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The original plan was to go out for breakfast on Saturday morning. Friday night as I cuddled her before bed, we had this exchange:
Me: "Tomorrow morning you wake up at 6:30am, OK?"
Munchkin: "Yep"
So after tossing in bed from about 5am, I got up around 6:15 and showered and tip-toed downstairs and began to read. At around 8:00 the call came for me to come up. Unfortunately, between the popularity of the breakfast place I had chosen and my 9:30 therapy appointment, we had to cut a rain check. After weeks of being up no later than 7:00, she chose to sleep in on our date morning.
Sunday morning we actually got up around 7am and made it to the restaurant in time to be the first people seated. We arranged the highchair close to mine and we had some milk, some laughs, and identified many things on the paper place mat. She waved and said "Hi" to everyone she saw, every time she saw them (to the point that the hostess seemed to find it wearing thin). We talked (mostly me asking questions and her nodding broadly with wide eyes with the bottle still in her mouth) until breakfast arrived. We had waffles with fruit and custard on top. Everything was going smoothly until they showed up.
They were a family of three with a young son, probably around a year old. Once he was in her field of vision (well technically she had to not-so-inconspicuously turn almost completely around) I was second fiddle. Even with waffle covered in custard and whipped cream I could not get some attention; she only wanted to look at the "baby".
Having resigned myself to the reality that even at this young age she had decided that other boys were more interesting than Daddy, I ate my breakfast. While my attention was directed at cutting some fruit on my plate I heard a loud slap and when I looked up at the munchkin she was looking at me somewhat confused and concerned. The young boy was now wailing and being held by his father who was giving looks of daggers to the mother. I could not tell where she had struck the child but I definitely heard it. I also don't know if she saw it or not.
I tried to subtly turn her highchair angle so that it pointed directly at me and essentially made it impossible for her to see the other family. She seemed content to resume eating from my plate, and I was more than happy to have her doing so.
After breakfast we did a couple quick groceries and then on to home where Mommy was still sleeping (but not for long since Gimpy Dad is not equipped for both putting away freezer groceries and ensuring that the offspring do not lick the soles of shoes).
All in all, aside from the slapping incident (which I won't comment on except to say that I was mortified) we had a good first date. Hopefully my intention of doing this at least once a month will be successful and eventually she will come to look forward to them.
TTS: The Real World - Daddy
If you were to read many (most?) of the parenting/Mommy/Daddy blogs out there, you would come away with a sense that parenting is essentially a series of cute anecdotes and the occasional onslaught of some kind of bodily function or fluid. Some bloggers (myself included) will occasionally question techniques or social norms, but the vast majority of the blogosphere is filled with sweetheart stories and vomit.
This post is not going to follow that form. If you prefer the happy funny style of tale, it would be best if you moved on to other posts.
Yesterday was our third wedding anniversary. We arranged for my sister to come over and watch the munchkin while we went out for a nice dinner. I was at the office yesterday (I'm in whenever I don't have physio appointments now) and came home with about an hour to see the munchkin, get dressed, and bring my sister up to speed with some things. Part of that hour she slept, and part of it she ate while MTM and I dressed. In all I probably spent 10 minutes with her.
We left for the restaurant amid some whining and tears (as is to be expected). We had a nice cocktail and while the salad was being consumed my cell rang. I could barely make out my sister, since the munchkin was crying and refusing to be put down. MTM took the phone and walked to the front of the restaurant. When she returned she was not optimistic about my sister's chances of calming her. Our entrees arrived and we began to eat. A few minutes into the meal MTM asked me if I thought we should pack up our meals and go home. I replied, "Don't ask me. Any answer I give will be served with a heaping side of Daddy Guilt."
I call it Daddy Guilt although a more politically correct term would be "Working Parent Guilt". In our house, Daddy is the working parent, so in our house it's called Daddy Guilt.
The phenomenon I am referring to is that conflicting sense of "I should be spending more time with my daughter" versus "to spend more time with my daughter I have to quit work, or find a job with less hours and thus less pay". As parents, MTM and I have our roles. She is the primary care giver; she watches the munchkin day in and day out, she feeds her and (right now due to my mobility restrictions) bathes her. I am the primary breadwinner. I make sure there is money to pay for the food she feeds her, and that there is gas to heat the water for those baths. Logically, rationally, I know these roles are important and that what I do is in fact parenting. But these are the less obvious forms of parenting.
Don't misunderstand: becoming a father has been and continues to be an amazing experience for me. There is no feeling like having the munchkin walk over to me and say "Dada Dada up up" and have her wrap her little arms around as much of my large frame as she can and squeeze or scratch the back of my neck (something I do to her that she has begun to imitate). She makes me laugh and surprises me constantly. Being a Dad is wonderful.
But the baggage that comes along with it sucks. I combat it by trying to do as much with her as I can; when I drive myself to work I usually leave before everyone is awake and return home by 3:30pm so I can spend more time with them (right now I'm catching a ride with a friend who prefers a more late start). I try to be a care giver as well as a raucous playmate. This weekend I'm hoping to try a Daddy-Daughter date for breakfast, assuming I'm confident enough with my leg, and that these dates will become weekly. I know I'm doing the best I can, I just hope the munchkin knows this and understands why I'm not around as much as MTM is.
