Kael is so close to crawling it's scary. After rolling onto his stomach, he gets himself into the scorpion yoga position, craning his neck up as far as he can, and then tries to grunt himself forward. He gets nowhere fast. I'm quite sure he's not into yoga yet, despite the fact that everyone is in to yoga around here, as the severe grunting tells me he is not concentrating on his breathing whatsoever.
The fact that is on the verge of crawling is exciting, yes, but equally petrifying for we are not remotely close to having our little capsule that we call our apartment (think of one of those Japanese rent-a-room capsules filled to the brim with crap) ready for the epic day when he tears around the living room. All that is stopping him at this stage is sheer mass – he's carrying a little heavy at the moment. But make no mistake, it's coming.
They say you should get down on all fours to get the child's perspective when baby-proofing your place. I asked for Flea's input, as she's just about the same height, but she said there was nothing worth chewing on. After crawling around and repeatedly banging my head on the corner of the table, I was able to get a good handle on the possible hazards for out little ball of kinetic energy ready to burst. Tomorrow's mission then, is to start babyfying the pad.
Speaking of hazards, I was reading a book called Wiped! that Michele passed on to me during one of his morning naps (gee, tiring business being carried everywhere, having your food prepared for you, have someone dressing you and then playing). It's about a writer who shares her experience as the Mom of a newborn. It's very O.T.T. (over the top) and hyper dramatic for effect, but all in all I can sympathize with some of it and empathize with Michele for the rest of the more womanly aspects of it all,
At one point, she relates how she accidentally bumped her child's head against a projector on an airplane – hard. Afterwards, she stakes the claim that everyone unintentionally hurts their baby at least once. Well, I'll tell you that I would never... oh wait a second, I already got mine out of the way.
It happened a few weeks back when we were in the bath. I was struggling to hold him as he was standing up in his mini tub because he's not into the whole maxin' an' relaxin' in the bath while his servants scrub him down like he used to be. And if he had just stood there quietly, with relatively little motion, it wouldn't have happened. But the K man likes to wriggle as if someone was secretly sending mini shocks of electricity through his body at all times. Take a wild guess at what goes down next. Kael is leaning forward with all his strength, reaching for a toy, and my hand loses grip on his slick, slimy from soap frame. He tumbles forward, head colliding not so gently with the metal nozzle where the water comes out.
To her credit, Michele did not freak out even though she was sitting right there. Instead, she calmly snatched him, consoling him with soft words. Kael is crying but thankfully there are no piercing screams. I feel awful. Once safe in momma's arms, we hold him up for inspection. Oh yeah, we definitely have indentation. And is it just me, or does our nozzle have a funny shape? So it appears to be true. It's all about our reaction. If we remain calm, then so does he. Although babies may be fragile, they are also tough, man. Meanwhile, I remained mortified by the “slip up” for several minutes, apologizing profusely. “Sorry buddy. Is it really bad?”, I kept asking, “He'll be ok, won't he?” Of course he was and still is. Just glad I got mine over with early..
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Mr Mom - Day 2
The morning passed uneventfully – that's a good thing these days. No Kaelstorms, only sunny skies blessed our apartment as it is did our city.
Our little guy is teething though. Aside from his chubby cheeks which are the colour of poppies, there was also another not so subtle sign when we put him down for a nap. Basically, he would square his jaw in such a way that it made him look like a grumpy old senior with constant arthritis. I couldn't figure out what was going on. “What's he doing?”, I wondered aloud. “His teeth, the ones we can't see yet on top, that are bothering him.” Sure enough, upon closer inspection, he was gnawing rhythmically on his upper gums with his two recent and sharp-edged bottom teeth. I guess it's like having a sore tooth, you keep wanting to touch it, just to make sure it still hurts (Ow!, yep). Babies don't think that way yet, do they? To help him out, Michele initiates what she calls the teething dance, alternating between a wet cloth, his teething ring (not to be confused with his preciouses that he gums when he eats) and a carrot every five minutes or so to soothe them until he tires out enough to doze off.
I was left in charge pretty much the whole afternoon as Michele took advantage of me being home to go to the mall to buy some things in preparation for the wedding. I did not want to go to the mall. In fact, I hate the mall. I don't hate many things, but the mall is one of them. If you ever want to see me grumpy, take me to the mall, on a Saturday, when it's a beautiful sunny day outside.
Lord K and I had lunch date on the patio, rolled around together on the floor, sang French songs, ate books, drooled lots, stared off into space together (he certainly picked up that personality trait from daddy) and did all that other every day normal stuff.
The big outing for the day consisted of a jaunt out to the local park to do something real summery: a trip to the water park. I was real good, remembering to apply baby sunscreen, bring his water bottle, put on his sun hat and even Flea-proof the house (she rummages through the garbage just to spite us when go out without her) before going. When we parked in the shade at the park, I stripped off his pants and beelined towards the screeching kids and spraying water. I anticipated a refreshing splash, but we both received a shock instead. The water felt like it was sourced directly from one of the melting ice caps. And if I found it freezing, I can only imagine that Kael's sensitive skin had his nervous system ringing the alarm bells. So instead of getting right in there, something I tend to be overly fond of doing, we hung out on the periphery, standing in a 2 mm deep puddle, happily watching the other kids play.
I was surprised that Michele still wasn't home when we returned. I felt mildly panic-stricken as I knew he needed another nap, but was also keenly aware that a nap is pretty much out of the question without momma's milk. Since he was already seemingly content in the stroller, I made a quick decision to grab Flea and keep moving. There was a time when he would fall asleep in the stroller, but those days are long gone. There's a whole world of sensory pleasures to explore now.
And then it happened, the one thing I dreaded most. He began to cry. What I thought was just his gangsta lean was more like the result of having squirmed himself into an uncomfortable sideways position that even a contortionist would have found awkward.
Can I tell you that nothing – no thing – stresses me out more than my baby crying? Can you tell I'm a new parent? I try to console him by putting on my happy voice and telling, “Hey little buddy, there's nothing to worry about. It's a beautiful day and all is right in the Universe”. He doesn't buy it. Apparently my Universe and his are in different galaxies. So I quicken the pace to an almost jog to try to get home as fast as possible while cooing “almost there, almost there”. Poor Flea doesn't even have a chance to poop. We make it home without incident, He is fussy but at least there is no storm to blemish this lovely afternoon. Mommy is home and it isn't long before he is suckling. All is well.
You know, it's funny. A several hundred thousand dollar transaction goes awry at work and it doesn't stress in my least, but when my baby boy lets out one single wail and my whole body, from head to toe, starts to panic.
Our little guy is teething though. Aside from his chubby cheeks which are the colour of poppies, there was also another not so subtle sign when we put him down for a nap. Basically, he would square his jaw in such a way that it made him look like a grumpy old senior with constant arthritis. I couldn't figure out what was going on. “What's he doing?”, I wondered aloud. “His teeth, the ones we can't see yet on top, that are bothering him.” Sure enough, upon closer inspection, he was gnawing rhythmically on his upper gums with his two recent and sharp-edged bottom teeth. I guess it's like having a sore tooth, you keep wanting to touch it, just to make sure it still hurts (Ow!, yep). Babies don't think that way yet, do they? To help him out, Michele initiates what she calls the teething dance, alternating between a wet cloth, his teething ring (not to be confused with his preciouses that he gums when he eats) and a carrot every five minutes or so to soothe them until he tires out enough to doze off.
I was left in charge pretty much the whole afternoon as Michele took advantage of me being home to go to the mall to buy some things in preparation for the wedding. I did not want to go to the mall. In fact, I hate the mall. I don't hate many things, but the mall is one of them. If you ever want to see me grumpy, take me to the mall, on a Saturday, when it's a beautiful sunny day outside.
Lord K and I had lunch date on the patio, rolled around together on the floor, sang French songs, ate books, drooled lots, stared off into space together (he certainly picked up that personality trait from daddy) and did all that other every day normal stuff.
