THS: Comparing Dora Addiction To...

The following post can be seen as irreverent to some readers who may take it seriously. It is intended to be humourous, not offensive. If you're offended by it then you're taking it too seriously.

When my daughter was little an infant, there were a few things we (MTM and I) swore we would limit her exposure to. At or near the top of that list was Dora The Explorer. Being a Kindergarten teacher, MTM had seen her share of the effects of Dora, and wanted no part of it in our household.

But, as with many plans we make as parents, this was not meant to be. At first she would accidentally find Dora on Treehouse when we agreed to let her watch a few minutes of television. Then, she started to identify the toys. Finally, it became a full-blown addiction that culminated in all-Dora all-the-time in the van during my vacation week. Now we have Dora videos from the library that are constantly asked for (and a guaranteed tantrum source when refused) and she quite literally jumps up and down clapping whenever the show is on Treehouse.

On the one hand, this is devastating. Dora is so annoying and loud. But, it could be worse, right? I mean, she could end up a worshipper of Satan or something, and that would be worse than a Dora addict, wouldn't it? Hmmm...

Clothing
Dora - addicts wear lots of purple with stupid half-english, half-spanish sayings... there's also the ever-present backpack; and don't get me started on the monkey with big red winter boots
Satan - worshippers wear a lot of black, which is neutral and non-offensive
Worse? - Dora.

Exposure
Dora - television show on twenty million times a day, videos available in every retail outlet, books, CDs, toys.
Satan - the odd metal band song, some t-shirts at those kiosks in the mall
Worse? - Dora.

Social Cues
Dora - tendency to shouting, reinforcing latin american stereotypes, belief that telling a mugger "no swiping" will actually deter them eventually leading to a beating or even worse
Satan - moodiness, disillusionment
Worse? - Dora.

Well, there you have it. Having a child who is addicted to Dora is worse than having one who worships Satan.

TDS: What's For Dinner? Daddy Guilt.

Monday evening MTM made plans to have dinner and spend some time with her sister, leaving yours truly to handle dinner, bath, and bed time solo. I was wiped from a long day at work. I have an enormous amount of respect for single parents who work all day and come home to their kids. However, this isn't about my adventures as a temporarily single dad. This is about our dinner conversation.

Before getting to the story, you should be aware that MTM informed me that Monday was a particularly difficult day for the munchkin as far as needing her Daddy. Apparently she had a few meltdowns that centered around the common theme of "I want my Daddy!"

Munchkin: Daddy, why do you go to work?
Daddy: I go to work because that's my job. I do it to make money so we can pay for things.
Munchkin: Oh. When I get older I will go to work too.
Daddy: Yes, you probably will. But there's no need to hurry that along. Enjoy being a kid.
Munchkin: Maybe I will work at your office.
Daddy: Maybe.
Munchkin: And then I will see you when you are at work.
Daddy: Yes, I would.
Munchkin: And I can bring sandwiches and yogurt to my office.
Daddy: Yes you can.
Munchkin: And I can bring apple juice and chocolate milk.
Daddy: Yes you can.
Munchkin: And I can bring two sippy cups too. But no more, because then there will be only straw cups at home. (We often run out of sippy cups before we run the dishwasher and she is forced to use a straw cup instead.)
Daddy: That makes sense.
Munchkin: And I will come to your office and you will give me cuddles.
Daddy: Yes I would.
Munchkin: And I will have my own desk. And I will have a computer beside me. And it will be brown.
Daddy: I see.
Munchkin: And sometimes you will come to my office.
Daddy: Yes I would.

It went on like that for a good five to 10 minutes; I'm not exaggerating. She was really excited at the prospect of working in my office, to the point that she was giggling and clapping.

By the end I felt so badly. I knew she was trying to resolve the issue in her mind that I disappear every weekday. I could see her working through all the details (focusing on the lunch aspect - the strongest connection between home and work since I don't always bring my laptop home).

It's times like that where I feel like, despite the reality that overall I do a pretty good job at spending time with her (I flex my time so I get more afternoon time with her - I'm usually home by 3:30pm - and I try not to work long hours or weekends) I am making her feel sad by going to work. Logically I know it is necessary and important that one of us (MTM or myself) work, but deep down I still feel like I'm failing her as a father and as a parent on some level because of how she perceives my absence (something that upsets her).

TWS: Just.Can't.Win

As a husband, one of the more difficult concepts for me to grasp is that more often than not, there is no way to successfully navigate the minefield that is male-female relationships. No matter how hard I try to avoid these types of situations, they always seem to find me.

For example, when MTM and I were preparing for our wedding, one of the first questions she asked me was what I thought about wedding dress designs. Understandably, she had hoped to choose a dress that I would like. In an effort to weasel out of committing to anything specific make things simpler, I said that she would be beautiful in anything. Wrong answer.

