TDS: Daddy The SnowMan

In what will, in all likelihood, be my last post of 2006, I would like to take a moment to thank everyone who comes here and reads (and especially those who comment). I appreciate you taking the time to share in my thoughts. Hopefully things will continue this way in 2007.

In an effort to kill some time get the munchkin outside for some fresh air, I decided to shovel our driveway with her. (We had received about 1cm of snow during the day.) So, out we went, far more bundled up than was necessary for a mild winter day. I took a shovel and handed her a small child-sized one. Of course, she had no interest in such an undersized tool, and wanted Daddy's. So, into the garage I went and came out with an adult sized shovel. She dragged it about ten feet before exclaiming, "Munchkin's stuck." (She was not really stuck, but was tired of pulling the shovel.)

Next, she teetered (how else can one describe the walk of a toddler in boots and snowpants?) to a small pile of snow I had made and said, "Munchkin play in snow. Make snowman." I assessed the situation, and with all the snow from our driveway and our neighbour's, I could theoretically manufacture a reasonable approximation of a snowman.

After shoveling all the snow into a large pile, I called her over to begin the efforts of creating our snowman. After about five seconds, she wandered under a nearby tree and sat down.

I said to her, "Munchkin, come make the snowman with Daddy."

Her response, without humour, was, "No sank you. Munchkin sit here. Watch Daddy make snowman."

Doh.

TDS: My Wife Said I Had To Blog This

This morning while I was being the best husband in the world watching the munchkin while MTM slept, the munchkin exclaimed, "I am vewwy hungerry."

I replied, "What do you want for breakfast, Princess?"

"I would like raisins, apples, and Amy's feet."

"Pardon?"

"Please Daddy."

"That's good manners, sweetheart, but I'm sorry: you want raisins, apples and what?"

"I would like raisins, apples and Amy's feet. (pause) Please Daddy."

"Amy's feet? Can you say it slowly?"

"Amy's feet."

"One more time sweetheart."

"Cweemuh feet."

"You want cream of wheat?"

"Mmm hmm."

TNS: Designing Babies

You thought I forgot about this little feature, didn't you? Well, technically I did, but it's still Tuesday, so it can still be a newsday. It will, however, be a lighter version than normal, with only a few stories.

Our main story sparks an interesting debate. In the wake of then designer baby phenomenon, where parents are being selective in what embryos are used for implantation, and genetic screening is used to identify and eliminate potential offspring with congenital defects is a new trend where some people are actively seeking children with birth defects. Specifically, the article refers to people who are dwarfs or deaf as examples of a growing trend among would-be parents where the parents want children just like themselves, "defects" and all.

The first issue I take is with the argument that these children are defective. While their genetic makeup may not be within the statistical majority, it does not necessarily mean that there is something "wrong" with them. While dwarfs face challenges living in a world designed for those of larger stature, it is not impossible for them to survive. A similar case can be made for the deaf living in a world that presumes the majority of the population can hear.

On the one hand, I believe a parent has certain rights as to what becomes of their reproductive and/or genetic material. It is, in effect, a product of their body, and as such is subject to their discretion. If they choose to eliminate certain sperm or eggs from consideration for fertilization, that is their choice.

However, I also believe parents have a responsibility to do what is best for their children. And this is where the conflict arises. The question of whether a person is better off being of statistically average size and being raised by dwarf parents, or a dwarf raised by dwarf parents who will understand the child's challenges and concerns. Similarly, is there some benefit to having a deaf child born to deaf parents? While I understand that there is a community aspect, based in the commonality dwarfs or the deaf share, and that having a child that is not part of this community would be difficult, I have to wonder if this is fair to the child. A child with normal hearing can still learn ASL, can still communicate with their parents. While they cannot fully empathize (as I cannot), there is ultimately very little difference between them and their parents.

The case of dwarfs is far more complex since the differences are physically obvious. However, in the end the child will know their parents, and the parents will be able to raise their child. Since I do not have sufficient knowledge about dwarfism and how it affects everyday life, I do not feel I can adequately comment further.

In the end, the parents have the right to do what they feel is best with their genetic material. Hopefully the decisions will be made with an eye for what is best for the children, and not just for the parents.

The Brief Side
A story about how the police in San Francisco are taking steps to provide better care for children when their parents are arrested. Factors being considered include making the arrest out of the children's view, and ensuring the children have an alternate caregiver.

A story about a foster parent and former foster child who celebrates Christmas by providing a traditional turkey dinner to disadvantaged and foster children and their families.

TRS: A Brief Christmas Wrap-Up

What follows is a partial account of my Christmas thus far, littered with visual content to distract you from the absence of substance. This post has been composed over (seriously) five composing sessions, intermittently interrupted by various members of my extended family, so forgive any continuity problems.

We opened presents the afternoon of Christmas Eve. We opened presents the evening of Christmas Eve. We opened presents Christmas morning. We opened presents Christmas Day afternoon. We opened presents during Christmas dinner. We opened presents after Christmas dinner. And we still have presents under the tree.

Christmas Eve we opened our stocking presents. Normally this is a Christmas morning tradition with my in-laws, but this year we decided to do them early (and it was definitely the right answer, since we're still finishing presents as of Boxing Day). Highlights of my stocking included: three packs of breath mints (Did I mention my wife filled my stocking? Do you think she's trying to tell me something?), a Boba Fett action figure (one of three Star Wars themed items), and a Legally Blonde DVD (That's enough snickering from you, thank you very much).

That night we served my cheddar potato soup. It was quite a hit. Afterwards, we gave the munchkin a pair of Elmo slippers. She looked so cute, and she was quite enamoured with them.

Christmas morning, the munchkin got her piano as she had hoped she would. We actually had to stop several times throughout the morning because she more or less got bored with the present opening, and just wanted to play with what she got. (And in truth, I didn't blame her; she received so many gifts that she really did have enough after a few rounds.)

TRS: One Order Of Christmas Spirit, Coming Up!

Yes, I know I said I wasn't going to be posting again for a while. But I just had to share this story with you all.

As I have mentioned before, we are hosting Christmas Day at our house. That means we are responsible for making the big turkey dinner, which is no problem since I make the turkey dinner at my family's Christmas/Thanksgivings. Except for one thing: my stuffing is always made with croutons (toasted strips of bread) and here (i.e. where we live, not my hometown) nobody seems to do this.

So I sent MTM out to the grocery store to purchase croutons thinking they were a common thing. No such luck. She went to a second store to no avail.

After work today, we went to a third store, and while they had them, they weren't the same ones I was used to. So we went to a fourth store (ironically this is the chain in my hometown where I always get the croutons) and still no croutons. I asked someone in the bakery whether they made them or not, and he said there would be some in two hours.

So we went home and I called the store two hours later. I actually got the same guy in the bakery and he told me they'd be ready in another half an hour. I went in and after looking around the section (and not finding any), he caught my eye from behind the counter, and gestured the "one minute" hand signal. He came out with a baking sheet filled with croutons and said, "Are these toasted enough?" I said they were. He brought them out to me and said, "There's three loaves here, but I put them in two bags. Merry Christmas."

I was stunned. This guy had taken it upon himself to make stuffing bread for me the way I expected it (toasted) despite it not being a common expectation. After four stores and a day spent dodging hyper-rude people cutting us off (and some even giving us dirty looks in the process), this guy single-handedly rejuvenated the Christmas (or Holiday) Spirit in me. Thank you, Sobey's Bakery Guy!

TTS: Christmas Morning Traditions

When I was a little kid, we had a Christmas morning just like anyone else's (well, except for the fact that my mother was a pushover so we used to get up at like 4am to open presents). We'd open gifts, then Mom would put on the turkey, and we'd have our extended family over in the afternoon for drinks and then dinner. My cousins would come, bringing some of their favourite gifts from the big guy in red. We would all fawn over each other's toys, nobody wanting to share with each other, but everybody wanting everyone else's stuff. Good times.

