pod and I.  And it occurred to me, that I have to think of Pea now.  Perhaps my hatred of karaoke is based on meaningless nonsense.

I want Pea to feel comfortable expressing herself through song.  Or, hopefully, singing beautifully for others!  Growing up, I wouldn't stand for my sister singing in the car.  Looking back, who knows if I was crushing a young dream of stardom.

So I am abandoning my inhibitions and letting the world know that I am hereby renouncing my hatred of karaoke in all of its forms.  I'm now up for a song as sung by someone other than the original singer, or a reasonable cover version.  Whether you can sing or not, your tune is ok by me.

Ok, let's salvage this angry diatribe with a little audience participation.  Favourite karaoke songs — what's yours, and why?  No prizes. Do it, just because.

My favourite is Pete Yorn's Life on a Chain, because it's the only song to which I know all the words from start to finish... and it's an awesome song.

Now, you!

I may not know what I want Pea to become, but I hope she doesn't let the tone deaf ruin a potentially good time.

L'impacte de l'oiseau

I hope Pea never puts up filters.

My mother-Pod-in-law recently started taking Pea to an Early Years centre near our house. When she's there, Pea has the chance to play with other kids her age. This is a bit of a novelty for her since she has a relatively small circle of friends that she sees quite rarely, because they live far away and Pea can't yet drive anything other than a large mouse with wheels.

Every time Pea returns from the Early Years centre, she comes armed with some kind of art and/or craft masterpiece (and yes, the mere fact that my daughter made this item makes it a masterpiece... you got a problem with that?).

Recent crafts include a 'oiseau' (we live in Canada, I shouldn't have to translate that... in case I do, see the above photo) and a mask.

The mask is beige, with some hairy stuff taped around the edges for effect and beauty. When I look at this mask, it's clear to me that both thought and care went into picking the amount, thickness, density and exact location of this hairy stuff.

In seeing this mask, I have a very rare but vivid flashforward.

I could immediately picture Pea in a small studio, somewhere outside of Venice or London, crafting piece after glorious piece of expensive, highly-coveted art. Like all great artists, she'd be in an extremely intense frame of mind, probably standing a few feet from her canvas and aggressively tossing the paint with a brush.

A digression, I apologize.

My stereotypical view of artists aside, it wasn't the idea of Pea creating that I was really focused on, it was the immense and obvious pride she felt at what she had done.

My little girl's unfiltered pride may be my absolute favourite form of expression, second only to her laughter.

So when I arrive to pick Pea up one day, she runs to the door, mask in hand, to show me what she's created. She isn't worried about whether I will like it or not. She isn't concerned that she missed a few spots with hair, or that maybe an older kid's mask was more elaborate and decadent.

She was clearly proud of what she had done an it showed on her face and in her body language. I could tell she was trying to hide a growing smile on her face, and that she cherished what she had made just as much as I did.

I'm trying to avoid the temptation to bring everything she has ever touched to work to show my colleagues, because the experience of seeing my prideful child is something I want to share with everyone... but that few people other than me and the Pod will actually care about.

I guess that's my unfiltered pride, shining through. And I dare you to tell me it isn't warranted.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she never puts up filters.

Vince, how could you?

I hope Pea doesn't put her hopes in Vince Vaughan and Jon Favreau.

Saturday was not my best day.  For the most part, it was just Pea and I and throughout the day I was bested several times by a toddler.  An emasculating experience, if there ever was one.

It started out well enough.  Pea had a swimming lesson and while we arrived a little late, we were both pleased to hop into the water... until we realized that the water in the pool was absolutely freezing.  As I cursed under my breath, Pea and I reluctantly splashed around for 5 minutes before Paulina, our swim 'instructor' (she barely does anything that can be deemed instructing) decided we should all head to the hot tub to warm up.

Are toddlers even supposed to go in hot tubs, I wonder?  Oh well, too late...

Once in the hot tub, we slowed down our pace considerably.  I was content to just hold Pea, and she was content to just be held.

Until she saw the slide.  The small yellow slide.  That she loves.