This post is not going to follow that form. If you prefer the happy funny style of tale, it would be best if you moved on to other posts.
Yesterday was our third wedding anniversary. We arranged for my sister to come over and watch the munchkin while we went out for a nice dinner. I was at the office yesterday (I'm in whenever I don't have physio appointments now) and came home with about an hour to see the munchkin, get dressed, and bring my sister up to speed with some things. Part of that hour she slept, and part of it she ate while MTM and I dressed. In all I probably spent 10 minutes with her.
We left for the restaurant amid some whining and tears (as is to be expected). We had a nice cocktail and while the salad was being consumed my cell rang. I could barely make out my sister, since the munchkin was crying and refusing to be put down. MTM took the phone and walked to the front of the restaurant. When she returned she was not optimistic about my sister's chances of calming her. Our entrees arrived and we began to eat. A few minutes into the meal MTM asked me if I thought we should pack up our meals and go home. I replied, "Don't ask me. Any answer I give will be served with a heaping side of Daddy Guilt."
I call it Daddy Guilt although a more politically correct term would be "Working Parent Guilt". In our house, Daddy is the working parent, so in our house it's called Daddy Guilt.
The phenomenon I am referring to is that conflicting sense of "I should be spending more time with my daughter" versus "to spend more time with my daughter I have to quit work, or find a job with less hours and thus less pay". As parents, MTM and I have our roles. She is the primary care giver; she watches the munchkin day in and day out, she feeds her and (right now due to my mobility restrictions) bathes her. I am the primary breadwinner. I make sure there is money to pay for the food she feeds her, and that there is gas to heat the water for those baths. Logically, rationally, I know these roles are important and that what I do is in fact parenting. But these are the less obvious forms of parenting.
Don't misunderstand: becoming a father has been and continues to be an amazing experience for me. There is no feeling like having the munchkin walk over to me and say "Dada Dada up up" and have her wrap her little arms around as much of my large frame as she can and squeeze or scratch the back of my neck (something I do to her that she has begun to imitate). She makes me laugh and surprises me constantly. Being a Dad is wonderful.
But the baggage that comes along with it sucks. I combat it by trying to do as much with her as I can; when I drive myself to work I usually leave before everyone is awake and return home by 3:30pm so I can spend more time with them (right now I'm catching a ride with a friend who prefers a more late start). I try to be a care giver as well as a raucous playmate. This weekend I'm hoping to try a Daddy-Daughter date for breakfast, assuming I'm confident enough with my leg, and that these dates will become weekly. I know I'm doing the best I can, I just hope the munchkin knows this and understands why I'm not around as much as MTM is.
TDS: Funny Night
We arrived home from the cottage this afternoon (as I just posted), and I have a couple anecdotes for my (limited) readership that didn't really fit in the Blottaging post.
Story 1: She Understood?
So I'm in the room working on my projects and the munchkin follows in. She has this habit of closing the door behind her too tightly to reopen it, and then asking for help to open it. Well, my ankle was sore from physio, so when she grabbed the door and began to move it, I told her, "Sweetheart, if you close the door, Daddy is not going to open it." She paused, looked and me, and put the door fully open. She went to close it one more time, looking at me sheepishly, and when I gave her the same warning, she left the door alone. MTM and I were shocked that she understood what I had told her. It looks like the days of saying stuff without her understanding are rapidly coming to a close; pig latin (or french) here we come!
Story 2: RIBS!
We went out for dinner tonight. I ordered ribs and the munchkin had chicken fingers (Mommy was there too, but she doesn't play a part in the story; sorry Mommy). I offered a piece of rib meat to her which she lapped up excitedly (last time she spat out ribs). Then, she wanted to "bip" (her word for "dip" and ketchup, used interchangably as verb and noun) her chicken fingers into my barbecue sauce. Well, not the sauce itself; she wanted to rub the chicken finger on the rack of ribs. So there we were, hands covered in barbecue sauce, rubbing our chicken on Daddy's dinner. Yum.
Isn't this what fatherhood is about? They surprise you with what they can do, and then just when you think they can't, they do something you never thought they would. I love being a Dad.
Story 1: She Understood?
So I'm in the room working on my projects and the munchkin follows in. She has this habit of closing the door behind her too tightly to reopen it, and then asking for help to open it. Well, my ankle was sore from physio, so when she grabbed the door and began to move it, I told her, "Sweetheart, if you close the door, Daddy is not going to open it." She paused, looked and me, and put the door fully open. She went to close it one more time, looking at me sheepishly, and when I gave her the same warning, she left the door alone. MTM and I were shocked that she understood what I had told her. It looks like the days of saying stuff without her understanding are rapidly coming to a close; pig latin (or french) here we come!
Story 2: RIBS!
We went out for dinner tonight. I ordered ribs and the munchkin had chicken fingers (Mommy was there too, but she doesn't play a part in the story; sorry Mommy). I offered a piece of rib meat to her which she lapped up excitedly (last time she spat out ribs). Then, she wanted to "bip" (her word for "dip" and ketchup, used interchangably as verb and noun) her chicken fingers into my barbecue sauce. Well, not the sauce itself; she wanted to rub the chicken finger on the rack of ribs. So there we were, hands covered in barbecue sauce, rubbing our chicken on Daddy's dinner. Yum.