Then when I was eleven, my older sister moved out and things changed somewhat. She was with my (at the time) future brother-in-law, and that meant incorporating flexibility into our routine. Since his family did Christmas Eve midnight mass, followed by a gift opening and dinner (in the wee hours of the morning, yes), they would spend December 24 with his family, sleep, and then come to our place around 2pm Christmas Day. My parents decided right from the beginning that gift opening was to be done as a family which meant no Christmas morning for little SFD.

That continued through my first two years of being with MTM (those first two we spent it apart, each with our own families). Christmas morning went from a time of gifts to a time of anxiety-ridden dinner preparations as my younger sister and I assumed much of the duties due to my mother's deteriorating health.

Now, MTM's family has a tradition of stockings. My family's concept of stockings was to tape (with masking tape) furry red stockings (with our names written in glitter) to the wall. My first Christmas, MTM made me a stocking, and stuffed it. I must admit it was pretty cool. The next year, I made her a stocking and we had our own little "Christmas morning" the morning before we left for our respective holidays.

Then, four years ago (that's sixteen years after my family went to the mid-afternoon Christmas), I spent my first Christmas with MTM's family, up at the cottage. Her family does things the traditional way, albeit with intermittent breaks for her mother to assess the turkey or do something else for the culinary extravaganza that is Christmas in their home. So for the first time in 16 years I was opening presents without having showered, while my hair looked like crap. (That was the blessing of a mid-afternoon gift exchange: no bed-head photos.)

But the stockings, oh the stockings! Imagine, if you will, five adults each with a large fabric bag filled with around 25 items, all wrapped. Now, imagine that each present goes through the following cycle:

• collect everyone's attention


• extract an item from the stocking


• recollect everyone's attention


• shake item in an attempt to guess its contents


• feel item in an attempt to guess its contents


• recollect everyone's attention


• unwrap item, attempting to preserve paper for next year


• react favourably to item, regardless of if it is jewellery or socks


• get up


• walk over to the person who put it in the stocking


• hug said person


• walk back to your spot on the couch

That happens over one hundred times! Now, I'm exaggerating a bit for effect, but not too much. And after that, there's still the "presents" (also known as "stuff that is too big to fit in the opening of a stocking) that are under the tree. It's madness I tell you, madness! (But it is fun madness, nonetheless.)

Three years ago MTM and I spent our first Christmas at my parents' house. While we were planning, MTM asked about how we would do gift opening: would we just incorporate our gifts into the family exchange, or would we open them separately beforehand? I explained that incorporating them would mean waiting until the middle of the afternoon, which was quickly met with, "No, we'll do our own thing then." We awoke Christmas morning and opened our gifts and stockings in our bedroom that year.

Then last year we were back at my parents' place, but this time we had the munchkin with us. We again decided not to wait for mid-afternoon but this time we did it in the livingroom for all (my father; my mother was sleeping) to see. The munchkin was only nine months, so she just kind of stared blankly with an open mouth (basically, the same look she had 90% of the time back then).

This year is special for a number of reasons. It is the first time MTM's family is doing stockings Christmas Eve (in one of those "it's our house, so our rules moments), in an attempt to keep Christmas Day under control (read: to have gift opening done before the bowl games begin). Whether or not this will be our tradition is yet to be decided.

It is also the first time in thirteen years that I will wake up in my.own.bed Christmas morning (having spent the previous ones either at my parents' house or my in-laws' cottage). It is the first time the munchkin is aware of a large man in red (whom she is convinced she will jump out and yell "boo" at - we're trying to explain that he comes while she sleeps, but she is confident she will be able to surprise him).

But most importantly, it is Christmas, and we will be spending it with family.

TNS: Lesbians, Love and Catholic Doctors

Last night I checked my email and in there was a quick note from Laural asking whether or not Tuesday Newsday would be returning today. Apparently my serialized story of the munchkin's birth wasn't enough for her. Hmph! All kidding aside, it has returned, at least for this week. Next Tuesday is Boxing Day, so I'm not sure if I'll get a chance to post or not (my house will be overrun with in-laws).

First we have this story about comments made by US President George Bush regarding Mary Cheney, the daughter of US Vice President Dick Cheney, who happens to be both pregnant and a lesbian. How does he handle the questioning? With a lot of political posturing and a surprising absence of condemnation (although a sad lack of support). Bush states that while studies have shown (although he neglects to share specifics about the studies) that children are best served by a traditional mother/father parenting pair, what a child needs most is love, and that Mary Cheney will love her child.

I have made no secret of my disdain for those who would argue that two people of the same gender make for an unfit parenting team. Time and again I have said that a child needs love and care and support, regardless of whether that comes from a heterosexual mother and father, or two gay parents. Mary Cheney and her partner have been together for fifteen years (according to the article). They already made a commitment to one another, and are now bringing a child into what is surely a loving home.

Bush's comments, while not an overwhelming show of support for the rights of homosexual families, are a step in the right direction. The fact that he does not attack the couple and instead acknowledges that two women are capable of loving a child (and one another, although he omitted that part) and raising that child as parents is progress, albeit minor. The only concern I have is, what would his position be if this woman wasn't the daughter of his confidant and political ally?

Next, we have some news about an interesting custody settlement where the rights of a "de facto" parent were upheld, apparently in spite of the fact that both parents are women. One partner in a lesbian relationship adopted a child, and since that time the couple has become estranged. Since only one woman adopted the girl, the woman's partner had no legal rights to the child (since gay marriage is not recognized in that state). The ruling maintained that the partner (and non-adoptive parent) was a "de facto" parent, with the right to have visitation awarded.

This story definitely advances the cause for equality in all areas of the law for homosexual parents. Despite the woman having no legally recognizable relationship to the child (long-term gay relationships are a blindspot in many legal systems), she was recognized as a parent with the right to see that child. This ruling offers the opportunity for a boot-strapped argument that since the woman was a "de facto" parent, and that label was the result of the relationship the woman shared with her partner and the child, that their relationship was a common-law marriage (an institution much more readily recognized in most states). However, changes like this are slow, so I am not holding my breath.

And now for something completely different. What we have here is a Saskatchewan (I just included that so all my American readers would stop and scratch their heads for a moment) woman who was denied a tubal ligation (a medical procedure also referred to as getting her "tubes tied") because the hospital she was in was owned by a Catholic organization. The Catholic church does not condone any artificial method of birth control other than abstinence.

A publicly funded hospital cannot have the right to dictate what procedures it will and will not provide. If the facility is staffed with personnel qualified to perform a medical procedure, who are paid (in whole or in part) by government funding, then it is not the hospital's decision to make, regardless of the basis (religious or otherwise). If no doctors are able to perform the procedure, that is a different matter.

More interesting is the question of whether or not individual doctors have the right to refuse to perform a procedure on religious grounds. Personally, I feel each person has the right to decide what they will and will not do. If someone's faith prohibits them from performing a tubal ligation, or a DNC, or a vasectomy, then it is up to us as a society to respect that belief. However, to make a sweeping prohibition in a hospital surely not completely staffed by rigorously practising Catholics, is unreasonable.

The Brief Side
We will close with a new feature (which may or may not be permanent, depending on my luck with finding news stories) for Tuesday Newsday: The Brief Side. Here I will give you a link or two (or three) with little more than a few lines of commentary. These are stories that I either don't have much to say about, or I don't have time/room to comment on completely. So without further ado...

This study proves once and for all that your friendly neighbourhood meat-loving blogger is an idiot. Apparently all the smart kids end up being vegetarians by the time they're thirty.

I highly recommend reading this excerpt of an interview with Angelina Jolie where she discusses being a parent, and how difficult it is to adopt. Definitely worth thinking about.

And finally, a feel-good parent news story (for poor Haley who always gets depressed by Tuesday Newsday) about a mother of nine (?!?) who takes time every year to collect toys for patients at Toronto Sick Kids Hospital.

TRS: 'Twas The Week Before Christmas

On Friday night, as we were eating dinner, MTM left the table (and the kitchen) for a few moments. Since we generally do not share our chocolate milk with the munchkin (too much), when MTM disappeared I used the opportunity to share some of mine with her. The munchkin said, "Thank you Daddy" and I suggested she whisper so that Mommy didn't know what we were doing, it was "a secret". She responded in a very loud voice, "Daddy, you welcome. You welcome!"