Pea insisted that she go down the slide before we leave, which meant I had to hop back into the ice pool to catch her.  As I muttered more curse words under my breath, Pea gleefully slid down the slide.  I made sure she never touched the water, I think... when a guy goes from a hot bath to a cold shower, his mind tends to wander.

So, the first part of the day ends with two undescended testicles and a rather lethargic baby.

Once home, I decided to ride the wave of lethargy and put Pea down for her nap a little earlier than usual.  Ok, an hour and a half earlier than usual.  What can I say?  She was clearly tired and I figured, why not?

After her nap, a good one by Pea's standards, it was 'lunch time.'  I painstakingly made her pasta, with veggies and meatballs while she was asleep and she ate two noodles and half a meatball, methodically pushing aside all form of veggie.  She then refused yogurt, insisted on having a banana only to peel it and play with it, and then had me give her an apple so she could essentially rub it on the table.

Fine, she wasn't hungry.  But I lost it about a dozen times while trying to get her to eat.  It wasn't pretty.  And only one testicle had descended at this point.

If you've ever tried to reason with a toddler, you'll know that they are essentially liars and cheats who will do and say whatever it takes to get what they want.  Not on purpose, obviously, but it is nevertheless an agonizing experience to take someone at their word only to have them laugh in your face while they do exactly what they just said they wouldn't do.

The lesson here: if you ask a toddler if she wants an apple to eat or to play with, and she says she wants to eat it, she's probably lying.

After 'lunch,' our next stop was the mall.  I had to line-up to get the money-grab sticker for the car and truth be told, Pea was a pretty good little girl while we waited in line for over an hour.  As a reward, we spent 20 minutes in a Bozo the Clown car, one of those $1 rides at the mall.  She loved it, and I loved watching her play.

Next stop — home for dinner.  Logic would state that if she didn't eat lunch, she'd definitely be starving for dinner, right?   Wrong.  For an accurate description of what ensued over dinner, please re-read the above lunch passage, and multiply by a factor of two.

At this point, I'm practically pulling out my hair.  The crankiness, whininess and spontaneous bursts of frustration were unbearable.  Pea was pretty emotional too.

By the time the Pod got home, I practically ran out the door.  I figured a bad day is best soothed by chinese food... and for the first time in months, a DVD rental.

By the time I got home, the Pod had put Pea to sleep and we were ready to unwind with our take-out and out movie.  Things were looking up.

Sort of.  I rented Couples Retreat.

Wah wah wah waaaaaaah.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she doesn't put her hopes in Vince Vaughan and Jon Favreau.

There’s no mistaking it – that guy is an A-hole

I hope Pea isn't intimidated by bumper stickers.

The story you are about to hear, while true, is going to seem impossible, implausible and crazy.  Kind of like the movie She’s Just Not That Into You. But I assure you it is real.

Our tale begins with Pea and I stopped at a regular traffic light, about 5 minutes from our house.  We’re singing along to the radio.  Pea is dancing in her seat.

I look under the sunshade to check the status of the traffic light.  The opposite flow of traffic still had a green light and I watch as the pickup truck in front of us inches forward, over the white line and into the pedestrian crosswalk, trying to get the little man to turn into the little hand.

Then I saw it.  A bumper sticker.  The bumper sticker.  Perhaps the stupidest bumper sticker I have ever seen.

“My kid beat up your honour student.”

You know the part in Back to the Future II, when Marty comes back from the future but arrives in an alternate version of 1985, where Biff is a multi-millionnaire who owns most of Hill Valley and the town has been overrun by motorcycle bandits and other riff-raff?  That’s how I felt when I saw this bumper sticker.  I felt like Marty McFly in another world.

I panicked.

“Pea, where the hell are we?  What the hell is going on here?  Jesus Christ!”

(Incomprehensible gibberish from Pea.)

“I know, I’m sorry, Daddy didn’t mean to swear.  It’s just that I don’t know where we are anymore!  This can’t be right!  I can’t believe what I’m seeing!”

(More gibbersish.)

“What do you mean, calm down?  How can I calm down at a time like this?  How can you be so calm?”

(Silence.)

“You don’t see the madness in that bumper sticker?”

(Silence.)