I gave it some thought, and came up with what I felt was a broad enough description not to be limiting yet specific enough to eliminate a lot of the dresses. I told her to think "timeless". Specifically, I meant that I didn't want to look at our wedding photos in 20 years and know we were married in 2003. (My father is wearing powder blue ruffles in his - 'nuff said.)

After the fact, she told me that my description made her search a million times harder, and that I was the source of a lot of stress when it came to shopping for a wedding gown.

A second example came two weekends ago. As I have clearly stated, both here and in my real life, I am not a shopper. When I was single, at Christmas time I would walk around the mall for 20 minutes at a time, surveying everything. Fortunate enough to have a good memory, I would later plan out my route and make a run of purchases, treating the whole endeavour like a tactical mission.

Despite knowing this, MTM planned a shopping weekend (with my blessing). However, she insisted on continually asking me if I was enjoying myself. Unable to lie to her effectively, she was often disappointed with my less-than-enthusiastic response. If I had stayed in the hotel while she shopped, she would have felt guilty for dragging me along to Buffalo. If I went to the malls, she felt guilty for dragging me shopping. Regardless, it was my fault for not loving to shop.

There are many more examples (such as anything involving my in-laws, trips to the cottage, or meals she cooks that I don't care for), but I don't want to spend an entire day writing a blog post.

TNS: Abuse Victims Aren't Protected By Courts in NZ

According to a recent report on protection orders from Waikato University, New Zealand's judges are often not acting in the best interests victims of abuse. Despite a 1995 "Domestic Violence Act" which was supposed to offer better protection to battered women, judges seem to be using their own discretion instead of following the letter of the law.

The article also includes commentary from a Chief District Court Judge who claims that the authors misunderstand the family violence jurisdiction, which apparently favours mediation and counseling services. However, many social scientists agree that these measures are inappropriate in cases of abuse, if for no other reason than the imbalance of power that results from the abuse carries over into the mediation and often leads to women being forced or coerced into situations that they would otherwise refuse.

This is a sad statement on the legal system. That judges, the individuals who are expected to be impartial and diligent representatives of the people, have been shown to have a tendency toward favouring one side over the other is bad enough. But to favour the abuser instead of the victim? It is deplorable.

While the U.S. has an election process for certain judicial positions, most countries in the Commonwealth do not. And regardless, the electoral process is inadequate for dealing with judges who fail so miserably at their jobs. I think it is time that these judges be held accountable for their actions. If they fail to uphold the law as it is written, they should be stripped not only of their position, but also their license to practice law for a period of time. Or better yet, forced to retake their examinations to prove a proper understanding of the law.

The Brief Side
Apparently the ban against smoking when children are in a car is catching on. Good.

Here is an interesting article from the Canadian Press about how children are suffering from nature deficit disorder.

A frightening story about a boy who died when his father drove on the wrong side of the road. The man was a Brit driving in France.

Here's a fun story about how fathers are becoming more involved, not just in their children's lives, but in the invention of new baby items.

Finally, a thought-provoking discussion about whether or not it is unethical to have children.

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For more of a local perspective, I've got a new Daditorial up where I take a look at a couple of proposed changes in education in Ontario being brought out with the provincial election on the horizon.

TRS: An Eye-Opening Weekend

I must apologize for the lack of photos this week. We just didn't really do much photogenic things this weekend.

As MTM mentioned Friday, my niece stayed with us this weekend. Like most girls, she is 10 going on 30 (or thereabouts), so it was a glimpse into a potential future with the munchkin.

We all had a good laugh Friday night at MTM's expense. You see, two of her staple recipes, two of her most famous and well-loved things are macaroni and cheese (homemade - not boxed) and peach/blueberry crisp. So, when my niece was staying over, you would assume she would work within her comfort zone, serving things she had already succeeded with. You would be wrong. She decided to "change it up" and "try something new". I've told you before how that ends up. Let's just say Friday night's dinner was no different, OK? OK.

After dinner and a bath (with my niece in her bathing suit), the munchkin went to bed rather easily, although that may have been attributed to the fact that a) my niece was going to be sleeping in her room that night and b) I was sitting across the hall in our bedroom (for the second night). We did this in an attempt to see if she still called for us as much if we remained on the second floor. (I have no problem hanging out in our bedroom for an hour between 7pm and 8pm while she settles down.) It worked; she asked for one cuddle and fell asleep with two "tickets" (I told you about them last week.)

While I placated the munchkin, MTM and my niece went out to choose a video. Choosing videos for 10 year olds is difficult. Choosing them for someone else's kid is damn near impossible. MTM called me on my cell to ask what I thought of Dreamgirls. I declined, and later learned my instincts were right (see the parent guide for proof - drug use, sex... no thanks. They settled on The Last Mimzy, which, while overly sugary, even for a Disney flick, wasn't half bad.