"Why is she telling you to say 'you're welcome'?" came the call from the other room.

"Uhm, nothing." Crap. Busted.

Near the end of the meal I realized that it was the opening of the local festival of lights. I suggested I should hit the local municipal website for details. MTM disagreed and said I should check my email for the time it started, as she had emailed me previously.

Cue ominous music.

I read her email, and it said that the festival was on every night from December 15 to December 31 from 6pm to 9pm. It being 5:30pm when we read this, we quickly finished dinner, tossed everything into the sink, and bundled up for a brisk (snowless) evening. We arrived to a very empty parking lot. At about 6:05pm we noticed a sign: "Opening Ceremonies December 15, 7pm". Niiice.

So, we went back to the van and hit the local video store for a rental (The Devil Wears Prada - meh) and to the pharmacy to kill some time. At 6:30pm we returned to the park and sat in the car listening to a Christmas sing-a-long for twenty minutes as I counted the ways I could deafen myself with what I had accessible in the van. At one point I commented to MTM that if I saw Chewbacca or the Easter Bunny that I was out of there.

Finally, the festival was opened by the mayor and we traversed all five of the displays in our festival. Some were standards (like the all-white light nativity) and some, not so much. Like the one of three reindeer playing basketball while Santa snowboarded down a hill (I wish I was making this up, just remember this is the same town that had Darth Vader and a Spider-Man in pajamas at the parade). The munchkin seemed to like it enough though, so that was fine.

As we drove home, MTM insisted that the municipality's website had no such 7pm start time detail. When we got home, the only reference either of us could find to the festival clearly stated the 7pm opening ceremonies. Of course, that meant I had used my little known power of telekinesis to communicate with the server and rewrite the website, just to mess with my darling wife's head.

Saturday morning we got up bright and early and took the munchkin to (gasp) McDonald's for breakfast with Santa! It was pretty cool, as she seemingly forgot about her previous visit and ran to give him a hug as soon as she saw him. She stared at him as we ate hotcakes and syrup and even asked him for the present she wanted. She sat on his lap (without fussing, crying, or fighting) and wanted to give him a hug good-bye as well. I think we're back in the Santa fanclub!

The afternoon we spent a while at the local mall doing some shopping. Most notable was our time at the Gap, where the munchkin literally traversed the aisles, saying, "I like shirts, I like pants, I like sweaters too" pointing out everything in the store. She was so excited to be there, she actually went up to a salesperson and held her arms out for them to pick her up. She has never done that to a stranger before. It was so cute.

Saturday night MTM and I watched Elf. It was actually a lot more enjoyable than I expected. It was a good Christmas movie that didn't end up taking itself too seriously, and in the end I would call it a recommendation. Although admittedly it was nice to see Zooey Deschanel, someone I hadn't seen since The New Guy.

On Sunday we all got dressed nicely and went to a Christmas party hosted by one of MTM's former "Mommy group" friends. For the first year of the munchkin's life, MTM had this group of three other moms and herself (who met at a Mommy And Me thing at the local Early Years Centre) who saw each other twice a week. They would take courses together and meet up for lunches at each others' homes and shopping trips at the mall. As tends to happen, circumstances changed. Two of the moms went back to work after their maternity leave and the third moved to a town about 45 minutes north of us. With busy schedules, we hadn't seen each other since the day before I broke my ankle.

It was really fun to see everyone again, and especially to see the kids and how they had all changed. Since it had been over seven months, at that age, there were remarkable differences. The munchkin eventually warmed up (she had napped for the drive and was groggy upon our arrival) and seemed to recognize her "old friends", either that or she picked up on the names from all the parents talking. All in all, it was a fun time, if a little sad that we had lost touch.

Sunday night's dinner was fun. We discussed what we should leave out for Santa and the reindeer. At first, the munchkin was firmly in the cookie camp until someone suggested he also liked Mommy's cookie fudge too (hmm... wonder who that could be?) Then she decided he would have apple juice to drink, and eventually decided for the juice and some milk. But the best was her initial response to our query about the reindeer. "Reindeer like chocolate!" We eventually negotiated a carrot for each of them.

Sunday evening we settled down on the couch for the Survivor Finale. Having watched all seasons (admittedly I had to catch most of S1 on DVD) I can honestly say I felt this was one of the better overall seasons of the show. And having a Yul/Ozzy final two (really, was Becky even there?) was refreshing. However, the way we got there (a final 3) left a bad taste in my mouth. We all know that if there was a traditional F3, Ozzy or Yul would likely have won (probably Ozzy) and would have taken (and subsequently slaughtered) Becky in the finals.

I will admit to being curious to see Fiji. The "lap of luxury" twist will be interesting to see, since giving one team that much of an advantage has to come up as a detriment at some point.

TDS: Four Words

Four words. Four words is all it took to wipe away one of my more shitty days in a while.

For about the last month, the munchkin has incorporated two variations of the same phrase into her common vocabulary. Invariably, when I am holding her or when she is fed up with dinner or when, well, whenever, she will say, "Mommy cuddles" or "Cuddles wiff Mommy". (Actually, the "Mommy cuddles" is often done in a sing-song kind of voice and is pretty darn cute.)

So there we were, last night, on the couch all three of us bundled up in blankets. The munchkin and I had taken a bath together (we've gotten into it, and so as often as I can I try to get in the tub with her) and she was all cozy in her fleece sleepers being read to before bed. The normal routine is that once the books are done she gives me a hug and a kiss, and then climbs the stairs with MTM. Last night, however, went a little differently. She climbed over to me and gave me my standard hug and kiss, and went to MTM. Then, as MTM was picking her up, the munchkin said, "Want cuddles wiff Daddy". My heart nearly burst. She has never asked for me like that before. I didn't cry, but I was definitely feeling emotional. As she was hugging me, MTM said, "Well, now you know what you're blogging about tomorrow."

It's amazing how something so simple can have such a huge impact. As she becomes her own little person with more clear personality traits, I am in awe at the person she is growing into. So sweet, so compassionate. It's like she knew this would make my night.

---

On a completely unrelated note, does anyone out there have any thoughts about Blogger Beta? I just got my "invitation" yesterday, and was all excited to try it. Then I read some horror stories and am reconsidering. I'd love to hear any thoughts you may have.

TRS: Our Birth Story: Part 3

Before continuing, I suggest you read Part 1 and Part 2.

To answer a question posed yesterday in the comments, the munchkin was 9lbs, 6oz when she was born; that's what "a girl and a half" is, according to that ob-gyn.

Post Partum

I go and collect my MIL from the waiting room (only one visitor at a time in recovery) and rush off to the pay phones to call my parents and tell them the news. Three successive calls go straight to voicemail (they have call waiting). I would later learn that my mother fell asleep with the cordless phone beside her and rolled over on it, pressing the "talk" button and effectively taking it off the hook. I call both my sisters and tell them the news, asking them to continue trying to call my parents. My younger sister would reach them shortly after 2am.

After my in-laws leave they wheel us to a ward (4 bed) room. I try to explain that we asked for a private room, or failing that a semi-private. I am told this is the only bed they have. It is cramped and dark (because, after all, it is after midnight by this point). The night nurse comes in and takes the munchkin away. The panic in MTM's eyes tells me I should follow the baby and not worry about my wife. I follow them to the little room where they do the assessments (you know: prick the heel to check blood sugar, test the grab reflex, weigh them, et cetera). When they lift her and try to turn her to her stomach (to make sure she has the reflex/strength to turn her head to the side and not, you know, suffocate herself) the munchkin puts her arms out; stiff. She won't lie on her tummy and instead does a push-up. The nurse looks at me and says, "You know, I've been doing this twenty years, and your daughter is the only one I have seen do this."

I follow the nurse back to the room and am told that I have to go now. I express concern, but they tell me that I cannot stay in a ward room; it would not be fair to the other mothers. I kiss them both (my wife and daughter, not the nurse) and leave.