“What kind of message does it send to his kids?  To his grandkids?  To his neighbours and friends?  Those kids will be in your class Pea!  They’ll think that it’s OK to…”

(Incomprehensible gibberish.)

“You’re right, Pea, I should follow him to his house!  Then we can call the cops or something!”

(Gibberish.)

“Oh, I should just drive to our house.  Sorry, I misunderstood you.”

(More gibberish.)

“So true, Pea.  Freaking out isn’t going to help matters much.”

(Gibberish.)

“Yup, you’ll be able to take care of yourself.  You’ll be proud of being an honour student and you’ll be able defend yourself against kids whose parents don’t believe in them.”

(Gibberish.)

“I think that’s a great idea.  You can befriend and work with them to build their self-esteem, since their parents will have destroyed it for them.”

(Silence.)

“You are wise beyond your months.”

As usual, Pea provides me with a new perspective and outlook on things.  She’s good like that.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she isn't intimidated by bumper stickers.

Daddy's Got a New Gig!

I hope Pea’s friends don’t one day confuse any of her sarcasm for arrogance.

When people describe me, they often use terms like roll-on-the-floor hilarious, handsomest man around, hero, great with numbers, cowlick-free hair, buff, and urban mom.

Well, friends, I am here today to dispel the myth that is Me. In actual fact, only one of the above descriptors is accurate. And it isn’t the one you might think.

I am, in reality, an urban mom. Shocking, I know, since you would have bet your life on ‘great with numbers’.

As of today, I am officially the author of Father Knows Best?, a parenting blog featured on urbanmoms.ca. I was approached a few days ago to join the team of stellar mommy bloggers on the site, and now my task is to bring the Dad’s point of view to countless current, soon-to-be and veteran moms out there in the blogosphere.

That’s right – this Dad is now a member of an online parenting community, with reviews, contests and more, for urban moms.

What will they think of next?

Check out my inaugural post here. And check out the site too: urbanmoms.ca.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope her friends don’t one day confuse any of her sarcasm for arrogance.

PS - Fear not, faithful readers, I will still be blogging here.  I'm not going anywhere, there's just more of me to love/hate/be indifferent about!

Déja-vu all over again

I hope Pea never faces a faulty product.

Pea rides around town in a Bugaboo stroller.  It's a pricey ride, likely worth more than our 1996 Toyota Corolla, but when we bought it, it was with the knowledge that it would be the only stroller we would need to buy.  Part bassinet, part proper stroller, it does it all.  And above all, it has a good track record and is a safe piece of equipment.

I'm sure the folks who bought a Maclaren stroller recently were also confident that their choice was a solid, and safe, decision.  After all, Maclaren's reputation among parents across the continent is as good as they come.

But the Mclaren stroller recall announced today in the US is likely to tarnish that reputation severely, perhaps beyond repair.  Like the SIGG water bottle and Fisher Price toy recalls from the past year, when you mess with the safety of children, you are very likely to lose your customers for good.

And rightly so.  When we were growing up, safety was far less of an issue.  It was considered good to eat dirt - it built immunities.  We didn't wear seat belts.  Our parents not only smoked in the car, they didn't even crack a window.

But this is a different time.  We as young parents are far more prudent and savvy about what's good, and bad, for our kids.  We have the internet... and not just at home.  We can read product reviews and ask questions of an online community from virtually any mobile phone.  More than any other generation before us, we have access to every details about the products we buy for our kids.

Now I am not saying that our parents would have ignored a product recall that could potentially lead to a severed finger.  I'm simply saying that businesses who choose to market a product for children need to be absolutely certain that the trust they gain from a paying customer is never compromised.

Because today's parent has far too many choices to take a chance on a broken brand.  Or a broken hand.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she never faces a faulty product.

The deed is done

I hope Pea never gets out-toughed by a child 95% younger than her.

It's done. 

Last Friday, Pea received her H1N1 flu shot.  Ultimately, the decision just kind of made itself.  The Pod and I discussed it almost daily and it eventually became "Ok, when can one of us take a day off to take her for the shot?"  Somewhere along the line, the decision to actually do it became implied.

I took the day off and along with the Pod-in-law for moral support, we arrived at the clinic at 10:30am.  We were given a ticket at the door that gave us our waiting number, and from start to finish it took about 50 minutes.