The big outing for the day consisted of a jaunt out to the local park to do something real summery: a trip to the water park. I was real good, remembering to apply baby sunscreen, bring his water bottle, put on his sun hat and even Flea-proof the house (she rummages through the garbage just to spite us when go out without her) before going. When we parked in the shade at the park, I stripped off his pants and beelined towards the screeching kids and spraying water. I anticipated a refreshing splash, but we both received a shock instead. The water felt like it was sourced directly from one of the melting ice caps. And if I found it freezing, I can only imagine that Kael's sensitive skin had his nervous system ringing the alarm bells. So instead of getting right in there, something I tend to be overly fond of doing, we hung out on the periphery, standing in a 2 mm deep puddle, happily watching the other kids play.
I was surprised that Michele still wasn't home when we returned. I felt mildly panic-stricken as I knew he needed another nap, but was also keenly aware that a nap is pretty much out of the question without momma's milk. Since he was already seemingly content in the stroller, I made a quick decision to grab Flea and keep moving. There was a time when he would fall asleep in the stroller, but those days are long gone. There's a whole world of sensory pleasures to explore now.
And then it happened, the one thing I dreaded most. He began to cry. What I thought was just his gangsta lean was more like the result of having squirmed himself into an uncomfortable sideways position that even a contortionist would have found awkward.
Can I tell you that nothing – no thing – stresses me out more than my baby crying? Can you tell I'm a new parent? I try to console him by putting on my happy voice and telling, “Hey little buddy, there's nothing to worry about. It's a beautiful day and all is right in the Universe”. He doesn't buy it. Apparently my Universe and his are in different galaxies. So I quicken the pace to an almost jog to try to get home as fast as possible while cooing “almost there, almost there”. Poor Flea doesn't even have a chance to poop. We make it home without incident, He is fussy but at least there is no storm to blemish this lovely afternoon. Mommy is home and it isn't long before he is suckling. All is well.
You know, it's funny. A several hundred thousand dollar transaction goes awry at work and it doesn't stress in my least, but when my baby boy lets out one single wail and my whole body, from head to toe, starts to panic.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Mr. Mom - Day 1
It's Monday and I'm at home. Weird. Kael is taking his afternoon nap so I am taking advantage of these precious few moments to write a few words about my first day on parental leave. Before making the decision, we debated about whether or not we could afford it as you only receive 55% of your salary – already meager earnings in the expense trap of Vancouver. But then I thought of it this way: how can I afford not to? Kael will only be a baby once so if I can find a way to spend some extra time with him now, while he is soaking it all in, then I've got to do it. Might as well use the sytem. And hey, if there is ever a time to be off work in Canada, it's in the summer.
When I told people at work that I was going to take time off to be with my son, reactions were mixed. Many of the women thought it was a wonderful idea; most of the guys saw it as an extended vacation.
Tell you what fellas, a vacation it is not. It's work. I never fooled myself for a second by thinking it would be cakewalk. Taking care of an 8 month old mini-me is in fact tireless work that never ceases. You can't take breaks when you want or take an extended lunch. Nope, one thing Michele has made abundantly clear is that it's all about the baby's schedule. He's my new boss.
Following a stormy 6 am wake up where only the boob would do, Kael's morning chatter began at 8 am, which was my cue to wake up. I think it translates to something along the lines of, “Hey, I'm up now. Should we get some breakfast? This plastic giraffe just isn't doing it for me anymore. Hey, I'm up now...”, whereas the 6 am screaming was more like, “I'M STARVING MY ASS OFF OVER HERE. I WANT SOME MILK NOW!” I have to say that I much prefer the 8 am Kman's morning show than my alarm going off at 4 am like it did when I was on the early shift. I sang the good morning song while I changed his diaper - weighing the equivalent of a bowling ball following a night of urination - and then brought him into the kitchen for breakfast.
I put on some baby French music, and then got his breakfast ready while he munched on his plastic rings in his highchair, which we have come to dub the “throne”. That then, makes Kael the Lord of the Rings. This is a duty I am comfortable with, by the way, as I have previously prepared his meals on weekends. So far, paternity leave feels like an extension of the weekend. I added water to his brown rice cereal and poured some prunes from a jar into a bowl et voilà, le petit déjeuner est prêt.
Eating is messy business. Perhaps I should have changed his white shirt beforehand... He is good eater, my little bruiser, ingesting all that we offer him in between breaks from chewing on his beloved rings. I noticed that he enjoys the blunt part of the spoon more than the end where we put the food. When the feeding session is over, he starts to get tired. I can tell because he rubs his eyes , without taking into account that his fingers are sticky and slushy from a mixture of pureed prunes and cereal mash, and he is still holding the rings with their serrated edges. That can't feel too good.
When breakfast is done, it's time to wake Mamma up so he can get a little milk before going straight back to bed. It seems odd behaviour for anyone who is not a teenager to sleep all night, wake up, eat and then go right back to sleep. When I questioned the logic, I was told that this is how it's done and that I should read the book baout sleep patterns (ie Sleeping Baby = Happy Mother ) before making any more comments.
So be it. I take advantage of my free time to take the dog out for a walk and enjoy the summer morning, repeating to myself the entire time, "Jeez, this sure does beat sitting at my computer, staring out the window wishing I was outdoors.”
As I enter through the gate leading to the front door after the stroll, I hear the familiar sound of baby crying. These days, it is the sound emanating from my apartment and not some other poor sucker's place like it used to. We are right in the middle of a Kaelstorm. Our wee man is teething and he is not so enthusiastic about it. It takes him an hour before he stops hiccuping from wailing so intensely in protest and calms down enough to fall asleep.
An hour and half later, Lord Kael awakens happy as a clam, as if the torture before slumber had never occurred. It's playtime. We let him roll around on the floor until his troglodyte grunts get very deep, which is his way of telling us to change up the program. I prop him up on his feet. He sways and staggers, reminding me of myself back in my univeristy days.
"Hey, what are you doing?", Michele suddenly yells from the bathroom, "It's lunchtime! We have baby group at 1 PM." Work, work, work. We all know who the real boss is. I tell Kael he is getting the prix fixe menu consisting of: mashed turkey, with mashed potatoes, mashed green beans and for dessert, you guessed it, mashed blueberries. Oops. Forgot to change that white top again before feeding him blueberries.
I get 15 minutes to myself after lunch to shave, shower and eat my own lunch. I guess that's my break.
At baby group, there a host of Moms sitting on mats watching over their fellow mini humans as they crawl clumsily around. Oh look, little Mary just accidentally gave little Ahmed a swift kick to the temple as she zoomed past. This is the cruiser group, that is, 6-12 months. I am the only man there, yet I am comfortable enough with my metrosexuality not to feel awkward. There are babies of all shapes and sizes enjoying each other's company, playing with toys, as new mother's chat away about the various calamities of caring for their respective cruiser. While the mother's converse, so do the babies, only their conversations consists of loud groans, squeals and squawks, something the mother's have all learned to ignore. I find it all very dizzying.
The guest speaker at baby group is a nutritionist here to enlighten us on finger foods. Similar to life, the key to learning how to eat for babies is by play and experimentation. We also learned that all food does not necessarily have to be mashed up into sludge and that giving Kael a third of a banana is fine, too. He acts as the test baby that all the other mothers observe. The nutritionist offers him the banana. which he accepts rather unenthusiastically. He admires its gushiness as he squishes it with his fingers. Then he hastily decides to shove into his mouth rather barbarically. “See”, the nutrtionist proudly exclaims, “he loves it!” Perhaps instead of his beloved rings, we will now start to give him finger foods to gnaw on instead.
By the end of baby group, Kael is overtired and needing of a nap. The rest of the day goes by smoothly, as dinner and bath time are old hat for me. Where did the time go? It's been constant, rewarding work so far. But I'm not doing it completely alone as my wife-to-be has done this entire time. And, the fact that I do not breastfeed makes my new job ten times easier. Kudos to all women who do it. Day 1 has been great. Let's see if I still feel the same way after Day 30.