Isn't this what fatherhood is about? They surprise you with what they can do, and then just when you think they can't, they do something you never thought they would. I love being a Dad.
TRS: Blottaging
Another "first time since the accident" this weekend: we went to the in-laws cottage for some R&R&S (that's rest and relaxation for my wonderful wife and daughter, and scanning for me). You see, I'm not much of a cottager. In fact, I never knew the word cottage as anything other than a noun representing a small dwelling until a few years ago. So, while they went out in the boat and walked around the forest, I sat upstairs and scanned old slides. I actually got a lot done (my final count was over 280) so I felt successful.
The weather wasn't that great; it actually rained a lot and it was more cool than a normal late July at the cottage. Aside from a couple boat rides, we had the munchkin indoors most of the weekend. She didn't seem to mind though, since my MIL had lots of toys to play with and a bag the munchkin could use to go "shopping". When asked what did she plan to go shopping for, without missing a beat she replied "shoes". Oh man, is Daddy in for it. A shoe shopper at 16 months!?!
Oh, one quick aside: this Friday night we get home and MTM and I are in the kitchen. The munchkin wanders into the livingroom and suddenly gets quiet. MTM goes to inspect (because as all parents know, silence is the sound of trouble) and calls me in. She has climbed up on to the sofa (using the ottoman) and was sitting flush against the back with the phone up to her ear saying "Hello?"
So, to recap: we're 16 months next week, we shop for shoes, and we know we want to use the phone. Yes, I am doomed.
The weather wasn't that great; it actually rained a lot and it was more cool than a normal late July at the cottage. Aside from a couple boat rides, we had the munchkin indoors most of the weekend. She didn't seem to mind though, since my MIL had lots of toys to play with and a bag the munchkin could use to go "shopping". When asked what did she plan to go shopping for, without missing a beat she replied "shoes". Oh man, is Daddy in for it. A shoe shopper at 16 months!?!
Oh, one quick aside: this Friday night we get home and MTM and I are in the kitchen. The munchkin wanders into the livingroom and suddenly gets quiet. MTM goes to inspect (because as all parents know, silence is the sound of trouble) and calls me in. She has climbed up on to the sofa (using the ottoman) and was sitting flush against the back with the phone up to her ear saying "Hello?"
So, to recap: we're 16 months next week, we shop for shoes, and we know we want to use the phone. Yes, I am doomed.
TDS: Where Did She Pick Up THAT?
Especially at an early age, our parents are the single greatest source of information we have. Somewhere along the line, peers, teachers and eventually co-workers contribute as well. However, a lot of what we know we learned from our parents. I wonder what the munchkin will eventually learn or pick up from us.
You see, being the stay at home parent (OK technically I am a work from home parent right now, but that is temporary and nearly over) MTM is the greater influence. Take for example her tendency (that has actually recently begun to fade) to bob her head from side to side when she is sitting in her high chair. The behaviour started at around six or seven months and was very cute to watch. I think part of the fun was the novelty, the question of "where did she learn that?" We eventually figured out it was from MTM, who bobbed her head from side to side while feeding the munchkin. The little one was just imitating her Mommy. Another example is that when the munchkin is doing something she knows to be frowned upon (such as running toward the oven when it is on), she will say "No No No No No", just as MTM does when she warns her something is unsafe.
These are little things. I'm wondering about the more significant ones. Take myself for example: those who know me would be surprised to know I have a decent amount of knowledge and/or instinct (skill?) when it comes to gardening. I am not an "outdoorsy" kind of guy; quite the contrary. It's my wife who has the interest in the horticulture of our grounds. However, there have been more than one occasion where I've indicated an alternative way to do something in the garden that has worked out better than her plan. When asked how I knew it, I could not explain. I just knew it was the right thing to do. How did I know? My father grew up on a farm. When he immigrated here he started a garden. As a young boy I would help and/or watch him. I didn't really have an interest per se, it was just that he was my Dad and I wanted to do what he did.
There are other things that I never picked up. Dad makes his own wine. I know the basics of the process, but I doubt, even given all his implements, I could produce a palatable bottle.
MTM learned baking from watching her mother. Sometimes I'll ask her the same type of "why did you do this" question and she cannot explain, she only knows that this is what she saw her mother do.
So I am curious what things our daughter will glean from us as time goes on. I often joke that by the time she is eight she will be repairing my father-in-law's laptop (which never seems to be working right when we go to visit). But will she have interest in fiddling with computers? Will she prefer to mutilate pictures without regard for the photographer's image composition (err, I mean "scrapbook") like her Mom, or will she make digital presentations of pictures like me?
OK, the thing I'm most curious about: how long before I have to link to her blog?
You see, being the stay at home parent (OK technically I am a work from home parent right now, but that is temporary and nearly over) MTM is the greater influence. Take for example her tendency (that has actually recently begun to fade) to bob her head from side to side when she is sitting in her high chair. The behaviour started at around six or seven months and was very cute to watch. I think part of the fun was the novelty, the question of "where did she learn that?" We eventually figured out it was from MTM, who bobbed her head from side to side while feeding the munchkin. The little one was just imitating her Mommy. Another example is that when the munchkin is doing something she knows to be frowned upon (such as running toward the oven when it is on), she will say "No No No No No", just as MTM does when she warns her something is unsafe.