Pea barely noticed the shot.  The nurse stuck her with the needle, it took her a few seconds to realize there was something in her arm, she cried for a bit and then stopped.  It was just like every other shot she's received.  She is a trooper if I have ever seen one.

Over the next 30 hours, Pea spiked a fever.  The Pod and I feverishly (pun intended) tried to cool her down with Tempra, compressed and shirtless naps (Pea, not us).  We'd never really experienced a fever before and we were quite worried... even though, on the fever scale, Pea's was quite low-grade.

Upon waking Sunday morning, Pea was right as rain.

The very fact that she spiked a fever, when she hasn't had any adverse reaction to her other shots, had me concerned.  Why this shot and not the others?  I don't think I will ever know, so I'll move on, because I really don't want to think of the reasons.

Now, we wait 3 weeks and return to the clinic for H1N1, Part II - The Booster Shot!

I will say this - Pea fared much better than I did.

That's right... I too received my H1N1 shot.

In my mind, the choice was simple.  If Pea was getting it, I had to man-up and roll-up my sleeve too.  (Actually, I practically had to remove my top... my sleeves were far too tight, on account of my bulging biceps muscle.) 

But I didn't think I would be able to get it so soon.  After all, I am not in any priority group.

From the minute we arrived at the clinic, I asked everyone who would listen if I was allowed to get the shot.  No one flinched, no one debated me, every health care worker in the clinic said yes. 

Despite the permission from all levels, I still felt like I was lying or cheating somehow. But the guilt that I was feeling for taking a shot away from someone truly in the priority group clearly dissapated since everyone in the clinic was virtually emploring me to get it.

The next 48 hours for me were pretty tough.  Muscle aches, soreness and stiffness everywhere, and exhaustion that is far worse than my usual weekend exhaustion. 

Thankfully, the Pod let me sleep in Saturday morning... she is just that special. 

So, for those keeping score at home, when it comes to toughness, I just got beat by a 16-month old.

That's all for now.  I have to go to the gym.  Clearly.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she never gets out-toughed by a child 95% younger than her.

Time to buy some water wings

I hope Pea doesn't mind wrinkly water skin.

Pea started swimming lessons about 7 weeks ago.  We had never taken her swimming before, and the only experience she had with a public splash pad in the Summer was a complete disaster... tears were shed, and I ended up wetter than she was.  Plus, bath time was always a disaster.

So, needless to say I was really worried about what the lessons would be like in the long term.

I am happy to report that she loves the lessons!  Here are a few reasons why I know this:

• When I ask her if she had fun swimming, she vigorously shakes her head "Yes."
• When we get to the pool, she literally drags me to the edge of the pool and proceeds to dip her feet in the water.  If I were to let go of her hands, she'd jump in.
• Bath time has become infinitely more pleasurable for her.  It used to be impossible to wash her hair, since she hated getting water in her face.  Now she pours the water over her own head and laughs when she gets water in her mouth.
• When we arrive at the community centre, a smile always overcomes her.
• She has absolutely no problem when Steph, her instructor, holds her so I can make her feet kick in the water.  Pea never, never, allows strangers to hold her.  
• I secretly think she likes parading around in her cute little one piece bathing suit!  

There you have it.  A young and female Michael Phelps in the making (the fast swimming, multi-gold medal winning Michael Phelps, not the bong loving Michael Phelps).

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she doesn't mind wrinkly water skin.

Ok, let's do it. No, no, wait, maybe not...

I hope Pea doesn't have this hard a time making up her mind.

Yeah, I'm back on the H1N1 thing.  Since I wrote my last post on the topic, I have been pretty diligent in asking other parents what they plan on doing about vaccinating their kids.  I figure, the more info I have, the better.  

I asked the guys at hockey.  I asked the folks at work.  And I reached out to you, my Pea followers.

The answer I got 9 times out of 10 was a resounding 'I don't know.'

Some couples are conflicted; one really wants to vaccinate, the other is steadfastly against it.  Some find the testing of the vaccine to be unreliable and untrustworthy.  Some just don't think the concern is that great.  And some think the risk of not acting is even greater.