On Saturday morning, my niece made pancakes while MTM watched/supervised in horror. She (my niece) was quite self-assured in the kitchen. Unfortunately, this confidence was misplaced, as she failed to properly measure most of the ingredients, and then proceeded to feed us undercooked pancakes. Some tears of frustration and/or embarrassment later, we all showered and made our way to my niece's mothership the mall.

Foolishly, I tried to help her look for a pair of jeans. I would later learn that my mistake was in trying to help. Apparently 10 year old girls will not listen to reason or anyone older than 10 until they have decided it is time to listen. Until that point, you are wasting your time and efforts. While we were there, we discovered an enormous play kitchen on an exceptional sale at Toys R Us. After watching the munchkin prepare meal after meal with it, we decided to take the plunge and purchase it. Thankfully, she slept on the way home, so I was able to get the monstrosity into the basement without her knowing. Now I know what I'll be doing the evening of December 24. It's good to have one's plans in advance, right?

After a poor excuse for a meal at East Side Mario's (try crappy service and undercooked noodles) we made a stop at Zeller's to kill some time before the munchkin needed to sleep. At one point, MTM left me with the munchkin in the toy department while she and my niece went looking for water shoes for the munchkin. Of course, it was at this time that the munchkin announced, "Poo poo Daddy!" And she couldn't hold it.

Now, since most of my readers are female, I must explain. Public men's bathrooms are, for lack of a better phrase, akin to the bowels of hell. The copius volume of urine on the toilet seats (not to mention the floors) from young men with poor aim, and the apparent inability of most men to actually flush make this a hostile environment for a grown man, let alone a father with a little girl.

I walked into the first stall, looked at the urine on the seat, and decided to use the second. That is, until I looked into the second stall, which had what looked like a previously overflowed, blocked toilet. Back to door #1 we go.

I put her down and ordered her not to touch anything while I rummaged around the diaper bag desperately trying to find the disinfectant wipes. After 17 variations of "No don't touch that! Keep your hands to yourself!" the seat was clean and the toddler seat had been applied. It was at this time that she informed me that the feeling had passed and she wanted Mommy. Undaunted, I put her on the toilet, only to have her weep pitifully and ask to be taken off.

As soon as I pulled up her panties (I'll spare you the drama of my confusion with her wearing a jumper and not pants) she went for the door. Another 17 variations of "No don't touch that! Keep your hands to yourself!" later, we were leaving the stall with me muttering under my breath that I needed to clean her up. Thankfully, MTM was coming around the corner as we left the washrooms and helped me calm down.

That night we watched The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. (What can I say? It was a Disney weekend.) Having read the books, I was reasonably pleased with the overall production, although I felt they played down the religious undertones a bit more than necessary.

Sunday we drove my niece back home, and visited with my sister and BIL while the munchkin played with her cousins. Later in the afternoon, we headed back to our neck of the woods, stopping for a delicious Lone Star dinner on our way. All in all, a good (if educational) weekend.

THS: "Sir, Do I Need To Get My Rubber Glove?"

When we returned from Buffalo last weekend, we crossed over the border and met with a customs officer who had, shall we say, an issue with her attitude. She was one of the CO who probably dreamed of a more exciting life - like driving a cab - but was so horribly under qualified that she ended up sitting in a toll booth collecting no tolls and using the implied threat of a body cavity search to make others feel inferior. This is the story of our encounter.

Now, before I begin I should tell you some facts. I was born and raised in a border town. As a teenager I would head over to the U.S. the same way I would go downtown in my own city. It was not a huge deal. I have circumvented the duty laws in more ways than I can count - even going so far as to install a car stereo in a parking lot to avoid paying duty. When I was in university, I did a co-op work term in a different border town, and used to come home via U.S. interstates because it was faster (not to mention I got to hit duty free twice a weekend - something useful for a then-smoker like myself). To say I am familiar with the process is an understatement.

MTM, on the other hand, was having an anxiety attack in the back seat as we rolled over the bridge. All she kept saying was, "I hope she doesn't talk to me," over and over.

Anyhow. On with the story.

Me (handing her our three birth certificates): Good afternoon.

Customs Officer: Is there anyone in the vehicle with you sir?

Me: (Nope. I handed you three birth certificates in the hopes that you'd assume at least one of them was me - even though two were women, one bearing my last name.) Yes. My wife and daughter are in the back.

CO: Can you open the window or the door so I can see them?

(MTM opens the sliding door to our minivan.)

CO: I'll need to see some photo ID.

Me (palpably feeling MTM's panic through the fabric of my seat): All of us? (Because, in case you're not so good at math - wait, you're a customs officer, so that goes without saying - my daughter is two and a half; she isn't old enough to drive or have a photo on her health card.)

CO: Just the driver will be fine.