I call my parents from the house as I sit in our office uploading the photos of our new daughter to a photo sharing site (I had arranged with my younger sister that I would do this and email her as soon as I did so that she could print photos for my parents). I cry and avoid telling them the bulk of the story. I am saddened by the reality that they cannot travel to see their new granddaughter because of my mother's health. It would be almost two months before MTM was well enough to travel.

I get to bed around 3am and sleep soundly until my alarm wakes me at 6:30am. I shower quickly and head back to the hospital. MTM would later tell me that my entrance into the room was like a ray of sunshine. I arrived to find the munchkin screaming in her bassinet and MTM pressing the call button for a nurse. I pick up the munchkin and she quiets immediately. MTM begins to cry. She (the munchkin) had been screaming for over an hour, and she (MTM) could not get up to get her because of her incision. After ensuring MTM is OK with the munchkin (she was needing to nurse) I go out to crack skulls kick asses have a calm and rational discussion with the nurses to find out what was going on. Two words are returned. Two words that become the bane of our existence in the hospital: shift change.

We spend the early morning as a family. Well, MTM sleeps and I cuddle the munchkin, but we're all in the same room. Eventually our nurse arrives and introduces a college co-op student who will be shadowing her today. We are told to call for either of them if needed.

The student returns with a tub and some cloths and towels, informing us it is time for the munchkin's first bath. She instructs MTM to lower her bed flat and sit up, cross-legged, so she can watch. Incredulously, MTM looks at her and says, "I just had a c-section. I can't do that." The nurse seems perplexed. Obviously the school had given her strict instructions about how to perform the bath. She attempts to cajole MTM into trying, at which point I step in and tell her to put the tub at the end of the bed and do the bath, please.

Mid-afternoon they come to us and offer a "door side" bed in a semi-private. MTM asks me to take a look and make the call. I assess that there is little more space, but it is significantly less crowded, making it seem larger. So, the student and a couple of her student friends begin to navigate the bed (in which MTM is holding the munchkin in her arms) out of the ward room while I move the bags and stuff. I arrive in the hall outside the new room watching them try and align the bed with the door. I see them bang the bed into the wall, and MTM winces. I clench my fists and grit my teeth. A few moments later, the three of them still can't master the laws of physics and again the bed is jarred, and again my wife winces.

I step forward. "I will do it."

"No sir. It's OK. We'll get it."

"Step away from the bed. Now."

The three of them move away slowly. I take a quick look and carefully roll the bed away from any walls. I then lift the lower half of the bed and rotate it (think like a wheelbarrow), aligning it with the door frame. I slide the bed about half way in and turn back to the trio of gape-mouthed students and say, "Can you handle it from here?"

The remainder of the day and the whole of the next passes without any significant incident. My younger sister comes up the first night and visits (transit to get her from her apartment to our town wasn't servicing the area after midnight). Of course, my in-laws are there frequently.

The day after that (Saturday for those who have lost track) we begin to wonder what the protocol is for discharging a c-section patient. Our nurse informs us there was "no way" we would be discharged today, and that Sunday is unlikely as well, given MTM's slow recovery and that she had just begun to move on her own without someone holding on to her.

My older sister and her family come in the afternoon. We ignore pretend to be ignorant of the rule that no children are allowed to visit except for siblings, allowing my niece and nephew to meet their cousin. About half an hour into the visit, our nurse comes and offers us a private room that has just become available. We jump at the opportunity (a private room means I can sleep in the room with them) and get my siblings to help move rooms.

We visit with them for another half hour or so in the new room, and they leave. About ten minutes after their departure (4pm-ish), the insensitive butcher ob-gyn arrives and says, "Are you ready to go home?" Shocked and more than a little frightened, MTM replies, "No." The asshole doctor furrows his brow and says, "What's wrong?" MTM says (holding back tears) that she is just not feeling physically ready. The fucknut ob-gyn replies, "Well, without a medical reason I have to discharge you today."

He leaves, and MTM looks at me with panic in her eyes. I am feeling terrified (and not just because I have dirty dishes around the house and my underwear hasn't been put in the hamper) but tell her everything will be OK. We'll figure it out. Foolishly, she believes me.

We call my in-laws to come help with the process. In the end, they wheel MTM's wheelchair down while I carry the munchkin in her infant car seat. I leave the munchkin inside the hospital with them and go get the van. Fuck. It is snowing heavily outside. The snow is not staying on the ground, but it is not melting either. It is making a thick slushy paste that is both slippery as anything and able to saturate the entire lower half of my jeans.

I roll the van forward and hop out to place the munchkin in her seat base. By the time I get around to MTM she is in the van safely. I thank my in-laws and tell them to meet us at the house. I get in the car and squeeze MTM's hand.

The normally five minute drive home takes almost fifteen that night. It is dark, visibility is next to nothing, and the brakes on the van seem to be more like the hand brake on a "big wheel", designed more for spinning you into a skid than stopping. Later I would look for grip marks on the steering wheel, convinced I had held it that tightly.

I get home and carry the munchkin into the house. MTM is assisted by her parents. Amazingly, no one slips and falls, and we are finally a family in our home.

Thus ends my version of our birth story. As for the three photos in this post, for those who want timelines: the first one (MTM and the munchkin in hospital) was taken within minutes of MTM seeing the munchkin for the first time; the second (the munchkin alone) was taken on the scale shortly after the first; and the third (MTM and the munchkin at our house) was taken the morning after we got home.

TRS: Our Birth Story: Part 2

Before continuing, I suggest you read Part 1. To answer a question posed yesterday in the comments, I am not "stretching this out" over three days. I am posting the story in this manner for two reasons: one, it is extremely long; and two, I am using it as a writing exercise to produce a serialized narrative. And to clarify the story I am telling: it is not just the tale of the actual birth, but moreso that of how we went from being two people in our house to three people in our house. In other words, I am including the stay in the hospital.

Delivery

When we left off, the ob-gyn had just left us to discuss the possibility of a c-section.

We talk. We cry. We panic. I try to call a friend of hers who had a c-section the previous December without success. I offer the following: insanity is doing the same thing twice and expecting a different result. She agrees, and the final push is that if we wait too long, the next ob-gyn on call is someone she saw for a couple appointments while her regular ob-gyn was on holidays, and this other ob-gyn was disgusting and not who she wanted delivering her first child.

We call for the ob-gyn to tell him of our decision. He again explains that the child is large (we get it) and as such he would suggest a vertical incision instead of a horizontal. We would later learn that all his c-sections are vertical (also known as "the old way that takes significantly longer to heal but is a lot easier for the doctor"). We agree to the vertical.

So around 8pm they come and take her to the O.R. while I wait in recovery next door. The next two hours or so I pace back and forth while the wonders of medical science figure out how to get an operational epidural into my wife. (We would later learn none of the earlier attempts to get her an epidural were "right".)

I get collected by the anesthesiologist and brought to the O.R. He directs me cautiously past the table where my wife is and around to her head, behind a curtain (we had specifically told both the ob-gyn and the nurses that neither of us wanted any details about the surgery; we wanted to hide behind the curtain and not be given a play-by-play). She is on her back with her arms outstretched, and I am immediately pissed for the years I spent in Catholic school classrooms, all of which had crucifixes in them.

I try to be coherent and talk to her as the team of doctors and nurses tend to her. Eventually, the ob-gyn exclaims, "Woah! Look at her!" To which I reply, "It's a girl?" And he tosses back, "No, it's a girl and a half!" Time of birth: 10:24pm.

They call me over to the assessment table (where they are giving her an apgar of 9) and encourage me to come see her (through the throngs of people all crowded around my little girl). I approach, and as I wander about the space in a confused daze I turn. Toward the operating table. And I see something I will never forget. You know those scenes you see on TLC of a surgery, where the person is open and you see things inside them? Those scenes that most people cringe and quickly flip the channel as soon as they realize what they are looking at? I saw my wife like that.