When I told people at work that I was going to take time off to be with my son, reactions were mixed. Many of the women thought it was a wonderful idea; most of the guys saw it as an extended vacation.
Tell you what fellas, a vacation it is not. It's work. I never fooled myself for a second by thinking it would be cakewalk. Taking care of an 8 month old mini-me is in fact tireless work that never ceases. You can't take breaks when you want or take an extended lunch. Nope, one thing Michele has made abundantly clear is that it's all about the baby's schedule. He's my new boss.
Following a stormy 6 am wake up where only the boob would do, Kael's morning chatter began at 8 am, which was my cue to wake up. I think it translates to something along the lines of, “Hey, I'm up now. Should we get some breakfast? This plastic giraffe just isn't doing it for me anymore. Hey, I'm up now...”, whereas the 6 am screaming was more like, “I'M STARVING MY ASS OFF OVER HERE. I WANT SOME MILK NOW!” I have to say that I much prefer the 8 am Kman's morning show than my alarm going off at 4 am like it did when I was on the early shift. I sang the good morning song while I changed his diaper - weighing the equivalent of a bowling ball following a night of urination - and then brought him into the kitchen for breakfast.
I put on some baby French music, and then got his breakfast ready while he munched on his plastic rings in his highchair, which we have come to dub the “throne”. That then, makes Kael the Lord of the Rings. This is a duty I am comfortable with, by the way, as I have previously prepared his meals on weekends. So far, paternity leave feels like an extension of the weekend. I added water to his brown rice cereal and poured some prunes from a jar into a bowl et voilà, le petit déjeuner est prêt.
Eating is messy business. Perhaps I should have changed his white shirt beforehand... He is good eater, my little bruiser, ingesting all that we offer him in between breaks from chewing on his beloved rings. I noticed that he enjoys the blunt part of the spoon more than the end where we put the food. When the feeding session is over, he starts to get tired. I can tell because he rubs his eyes , without taking into account that his fingers are sticky and slushy from a mixture of pureed prunes and cereal mash, and he is still holding the rings with their serrated edges. That can't feel too good.
When breakfast is done, it's time to wake Mamma up so he can get a little milk before going straight back to bed. It seems odd behaviour for anyone who is not a teenager to sleep all night, wake up, eat and then go right back to sleep. When I questioned the logic, I was told that this is how it's done and that I should read the book baout sleep patterns (ie Sleeping Baby = Happy Mother ) before making any more comments.
So be it. I take advantage of my free time to take the dog out for a walk and enjoy the summer morning, repeating to myself the entire time, "Jeez, this sure does beat sitting at my computer, staring out the window wishing I was outdoors.”
As I enter through the gate leading to the front door after the stroll, I hear the familiar sound of baby crying. These days, it is the sound emanating from my apartment and not some other poor sucker's place like it used to. We are right in the middle of a Kaelstorm. Our wee man is teething and he is not so enthusiastic about it. It takes him an hour before he stops hiccuping from wailing so intensely in protest and calms down enough to fall asleep.
An hour and half later, Lord Kael awakens happy as a clam, as if the torture before slumber had never occurred. It's playtime. We let him roll around on the floor until his troglodyte grunts get very deep, which is his way of telling us to change up the program. I prop him up on his feet. He sways and staggers, reminding me of myself back in my univeristy days.
"Hey, what are you doing?", Michele suddenly yells from the bathroom, "It's lunchtime! We have baby group at 1 PM." Work, work, work. We all know who the real boss is. I tell Kael he is getting the prix fixe menu consisting of: mashed turkey, with mashed potatoes, mashed green beans and for dessert, you guessed it, mashed blueberries. Oops. Forgot to change that white top again before feeding him blueberries.
I get 15 minutes to myself after lunch to shave, shower and eat my own lunch. I guess that's my break.
At baby group, there a host of Moms sitting on mats watching over their fellow mini humans as they crawl clumsily around. Oh look, little Mary just accidentally gave little Ahmed a swift kick to the temple as she zoomed past. This is the cruiser group, that is, 6-12 months. I am the only man there, yet I am comfortable enough with my metrosexuality not to feel awkward. There are babies of all shapes and sizes enjoying each other's company, playing with toys, as new mother's chat away about the various calamities of caring for their respective cruiser. While the mother's converse, so do the babies, only their conversations consists of loud groans, squeals and squawks, something the mother's have all learned to ignore. I find it all very dizzying.
The guest speaker at baby group is a nutritionist here to enlighten us on finger foods. Similar to life, the key to learning how to eat for babies is by play and experimentation. We also learned that all food does not necessarily have to be mashed up into sludge and that giving Kael a third of a banana is fine, too. He acts as the test baby that all the other mothers observe. The nutritionist offers him the banana. which he accepts rather unenthusiastically. He admires its gushiness as he squishes it with his fingers. Then he hastily decides to shove into his mouth rather barbarically. “See”, the nutrtionist proudly exclaims, “he loves it!” Perhaps instead of his beloved rings, we will now start to give him finger foods to gnaw on instead.
By the end of baby group, Kael is overtired and needing of a nap. The rest of the day goes by smoothly, as dinner and bath time are old hat for me. Where did the time go? It's been constant, rewarding work so far. But I'm not doing it completely alone as my wife-to-be has done this entire time. And, the fact that I do not breastfeed makes my new job ten times easier. Kudos to all women who do it. Day 1 has been great. Let's see if I still feel the same way after Day 30.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
amazing feets
“Oh my God, did you see that!? He actually picked it up. He must be the smartest baby in the world...” Michele
They say that love is blind. Based on my short foray into parenthood, I cannot argue. Why, just the other morning, while propping Kael up on his feet like a marionette, he stooped forwards and picked up his beloved peacock, then had to let go of it immediately upon standing erect again to retain balance. Astounding, non? Non? Well, believe it or not, it is to us. Minor and perfectly natural developments such as picking something up off the floor, become minor miracles highlights of the day to a new parent - especially when they are your child's first.
Another, um, more solid example, is pooing. Most of us, if we are lucky, spend several minutes of each day on the porcelain throne getting rid of food previously ingested. But Kael's digestive system, which is not yet running at full capacity, drops the kids off at the pool on a somewhat alarmingly irregular basis. In fact, he sometimes goes almost 12 days without excreting that excess waste festering in his young colon, which Doctor J assures us is not abnormal behaviour for breastfed babies*. Sure, it makes for less stink and mess to clean up, but on other hand, notre petit trésor is obviously uncomfortable during those periods when he's all bunged up. He gets cranky when he hasn't pooed in a while, as do you and I. So when at last I get that text message from Michele announcing “Poop there it is!” or something along those lines, a mix of elation and pride prompts me to involuntarily emit a boisterous “woohoo”. Afterwards, I must of course explain to my curious co-workers that I haven't won the lottery, but that my son has just defecated. Their blank, confused stares hint that they just aren't as impressed as I am.
I'm quickly finding out that parenthood, such as life, is all about the small victories.
Spring arrived early here in BC and the signs of blossoming and joy were everywhere, including our wee man. He is now fully awake and those big, blue eyes of his that even I can't help get lost in, reflect the tremendous growing curiosity he has for his surroundings. Just as Dr Karp had assured us, it took him a full three months to accept that he can't retreat back into the womb and that this outside world is here to stay. Besides, maybe he's starting to realize that his parental units aren't that evil after all...The hair dryer was officially retired in March, though it still sits in the same spot, gathering dust, reminding us of trying times past. But we haven't forgotten its integral contribution to our keeping us somewhat sane. We are even considering encasing and donating it to the museum of colic as a former war hero.