Me (handing her my license): Here you go. (Why did you refer to me in the third person - as "the driver" - when grammatically you should have used the second person singular? Oh right... customs officer.)

CO: How long were you in the U.S.?

Me: Two days. (That's right baby. No $50 per person, per day limit for us.)

CO: Value of all goods purchased?

Me: Around $600 (at this, my VISA audibly whimpered)

CO: Any alcohol or tobacco?

Me: Yes.

CO: Value?

Me: $50

CO: And that was...?

Me: One bottle, one case of beer.

CO: What else did you buy?

Me: Clothes, toys, and food. (We'll leave out the low grade weaponry, drugs smuggled in the heads of the Curious George dolls, and copious amounts of Cherry Coke.)

CO: When exactly did you arrive in the U.S.?

Me: Friday morning, around 9am. (See? We knew you weren't any good with math.)

CO (handing me back all the ID): Thank you.

And as I pulled away I noticed a small box taped to the outside of her booth with a sign hand printed in black marker that read, "Please help pay for my surgery. I need to remove the pole from my ass."

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Flashback Friday
I only have one post from this period last week. It's about a visit MTM and the munchkin took to the cottage last year.

TDS: Sleep

Ever since we got back from visiting my parents, the munchkin has been in a bit of a rut as far as sleeping goes. The night following that post by MTM we had to move her crib mattress to the floor because she refused to remain in her crib and the plummet from the top rail was too dangerous.

The problem is that the munchkin has decided she cannot fall asleep alone on the second floor of the house. In an effort to combat this problem, MTM went through stages of first lying on the floor in her room, then in the hall outside, and eventually into our bedroom. However, being trapped on the upper level for an hour or more every night began to wear on MTM. So last week, after a horrible sleep on Saturday night (the fever and the puking) and knowing that we were leaving Tuesday morning for our trip, I offered to get the munchkin to sleep by staying in her room and lying on her floor (it had worked the previous night).

I remained on that floor for.two.hours.

At first, she tried (or at least made a good effort at faking) to sleep, and eventually ended up with her thighs and bottom nuzzled against my head (I was resting my head on the foot of the mattress). I scratched her back, I rubbed her head and neck, I held her hand, I gave her many kisses on the head, hand, cheek, leg, you name it.

The child is smart. There is no denying it. Every time she felt herself falling asleep, or she sensed that my patience was wearing a little thin, she made an effort to make my stay in her room more pleasant, including:

• offering me her stuffed Paddington Bear to cuddle
• scratching my head
• asking me if I was happy
• cradling her entire body around my head for what can only be described as a huge noggin cuddle
• singing to me
• kissing my hand/head/arm

She was so sweet about it, I had a hard time not scooping her up and taking her into our bed for the night (the end result she so desperately wanted). Daddy guilt yanked at my heart, sending panic and worry that I was missing an opportunity to bond with her by "forcing" her to stay in her room.

Since that night, things have improved with the introduction of a toddler-friendly night-light that MTM picked up in Bracebridge (it is a little battery-powered person that glows; the batteries are rechargeable and completely sealed in) and three "come get me" tickets (actually plastic food container lids) that allow the munchkin three visits from a parent (usually MTM) subsequent to her going to bed. While she often runs through the three tickets in a matter of minutes, the concrete nature of having no tickets helps her understand why no one is coming when she calls.

Sometimes she quietly accepts the decision and returns to her bed, tucking herself in, and falls asleep. Other times there is a lot of plaintive calls, bordering on begging, for anyone to come give her a cuddle.

I wonder how MTM would respond to the introduction of three Daddy tickets that allow me to go answer the munchkin when she calls after she has used all her tickets.

TWS: Pukapalooza Dialog

Last week, as I mentioned, my daughter came down with a fever. I didn't get into the details of the evening for fear of making a mammoth post.

When the munchkin was younger, she was a puker. My wife often refers to the more violent events as a "pukapalooza", complete with a number. I don't know what number we're at, but last weekend was definitely a pukapalooza.

When we discovered she had a fever, we had given her Tempera and gone downstairs at her request. After sitting downstairs with her on the couch, the three of us ascended the stairs to our bedroom with a plan of some family cuddles in the bed, followed by the munchkin going to sleep in her bed while we set an alarm to wake us in two hours to check her temperature. After MTM sat on the bed holding the munchkin in her arms, the following dialog occurred (all spoken by MTM):

"door open light"

"bucket fast towel"

"bedroom cloth bath"

"don't chew it"

"spit it out... SPIT IT OUT"

For those of you scoring at home, I will translate incoherent panicked Mommy-speak into english:

"door open light" - turn on the light in the bathroom, accessible by opening the door (note: the door was already open)

"bucket fast towel" - give me the bucket quickly, and remove the towel inside

"bedroom cloth bath" - get a washcloth from the bathroom

"don't chew it" - do not chew the vomit, sweetheart

"spit it out... SPIT IT OUT" - spit out the vomit, sweetheart

I would also point out the lack of any Daddy dialog. That's because I have learned that it is better to be seen and not heard during these events.