I recoil back. I keep saying to myself, "I did not need that. I did not need to see that." A nurse grabs my shoulders and guides me to a stool where I can see neither MTM nor the munchkin. The anesthesiologist comes over to hold me down as I am insisting on getting up. The nurse tells another that I am very pale. MTM hears a nurse call over the intercom, "Can I get a nurse for Dad here? He isn't doing too well."

MTM asks what is going on. No one will tell her anything. I cannot hear her over the nurse yelling at me.

I am arguing with the nurses and anesthesiologist that I am fine. I was stunned, I was scared, but I am no longer a concern. They refuse to believe me. They want me to leave. I refuse to leave my wife and child. As I sit there I hear the following...
Voice #1: one, two, three, four, five
Voice #2: one, two, three, four, five
loud clang of metal

This is repeated a couple more times before it dawns on me what they are doing: they are counting clamps or instruments or whatever and making sure they haven't left any in my wife. I am too much in shock to cry at this point.

Finally, I negotiate the right to hold my daughter. They insist that I remain seated. At this point MTM calls out to me, and I tell her I am OK, and that the baby is beautiful (all I can see was her face as she is wrapped in like five blankets). Eventually they allow me to take my daughter into recovery to wait for MTM. I would later learn that no one showed the baby to MTM, and that the first time she saw the munchkin was in recovery afterwards.

Excited, at one point while waiting I leave recovery and start toward the waiting room where I know my in-laws are. I decide against it because I figure MTM would want to share this moment with them. (Thankfully, otherwise they would have seen the munchkin before MTM.)

Eventually they wheel MTM in. She looks weak and exhausted, and I choke back tears. I pass the munchkin to her Mommy, and watch as MTM looks at the munchkin for the first time. It is 11:45pm; over an hour since the munchkin had been born. Then, the nurse does the whole weighing and measuring thing while I take some pictures. And finally, MTM gets to put the munchkin on the breast (something she had wanted to do as soon as she was born). I heave a sigh of relief and offer to go get MTM's family from the waiting room.

Part 3 will be posted tomorrow.

TRS: Our Birth Story: Part 1

Yesterday I left a comment on Haley's blog when she posted her birth story. In it I said I would never post ours because it would frighten too many women away from having kids. Haley replied to my comment via email and suggested that I should blog about it. MTM was reading over my shoulder and asked why I wouldn't write it. I explained that I didn't want to upset her with the retelling. She said it would be OK.

So, I began to write the story. As I wrote, more and more details came back that (at least from my perspective looking back) were pertinent to the tale. In the end it turned out to be far too long for one post (says the man who wrote the epic 100 things that went wrong post). I reviewed it and found clear breaks. This is part one of three.

Pre-Delivery

MTM was due March 29, 2005. Despite many ultrasounds (due to an "over ripe" placenta - seriously, that's what they called it; like it was some kind of fruit or something) taken in anticipation of having a reason to induce labour, she still had not given birth on March 29. That night (March 29) she was very chatty, and we wound up talking until almost midnight (my routine is to get up at 5:30am, so this was a late night for us).

At 2am I am awakened by her feeble calls from the bathroom. I jump out of bed with a start (mostly because I was sound asleep). She tells me that her water broke (she had laid towels down on the bed) and that now she feels constipated and very crampy. I ask her what I can do, and she tells me to call the maternity ward nurse's station at our local hospital for guidance. I call them (and in hindsight I can hear them snickering at me under their breath) and explain the situation. They tell me that the cramps are likely contractions, and that when they approach five minutes apart we should drive to the hospital.

At 5am, after a shower and phone calls to our parents, we leave with contractions in the five to six minute range. I am eerily calm. We arrive at the hospital and I drop MTM at the door and go park. She waits for me inside and we go up to the maternity floor together.

They put her on a fetal monitor in a triage room and we wait. The moans of agony continue to escalate from my wife as I stand by helpless. I watch as our assigned nurse spends ten minutes trying to start an IV without success. There is blood on the floor from the process, much to my horror. We finally get the IV started with the help of a second nurse.

At around 7am they move us to a delivery room. MTM is told that shift change is rapidly approaching, and that she has the following choices... option 1: get an epidural now; option 2: wait until potentially 9am to receive an epidural. She opts for option 1. Half an hour (and three failed "starts") later she has an epidural line we would later learn was not properly inserted. They assess the situation, and find that she is over 7cm dilated but not effaced. Our new nurse (shift change) nonchalantly tells us we will be holding our baby before 11am.

At around noon they conclude that the baby is R.O.P. (right occipital posterior... don't ask how I remember shit like this; just go with it) which means the baby is facing sideways. Despite a pitocin drip we are stopped at 8cm with a cervical "lip" (I did not see this, but I was told to visualize a crescent moon shape). During the previous five hours, MTM has been complaining that there is a rod digging into her hip. The nurse tells her that she is imagining things and that the epidural wouldn't let her feel that.

At around 2pm they finally give MTM the go-ahead to push (after her begging to try for hours). The caveat is that pushing will only work if the lip is lifted. Manually. By the nurse. While she pushes. I'll give you a minute to work that visual out for yourself.

At around 4pm, after two hours of steady pushing, the nurse asks MTM, "Are you putting your feet in the stirrups while you push?" MTM replies, "Of course I am. I'm bearing down hard on them." The nurse makes the "tsk tsk" sound and says, "Well we've just wasted the last two hours then." MTM continues to complain about her hip.

At around 6pm, after another two hours of "proper" pushing, they give up on pushing and tell MTM to rest. MTM insists something is up with her bed. They roll her to her side and discover that her hip is resting on the joint in the bed frame, and that the mattress is extremely thin there (due to a history of bending the mattress at that point).

An hour later (we have been in the delivery room nearly twelve hours at this point) the on-call ob-gyn comes in and offers the following, "The baby is very big, and very healthy. We are not worried about the baby right now. However, you have been here all day and we have to consider the possibility of a c-section. You don't have to do it; it's your call. But if something goes wrong with the baby, it stops being your call and it becomes my call." He leaves to allow us time to digest the information.

Thus ends part one. I must admit, the idea of a serial narrative has been fun to compose. I will post part two tomorrow.

TRS: 100 Things That Went Wrong With Our Weekend

In honour of my one hundredth post, I am doing the 100 things that went wrong with our weekend. In all seriousness, it was a comedy of errors, with each thing that went wrong just making us laugh at whatever was controlling our fates. This isn't meant to be seen as whining or complaining or painting a visit to my family in a poor light. Instead, it is just an attempt to be honest and an effort to appreciate how funny life can turn out sometimes. So, sit back, relax, get a drink, and enjoy one of my longest posts ever.