The latest trend continues to be putting anything and everything within grasp into his mouth. (“Kael, be careful, you don't know where Papa's fingers' have been!” warns Michele. She's right of course). And I'm talking anything within range of those chubby little fingers he clearly had the misfortunes of inheriting from Daddy’s genes. He also enjoys chomping on his own feet. It's really quite impressive. He discovered his feet while lounging on the changing table. The insert-into-mouth reflex immediately sprung into action as he instinctively grabbed onto the heel of his foot and proceeded to shove it into his mouth like a Popsicle. His fans, ogling over him, went mad with excitement, egging him on for more, and finally daring him to stick them both in at the same time - which he eventually succeeded in doing thanks to some great persistence. What talent! What a feat! Ah, definitely another perk to being a new Dad is to finally have licence to get away with the dad jokes...
Even though the colicky period is officially done (big sigh of relief), that doesn't stop us from still having a Scorpio to deal with. He knows what he wants and he finds a, shall we say, very direct way to let us know when he doesn't get it. His vocabulary for expressing disgust is quickly evolving, as screeches are longer lasting and higher pitched while grunts grow angrier and deeper resounding; and yet, at the other end of the gamut of emotions, his grins also spread wider and his eyes sparkle with joy. Indeed, for the vast majority of the time, he is a healthy, happy baby. Who would have thunk after the trials of those first three months? You really do think it’s going to last forever. If you know any expecting parents, do be sure to let them know that even if their little bundle of scream doesn't seem to enjoy the outside world in the beginning, to persevere to show love and patience. The transformation will happen eventually, no matter how improbable it seems when he prefers the drone of the dryer over your own kisses.
At six months, he began to wear his own food. I mean, he started eating solid foods. Let's face it, more of it winds up on his face, bib, seat, floor and dog than in his mouth. Just prior to his first feed, he'd been anxiously watching us at the table while we ate dinner as if to say, “Yo, that looks good, hook me up!” So we did, though not exactly with the same shit as we ate. My favourite part is watching his reaction when introducing a new food. It catches him off guard initially so it begins with a look of bewilderment, which is closely followed by a scrunching of the face similar to the look you get when biting into a lemon. Finally, you get his verdict. If the face stays sour and he cries, it means that he's not crazy about this time around but maybe he'll find it more pleasurable next time. And if his regard remains neutral, it means he adores it. He also likes to suck up the water, too, gulping it down as if he had just spent 40 days and nights crossing the Gobi. He often ends up gasping and panting, or more commonly gagging to the point of his face almost turning blue. It's all or nothing with this kid – or, to use Michele's code, he's very intense - which is what I love about him already.
********************************************************************************
A little while back, I was waiting outside La Grotta del Fromaggio while Michele went in to purchase some mate and cheese – standard achat n'est-ce pas? - rocking a dozing baby and keeping a jittery Flea out of trouble with other canine and miniature humans alike. A couple with a young baby about half the size of Kael were sitting outside on the patio enjoying a coffee in the spring-like warmth. The Dad, noticing my load, struck up a conversation. We agreed on the miraculous nature of parenthood and learned that our respective offspring were born just four days apart.
- “How is he?” I inquired, expecting to hear of a string of long sleepless nights and intense battles to put him to bed.
- “He's an absolute joy”, the jolly man in the Montreal Canadians cap responded as his boy smiled from ear to ear, “he's been like this from the very beginning.
- “Yeah, fine, but what about the lack of sleep?, I probed, beginning to become suspicious of this new dad's relaxed and much too well-rested vibe.
- “11 hours a night, from the day he was born”, he answered proudly, with a touch of nonchalance – as if it were standard behaviour.
- “Pardon? As in1-1 eleven? As in 7-11? Here's a free a piece of advice that could save you from an evil glare, don’t tell Michele what you just told me when she comes out!” I warned.
Kael does not sleep eleven hours a night. Not even close. In fact, he continues to wake up two or three times a night, out of habit rather than necessity at this stage of the game. Michele faithfully stammers out of bed to take care of his mammary needs. He only wants one thing, and daddy is not equipped to supply it. But that will all change, we hope, when I take my parental leave from work in July. Not the booby part, but him not needing the booby... hey, come to think of it, I could get that contraption De Niro was wearing in Meet the Fockers. Anyways, while I'm on leave it will be my turn to wake up every three or fours - something I haven't done since his colicky days - to soothe him back to sleep and, with any luck, out of the night-time feeding habit.
If you're wondering why it took so long for me to write, it's because I've been busier than a colony of ants that just had their mound knocked over by a clumsy child. In an attempt to make up for the half of the salary I will be lacking, I took an extra part-time job as a soccer coach to make up the amount I won't be getting. In order to pull it off however, it also required me to work the 6-2 shift at my main job for the 2 ½ months I coached. That's a 6 am start incidentally. And a dog to walk before work. And the Vancouver Whitecaps to cover on weekends. And a travel writing course to take. And spending as much time as I can with my son. And hey, why not sprinkle a few dj gigs in there to really ensure maximum busy-ness. One day I did all three: work, coaching then djing. I kept thinking of the In Living Colour skit with the hardest working West Indian family. What? Only 3 job!? Oh, and there's Michele, my bride to be, my spiritual partner, waiting in the wings, wondering when I'd make some time for her. A jack of all trades and master of none, it's long been my vice. I want to do it all NOW. Unfortunately, Michele is often the one who gets put on the backburner and I don't thank her enough for being so patient with me and for being the best thing that ever happened on planet earth.
The thing is: the corporate environment is getting to me. Don't get me wrong, as far as financial company's go, my work is decent. The people are very nice, my bosses are supportive and not in the least bit overbearing, and the company's benefits are excellent. For that I am grateful. It's just that, I don't care for what I'm doing. I go through the motions. I accept my situation, but I can’t bring myself to be enthusiastic about it. They (the royal they) will try to spread the word that you can’t be doing what you love and make money, but there are those who ignore them and do it anyway. I believe I can be one of those, too. Why not? What I do need to bear in mind is that it probably won't happen overnight and that I will have to be more patient. As relaxed and tolerant as I am with most things, I'm not a patient person at all when it comes to me not having things go as I deem they should.
Overall, everything is wonderful as we celebrate one year in Vancouver. Summer took its sweet ass time arriving, but now that its here, it has put the whole city in a good mood. The other day I took Flea out to Mt Seymour to do some hiking while Michele and Kael were away visiting grandma and grandpa on the island. From the time we left our apartment to the time we were frolicking among the giant, moss covered cedars was twenty minutes max. Later this afternoon, we'll be bbqing at the beach. You just can't beat this city – when it's nice.
Coming home after work is still the best part of my day. Flea and her oversized ears, having heard the distinct sound of my bicycle from 2 km away, is there to greet me at the gate. Amazingly, she hasn't lost one ounce of enthusiasm in all the years I've known her. And when I walk in the door, Kael, who is as elated to see me as I am him, never fails to break out into that beautiful smile, showing off his single bottom tooth. And then I get a soft kiss from Michele to top it all off. At this point, all is perfect in the universe, even if for just one fleeting moment, every single day. And while we may not live in the biggest apartment, or have a fancy car, I sure am thankful for what we've got.
Viva espana! Viva Torres!
oj
* This was started a few months back, before things got a bit crazy, which is pretty much ancient history as fast as the Kman's developments go. He has now joined the realm of regulars since he began eating solids.
Final word: George Carlin passed away recently. The man was not only funny and witty, he was able to break down social behaviour with the intelligence of of a Phd. Case and point, check this video out: http://www.jibjab.com/view/87283
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Blowing Hot Air (Feb 08)
Blue skies smilin' at me
Nothin' but blue skies do I see
Bluebirds singin' a song
Nothin' but bluebirds all day long
Never saw the sun shinin' so bright
Never saw things goin' so right
Noticing the days hurrying by
When you're in love, my how they fly
Blue days, all of them gone
Nothin' but blue skies from now on
(Blue skies smilin' at me
Nothin' but blue skies do I see)
Never saw the sun shinin' so bright
Never saw things goin' so right
Noticing the days hurrying by
When you're in love, my how they fly
Blue days, all of them gone
Nothin' but blue skies from now on
Nothin' but blue skies from now on
Life just wouldn't be very derned interesting if there wadn't a little irony tossed in every once in a while to throw you off kilt; you know, to spice it up tobaski style.