To make matters worse, I hear anecdotally that one scientist who worked on the vaccine isn't going to take it, because it is 'unnecessary'.  Then I hear of pediatricians who don't think the vaccine is needed if the child isn't in daycare or at school (Pea is still at home, with the Pod-in-law).

In what I shamefully call a relief, I am somehow encouraged by other bloggers in my world who are just as confused as I am.  

Some are helpful, like Julie who shares information on Ottawa-area vaccination clinics despite being unsure as to whether or not she will get it for her and her family.  

Others, like Sarahcasm, remind us that the concern over health-related decisions isn't a priviledge that everyone around the world enjoys.  While this is a tough decision, we are lucky enough to be able to make a choice, one way or another.

So, I remain torn about what to do, but thankful that my little Pea doesn't yet need to concern herself with such things.  

I'll let her worry about which books she gets to read before bed, and how long she gets to play in the bath.  The heavy stuff will remain on my shoulders. 

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she doesn't have this hard a time making up her mind.

Up to no good.

I hope Pea doesn't fail to read between the lines.

I have a weird feeling Dora the Explorer is into some below-board kind of stuff.

Let me be clear -- especially since companies seem to be suing every blogger who holds an opinion contrary to the positive image of their business or products -- I have no concrete proof of my claim, but I do offer the following to back up my suspicion.

• She's from Latin America.  Columbia is part of Latin America, isn't it?  I'm just saying.
• While she is human, most of Dora's friends are talking animals... a squirrel, a monkey, a fox, and so on.  In fact, she spends a great deal of time talking to a Little Star in one book we own, which as we all know is impossible.  
• Why don't we ever get to see what's in her backpack?  
• According to Wikipedia, the internet's most trusted resource, Dora the Explorer (products) made over $1B in 2004.  That's Mexican Drug Cartel kind of loot!
• She can't seem to pick one language and stick with it... it's almost as if she forgets what language she's using mid-sentence.  That's odd, no?

Look, I don't know what's going on here, but this doesn't add up.  Until I can disprove my theory, I don't think I'll be letting Pea put any Dora-related products in her mouth.  Better safe than sorry.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she doesn't fail to read between the lines.

PS - Just kidding Nickelodeon.. we love Dora 'round here, honest!  In fact, we just bought Pea her very own Dora the Explorer chair... you know the one, it's got Boots and Dora running together, chasing a butterfly.  Within 30 seconds of seeing it, Pea was kissing Dora and sitting gleefully in her lap.  It was awesome!

A choice of global proportions

I hope Pea never has to deal with the harsh realities of parenting in the midst of a global pandemic.

So this H1N1 thing is supposed to get worse before it gets better. It's new, relatively unknown and many parents (myself included) aren't sure what to do to prepare their families for the second coming of this sickness.

The big question is: to vaccinate, or not to vaccinate.  As an added bonus, I have to consider vaccinations for two separate people - myself, and my little Pea.  (Three, really, when I factor in the Pod who, according to recent media reports, is more likely to become infected than any other population segment.)

When the first wave of H1N1 hit the world this year, I was blasé.  I thought, 'far more people will get sick and die from the seasonal flu... what's the big deal?'

I recall hearing a radio report about the first swine flu in 1976, and how many people who got a vaccination to prevent infection ended up getting sick and dying from the untested vaccine and not from the illness itself.

That freaked me out.  I had made up my mind.  No vaccinations for us.  I figured, 'Why chance getting sick from the medicine, if I probably won't get the sickness in the first place?'

But it's becoming increasingly clear that this ain't the regular flu, and I'm responsible for more than myself now.  I should be more judicious in my decision making.

The reality is that times, and technologies, have changed.  I'm sure the development of vaccinations has come a long way since 1976. And as Canada ramps up production of its vaccination stores, it seems to me that great care is being taken to develop a vaccine that is tested and safe.

My point is this, people: I'm waivering.  

So I'm turning to you, for advice and counsel.  What are you doing? Are you getting the vaccine?  Are you vaccinating your children?

I need help here.  In the words of Snoop Dogg, holla at'cho boy.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she never has to deal with the harsh realities of parenting in the midst of a global pandemic.