TNS: All-Brief-Catch-Up Edition

Since I have not made a news post in a while August (go ahead and check - it's been three weeks) I have accumulated a number of stories to share. I pared that number down to something a bit more manageable, but still decided not to have a focus piece this week in order to keep the post length down.

According to research being done at the University of Washington, the gender of a child can impact a family in different ways. There were some interesting findings; a couple with a son is more likely to have a stable relationship, for example.

Here's an interesting story about a Louisiana family that spent a year living without anything made in China.

Some people who shouldn't clear any shelf space for a "parent of the year" award:

• a man killed his two month old son after sexually abusing him
• another man killed his 14 month old son with an overdose of morphine
• a woman forgot her two year old at the convenience store
• a mother beat her four month old daughter, causing fractures - the abuse was discovered when the infant was brought to the hospital for breathing problems

Here's an interesting story from Australia about a campaign that informs people of their donated conception.

In Pakistan, most of the women do not have the right to choose their spouse, but the family laws are silent on the rights of divorced women. The link leads to an eye-opening view of a culture very different from that of North America.

In Indiana, a group of children were strip-searched at a day camp after $140 went missing.

A warning from the FDA concerning cold medicine and young kids contains information all parents should read.

An article about public tantrums, although not a "parent's worst nightmare" (I can think of far more frightening things than a toddler freakout at the mall), still deserves a read.

A couple articles looked at internet safety for children recently. This one encourages parents to get involved and offers some sites to use as instructional aids, while this one focuses more on social networking sites.

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There is also a new Daditorial up today, where I look at the recent Toronto Star feature about single moms and absent dads.

TRS: A Vacation In Brief

As readers of MTM's blog already know, I took a week off of work last week. That is the main reason for the blogging hiatus. Sure, when we weren't at home we had wireless access, and technically I could have blogged as we vacationed, but instead I chose to spend the time with my girls. When they were asleep I could, I did try and catch up on some of the many blogs I read, so some of you may have seen a comment from me last week. I expect it to take me a day or two to completely catch up, and I cannot guarantee whether or not I will comment everywhere. However, know that I am still reading.

What follows is a brief rundown of the week, with a lot of pictures to distract you from the lack of words.

Our original plan was to spend Monday and Tuesday night in Bracebridge, with Tuesday being the Santa's Village day (because another character was supposed to be there. However, that plan was jeopardized by the munchkin spiking a fever Saturday night that ran through most of Sunday, and got up above 104F at one point.

We decided to take Monday as a recuperation day (for everyone - nobody sleeps when their kid can cook eggs on her forehead) and left early Tuesday morning for Bracebridge. After minimal uncertainty on the road, we arrived at the most craptacular magical "Christmassy" place one can find in semi-Northern Ontario in August.

they gave her an elf hat

that she wore everywhere

The child had no interest in seeing the man in red. Instead, she wanted to ride the roller coaster, the planes, the carousel (eventually - at first she was terrified of that) and the ferris wheel (all of which were quite rusty and worried MTM more than a little).

we fed the heavily sedated reindeer with eyes rolling back in their heads

yes, we met Dora

"can I fwim in there Daddy?"

"yes you can" (much to Mommy's chagrin)

But our day was not without incident, unfortunately. While playing in the actual splash pad (not the fountain shown above), the munchkin failed to heed her mother's warning and darted off the pad into the surrounding area (which was, sadly, covered with rocks), where she fell. Screaming, with blood running down her chin, MTM brought her over to the stroller that I was guarding. Frantic, we both tried consoling and cleaning her up. Fortunately, no teeth were lost (although one was chipped). However, she cut through her lip and skinned her chin quite badly. She's healing, although occasionally she still bleeds a bit because she rubs her chin against her shirt.

dragging this around the hotel room was one of her pleasures, since the hotel cable didn't get Treehouse

we topped off the trip with ice cream in a train at Weber's

After coming home on Wednesday, we took some time to relax and do laundry before bouncing back out the door Friday morning. Destination: USA. Upon realizing that MTM had blown through our 24 hour duty-exempt budget at the first outlet mall (i.e. before we even had a chance to check into the hotel), and using the MTM logic of "we were supposed to stay 2 nights in Bracebridge, but then decided to do 1 night in Bracebridge and 1 night in Buffalo, but that Buffalo night was free because of SciFi Dad's points, we can stay another night" we decided to make a weekend of it.

The haul was impressive: toys, clothes, games (and that's just what I brought home for me - seriously) and everyone had fun (although I think MTM might have enjoyed herself a bit more than the munchkin (who had to endure two more Treehouse-free days) and myself (who, under the best of circumstances, is not a shopper).