During Michele's pregnancy - which lasted a challenging ten days beyond the due date - I held secret, future visions of the perfect little angel (strangely sexless at the time) sleeping peacefully in Daddy's arms or looking around quizically and observantly at the world around him/her, patiently eager to learn all about life outside of the womb. Most of us were expecting that Kael would be a relaxed, calm baby, much like both his parents were as babies and continue to be as adults (so long as there are no “Michele Specials” involved of course). I held visions of a perfect little Buddha; mindful; quietly alert, in harmony with his/her surroundings. What I neglected to consider during these moments of ridiculous fantasizing was another character trait shared by both Mama et Papa : highly sensitive.
“Inconceivable!”. One of my all-time favourite lines from the classic, The Princess Bride, quickly turned into “incosolable!”, around the apartment as every time he seemed on the verge of falling asleep or finally quieting down, Mt. Kael would suddenly re-erupt. I have come to call these outbursts “Kael storms” (difficult to forecast) or a “kalestrom” - depending on the intensity of the wail. So you try every trick in the book and still, the kid is acting as if his fingernails are being ripped out. “Inconsolable!”. Mind you, he's been fed, his diapers changed, he's warm enough – so what else could he possibly need? During those first few weeks, you are tortured by that helpless feeling of being at a loss as to what your screaming child desires. When we mentioned our son's condition to the nurse, who came to visit us at home early on, she kindly said that these uber-sensitive babies are common, and moreover, they are the ones that turn out to be world leaders. How flattering! Come to think, of it, I now recall the mentioning of Gandhi's mother almost losing it on her future saint of a son after his 60th straight day of crying for world peace after his birth. Thankfully, she kept her cool, just as we must with our little spirited angel.
So, while very looking forward to Kael being inaugurated as Prime Minister or awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his groundbreaking work with the Dalai Lama, we must somehow learn to deal with our little fussy-gussy of a baby boy. Enter “the formula”. No, I don't mean the evil, overpriced concoction they warned us of in breastfeeding class. No, I'm talking about the “Cuddle Cure”, invented by a hippie doctor in California. We learned of the method from a book called “The Happiest Baby on the Block”, donated to us generously by friends of ours who have graduated on to “Happiest Toddler on the Block” with their son – and Kael's future partner in play crime - Rhys. Now, I admit to being rather skeptical of the gazillion baby books and theories out there (much to Michele's frustration), but I do recommend this one to new parents. It's a wealth of pertinent non-preachy information, well written, witty, and the theories jibe with the evolution of our species. Without going into too much detail, the jist of it is that babies in modern times actually come out three months earlier than they did during our cave-dwelling days; therefore, in the first three months, it is important to mimic the conditions of the womb as closely as possible. Let's not forget that they've got it good in the womb: fed on demand, no germs, no bad breath for parents etc. And then one day boom, they are released from this den of comfort into a bright, overstimulating world. It is said that birth is the most traumatic experience of our lives – though I name a few of the bathroom experiences in China as close runner's up.
The Cuddle Cure, or the 5 Ss, goes something like this: 1) swaddle, 2) side/stomach, 3) ssshhh, 4) swing and 5) soothe. The swaddle, or creation of a baby straightjacket, creates the snugness inside the womb and prevents senseless overstimulation by unpredictable, flailing arms. The stomach or side relates to how he was positioned in the womb. The ssshhh is the most interesting one to us because it is the most important of the Ss when attempting to tame a Kaelstorm. Shhhh, quiet! Don't disturb the baby...Wrong! Apparently, it's loud, very loud, in the womb. We're talking vacuum cleaner at full blast loud in there, what with the blood rushing up and down tubes, swooshing around to and fro. Sshhing in his ear as suggested in the book, however, has not worked once. So, during desperate times, I attempted to use the hair dryer as an alternative. I plugged it in unconvincingly and brought our screeching ball of joy within range of the blasting sound, more expecting it to at least drown out his crying than soothe him. Lo and behold, he zipped right up instantly, staring blankly into space, as if he had never been upset in his life. Ever since that magical moment, the dryer has become our new best friend and we are never more than a few feet away from it at all times. Some friends are predicting he will be strangely drawn to hair salons in the future, but we are willing to take that risk for a few moments of peace.
Kael's next S is the swing, although it isn't so much a swing that he likes as a jiggle. We've gone through a whole host of different dances and jiggles, but the one in favour currently is the Richard Simmons, an aerobic-inspired back and forth step the man? himself would be proud of – though it can be quite demanding on Mom and Dad in the middle of the night. And when the dryer's drone gets a bit tiresome, oj throws on the funk, latin or whatever other booty-shaking grooves he's got and tries to appease him through dance. It rarely works as well as the Richard Simmons, but at least Papa keeps his sanity.
To say the first 6 weeks were not easy is a gross understatement. However, incorrigeably positive, I am happy to report that, on the doorstep of the 3 month mark, the worst of the collicky period is behind us. The situation did become somewhat more tolerable when we finally accepted that we were not doing anything wrong. Cause I tell ya, when your baby's only waking moments, aside from being silenced by the power of the booby, are spent wailing and screaming (I wish I were exaggerating), you start to wonder what the %^^$ you are doing wrong. My tank of patience, usually a rather large tank, was emptied until I was running on fumes almost daily. Coupled with limited sleep, I was actually on the brink as it were. I am prepared to wager that nothing is as uncomfortable as the sound of your child wailing in agony. The experience has also surfaced a side of me I had yet to see, a side that can easily be pinpointed as learned behaviour from my own father: a strong temper. Strangely, a punch in the face or being chopped down in a soccer game has never made me mad, but piercing screeches eminating from my son's impressive chops have. Go figure.
And yes, a kaelstorm is often what I came home to, sometimes after a long day's work. Ahh, poor baby. No, poor Mom actually. Michele is the one who primarily had to deal with the kaelstorms day and night. Jiggling became so constant and intense that she has developed tendinitis, sporting the splints on each hand respectively. Add that to a case of thresh and a general eating disorder that many of you are already fully aware of. Yet, as with the pregnancy, Michele has been a trooper and has admirably kept her sense of humour throughout- mostly anyways. Sleepless nights and non-stop fussiness will take its toll on even the most dedicated parent and we are no exceptions. But, it is Mom who has bared the brunt of it and I wish to pay homage to her at this time. Men just couldn't do what women do.
And now that I've got my typical whinging out of the way, let me say that it has all been worthwhile, beyond shadow of a doubt. All the cliches of being a parent are entirely true. Just looking down at that cute, handsome face sleeping peacefully comes this indescribable sense of joy that arises from deep within my heart. It is a feeling that remains unparaleled. It's Beauty. It's Love. It's Creation. And this time, it is very, very personal. Do you want me to go on? The ladies do, but the men are like, move on there fruitcake.
A few weekends ago, bless it, we got our first taste of baby sans constant fussiness. Kael actually had a few minutes of quiet awareness – something I'd heard babies' do, though was beginning to suspect only a rumour- where he would stare up at me, eyes wide open with pursed lips soundless. It was amazing. We were really able to enjoy him. The notion of even the remote possibility, at some point in the future, of life with Kael without wail, sent shots of positivity rushing through our veins.
Now at virtually 3 months old, Kael is becoming more and more expressive with each passing day. The best part of each day, by leaps and bounds - provided the skies are clear - is coming home from work, and seeing Kael's face light up when he sees me. Priceless. No matter how elated I've ever felt, whether at the best party or winning a championship, nothing compares to the feeling of my beautiful boy smiling up at me with his huge blues eyes. We usually just stare at each other for awhile, unable, unwilling, to steer our gaze elsewhere.