These are little things. I'm wondering about the more significant ones. Take myself for example: those who know me would be surprised to know I have a decent amount of knowledge and/or instinct (skill?) when it comes to gardening. I am not an "outdoorsy" kind of guy; quite the contrary. It's my wife who has the interest in the horticulture of our grounds. However, there have been more than one occasion where I've indicated an alternative way to do something in the garden that has worked out better than her plan. When asked how I knew it, I could not explain. I just knew it was the right thing to do. How did I know? My father grew up on a farm. When he immigrated here he started a garden. As a young boy I would help and/or watch him. I didn't really have an interest per se, it was just that he was my Dad and I wanted to do what he did.
There are other things that I never picked up. Dad makes his own wine. I know the basics of the process, but I doubt, even given all his implements, I could produce a palatable bottle.
MTM learned baking from watching her mother. Sometimes I'll ask her the same type of "why did you do this" question and she cannot explain, she only knows that this is what she saw her mother do.
So I am curious what things our daughter will glean from us as time goes on. I often joke that by the time she is eight she will be repairing my father-in-law's laptop (which never seems to be working right when we go to visit). But will she have interest in fiddling with computers? Will she prefer to mutilate pictures without regard for the photographer's image composition (err, I mean "scrapbook") like her Mom, or will she make digital presentations of pictures like me?
OK, the thing I'm most curious about: how long before I have to link to her blog?
TTS: Nature vs. Nurture
Do you love books because Mommy and I have read to you since you were in the womb, or are you just a tiny literary aficionado?
Are you proud and confident because we heap praise upon you for every success, or are you simply a self-assured young lady?
Do you love the pool and swim like a little fish because we tried to get you into the water as soon as possible, or are you just Mommy's little girl?
Are you a little chatterbox because we encouraged your babbling so many months ago, or would you have talked everyone's ear off anyways?
Do you love music and hearing us sing (yes, even me and my atonal masterful covers of the Red Hot Chili Peppers) because we always have music on, or were you destined for band camp at conception?
Are you a natural born cuddly bunny, or is that because your Mommy and I more or less took turns holding you 24/7 for the first few months of your life?
I look at you and I wonder what is a result of what your mother and I have done, and what is "just you". It's easy to know your blonde hair is Mommy's, and your sparkling blue eyes are a surprising combination of your mother's and my Nona's.
But what about those things that aren't so cut and dried? The music thing is probably genetic. Between Mommy's piano and clarinet and my saxophone you were bound to get some musical interest (and likely talent; we're just waiting for that first concerto).
You are a remarkable little girl. You are curious and caring and creative and funny. I am so proud of everything you are, everything you have become.
I just wonder, how much of it can I take credit for?
Are you proud and confident because we heap praise upon you for every success, or are you simply a self-assured young lady?
Do you love the pool and swim like a little fish because we tried to get you into the water as soon as possible, or are you just Mommy's little girl?
Are you a little chatterbox because we encouraged your babbling so many months ago, or would you have talked everyone's ear off anyways?
Do you love music and hearing us sing (yes, even me and my atonal masterful covers of the Red Hot Chili Peppers) because we always have music on, or were you destined for band camp at conception?
Are you a natural born cuddly bunny, or is that because your Mommy and I more or less took turns holding you 24/7 for the first few months of your life?
I look at you and I wonder what is a result of what your mother and I have done, and what is "just you". It's easy to know your blonde hair is Mommy's, and your sparkling blue eyes are a surprising combination of your mother's and my Nona's.
But what about those things that aren't so cut and dried? The music thing is probably genetic. Between Mommy's piano and clarinet and my saxophone you were bound to get some musical interest (and likely talent; we're just waiting for that first concerto).
You are a remarkable little girl. You are curious and caring and creative and funny. I am so proud of everything you are, everything you have become.
I just wonder, how much of it can I take credit for?
TDS: The Best Mail Trip Ever!
Last night was an exciting time in our family. Having been discharged from the surgeon's care and relieved of my brace/splint, I am no longer "Laid Up Dad" and have been rechristened "Gimpy Dad". To celebrate this occasion I decided I would join my girls on their nightly walk to the mailbox at the end of our street.
Ironically, even being gimpy with one crutch didn't make me the bottleneck for speed on the journey. The many, many interesting things on the sidewalk and lawns slowed the munchkin down enough for Mommy to have to say "keep up with Daddy" (a first since the injury).
Every weeknight (more or less) the munchkin and MTM (and likely now me, for physio) go for a walk to check the mail. All MTM has to say is the word "mail" and she immediately goes to the front door and gets her sandals (and lately has been trying to get them on herself). She absolutely loves to get the mail. She waits with bated breath as the box is unlocked and she always gasps with excitement at the discovery of something being inside. MTM has taken to leaving a scrap of junk mail in there all the time since the one time they arrived to find no mail the munchkin was very perplexed and disappointed.