1. During initial scheduling (at Thanksgiving in October) of my family Christmas (to be held before December 25 since we are not traveling this year) my mother announces that she has decided everyone will come for New Year’s. We do not want to spend New Years with my parents.
2. My sister and I (the two travelers) suggest the weekend of December 9 to combine Christmas with my mother’s birthday. My mother has an emotional meltdown claiming her birthday will be ignored.
3. My mother accepts the plan, with passive-aggressive commentary.
4. Two weeks later my mother calls and announces Christmas is again at New Years.
5. We repeat the same argument cycle as Thanksgiving. We receive the same passive-aggressive acceptance.
6. Three weeks after that we get a call from my mother asking to reschedule Christmas because she no longer wishes to celebrate her birthday.
7. Another round of negotiating results in the re-acceptance of the plan, this time with sobbing apologies.
8. A meeting gets scheduled for Monday December 11, the extra day we had planned to spend with my family. I cannot move the meeting, and move the extra day to this past Friday.
9. I arrive home at lunch on the Thursday of our planned departure to discover the munchkin is sick with a cold and fussy thanks to cutting two teeth. She wails the entire meal.
10. MTM and I get into a fight because she’s overtired from struggling with the munchkin and I’m trying to postpone our departure.
11. We decide to leave Friday, so I go back to work (this is extra time that will be unpaid – but I had to get work done).
12. I arrive home Thursday evening and we decide to leave for my parents’ house that night. It begins to snow as we leave our neighbourhood. Our wipers are frozen.
13. We stop for dinner at a fast food joint. I cannot place the order as the driver’s side window is frozen. MTM places the order and collects the food from the rear seat.
14. They screwed up our dinner order.
15. After traveling eight kilometres in ten minutes, I call my sister who lives in a city halfway between us and my parents. They have received over a foot of snow that has closed the main highway I was planning to take.
16. I exit the highway and begin to head home. The wipers freeze again.
17. We make it home safely and receive a long winded chastisement from my in-laws about driving during daylight and without snowfall.
18. I am unable to sleep Thursday night, alternately stressing about work and making it to visit my parents before Christmas.
19. I awaken at 5:30am Friday morning and decide to go into work (on a previously scheduled vacation day) to try and reduce my anxiety.
20. I arrive at the office and realize I forgot to bring coffee.
21. I open my wallet to discover I never got the cash MTM took out of the ATM the day before.
22. I learn that the individual supporting the database I am working on is not in the office that day. I begin to work on collecting data.
23. I learn that the individual whom I am collecting data from is not in the office that day.
24. MTM calls me to tell me that there has been over three feet of snow where my sister lives. She is uncertain about road conditions.
25. I receive an email confirming the scheduling of our company Christmas party will be during a day I am already booked, meaning I cannot participate.
26. I return home mid-morning and collect my girls and load up the van. We head to a local restaurant to grab coffee and snacks before leaving. I hop into the place and turn right around as it is lunch hour at the local high school nearby and the place is packed.
27. We roll through the drive-through to discover that the window is again frozen. MTM again does the drive-through duty.
28. As we are collecting our order, we are told my item is not available.
29. I am told my second choice is also not available.
30. We head out and discover that the radio is not operational. It has been an intermittent problem previously.
31. Unable to listen to traffic reports, we take the toll highway out of town, which will cost over $10 one way.
32. We stop for lunch on the highway. The munchkin is frustrated because she cannot wander freely in the rest station in her slippers. She makes this fact well known to all.
33. We return to the van and MTM’s cell phone rings three separate cycles before she connects with her mother, who is calling to tell us we should turn around because there is a twenty car pileup thirty kilometres behind us. We are nearly half way to my parents by now.
34. We arrive at my parents’ house and my ankle is twice as wide as it usually is due to swelling.
35. While I am watching a DVD I made for my mother the munchkin leaves the room. I wrongly assume MTM has her in her sights. After a few panicked seconds we find the munchkin in our bedroom (with the door closed) rummaging through the diaper bag.
36. As I begin to assemble my parents’ gift for the munchkin, I discover that my father has no Phillips head screwdrivers.
37. As I continue the assembly, I cannot locate a piece. Fortunately, it turns up wedged inside another part.
38. We learn that in spite of MTM saying she will bring a cake that my sister will be making a cake of her own. MTM cancels her decision to make a cake.
39. That night as I am driving my sister home she suggests we go to Taco Bell, where we discover that they no longer serve the mexican pizza nor the taco salad.
40. Saturday morning I get up with the munchkin in an attempt to give MTM a bit of extra sleep. Twenty-five minutes of a whiny “Mommy cuddles” on repeat later, MTM is summoned to help with little miss sunshine.
41. That morning as I am preparing the stuffing for the turkey dinner, I discover that they did not buy enough bread to make it. With the dressing half-made I have to get dressed and go to a grocery store for additional provisions.
42. There are no parking spots within a five minute walk of the entrance, at 8am.
43. The express lane is closed, meaning I have to wait behind three people doing what I could only assume was their monthly grocery run.
44. I cut myself while shaving, making a nice scab right near my mouth.
45. That afternoon I attempt to take a nap with the munchkin. She refuses to sleep and jumps all over the bed.
46. MTM looks pale most of the afternoon with gastro-intestinal distress.
47. My stomach was crampy most of the afternoon as well.
48. We discover that my brother in law has left for the afternoon to do Christmas shopping, rendering our plan to open gifts that afternoon moot.
49. My sister calls to tell us that the cake she was making wasn’t turning out because she forgot to adjust the temperature for a glass pan instead of a metal one.
50. My mother learns about the burned cake and begins to cry because she had wanted this cake for her birthday (it was a specialty of her mother’s, who passed away in September).
51. My other sister and I fight about how my mother learned of the potential peril of the cake.
52. As MTM is dressing the munchkin the zipper on her sweater gets stuck.
53. As I am about to mash the potatoes I discover that my parent’s masher is rusted.
54. Despite my sister’s attempts to clean it, it remained rusted.
55. I began to “mash” the potatoes using a potato ricer.
56. The ricer breaks.
57. I mash the potatoes with a large plastic spoon, which can neither break nor rust.
58. During dinner preparation we realize that we forgot the cranberry sauce. My mother is not happy.
59. I had asked what time dinner should be prepared for and am told to choose the time I think is best. Five minutes before I have planned to take the turkey out of the oven (and start the final processes for dinner completion) I am told that dinner must be pushed back to an undetermined time.
60. As I am completing the meal, everyone is flitting about my parents’ very small kitchen. I trip over several people, twisting my previously broken ankle.
61. As I complete the meal, I have a panic attack because of all the confusion and retreat to the basement to calm down.
62. My father serves extremely pungent fried calamari to my nephew who hates turkey dinner. MTM and I hold back nausea.
63. The munchkin refuses to eat anything at dinner.
64. As I am cleaning up the meal, I discover that the dishwasher has hanging hoses where one would not expect them to be. Fifteen minutes of unloading and twisting I reconnect said hoses.
65. I load too large a plate into the dishwasher’s upper rack. The upper rack slides in but will no longer slide out.
66. My sister breaks a glass in the dishwasher while removing the above plate.
67. My sister has to dismantle the lower portion of the dishwasher to remove the shards of broken glass.
68. My mother (who has a liquid oxygen feed) much to everyone’s horror, insists on having lit candles on her cake. We convince her to remove the tubing before blowing out the candles.
69. My parents give us a snow globe with creepy music box music.
70. The snow globe has Santa in white boxers with yellow polka-dots on it.
71. My niece doesn’t bring her “Build a Bear” that she always brings with her everywhere. The Christmas tree outfit we bought for the bear has less than the desired impact because of this.
72. The munchkin struggles with MTM trying to put her to sleep, forcing MTM to remain in the bedroom for a long time.
73. My father, brother-in-law, and nephew decide that it is time for “see who can scream the loudest” as MTM struggles with our little insomniac.
74. While waiting for MTM, my sister’s friend calls to ask for help. In the middle of diagnosing her symptoms my sister yells that MTM needs me. I drop the phone and run.
75. MTM’s sister has called her cell phone and startled the munchkin. I have to chase the munchkin around the bedroom as she is now wired.
76. I return to my sister’s friend and conclude that her hot water heater check valve has blown and that the thermostat is likely shot.
77. MTM comes running out of the bedroom with the munchkin gagging. I trip over my niece running to be with them.
78. The munchkin vomits into the bathtub and on her clothes. I learn that five minutes previously she had been administered acetaminophen.
79. While writhing, the munchkin knocks a bottle of my mother’s conditioner into the tub.
80. I have to clean up said vomit.
81. I also have to clean the conditioner bottle.
82. After changing into clean sleepers and another round of trying to soothe her to sleep, MTM again rushes to the bathroom with a gagging toddler.
83. Before I can get up, my mother goes to the door and begins asking inane questions, distracting and annoying MTM.
84. I ask my mother to leave them be. She ignores me.
85. I yell at my mother to leave them alone. She petulantly storms off.
86. After more than two hours of struggling (and it now being three hours past the munchkin's normal bedtime), MTM decides to get herself ready for bed and bring the munchkin into the big bed with her instead of trying to get her into the playpen. The munchkin responds by jumping on the bed.
87. The munchkin has a full temper-tantrum, screaming at the top of her lungs.
88. After calming her down with an ice cube in a Ziploc bag, the munchkin leaks water all over her second sleeper of the night.
89. The munchkin falls asleep on MTM, who then has to lift herself off of my parents’ broken, too-low sofa, while holding her.
90. Saturday night I am congested and snore quite loudly, keeping MTM awake.
91. The munchkin wedges herself under me in her sleep, causing MTM to panic that I have rolled over on her.
92. The munchkin writhes in bed during a nightmare and kicks me in the genitals; hard.
93. All the coffee in the house is gone by the time I get out of bed.
94. The munchkin pours water all over herself during lunch, soaking through her tights. MTM informs me that all her socks are in a bag I have previously packed at the back of the van. I unload most of the van to obtain clean socks.
95. I spill gas on my hand while filling the van up for the ride home.
96. The munchkin sleeps for the better part of the journey, which would be a good thing except that I had consumed two cans of pop and two coffees before we left, rendering my bladder a quivering mess by the time we arrive home.
97. The munchkin refuses to have me give her a bath. She eventually throws herself on the floor and wails until MTM relents and gives her a bath.
98. The munchkin refuses to have her teeth brushed, wrestling with MTM.
99. The munchkin screams as she is put in her crib, refusing to fall asleep.
100. I received no personal or blog-related email the whole time I was gone.