I will fill in the gaps as the weeks progress. There are too many good stories to do justice here.

THS: Original Mother Goose

Before the munchkin was born, my MIL gave her a collection of nursery rhymes entitled The Original Mother Goose. It is a large, hardcover book with beautiful illustrations. Like this:

The text is also large and easy to read. Recently, the munchkin has become enamoured with this book. Unfortunately, some of the content inside leaves a bit to be desired.

Little Bo-Peep
Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep
And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone, and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind them
unless, of course, they've been attacked by aliens and now their tails are on their heads, in which case Little Bo-Peep is pretty much screwed because really, who wants a sheep with a tail on its head?

Robin and Richard
Robin and Richard were two pretty men,
They lay in bed till the clock struck ten;
and well, then, uh, they, uh, y'know... not that there's anything wrong with that.

Hush-A-Bye
Hush-a-bye baby, on the tree top!
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall;
Down will come baby, bough, cradle and all.
along with CAS, a social worker, and a bunch of child's rights activists

A Little Man
There was a little man, and he had a little gun,
And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;
He went to the brook, and saw a little duck,
And shot it right through the head, head, head.
Ladies and gentlemen: classic stories for children.

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Flashback Friday
I'll be taking a hiatus from blogging next week, so here are a few old posts from August of last year (from my previous blog) that I have reposted here:

TRS: Wild Weekend - Civic holiday weekend 2006
TTS: Looking Back - about digital imaging
TRS: C is for Camel... - a zoo trip (first one post-broken-ankle)
TBS: Blogiquette - where I call out lurkers and generally navel-gaze about blogging
TTS: Good Enough For Savage Beasts - about music and my kid

You can also review more older stuff by using the Archive browser in the left sidebar. Note that the gap between August 2006 and February 2007 is slowly being filled with these Flashback Friday (and occasionally Throwback Thursday) posts.

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There's also a new Daditorial up where I take a look at a woman who wanted to assume her husband's last name, but discovered that Quebec law forbids it.

TWS: Evil And Insidious

Today we are going to talk about a little problem MTM has. It will make a lot more sense if I start at the beginning.

Before becoming a SAHM, MTM was a kindergarten teacher. As with many areas of North America, the education system here is horribly underfunded. So, MTM was faced with a choice: provide a substandard service to her students, or shell out her own money to purchase what she needed. Of course, being who she is, she chose the latter. However, in an effort to be as economical as possible, she began to frequent dollar stores. (Actually, she started doing this as early as teacher's college, but it really took off once she had her own classroom.)

Unfortunately, they don't just sell supplies suitable for classrooms at the dollar store. They sell housewares. They sell napkins. They sell just about everything. And just about all of that wound up at some point in our little basement apartment.

Every Christmas as we sit around unwrapping decorations and I ask, "Who gave you this?" And every year there are a few items that produce the response, "I bought it at the dollar store." Never mind that we have more decorations than space and (at least in my opinion) should be reserving space for decorations with sentiment attached. That bear figurine that holds a candle to make it look like he's warming his hands on a campfire in a snowbank (which, not so likely, FYI) needs to have a home!

Regardless of where it started, it is here, and it is being passed on to my daughter. I have already told you that this past weekend my father sent her to the local store with a $20 and instructions to "have fun". Prior to that (two days prior to that, to be specific), MTM went on a little spree of her own. Now, I'm all for bringing home a furry pink hat that may or may not have been worn by George Clinton (or one of the P-Funk All Stars). But spending time perusing plastic storage? I may be slow, but I'm not that slow.

Let me explain.

Dollar stores sell you crap you didn't need before you entered the store. They know this. Subsequently, they know that the stuff they sell winds up in your home taking up space that you never had in the first place. But, if you have no space, you have no impetus to return to said dollar store. So, they sell you storage, but not just any storage: storage for your dollar store crap. It's like a crack dealer providing free pipes with the rocks they sell!

What they do is insidious, evil, and downright mean to their addict-victims like my wife. And it's not a victimless addiction either. My daughter is learning these habits. (Not to mention I'm the one footing the bill for both of them!)

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Audience Participation Time
In an ideal world, I would love to be able to say that I write while oblivious of the blogging world. By that, I mean that I would like to be someone who writes for the sake of writing, not worrying about things like blog comments. Unfortunately, that is not the case.

Recently, I've noticed a drop in the number of comments to my posts, yet according to my stats, people are still visiting. So I ask you, dear reader, what gives? It is just the dog days of summer? Am I not writing interesting or useful stuff?

Anyone who has some constructive feedback, or some suggestions for topics you'd like to see me look at, please feel free to share them here in the comments or via email (talesfromthedadside {at} gmail {dot} com). And, as always, thanks for reading.