And yet this angel of a boy remains a “spirited” one, challenging Mom and Dad's patience to the max at times, by refusing to go down (ie sleep) without a fight or fuss. His spiritedness confirms our appropriate choice of names for, as Kael is a Gaelic name meaning mighty warrior. His signals, which initially were as indecipherable as the map of the Tokyo subway system, are slowly starting to make sense as we get to know and trust one another. Patterns emerge, though they are still about as reliable as the weather at this point. We aren't completely out of the woods, but we're close.
And when I recall those first few days at home, when, sleep-deprived and exhausted, you suddenly find yourself home with this helpless, screaming little being - completely dependent on you for survival – and you look at one another with that, “Ok, now what?” expression, it does seem like a long time ago already. You spend the better part of a year preparing for that moment, and then when it arrives, you just don't know what to do. We've already witnessed quite a change in our little guy during that period. He's doubled his birth weight and outgrown his first set of clothes faster than Flea gobbling down a piece of meat.
And, of course, even when his “spirited” phase cools down, we know there awaits an equally challenging next step phase on deck to put us to the test. These stages of his development, I suspect, are precisely what makes parenting so rewarding in the end. To gradually witness and be a part of his evolution until , he reaches adulthood, is a journey worth looking forward to. As natural and common a process as it is, it really is the miracle of life when it happens to you. Or, at least, it is as it is happening to me.
Recently, we had a full week of sunshine here in the rainy city and it has given everyone a little extra skip in their step. The stunning backdrop of scintillating golden, snow-capped peaks, seen from any vantage point around Vancouver, has indeed been an amazing sight to behold. And while walking back from my morning walk with Flea today, I happened to pass by the winter's farmers' market only steps away from our building, where some musicians were swinging to a great rendition of the wonderful classic “Blue Skies”. Yep, no matter happens, with Kael and Michele in my life, there'll be nothin' but blue skies – and blue eyes – from now on.
oj
And speaking of music, I've compiled a top five list of Kael inspires tunes. See if you can guess the real song by replacing the word in italics with a real word.
1) “Booby Nights”
2) “Wrapped like an Egyptian”
3) “Peein' (Over You)”
4) “Jiggling Baby”
5) “Burp It Out (Loud and Clear)"
Can you guess the real song?
Also, if anyone wants to see more pics, check out Michele's Facebook site. Just search for Michele Black.For now anyways...
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
The Final Countdown
"The idea of fatherhood unleashed a swirl of emotions in me. I found it frightening, invigorating, daunting, and exilerating all at the same time"- Khaled Hosseini from the The Kite Runner
Despite having to trudge through the soggy autumn leaves, drained of their vibrant colours due to the dampness from the rains that characterize Vancouver, I am still overjoyed to once again have the privilege of enjoying autumn. We are experiencing our first fall in many years and despite the dominant wet weather that has unsurprisingly plagued Vancouver, the few fine days were so astoundingly gorgeous that the rain hasn't gotten us down; yet. While living abroad all those years, I was conscious that the seasonal cycle was something I was missing out on; something profound that was missing from my life.
And yet nature's irony has not been lost on me either, for just as Her cycle approaches one of death, a cycle of rebirth - a spring - is about to commence in my own life.
That's right, my friends, the countdown is on. Can you hear the theme music? Anyone remember Europa? My devilish goal in writing this letter is not to update you, at length, about what is going in my life, but to make you suffer through your day by planting the seed of one of the worst and catchiest tunes of all time into your heads. Brwahahaha...
You haven't heard from me for a while and the reason for that is that the madness of parenting has already begun. No, baby isn't born yet but the nesting process and the necessary preparations have. There has been furniture to put together, pre-natal classes to attend, weekly doctor's appointments, a fantastic baby shower to reap the benefits of kind friends and foot rubs to administer. Time, something I never felt I had enough of even before the pregnancy, will no longer be controlled by my selfish wants and needs. I am stubbornly and slowly coming to terms with the fact that it's not about me, me, me! anymore. Family comes first and that requires sacrifice on my part. Both my ego and my artist child are throwing little tantrums but they'll get over it.
Every day, a new person asks me the inevitable: are you ready? An equally poignant and silly question when you think about it. It's similar to being asked , "Are you OK?" , after you've broken up with your girlfriend. In both cases, there is no immediate answer. Only time will tell. Am I ready? I reckon there is a little hell yeah, and, god no in the answer. I mean, this isn't exactly an exam. Sure there is lots to read up on but the more I read, the more I realize that this is is going to be a lifelong instinctual experience that can be summed up by different authors and experts, but only actualized by doing it. There, my answer is about as clear as mud. I do know that the only way I could express it was a mix, a to and fro, between excitement and nervousness. Not very creative or expressive. That's why I was happy to come across the quote from the Kite Runner, as it summarizes it much better than I could.
The due date, or D-day as Michele lovingly refers to it, is October 27. A mere week away. Michele is wonderfully large and round in the belly, glowing and beautiful in the late stages of her pregnancy.(and I'm not just saying that for brownie points -although I could use a few...). For the most part, it's been a happy ride for mamma-to-be, lacking in swollen ankles, carpel tunnel syndrome and other such malaises that many pregnant women experience. The only strange craving to record is the sudden desire for Captain Hiliners fish fingers. I mean, that's odd for anyone, of any sex, over the age of say 14 years old. I'm just glad there hasn't been any three o'clock wakings to my throat being grasped by a pair of hands and a psychotic voice demanding nutella and garlic on toast - NOW! Nor have the hormonal changes affected her attitude from minute to the next, up and down as a boat in a storm at sea. A few tears have been shed, and more than a few obscenities have surprisingly escaped from Michele's angelic mouth, but for the most part she has been wonderfully even-keeled for this seemingly interminable 9+ months.
However, that said, there is no such thing as a perfect pregnancy and she has had her fair share of struggles. Morning sickness (I have submit a formal request to the Pregnancy Board to officially change it to any ol' time o' day sickness), sore back and hips, acid reflux from a stomach that is pushed up near the oesophagus, heartburn, as well as sleepless nights due to a future gymnastic gold medalist practicing parallel bar routines in the belly during the hours of 11 PM to 7AM. And the other day, a trip to the shops that should have taken 20 minutes, took her an hour and half thanks to baby presumably grabbing onto to an innerd and twisting with all his/her might for fun, forcing her to stop every steps to wince in pain. Sure sounds like fun doesn't it ladies? There is also the matter of a compressed bladder suddenly propelling peeing into a major concern for any outing. A forgotten trip to the bathroom before leaving can result in a painful car ride or a jittery wait in a line-up somewhere. Imagine being unable to see your feet, let alone put on socks or tie your shoes. Imagine, and this one was way too unfair n my mind, being told by your doctor that you could lose a few pounds. Were he not delivering our child, I'm pretty sure he would have had a knuckle sandwich delivered to his own mouth for a comment like that. I think you'll agree with me that it's just not what you want to hear when you are about ready to burst. All in all, Michele has taken the role on admirably. She has had ample want to complain and yet she has remained positive and cheerful throughout. She is a trooper and I have to say that I am falling more and more in love with her as our partnership and our new roles as parents begin.
However, our new roles as parents have also forced us into new roles either of us had necessarily wanted or planned on before returning to Canada. For Michele, it has been the classic role of housewife by taking on domestic duties such as cleaning, washing and preparing meals. As for me, it is going in to the office as I assume the role of family breadwinner, or better yet - given my salary and high cost of living in "the world's most livable city" - yeast winner. Sometimes I wonder whether we've reverted back to the fifties and no one has bothered to tell me. While all of it - the new roles and the re-adaptation to Canada - being undeniably strange, we've accepted it for now and are rolling along with the punches. The dude and dudette abide. It's not necessarily how we envisioned life when we originally made the decision to come home (before we found out about baby). And though it hasn't been a cakewalk, I am proud at how we have handled these profound and irreversible life changes so far.