Last night was extra special. She opened the mailbox and there inside was a bright yellow envelope with shiny hummingbird and heart stickers, and it was addressed to her! (Aside: she isn't really discriminating about what she receives as mail, so long as she can mutilate it to her heart's content; most glossy flyers suit her.) She received her first piece of mail since the nightly mail trips started, and it was from MTM's mother. Inside was a bunch of hearts and cut out letters, some with punched out hearts and some with messages for the munchkin. She was thrilled, and then (apparently) she was hungry as she shoved three hearts in her mouth at once! MTM quickly swept up the letters and one heart to save for a scrapbook, and the slobbery remains were discarded. It was still the best mail trip ever, though.
Oh, and I had to share a comment of hers from last Sunday. As the munchkin so eloquently put it, "Yay It-a-ee!"
Ironically, even being gimpy with one crutch didn't make me the bottleneck for speed on the journey. The many, many interesting things on the sidewalk and lawns slowed the munchkin down enough for Mommy to have to say "keep up with Daddy" (a first since the injury).
Every weeknight (more or less) the munchkin and MTM (and likely now me, for physio) go for a walk to check the mail. All MTM has to say is the word "mail" and she immediately goes to the front door and gets her sandals (and lately has been trying to get them on herself). She absolutely loves to get the mail. She waits with bated breath as the box is unlocked and she always gasps with excitement at the discovery of something being inside. MTM has taken to leaving a scrap of junk mail in there all the time since the one time they arrived to find no mail the munchkin was very perplexed and disappointed.
Last night was extra special. She opened the mailbox and there inside was a bright yellow envelope with shiny hummingbird and heart stickers, and it was addressed to her! (Aside: she isn't really discriminating about what she receives as mail, so long as she can mutilate it to her heart's content; most glossy flyers suit her.) She received her first piece of mail since the nightly mail trips started, and it was from MTM's mother. Inside was a bunch of hearts and cut out letters, some with punched out hearts and some with messages for the munchkin. She was thrilled, and then (apparently) she was hungry as she shoved three hearts in her mouth at once! MTM quickly swept up the letters and one heart to save for a scrapbook, and the slobbery remains were discarded. It was still the best mail trip ever, though.
Oh, and I had to share a comment of hers from last Sunday. As the munchkin so eloquently put it, "Yay It-a-ee!"
TDS: Language Comprehension
Sometimes children can truly amaze you. Today, my dear wife was taking a shower while the munchkin was down for a nap. Midway through the shower she awoke screaming. I let her be for a few minutes to see if she would settle herself, and when she did not I put on my brace and "walked" over to her room.
I went in and smelled that she had gone poo. I explained to her that I could not carry her from her crib to her change table, and that when I took her out of the crib she needed to walk over to the change table. When I put her down she walked over to the change table and faced me with arms outstretched. I lifted her up and explained that she needed to be still while I changed her. She lay motionless for the entire change, none of her usual squirming. When I removed her diaper I asked her not to put her hands in it; she replied by folding her hands on her chest.
This was probably the best behaviour she has demonstrated during a change in weeks (at least from what I can tell; this was my first change since I broke my ankle - I usually hear more struggling from Mommy). I just found it so incredible how she understood and followed my directions. What a sweetheart!
I went in and smelled that she had gone poo. I explained to her that I could not carry her from her crib to her change table, and that when I took her out of the crib she needed to walk over to the change table. When I put her down she walked over to the change table and faced me with arms outstretched. I lifted her up and explained that she needed to be still while I changed her. She lay motionless for the entire change, none of her usual squirming. When I removed her diaper I asked her not to put her hands in it; she replied by folding her hands on her chest.
This was probably the best behaviour she has demonstrated during a change in weeks (at least from what I can tell; this was my first change since I broke my ankle - I usually hear more struggling from Mommy). I just found it so incredible how she understood and followed my directions. What a sweetheart!
TWS: Laid-Up Dad
Introduction
Two months ago, I broke my ankle. Since then, my excursions outside of my house have been limited to fracture clinic appointments and two feeble attempts at returning to work at the office. I am fortunate to have a job that allowed me to work from home (albeit with the occasional attempts to pressure me into returning to work from the powers that be) since my office building has no elevator and our suite is on the second floor (where the washroom has no large stall and no bars beside any toilet).
For those that care, I broke it in the line of duty. It was about 4am on a Sunday morning when my daughter awoke crying. I picked her up and felt that her diaper needed changing. After that, she signed for milk (we've been doing ASL with her since the fall) so I took her downstairs to get a bottle out of the fridge. En route, with her in my arms, I either missed a step or slipped. I went down, clutching her close to my chest, and bearing my full weight on the one ankle. She was unharmed but rather startled. I dislocated my foot, fractured my fibula and got the added bonus of chipping my tibia.
Sparing you the bulk of the details, I eventually had surgery to set the fibula fracture with a plate and screws. The chipped tibia could not be repaired, which meant that I couldn't rest my foot upright. It had to be on an angle, making everything that much more fun.