PS - I am aware that Commenting on my blog is a painful experience, and I am looking at switching to another service.  If you do want to leave a comment, just select the Anonymous option from the drop down menu. 

Morning Snuggles for the Parent's Soul

I hope Pea doesn't mock my sentimentality.

Growing up, I remember hearing my parents talking with other parents about their children...they'd say stuff like "They grow up so fast!" and I'd mimic barfing, because I found it all so annoying.  

Back then, I was young and impatient. I wanted to be older NOW and felt that the kids a grade ahead of me in school were light years away from me in terms of maturity.  The kids 2 grades ahead?  They were practically adults! 

I remember finding coy ways of showing off my armpit hair to the kids at elementary school because I was convinced mine came so much later than everyone else's and I needed to make sure everyone knew mine had arrived. 

I remember shaving with a friend of mine well before I had peach fuzz, let alone the daily growth that annoys me today.  (Fortunately, his dad worked for Schick and we had ready access to shaving supplies.)

Now, I spend my days wishing life would just slow down a bit. 

And why wouldn't I?  I wake up in the morning and my still-groggy Pea finishes her bottle of milk and curls up in my lap to snuggle.  She's clearly sad as I say goodbye to her and practically runs after me to snuggle some more.

I lament how quickly Pea is growing out of her clothes and wonder if it was really a year ago that she stopped needing to be swaddled at night.

I struggle to put up yet another baby gate and recall a time when crawling wasn't even an issue, let alone a quick jaunt towards a hard-wood flight of stairs.

So to my parents, I offer yet another I'm sorry in what has seemingly become a steady stream of apologies brought on by the constant Eureka moments in my life... when the lightbulb goes on, and I finally understand what all the fuss was about. 

Because as great as parenting has been, they really do grow up so fast.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she doesn't mock my sentimentality.

Judgy McJudgerton

I hope Pea isn’t prone to spontaneous combustion (part II).

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it’s time to play “What Did You Say to Me? Oh Hell No!”

The game is simple. We give you a series of crazy antics by some wacky characters. You decide who should be FORGIVEN and who should be SENT TO PURGATORY!

First up is Serena Williams. She threw a hissy fit during her semi-final match at the US Open after an apparent foot fault was called by a line judge. Serena’s tirade, which included a threat of putting a tennis ball up a woman’s unmentionables, forced judges to issue her an additional ‘demerit point’, which ultimately cost her the match.

Ricochay’s take: Serena’s behaviour was self-damaging most of all. She flipped out and lost the match as a result. But she also embarrassed and belittled a woman who was just doing her job and that’s out of bounds. I say SEND TO PURGATORY!

Next we have Republican Senator Joe Wilson, who shouted “You Lie!” at President Obama during a recent health care reform speech to America’s lawmakers.

Ricochay’s take: If Wilson is guilty of anything, it’s poor timing. If you’re going to yell, do it when everyone else is too. That said, politics is as much about theatre as it is about lawmaking, so to condemn him for this outburst would be akin to chastising him for doing his job. Wilson is FORGIVEN.

Irish actor Colin Farrell set a photographer straight while walking the Red Carpet at the Toronto International Film Festival. The photographer yelled for Farrell’s personal assistant/sister to get off the Red Carpet so he and the other photographers could get a clear shot of the actor. Rumour has it that the photographer used the dreaded B-word. Farrell defended his sister’s honour.

Ricochay’s take: When you’re walking the Red Carpet at a prestigious film festival, you should expect that people aren’t going to want photos of your personal assistant… even if she is your sister. The photographer’s job is to art direct so he can get good photos. Had the photographer not allegedly used the B-word, I'd be sending Farrell to purgatory, but there's no excuse for using that word. Farrell is FORGIVEN, and in a twist, let's send the photographer to PURGATORY!

That brings us to Kanye West. As we all know by now, he interrupted Taylor Swift's acceptance speech at the MTV Video Awards and caused one of the most uncomfortable moments in award show history.

Ricochay’s take: Given that the entire thing was staged (that's right, I said it), Kanye is FORGIVEN. There's just way too much that is unusual about the whole situation for me to believe all the players involved didn't know what was going on. 