I now find myself waking up at dawn, in the dark, so that I can practice qi gong and do some writing before hopping on my bike for the commute to work. On the odd day where it is clear, the Rockies are quite a magnificent setting to behold. Otherwise, it is chilly and often wet, but I enjoy the fresh air and the exercise regardless. Beats a depressing bus ride along East Hastings I tell ya!
The office environment is a surreal place that I am still adjusting to. It's been over two months now and I am still in training. It's that complicated. I am learning details about financial procedures and transactions that are ridiculously complicated for my abstract mind. Sometimes they even have the gall to make me do a little math.* It's a struggle to keep my apt to daydream mind from drifting while Raman tries to drill into me the information I am required to learn. I try to remain positive, tell myself that through osmosis it's all bound to sink in eventually, but I do go through moments of self-doubt. It's not my dream job, but without the bi-weekly paycheque and the benefits, we'd be screwed. And truth be told, sometimes I arrive home drained and dejected. But then I walk in the door, see the belly and all the promise that accompanies it, get mauled with attention from Flea, get a waff of another delicious meal concocted by Michele, I realize what's really important. My mood swings from self-pity to one of feeling blessed. You know, I got it good after all.
For the record, I haven't given up on writing; just as Michele will eventually pursue photography. But the little miracle insider her belly will put these dreams on hold for the both of us indefinitely. We feel that the baby has chosen us as parents at this particular time, for whatever reason.
So, the next email you will receive within a few weeks will hopefully be a picture of a healthy baby that looks just like me! Or, for the baby's sake, maybe it's best that (s)he looks more like Michele. As you should have deciphered, we have kept the sex of the little one a surprise. I love surprises and I cannot think of a bigger or better surprise than this one. Dreams of it being a girl were reported by several women. Last night, however, I dreamed it was a boy. Michele waivers daily between the two. On verra, quoi. We have a girl's name that we have pretty much decided on but a boy's name remains undecided. Feel free to email me any suggestions. Ideally, it is a name that sounds good in either French or English. I am have half a mind that we need to see the little one before naming it. You know, I'll see it come out and think to myself, “Ah, it was Pablo all along!�
Also, sending a few positive vibrations in terms of a safe and healthy delivery for both momma and baby would be appreciated. And while you're at it, might as well throw in some strength for poppa in his supporting role (i.e for him not to faint), wouldn't hurt either...
papa oj
* Recognizing our hopeless math skills, Michele and I have been playing Mozart to the baby in an effort to not have our child suffer the embarrasing math inabilities of its parents. Apparently, Mozart's compositions were mathematical in nature and studies show that playing Mozart to your baby will magically develop the math part of the brain. Hey, it's worth a shot!
Despite having to trudge through the soggy autumn leaves, drained of their vibrant colours due to the dampness from the rains that characterize Vancouver, I am still overjoyed to once again have the privilege of enjoying autumn. We are experiencing our first fall in many years and despite the dominant wet weather that has unsurprisingly plagued Vancouver, the few fine days were so astoundingly gorgeous that the rain hasn't gotten us down; yet. While living abroad all those years, I was conscious that the seasonal cycle was something I was missing out on; something profound that was missing from my life.
And yet nature's irony has not been lost on me either, for just as Her cycle approaches one of death, a cycle of rebirth - a spring - is about to commence in my own life.
That's right, my friends, the countdown is on. Can you hear the theme music? Anyone remember Europa? My devilish goal in writing this letter is not to update you, at length, about what is going in my life, but to make you suffer through your day by planting the seed of one of the worst and catchiest tunes of all time into your heads. Brwahahaha...
You haven't heard from me for a while and the reason for that is that the madness of parenting has already begun. No, baby isn't born yet but the nesting process and the necessary preparations have. There has been furniture to put together, pre-natal classes to attend, weekly doctor's appointments, a fantastic baby shower to reap the benefits of kind friends and foot rubs to administer. Time, something I never felt I had enough of even before the pregnancy, will no longer be controlled by my selfish wants and needs. I am stubbornly and slowly coming to terms with the fact that it's not about me, me, me! anymore. Family comes first and that requires sacrifice on my part. Both my ego and my artist child are throwing little tantrums but they'll get over it.
Every day, a new person asks me the inevitable: are you ready? An equally poignant and silly question when you think about it. It's similar to being asked , "Are you OK?" , after you've broken up with your girlfriend. In both cases, there is no immediate answer. Only time will tell. Am I ready? I reckon there is a little hell yeah, and, god no in the answer. I mean, this isn't exactly an exam. Sure there is lots to read up on but the more I read, the more I realize that this is is going to be a lifelong instinctual experience that can be summed up by different authors and experts, but only actualized by doing it. There, my answer is about as clear as mud. I do know that the only way I could express it was a mix, a to and fro, between excitement and nervousness. Not very creative or expressive. That's why I was happy to come across the quote from the Kite Runner, as it summarizes it much better than I could.
The due date, or D-day as Michele lovingly refers to it, is October 27. A mere week away. Michele is wonderfully large and round in the belly, glowing and beautiful in the late stages of her pregnancy.(and I'm not just saying that for brownie points -although I could use a few...). For the most part, it's been a happy ride for mamma-to-be, lacking in swollen ankles, carpel tunnel syndrome and other such malaises that many pregnant women experience. The only strange craving to record is the sudden desire for Captain Hiliners fish fingers. I mean, that's odd for anyone, of any sex, over the age of say 14 years old. I'm just glad there hasn't been any three o'clock wakings to my throat being grasped by a pair of hands and a psychotic voice demanding nutella and garlic on toast - NOW! Nor have the hormonal changes affected her attitude from minute to the next, up and down as a boat in a storm at sea. A few tears have been shed, and more than a few obscenities have surprisingly escaped from Michele's angelic mouth, but for the most part she has been wonderfully even-keeled for this seemingly interminable 9+ months.
However, that said, there is no such thing as a perfect pregnancy and she has had her fair share of struggles. Morning sickness (I have submit a formal request to the Pregnancy Board to officially change it to any ol' time o' day sickness), sore back and hips, acid reflux from a stomach that is pushed up near the oesophagus, heartburn, as well as sleepless nights due to a future gymnastic gold medalist practicing parallel bar routines in the belly during the hours of 11 PM to 7AM. And the other day, a trip to the shops that should have taken 20 minutes, took her an hour and half thanks to baby presumably grabbing onto to an innerd and twisting with all his/her might for fun, forcing her to stop every steps to wince in pain. Sure sounds like fun doesn't it ladies? There is also the matter of a compressed bladder suddenly propelling peeing into a major concern for any outing. A forgotten trip to the bathroom before leaving can result in a painful car ride or a jittery wait in a line-up somewhere. Imagine being unable to see your feet, let alone put on socks or tie your shoes. Imagine, and this one was way too unfair n my mind, being told by your doctor that you could lose a few pounds. Were he not delivering our child, I'm pretty sure he would have had a knuckle sandwich delivered to his own mouth for a comment like that. I think you'll agree with me that it's just not what you want to hear when you are about ready to burst. All in all, Michele has taken the role on admirably. She has had ample want to complain and yet she has remained positive and cheerful throughout. She is a trooper and I have to say that I am falling more and more in love with her as our partnership and our new roles as parents begin.
However, our new roles as parents have also forced us into new roles either of us had necessarily wanted or planned on before returning to Canada. For Michele, it has been the classic role of housewife by taking on domestic duties such as cleaning, washing and preparing meals. As for me, it is going in to the office as I assume the role of family breadwinner, or better yet - given my salary and high cost of living in "the world's most livable city" - yeast winner. Sometimes I wonder whether we've reverted back to the fifties and no one has bothered to tell me. While all of it - the new roles and the re-adaptation to Canada - being undeniably strange, we've accepted it for now and are rolling along with the punches. The dude and dudette abide. It's not necessarily how we envisioned life when we originally made the decision to come home (before we found out about baby). And though it hasn't been a cakewalk, I am proud at how we have handled these profound and irreversible life changes so far.