Irony
The first few days were pretty challenging, mainly because I was still in a soft cast (post-surgical) and as such could not really do much with my daughter. Once I got into a fibreglass cast and then a removable boot it was easier to hold her since the solid support allowed her to move more freely. I was still laid up in bed, but at least she could be there with me (for the three minutes her attention span would allow before asking to be put back down). However, at this point I felt more like a piece of furniture than a father. She could cry, but what could I do for her? It's impossible to safely lift a child out of a crib on one foot. And with a meandering 14 month old, maneuvering crutches or a walker is nearly impossible. So, whenever I needed to get up to use the washroom or dress myself, she needed to be placed in her exersaucer or playpen, usually much to her chagrin.
As time wore on, she seemed to become more understanding (no doubt thanks to MTM's continuous instructions "be gentle with Daddy's leg") and also more aware of the situation. The first time I went outside and sat on the porch while she played in the front yard with MTM she was beside herself with excitement. She didn't ask me to come down to her level, but rather seemed to search her toys for something small she could carry up the stairs with her. She eventually brought me some bubbles and asked to sit on my lap while we played with them.
Later on, I graduated to a splint/brace that allowed me more flexibility in my foot. After about a week I got the confidence to lower myself from the couch to the floor and crawl around with her while we "danced" to one of her CDs. Again, she sensed this was something "big" and reacted as such.
Yesterday, we were all outside on the driveway together as I am now putting a fair bit of weight on my bad ankle. Our neighbours came over and we eventually all migrated back to their backyard. While there, at one point the munchkin came over to me and put her arms up. I thought she wanted assistance getting up the deck stairs (I was sitting on the stairs) but when I lifted her, she leaned forward to me for a big hug/cuddle.
That's when it really hit me. For two months I have viewed this broken ankle and all the forced dependence that came with it as the scourge of my existence. While in truth it still qualifies as the worst two months of my life, there is a silver lining to the cloud it hung (hangs) over me. Two months at home have brought the munchkin and I closer than we have been since her birth (when I was her primary care giver since MTM was recovering from her caesarean section). While I used to have to chase her down for a hug, she now asks for me. I can calm her down when she is beside herself with frustration, something that was solely MTM's area before now.
I've been able to spend a lot more time with her than I would have had this not happened. I still have long periods of isolation so I can work, but we eat lunch together, she comes for "visits", and I often give her bottles before naps and bedtime. All this is new since I have been home. She wants me to be more involved; or at least it seems that way from her actions.
In fact, the last two paragraphs took over 30 minutes to type since she refused to nap without having two separate bottles with Daddy.
In some strange ironic twist that only reality can deliver, I became more like the father I wanted to be by first being unable to be even the father I had been. Funny how life works out that way.
Insight
Looking back on the last two months, having the injury I had is a lot like being a child. When I first came home, I was unable to go to the washroom without MTM's assistance. I couldn't bathe, wash my hair, shave, or even brush my teeth without help. As of this writing I still climb the stairs on my hands and knees, and go down "on my bum". I could not go downstairs without someone setting up the furniture I needed at the top (a chair to lower myself from) and someone at the bottom to hand me my walker. I could not go out to our porch without MTM making arrangements first.
The first time I was able to make the conscious decision I was going to get up and go to the bathroom and the event occurred without MTM's help (aside from monitoring toddler traffic in the hall) was monumental. I felt such a sense of accomplishment after only weeks of being unable.
I felt similar feelings when I became able to come downstairs on my own power of my own accord, and recently have been able to get on to the porch and off the porch without MTM's assistance (although she remains to "spot" me, just in case).
Finally, the first shower I took (real shower, not sitting in some chair in a tub) was incredible.
All these "achievements" are things my daughter has to look forward to over the next few years. Using the potty, unsupervised baths, and getting down from the porch without Mommy hovering are all milestones in her life. Now that I have had to relive many of these myself, I have a new appreciation for what she will be feeling.
Maybe (just maybe) there are some perks to having a broken ankle.
Indebted
I am forever in MTM's debt now, since there is no way I can repay her for the time and care (and lost sleep) she gave willingly and (usually) happily these past two months. A foot-rub a night for the rest of our lives wouldn't even scratch the surface.
She not only hovered over myself and the munchkin when we needed attention. She took care of both of us. She washed me and fed me and even connected the new video capture device to the computer AND connected our second DVD player and VCR to the bedroom television so I could watch my season finales when my meds weren't making me drowsy (otherwise I would have missed the final episodes of Lost).
It was hard for me to accept the help. I've always been independent. I had to recognize that this was what she and I signed up for when we got married. We agreed to take care of each other; I did it for her last spring when the munchkin was born. Now she has been able to do it for me.
So, thank you, my wife, for everything.
Two months ago, I broke my ankle. Since then, my excursions outside of my house have been limited to fracture clinic appointments and two feeble attempts at returning to work at the office. I am fortunate to have a job that allowed me to work from home (albeit with the occasional attempts to pressure me into returning to work from the powers that be) since my office building has no elevator and our suite is on the second floor (where the washroom has no large stall and no bars beside any toilet).