TTS: My Dad's Story

When I got married, my father gave me some good advice (at least that's what I think of it): "Now that you're married, I'm not your family anymore. I'm still in your family, but I'm not your family. Your family is MTM, and maybe one day, the babies you have. And if you have babies one day, you always have to put MTM first, and the babies second."

To be clear, he was emphasizing that by getting married, I was starting my own family, and that from then on, MTM was my number one priority. Specifically, he was trying to make sure that I put her first, above my mother and him, and that if one day I was faced with a choice where it was her or them, I was to choose her, regardless of how I expected them to feel.

Since I've never told his story before, I thought I would do so in an effort to give you, dear reader, a better understanding of where that advice came from. It will also help illustrate some of my parenting tendencies (I think).

When my father was 25, he boarded a ship in Italy bound for Canada because, in his words, there was no chance for a good life for him and his family as a farmer in Italy. He had some money, and knew no French or English. He made his way into Quebec, and after spending a little time with his sister who had immigrated earlier with her own family, settled in a small mining community in Quebec.

He eventually got married and they had a child (she would eventually become my older sister). When she was about four, he and his wife split up, and she had no interest in custody. The local mining industry had been slowing down, and the area was short on employment opportunities. Knowing that he needed some flexibility to get himself re-established, he made an arrangement with his former MIL: she would watch over my sister while he got employment in a city in Ontario and in exchange he would take her son (his former BIL) with him. His former MIL made a counter-offer that she would not budge from: she would raise my sister not only until my father had a job and a place, but until he had a mother for her as well.

So, for three years, my father worked shift work in a factory and spent every long weekend traveling back to Quebec, usually making the 14 hour drive overnight on a Friday after finishing an eight or 12 hour shift, so he could see his daughter. He dated several women, and every time made the same promise to them: "You come after my daughter. If you want me to choose, I choose her." Eventually, he met my mother, and she respected his commitment to his daughter. Once they were engaged, my sister moved in with my dad and then my mother joined them once they were married. I was born a couple years later, and my younger sister was born 15 months after that (brief version of that story: surprise pregnancy combined with very premature delivery).

My father isn't perfect. He's got an "elbow problem", and while I was growing up he spent more spare time at his local Italian club than at home. But some of his values and ideals are definite influences on how I act as both a husband and a father.

TRS: Simcoe Day Weekend

This weekend was a holiday weekend in Canada, so I was off work yesterday. In case you haven't really figured it out yet, if I'm off work, that means I'm off blogging too. So, that's why you didn't get a recap yesterday, and instead are seeing one this morning.

We traveled to my parents' place because Sunday was their 35th wedding anniversary. My older sister and her family also came, and our plan was to get a family portrait done (since the most recent one had my neice - now 10 going on 18 - as an immobile infant).

The drive down was actually remarkably pleasant given our recent experiences. The munchkin slept for a bit, then seemed reasonably content to hang out in the back seat with MTM and goof around.

Friday evening was good. Given MTM's recent success with sleep at the cottage (and our history of sleep problems) we thought we'd try tiring her out physically before bedtime. Since MTM needed to hit a dollar store, we decided to walk there with the munchkin. However, when my dad heard about this plan, being a typical grandfather he handed the munchkin a $20 and told her to spend it. $20 + punch-drunk toddler + dollar store = a lot of interesting shopping choices.

At one point she had 25 of these balls that were soft and had tentacles all over them in her basket. Then she wanted toy weapons (MTM nearly passed out at that point). When the dust settled, she came out with some bags (a Cinderella fanny pack and a Dora purse), some jewelery, and a "whistle" (that we would later learn lights up and sounds like a goose - a very loud goose).

As my younger sister and I reviewed the family portrait plan for the following day (we had an a la carte package, so all poses and sheet configurations were up to us), MTM emerged from the bedroom. It had been 15 minutes. Unbelievably, the munchkin was asleep. After repeated several-hour going to bed sessions, this was unheard of.

Saturday morning, my father took my mother and sister to get their hair done. Shortly before I would have expected him home, the phone rang. It was my dad, and he was stuck at a grocery store with a dead battery. After clarifying where he was, I hopped into the van and drove off, all the while worrying about my mother's portable oxygen supply.

When I arrived at the store, he was nowhere to be found. I called home (my father doesn't have a cell phone) and confirmed that he had not called there to tell MTM that the car was working. To make a long story short, I eventually gave up on looking around the lot for him at the grocery store and went to get my mom and sister, assuming that if they weren't there his car had started and all was well. As I was helping them into the van, my cell rang - it was MTM and my father was not at the store he told me, but the one across the street from that one. (Apparently I should have known to check this one since he always goes to both - and seeing him once a month means I should know his grocery shopping habits.) When we got there the car was running (it "just started") and we all went home.