In all seriousness, everything turned out fine. The cake was charred but edible. Dinner was fine. Everyone got plenty of nice gifts. And the munchkin slept wonderfully for the majority of the drive home. There were just too many unfortunate events to pass up the opportunity to list them all.

TTS: Affection

Every day I come home from work and I am greeted by a toddler running to me, arms outstretched. I pick her up and give her a big hug and without prompting (lately) she and I exchange a kiss. We cuddle a little, and I kiss her forehead and/or cheeks, and then we continue with our after work routine (Help Daddy wiff cooler).

As I wrote here earlier in the week, we had our Christmas party last weekend. One of the families who came was that of the little boy who is probably the munchkin's best friend right now. MTM and his mom take turns watching both kids so the other can have a toddler-free morning for whatever. As a result of this, the kids have gotten pretty close, and can often be found exchanging hugs and kisses. When this family was leaving, their son came up to me and raised his arms. Now, I have met him a couple times, but in no way would I consider myself close to him; familiar, maybe; but not close. Nonetheless I picked him up and gave him a hug.

When they had left, I got to thinking. My father used to be old-school Italian. Men don't hug other men; at as early an age as possible young boys should be taught to shake hands, and that shall forever be the deepest form of physical affection two men shall share. For most of my memory, I always shook my father's hand. It wasn't until sometime after I finished university that something changed. I don't really know for sure what it was, but now I hug my dad every time I greet him, and every time we part.

MTM and I hope to have more children someday. And while in all honesty I would be fine with a house full of girls, a part of me hopes for a son to carry on my family name (I am the only male in Canada with my last name, save my father, and he isn't having any more kids). And if one day I have a son, I hope I don't fall into the same social pressures my father did. I hope that I will feel comfortable (and that he in turn will be comfortable as well) sharing an emotional moment of affection without any hint of awkwardness. It's something society frowns upon, but I don't really care. I want to have that kind of relationship.

TBS/THS: This Is The World In Which I Blog...

Another week, another Wednesday. Instead of it being wordless, it'll just be laid back and relaxed. These are all real search terms that people used to get to this blog. I have omitted the less savoury ones (Note to self: when the munchkin really gets going on the toilet training, expect a huge surge in the hit department from the pervert front.)

dress up a dad
Look, I don't know how they found out about this, but it's all lies. The barrette in goatee was true. And so was the dress. But everything else was a fabrication.

sofia copola star wars
First of all, it's Coppola. And secondly, she had nothing to do with Star Wars.

ideas for 50 year old male birthday pesent
I'll spot you the spell check. So you're looking for a birthday gift for a peasant? A male peasant who is turning fifty? Did farmers in 15th century France live that long? And why are you looking for a gift for someone who lived that long ago?

daddy being breastfeed
Really, what can I say here?

dads and babies-baby cries when alone with dad
Yep. Happens to the best of us.

toddler very attached to dad
Probably because Dad lets them eat candy and watch tv. Either that, or because of some freak epoxy accident.

sn adoption+lid to ta
All I can get from this is "adoption" and "lid". Anyone got any ideas about the other text?

daddy miss phrases
And sometimes you don't conjugate your verbs. We all have our faults.

rocking syptoms
I'll spot you the spell check and assume you were looking for rocking symptoms. OK, if you find everything gets closer then further, then closer, then further, you're probably rocking.

force diaper tales
Are you a Star Wars fan looking for a story about how to use The Force to change a diaper? Did Sofia Coppola write that script?

dress up haley
Umm... I think you're looking for her.

daddy dinks because you cry
You know what? I'm not going to spot you the spell check on this one. According to Wikipedia, in Australia to "dink" means to give someone a ride on your bike (when I was a kid we called it "giving a doubleride"). So there you go: your father gives random people rides on his bicycle because you cry.

great canadian superstore floor plan
Dude, if you find this, please let me know. These places were designed by some bastard with a bottle of scotch and an Etch A Sketch.

santa claus y batman son socios
For those of you (like me) who don't understand spanish, this translates to "Santa Claus and Batman are associates". Finally! An explanation for that parade last month!

TNS: Tuesday Newsday #1

I'm trying on the new title for size, seeing if I like how it fits. I'd like to make the news story posts a weekly feature, and figured the rhyme would be catchy. We'll see how it goes.

Today we have two stories. One I will only touch upon briefly because many of the details have not been determined yet, and the other is a hot-button topic with me that I have covered before (in a different vein).

The first story broke late Sunday evening and yesterday morning was still mostly in the speculation stage. What we know now is that Sunday evening a woman and her son stood at an overpass on the main freeway in Toronto and later jumped into the traffic below. The mother died at the scene (details of the accident can be found in the link above; I will not disclose here exactly what happened to her) while the son died en route to hospital.

On the surface, this story is "news" because it is a sensational tale with shock value. However, the real noteworthy aspects of the story have not been uncovered yet. While the article fails to comment about the reasons for the murder-suicide, it is clear that this is the issue at hand. What had happened in this woman's life that she believed things would improve for her son and herself if they were both dead? What conditions was she living in? Hopefully, this story will not be abandoned once the shock value wears off, and we will learn why this tragedy occurred.

The second story is from a news source I rarely read, and hesitate to link to: The Weekly Standard. I've got nothing against the magazine per se, I just strongly disagree with the bulk of its content.

The story itself discusses a report from the Institute For American Values which really isn't a report so much as a discussion about (or more specifically a call to arms for) the changing definition of the word parent. The article and the press release for the report make references to changing legal policies that threaten the traditional one mother/one father model of parenting, and goes on to suggest that the deviation from that model is detrimental to the development and happiness of children.

I have spoken on a similar matter before, so you can go there for some background. I will summarize here: a parent is a person who takes care of and provides for a child. There is no prerequisite for a biological relationship, nor is there a need for two of differing genders. And as with many things, two (or even three) are better than one. With that being said, I will now cover this latest article.

As technology aids humanity in reproduction through techniques such as invitro-fertilization, it forces humanity to evaluate its traditional definitions. Since intercourse is no longer necessary for conception, all that a woman needs to have a child is a good doctor and a willing sperm donor (either from a personal selection or an anonymous volunteer). As society continues to evolve its understanding of gender-neutrality, a man can be (should be) equally as likely to obtain adoptive custody of an orphaned child not genetically related to him as a woman.

The reality is that it takes a specific set of characteristics to be a good parent: compassion, patience, understanding, love, et cetera. However, it is not specific to a gender nor a family unit.

I take issue with this article because in the same magazine they praise the war in Iraq, and discuss how a more forceful approach will (despite the loss of more lives, including US troops), they claim that single mother families are an "urgent concern". What about these troops whom your tactical plan will kill? What if they have children at home? By extension of that logic, the magazine, by endorsing the use of more force in Iraq, is contributing to this "urgent concern".

Everyone has a right to their own opinion. The Weekly Standard has the right to state whatever it feels is suitable for print. However, hypocritically dismissing single parents and taking space in the same magazine outlining methods to effectively create more single parent families is unacceptable.