For those that care, I broke it in the line of duty. It was about 4am on a Sunday morning when my daughter awoke crying. I picked her up and felt that her diaper needed changing. After that, she signed for milk (we've been doing ASL with her since the fall) so I took her downstairs to get a bottle out of the fridge. En route, with her in my arms, I either missed a step or slipped. I went down, clutching her close to my chest, and bearing my full weight on the one ankle. She was unharmed but rather startled. I dislocated my foot, fractured my fibula and got the added bonus of chipping my tibia.
Sparing you the bulk of the details, I eventually had surgery to set the fibula fracture with a plate and screws. The chipped tibia could not be repaired, which meant that I couldn't rest my foot upright. It had to be on an angle, making everything that much more fun.
Irony
The first few days were pretty challenging, mainly because I was still in a soft cast (post-surgical) and as such could not really do much with my daughter. Once I got into a fibreglass cast and then a removable boot it was easier to hold her since the solid support allowed her to move more freely. I was still laid up in bed, but at least she could be there with me (for the three minutes her attention span would allow before asking to be put back down). However, at this point I felt more like a piece of furniture than a father. She could cry, but what could I do for her? It's impossible to safely lift a child out of a crib on one foot. And with a meandering 14 month old, maneuvering crutches or a walker is nearly impossible. So, whenever I needed to get up to use the washroom or dress myself, she needed to be placed in her exersaucer or playpen, usually much to her chagrin.
As time wore on, she seemed to become more understanding (no doubt thanks to MTM's continuous instructions "be gentle with Daddy's leg") and also more aware of the situation. The first time I went outside and sat on the porch while she played in the front yard with MTM she was beside herself with excitement. She didn't ask me to come down to her level, but rather seemed to search her toys for something small she could carry up the stairs with her. She eventually brought me some bubbles and asked to sit on my lap while we played with them.
Later on, I graduated to a splint/brace that allowed me more flexibility in my foot. After about a week I got the confidence to lower myself from the couch to the floor and crawl around with her while we "danced" to one of her CDs. Again, she sensed this was something "big" and reacted as such.
Yesterday, we were all outside on the driveway together as I am now putting a fair bit of weight on my bad ankle. Our neighbours came over and we eventually all migrated back to their backyard. While there, at one point the munchkin came over to me and put her arms up. I thought she wanted assistance getting up the deck stairs (I was sitting on the stairs) but when I lifted her, she leaned forward to me for a big hug/cuddle.
That's when it really hit me. For two months I have viewed this broken ankle and all the forced dependence that came with it as the scourge of my existence. While in truth it still qualifies as the worst two months of my life, there is a silver lining to the cloud it hung (hangs) over me. Two months at home have brought the munchkin and I closer than we have been since her birth (when I was her primary care giver since MTM was recovering from her caesarean section). While I used to have to chase her down for a hug, she now asks for me. I can calm her down when she is beside herself with frustration, something that was solely MTM's area before now.
I've been able to spend a lot more time with her than I would have had this not happened. I still have long periods of isolation so I can work, but we eat lunch together, she comes for "visits", and I often give her bottles before naps and bedtime. All this is new since I have been home. She wants me to be more involved; or at least it seems that way from her actions.
In fact, the last two paragraphs took over 30 minutes to type since she refused to nap without having two separate bottles with Daddy.
In some strange ironic twist that only reality can deliver, I became more like the father I wanted to be by first being unable to be even the father I had been. Funny how life works out that way.
Insight
Looking back on the last two months, having the injury I had is a lot like being a child. When I first came home, I was unable to go to the washroom without MTM's assistance. I couldn't bathe, wash my hair, shave, or even brush my teeth without help. As of this writing I still climb the stairs on my hands and knees, and go down "on my bum". I could not go downstairs without someone setting up the furniture I needed at the top (a chair to lower myself from) and someone at the bottom to hand me my walker. I could not go out to our porch without MTM making arrangements first.
The first time I was able to make the conscious decision I was going to get up and go to the bathroom and the event occurred without MTM's help (aside from monitoring toddler traffic in the hall) was monumental. I felt such a sense of accomplishment after only weeks of being unable.
I felt similar feelings when I became able to come downstairs on my own power of my own accord, and recently have been able to get on to the porch and off the porch without MTM's assistance (although she remains to "spot" me, just in case).
Finally, the first shower I took (real shower, not sitting in some chair in a tub) was incredible.
All these "achievements" are things my daughter has to look forward to over the next few years. Using the potty, unsupervised baths, and getting down from the porch without Mommy hovering are all milestones in her life. Now that I have had to relive many of these myself, I have a new appreciation for what she will be feeling.
Maybe (just maybe) there are some perks to having a broken ankle.
Indebted
I am forever in MTM's debt now, since there is no way I can repay her for the time and care (and lost sleep) she gave willingly and (usually) happily these past two months. A foot-rub a night for the rest of our lives wouldn't even scratch the surface.
She not only hovered over myself and the munchkin when we needed attention. She took care of both of us. She washed me and fed me and even connected the new video capture device to the computer AND connected our second DVD player and VCR to the bedroom television so I could watch my season finales when my meds weren't making me drowsy (otherwise I would have missed the final episodes of Lost).
It was hard for me to accept the help. I've always been independent. I had to recognize that this was what she and I signed up for when we got married. We agreed to take care of each other; I did it for her last spring when the munchkin was born. Now she has been able to do it for me.