Last up is the story of a tired and frustrated father who loses his patience with his daughter because she won’t sit still during her diaper change. The daughter - let’s call her Pea - continuously grabs at the soiled diaper, attempts to put her hands on her dirty butt, wiggles and writhes her way off her back and makes it generally impossible to change the diaper.

Ricochay’s take: All parents lose their patience at one point or another. And when you’re dealing with feces, the threshold for impatience is lowered considerable. I say FORGIVEN… the guilt he’s feeling for being short with his daughter is punishment enough.

Well folks, so ends another rousing edition of “What Did You Say to Me? Oh Hell No!” Join us next time when we analyze history’s craziest outbursts, including the Big Bang that created the universe... was this behaviour justified? Find out next time! 

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she isn't prone to spontaneous combustion.

Thanks to www.all-about-tennis.com, the US government, www.torontolife.com and Britain's brightest tabloid newspaper The Daily Mirror for the images.

Guilty... and loving every minute of it!

I hope Pea doesn’t overlook the benefits that come with a little guilt.

My life was designed to be as guilt-free as possible. Few vices. Few regrets. Few mornings where I wake up asking “what happened and how did I get here?”

This guilt-free existence was going really, really well… until my little Pea was born. Since then, I have felt shame, remorse and/or guilt at least once a day.

In fact, shame now lives in my spare room and guilt and remorse are building an apartment in my basement.

You want examples. Fine, here are but a few:

• Pea recently fell and bumped her head on the sofa, requiring a visit to the emergency room. She was completely fine, but this was on my watch and I swear that when I picked her up to comfort her she gave me a “how could you let this happen to me?” look. I’m now considering selling the sofa, as it is a constant reminder of the day I let my daughter down.
• We only recently purchased roller shades for Pea’s room, to block out the bright daytime sun during her naps. Just in time too (she is now taking 70% of her haps in another location altogether). 
• We’ve had babyproofing gear in our house for months and I am yet to install everything. What’s more, I’ve failed – on 3 separate occasions – to install baby gates near our staircases. If I can’t do this simple task, how can I be expected to shepherd Pea into adulthood unscathed?
• I haven’t mowed the back lawn in weeks and the mosquitoes that now live in the long grass prevent us from taking Pea in the back to play. Is this my subconscious way of keeping Pea as pale and pasty as I am? Who knows, but I wouldn’t put it past myself.

Despite my ineptitude, Pea continues to thrive. She’s now walking everywhere and appears to have left crawling behind. She’s growing a fresh pair of front teeth and she’s babbling way more than ever before. She is a human sponge, absorbing everything, and I mean everything, at an alarming rate. She’s even sleeping better, on the whole, than she has in quite a few months.

If I had to guess, she appears to have realized that her father is useless and she’s learning to cope on her own, with lots of help from the Pod.

So to all the would-be parents out there, I provide this warning: a guilt-free existence and parenthood are mutually exclusive. You have to pick one and stick with it.

I pick parenthood. Hands down.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she doesn’t overlook the benefits that come with a little guilt.

Mennonite Chic, Part II

I hope Pea doesn’t lack self-worth.

School’s in, so I thought I’d tackle a dress code issue: some schools in the GTA are removing kilts from their dress code.

If you’re wondering why, you’ve clearly never been to the mall at 3:30pm on a school day.

What was once a coquettish fashion choice has turned into the primary weapon used by girls who are vying for the right to claim visible-ass-cheek supremacy. Some girls appear to believe that wearing a kilt means underwear is optional.

The Pod’s contends, and I am paraphrasing, that a bunch of hoochiemammas with no self-respect or tact should not ruin a comfortable and versatile clothing item for the rest of the young ladies out there. She believes banning the clothing will not change the mentality and that we are not getting at the root of the issue.

I believe anything that gets me one step closer to Mennonite Chic by 2020 is a welcome thing. Turtle necks and pants for everyone.

Here’s a link for more information on this issue. Feel free to weigh in.

I may not know what I want my Pea to become, but I hope she doesn’t lack self-worth.

PS – I secretly agree with the Pod on this issue, but don’t tell her… she’ll get a big head and I’ll never hear the end of it.