TRS: Our Christmas Party

A little more than five years ago, when MTM and I lived in a basement apartment, she announced that she wanted to have a holiday party. (Digression: She called it a holiday party to be politically correct, since her school had brainwashed her into believing it was wrong to say Christmas; the reality was it was a Christmas party. It's a holiday party if you hold it in December and the guest list is multi-denominational; when it's all Christians, it's a Christmas party.) Our apartment was a reasonable size for two adults, about 900 square feet, and suited us well. So when she informed me that we were going to invite over thirty people, I freaked out.

You see, dear reader, I am not one for large groups of humans congregating anywhere. Malls? I do my shopping in October, thankyouverymuch. Concerts? I take my spot at the periphery. You get the idea. So the thought of that many people in that small a space made my head swoon and and my stomach churn. Oh, but it will be fine, I was assured, because we were going to say it was a "drop in party". For those of you who don't know what that means, allow me to translate into english. If you receive an invitation that reads, "We're having a party. Come by anytime between 1pm and 6pm." What the means is, We're going to plan for a massive load of people to parade through our house all afternoon. We'll get everything ready for 1pm, but no one will come until 2:30pm, making some of the originally offered food stale and/or cold. Then you will all come, en masse, at one time, overwhelming my poor husband.

I jest. (A little.)

We were so new at this party thing, and being over-planners, it was a hit (at the expense of our energy levels for days before and afterwards). We served homemade baking, homemade cheeseball snowman (mmm... grated cheese and spices...) and various other finger foods. As the first guests arrived, MTM was enjoying a chocolate-mint martini. The "I'll have what you're having" mentality meant that I was pouring hard liquor most of the afternoon, and much to our embarrassment (I mentioned we were planners) we ran out of creme de cacao (and no one was actually drinking a real (gin) martini save yours truly). All in all, around thirty people came, and I think at the apex we had over twenty in the apartment at one time.

The next year, we were still in our apartment, and decided to increase the guest list, because, you know, my wife likes to see just how far I am willing to go for her (some sort of twisted version of Guess How Much I Love You). We were prepared with extra bottles of creme de cacao, as well as several flavoured fruity alcohols to mix it with for a variety of sugary martinis. It was a blast (what I remember) and around forty people came, with the peak number being in the low thirties. That was the last one in our apartment.

The following year we had just moved into our (current) house at the end of October, so we decided to host a housewarming/holiday party around the same time. Being on more of a budget (thanks to someone misleading me into believing that the window coverings that we negotiated for were going to you, know, cover the windows for more than a couple weeks) we cut the hard liquor and went to beer, wine and pop. However, being masochists, we decided to serve hot hors d'oeuvres, and MTM spent half the party with her head in the oven (OK that sounds wrong, but it looks funny, so we'll leave it). The crowd size had leveled at that point, and given our home was out in the 'burbs, the groups were more spread out.

The next year MTM was pregnant and informed me that she didn't have the energy to prepare a party. She also told me how disappointed she was, because she believed her friends had come to expect it as an annual event. I nodded. I also prepared the food (save the baking that she always does) and planned the thing by myself (for the most part). How could I not?

The following year (last year for those of you who are just sliding along to the story without keeping track of the timeline) I did the big surprise party for Mommypalooza. So, I spent equal time planning her birthday party as I did convincing her all the while that I really did not feel like a drop-in that year. I was fully prepared to send out a caveat to an invitation she seemed bound and determined to send (for the drop-in) saying, "Listen, you're coming to her birthday party. I have no intention of feeding you for another afternoon, much less seeing you twice in three weeks." (OK maybe it wasn't like that.) But thankfully we didn't plan the drop-in, but MTM had her get together with her friends at the last part of the year.

This year, after virtually a two year (and well-deserved) hiatus, MTM returned to the party preparation team. On Sunday we had the event, albeit much scaled down compared to earlier iterations. (When your friends start to reproduce, the number of families you invite drops precipitously.) Admittedly, my job was to take coats, point the men to the beer cooler at the back, and not turn on the television to the football game. I did two of the three jobs well. MTM was the hostess with the mostest, running cupcake decorating and colouring and chatting up a storm. She had prepared the same volume of food as for larger groups, so I was practically force feeding our guests, pleading with them to eat.

But the star of the party was the munchkin. Beforehand she was so excited she was shaking. (We decorated and prepared while she had a rare mid-morning nap, so when she awoke the house had undergone a transformation.) She paced (with her mother) waiting for the first guests to arrive. When the afternoon was over and we compared notes, neither of us had spent much time with the munchkin, and save for a few cuddles here and there with Auntie (MTM's sister), she was on her own. She gathered her little friends around and played with them. She brought them snacks (from her plate). She hugged them. She was the little hostess, the little social butterfly.

So now both my girls love entertaining large crowds during Christmas. I am so screwed.

TTS: Job Is Job

My father grew up on a farm in Italy. He worked as a farmer from the time he was eight years old and had to be removed from school because his family needed another farm hand after his older brothers were drafted into the war. When he was 25 he immigrated to Canada and settled in a mining town on the east coast of Quebec. Eight years later he relocated to Ontario and took a job with the company he would retire from 30 years afterward, in the automotive industry. My father is neither a "car guy" nor is he particularly fond of semi-precious metals.

My brother-in-law has a case of what I call career wanderlust. Since I have known him he has been employed as or trained to be employed as a magazine writer, a technical writer, an elementary school teacher, a control systems technician, and an IT support guy. All his changes have been because he got bored in his job. I have tried to explain to him that the concept of a job is someone giving you money to do something, usually the same thing over and over again (whether you teach kids in a school or screw wheels on toys in a factory, you're doing the same thing over and over).

My first job out of school was with a consulting firm with strict policies. I worked primarily for one client during my tenure, and found the individuals I dealt with there unreasonable and difficult to deal with. I left that firm to relocate closer to my then girlfriend and current wife, ending up at the firm I'm with now. There is far less structure, but most of the time the clients still piss me off.

Invariably, within the first hour of every trip home, my father asks me how work is going. And most of the time I have something negative to say. His response is always the same, "Eh, what you do? Job is job." (After nearly forty years in english Canada, this is the best his english will get, so I suppose hoping for indefinite articles is out of the question. What he means is, "What can you do? A job is just a job.") He says this to my brother-in-law too.

But there's more to his message than that. What he really means is, you do your job to get paid money. That's all. Then, you use the money to do what you want. The concept of job satisfaction and enjoyment is foreign to him, mainly because he left the one job he loved (farming) in the hopes of building a better life for his children in another country. He didn't care what he was doing, or how much he was doing it, so long as he could provide for us.

I'm more or less the same way, with the caveat that I refuse to work extreme hours because I want to spend time with my family. When I last spoke with my employer about my salary, I was upfront with him and said that I would continue to work there as long as it suited the objectives I have for myself. I further explained that those objectives were two-fold: that I earned sufficient money to allow MTM to remain a SAHM as long as we see fit, and that I had enough job flexibility to spend time with my wife and daughter every day.

When you and your spouse decide that one of you will be the primary caregiver for your children, the other person takes on an enormous responsibility. At that moment, they make the decision that salary becomes paramount, and that everything else is secondary. I'm not complaining or lamenting or anything of that nature. I am merely stating fact. Now, for me, money is king. Even if it means potentially less time at home.

I am presently considering a change in employment. Up until yesterday there was only one opportunity: with a current client who is a government body. The position would pay slightly more, and would have improved medical benefits and stability (the government will be around long after a 10 person consulting firm is). It's also five minutes from my house. Then yesterday I got a call from the recruiter (headhunter) who set me up where I am now. He came dangling a management position in a newly formed Canadian division of an American consulting firm, offering significantly more money and a more appealing job description, but with travel involved. Also, a little googling found that when this company opened a new office in an American city ten years ago, they shut it down and let everyone go two years later because there was no more work.

Now I'm faced with the decision: do I take slightly more money and keep my flexibility? Or do I take the cash and accept that I am spending less time with my girls? (Both jobs have good medical.) It isn't an easy decision.