After lunch, while my BIL and I were outside boosting my dad's car (it wouldn't start again), MTM came out to tell me that my father was in so much pain he couldn't stand. To make another long story short, his GP (the same GP I have lobbied against for years, because I believe his inadequate care has resulted in my mother's worsening condition) changed his cholesterol medication. When we read the notes, it turns out that it can cause muscle pain. And even more disconcerting is that there is a Health Canada advisory on the drug for patients over 70 (my father turns 73 next month).

We made it to the photo shoot (although my father looked ill in the resulting prints) The irony, of course, is that all week we were worried it would be my mother - who never photographs well - who looked ill. Instead, she had one of her best photographs ever.

The munchkin loved playing with her cousins (even if my nephew was more interested in Teletoon than her) and had a blast ordering my neice around (who was more than happy to oblige). When bedtime came, the munchkin again had no trouble falling asleep.

Sunday morning we all went out for breakfast and then my sister's family left (but not before the munchkin could frantically seek out my nephew shouting, "You're leaving soon! We have to cuddle!")

Unfortunately, our luck started to wear out Sunday evening. Whether it was the lack of physical activity due to the rain, or the extra-long nap she had that afternoon, the munchkin had a harder time falling asleep. MTM was in there for almost an hour with her, struggling.

Monday morning we packed up and made for home. The munchkin didn't sleep, but wasn't a miserable bear either. Overall, it was probably one of the better trips for us - at least from the standpoint of things that usually go wrong for us (car travel and sleep).

At least it was until last night, when the munchkin again jumped out of her crib and steadfastly refused to go to sleep. It seems like we can't win with this child and sleep.

To answer two expected questions about the images in this post: that red thing is a portable tetris game we got for my mother (she had asked for "a video game" to distract her from the pain) that she found too complicated. The munchkin enjoyed the music it played. And no, there was no coffee in that cup.

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There's another Daditorial up where I look at the recent Fisher-Price recall and what we can do about it.

TDS: 28 Month Reflections

Once again, I'm a few days late with my reflections.

On Monday you, the artist formerly known as my little baby, turned 28 months old. Two and one third years old. I will spare you the old man-ish fatherly "Where has the time gone?" laments. As with every time I sit down to write this, you have changed so much since last time.

Since I last wrote, you have totally mastered the diaperless lifestyle. Diapers aren't even a consideration anymore, whether it's on a long road trip or in the middle of the night. You have had no accidents that I can recall since the last time I wrote (two months ago), so I think it's safe to say we are a diaper-free household (at least until you have a sibling).

The biggest event just happened this week. After Mommy and I knew for months that you were physically capable (in the strength and height departments) you finally realized that your crib is all for show and you can escape whenever you feel strongly enough about it. We have explained that this isn't safe, and so far (touch wood) you have not repeated the feat. Nonetheless, we now sleep with gates and tempting doors closed, just in case you make a moonlight break for it.

We have conversations now, although your brain still moves far too quickly for your mouth. This results in one of two events: 1) you stutter as you search for words to encapsulate your thoughts or 2) you speak very quickly (and somewhat unintelligibly) such that Mommy and I have to ask (sometimes two or three times) for a repeat. But when we do understand (which is more often than not), what you say often astounds us. You are grasping grammar and sentence structures, and even the occasional phrase that you don't even comprehend (properly used, mind you).

Unfortunately, it also appears that you got the memo that you're two, and with that comes the burden of being a tantrum-throwing she-beast (and I mean beast in the sweetest way possible, honey) on occasion. You will freak out if you want Mommy and she is busy. You will freak out if I leave a room without consulting you. You often are a mess in the morning if you sleep through my departure because you didn't get Daddy cuddles (yet, when you are awake with me, you often hug me momentarily before demanding to be handed back to Mommy). I hope this is a phase, because it is not much fun.

Mommy tells me that, like her, you are a little fish. When you two visited the cottage last month, all you wanted to do was play in the water. You were able to propel yourself with your feet while wearing your water wings, and even jumped into the lake wearing a lifejacket. You are a brave little girl too.

You continue to amaze me, my munchkin. I love you so much, and I am so honoured to have you call me Daddy.

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Flashback Friday
because I forgot to do "Throwback Thursday"

Today's selections from the archives cover the latter part of July. So, I think next week we'll be into "a year ago this week" mode in this area (assuming, of course, I remember to do it every week).

Where Did She Pick Up That? - rambling about my impact on your life
Blottaging - my first post-ankle-break cottage trip
Funny Night - some anecdotes
The Real World - Daddy - one of my earlier posts on Daddy Guilt
Daddy-Daughter Date - a recap of (you guessed it) our first Daddy-daughter date

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There is a new Daditorial up this morning (as if you didn't have enough of my writing to read already) where I take a look at the latest trend amongst caregivers: locking your charges in cars on hot summer days.