So, thank you, my wife, for everything.
TDS: How Cute Is This?
Those of you who have read my better half's blog (it's in the links, and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out which one it is) already know part of this story. If that bothers you, then stop reading two blogs from a single family unit! Just kidding.
But seriously, we take a LOT of videos and photos of her. I mean, a lot. You know that Rogers High Speed commercial where the guy says "I am my sons' paparazi"? That's us. In June we took over 100 photos (that we kept; many more were deleted) and 14 video clips. That's just June, a month where I wasn't really taking many photos (more on that in another post). Months like March (birthday) and December (xmas) are insane! Are we the only parents like this? Anyone out there reading, tell me (us) how many photos you average in a month/week/whatever.
We do it for two reasons. The first is we have a digital camera (and yours truly is a computer geek and subsequently has many, many gig of storage). The second is I've gotten into a hobby of making DVDs of our stuff. It originated with making videos to send to my parents who live four hours away and due to health reasons cannot travel to see us as often as they would like. Now we use them to placate the little princess while she sits in her exersaucer (one of the world's greatest inventions). It's true, the little monkey is so vain she prefers watching herself on television rather than Treehouse! (Actually, she just knows she's watching a baby, so I suppose she isn't vain.)
Hope everyone had a fun Canada Day!
But seriously, we take a LOT of videos and photos of her. I mean, a lot. You know that Rogers High Speed commercial where the guy says "I am my sons' paparazi"? That's us. In June we took over 100 photos (that we kept; many more were deleted) and 14 video clips. That's just June, a month where I wasn't really taking many photos (more on that in another post). Months like March (birthday) and December (xmas) are insane! Are we the only parents like this? Anyone out there reading, tell me (us) how many photos you average in a month/week/whatever.
We do it for two reasons. The first is we have a digital camera (and yours truly is a computer geek and subsequently has many, many gig of storage). The second is I've gotten into a hobby of making DVDs of our stuff. It originated with making videos to send to my parents who live four hours away and due to health reasons cannot travel to see us as often as they would like. Now we use them to placate the little princess while she sits in her exersaucer (one of the world's greatest inventions). It's true, the little monkey is so vain she prefers watching herself on television rather than Treehouse! (Actually, she just knows she's watching a baby, so I suppose she isn't vain.)
Hope everyone had a fun Canada Day!
TNS: People Are Like This?!?
Read this story.
Seriously? I made sure I found this story from multiple sources before I posted it because I wanted to believe it was a joke. Sadly, it wasn't. I don't even know where to begin with this.
Do we start with the "sperm donor" (in my opinion actions like this make one ineligible to be called father or dad) for leaving his daughter out in the red light district of Montreal? (Ah ha! Now those of you who didn't click the link are doing that before proceeding! See, I don't just post worthless nonsense up there!) What about the government for making it legal to leave a child of seven unattended in a car? What about the police lacking enough evidence to convict him under the Criminal Code (a conviction would get him five years in prison)?
Being a parent is an honour, a privilege, a duty. It is not a right. Forgive me if I sound politically incorrect, but some people don't deserve to be allowed to procreate. If you're going to be stupid enough to abandon your daughter in an area known to be frequented by customers of the sex trade, do you really deserve the right to raise that daughter? I mean seriously, do we want these people in the gene pool?
As for the laws and those who enforce it, I am by no means an advocate of a police state. However, there is a line I am not willing to see crossed. This story not only crosses that line, it is so far over the line it can't even see the line; the line is a dot to the story (much thanks to Joey Tribiani). As I understand it, a child has to be at least seven, then they can be left alone. This seems beyond absurd to me. I would never leave a child of seven alone in our house, never mind a publicly parked car.
I should probably stop writing now before someone gets offended by what I've said. I don't even know what to with myself I am so frustrated.
Seriously? I made sure I found this story from multiple sources before I posted it because I wanted to believe it was a joke. Sadly, it wasn't. I don't even know where to begin with this.
Do we start with the "sperm donor" (in my opinion actions like this make one ineligible to be called father or dad) for leaving his daughter out in the red light district of Montreal? (Ah ha! Now those of you who didn't click the link are doing that before proceeding! See, I don't just post worthless nonsense up there!) What about the government for making it legal to leave a child of seven unattended in a car? What about the police lacking enough evidence to convict him under the Criminal Code (a conviction would get him five years in prison)?
Being a parent is an honour, a privilege, a duty. It is not a right. Forgive me if I sound politically incorrect, but some people don't deserve to be allowed to procreate. If you're going to be stupid enough to abandon your daughter in an area known to be frequented by customers of the sex trade, do you really deserve the right to raise that daughter? I mean seriously, do we want these people in the gene pool?
As for the laws and those who enforce it, I am by no means an advocate of a police state. However, there is a line I am not willing to see crossed. This story not only crosses that line, it is so far over the line it can't even see the line; the line is a dot to the story (much thanks to Joey Tribiani). As I understand it, a child has to be at least seven, then they can be left alone. This seems beyond absurd to me. I would never leave a child of seven alone in our house, never mind a publicly parked car.
I should probably stop writing now before someone gets offended by what I've said. I don't even know what to with myself I am so frustrated.
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