I now find myself waking up at dawn, in the dark, so that I can practice qi gong and do some writing before hopping on my bike for the commute to work. On the odd day where it is clear, the Rockies are quite a magnificent setting to behold. Otherwise, it is chilly and often wet, but I enjoy the fresh air and the exercise regardless. Beats a depressing bus ride along East Hastings I tell ya!
The office environment is a surreal place that I am still adjusting to. It's been over two months now and I am still in training. It's that complicated. I am learning details about financial procedures and transactions that are ridiculously complicated for my abstract mind. Sometimes they even have the gall to make me do a little math.* It's a struggle to keep my apt to daydream mind from drifting while Raman tries to drill into me the information I am required to learn. I try to remain positive, tell myself that through osmosis it's all bound to sink in eventually, but I do go through moments of self-doubt. It's not my dream job, but without the bi-weekly paycheque and the benefits, we'd be screwed. And truth be told, sometimes I arrive home drained and dejected. But then I walk in the door, see the belly and all the promise that accompanies it, get mauled with attention from Flea, get a waff of another delicious meal concocted by Michele, I realize what's really important. My mood swings from self-pity to one of feeling blessed. You know, I got it good after all.
For the record, I haven't given up on writing; just as Michele will eventually pursue photography. But the little miracle insider her belly will put these dreams on hold for the both of us indefinitely. We feel that the baby has chosen us as parents at this particular time, for whatever reason.
So, the next email you will receive within a few weeks will hopefully be a picture of a healthy baby that looks just like me! Or, for the baby's sake, maybe it's best that (s)he looks more like Michele. As you should have deciphered, we have kept the sex of the little one a surprise. I love surprises and I cannot think of a bigger or better surprise than this one. Dreams of it being a girl were reported by several women. Last night, however, I dreamed it was a boy. Michele waivers daily between the two. On verra, quoi. We have a girl's name that we have pretty much decided on but a boy's name remains undecided. Feel free to email me any suggestions. Ideally, it is a name that sounds good in either French or English. I am have half a mind that we need to see the little one before naming it. You know, I'll see it come out and think to myself, “Ah, it was Pablo all along!�
Also, sending a few positive vibrations in terms of a safe and healthy delivery for both momma and baby would be appreciated. And while you're at it, might as well throw in some strength for poppa in his supporting role (i.e for him not to faint), wouldn't hurt either...
papa oj
* Recognizing our hopeless math skills, Michele and I have been playing Mozart to the baby in an effort to not have our child suffer the embarrasing math inabilities of its parents. Apparently, Mozart's compositions were mathematical in nature and studies show that playing Mozart to your baby will magically develop the math part of the brain. Hey, it's worth a shot!
Saturday, September 1, 2007
On the Good Foot
The street names rhymes with tabarncac. That was the first sign. But the real omen that sealed it for us was the row of Tibetan prayer flags hanging from the third floor balcony of the house/apartment complex. What better a symbol for us never mind we have since learned that Tibetan prayer flags are trendy in Van). It was both the first and last place we looked at - which is a somewhat of an impressive stat considering the competitive renter's market here. We'd heard too many horror stories of people not taking the first place they looked at, and subsequently losing it, merely because it was just that - the first place they saw. We needed to settle quickly and we did. I think our new landlord Howie Baby (that's my personal little nickname for him which he knows nothing about) took pity on us because of our situation. That sappy intro letter we wrote really worked a miracle - thanks Marie!
Sitting on the front patio of our new cozy abode ("cozy" of course being the code word for "tiny"), I notice cyclists struggle up and skaters cruise down the steep grade of Adanac St.. Flea lays sprawled out in the sun while Michele soaks it in wearing her Little Miss Sunshine t-shirt. Proof that it does occasionally get nice in the rainy city...
Ok, if you want to get technical about it, this was the second place we saw. However, the first one doesn't really count seeing as how when we strolled up at 1:15 - right on time - the landlord was counting a big bundle of cash and the new tenant, presumably with the 1:00 appointment, was already signing papers. "It happens", offered the landlord when he noticed us, not even bothering to look up from his wad. It all happened so quickly that I stood stunned frozen for a second; then I clued in that we had lost out. Oh, it's like THAT now. Such a humbling experience can be both motivational and educational. but it can also instill fear - especially seeing as how 95% of the places advertized for NO PETS in the classifieds. Funny, I see dogs around everywhere. Our friends Sean and Marie chose to offer 50$/month extra on top of the asking price to secure their place in Kits - and they don't even have any pets. So we were a bit concerned until Howie Baby left us a message saying on the same day - when he had previously said he'd get back to us in a few days - saying that it was ours if we wanted it.
Now we had to decide whether or not to take it without the luxury of comparing it to anything else. And so the Tibetan prayer flags and the fact that it rhymes with tabarnac proved to be too strong omens to ignore and we decided to take it and alleviate the stress of finding a place. And now that we've settled in, there is no regret whatsoever. It's clean, new and in a pretty cool part of East Van called Commercial Dr. It reminds me a bit of College St. in T.O. before it got all trendy and uppity. There are bars where South Americans and Italians are watching footy at all hours of the day. I must say that it is refreshing to be back in a multicultural setting after all these years away.
Things are falling into place rather nicely you'd say. Our biggest allies to getting sorted so rapidly have been Michele's parents. They have exceeded their generosity tenfold by supplying us with everything from deluxe bed, bedding, pillows, to kitchen stuff and large towels. All colour co-ordinated mind you. But the real kicker is the almost new, size-efficient, fuel efficient and no-frills efficient, 4 door Pontiac Wave, complete with go faster stripes on the side. It's basic. It's perfect. And it doesn't stop there. They also paid for our first year of insurance to boot, a sizeable amount for new drivers (apparently our combined previous 15 years Canadian driving experience means nothing to insurance folks as they offered us 0% discount- isn't that lovely).
After closing the deal for our July 1st move, we headed back to the little paradise of Gabriola to visit, and gather the rest of our stuff (that includes Flea) where were treated to Alberta beef steaks the size of our plate (sorry veggie freaks but damn are they tasty), roasts and fresh strawberries on ice cream as the hummingbirds whizzed around getting high off nature's nectar. It was tough tearing Flea away from her new home in the country, and her pal Daisy, but we stuffed our little car to the max and headed for the big city. Leaving the relaxed vibe of Gabriola to come back to the city was a little like paradise lost for the three of us.
Now comes the potentially scary part. We're on our own, jobless, and moving into an unfurnished apartment. You know what that means. You need all the little details you normally take for granted like a can opener, scissors or an elastic for instance. If you want to cook, you suddenly realize you need a wooden spoon or spices - all of them. You room needs a bedside table, the living room needs chairs. You even need tupperware for leftovers! Money evaporates as quickly snow in the winter here. When they say that Vancouver is one of the top 5 best places to live in North America, they are obviously talking about it from the point of view of those who have the bread - loaves of it. No matter how much I had mentally prepared myself for the inevitable expense of starting from scratch, there is still an involuntary twitch everytime I take that plastic card out to swipe more money out of my account. Some of the locals might think I'm autistic. From my numerous past moves, I've learned to not even bother converting amounts back into the old, cheaper currency I was used to. It was ok to calculate paying 10,000 NT for a 4 bedroom place with huge kitchen, 2 bathroom and but then to settle for this much smaller (albeit much newer) 2 bedroom for about 32000 NT... Shit, I wasn't supposed to do that!
However, there are always gives and takes with anywhere you live. In my ever-optimistic outlook, I submit that I cannot put a price on the clean air I am breathing in - and even more importantly that the bump as we affectionately call him/her - is breathing in through her/his mother. And I know that it's all still new and all but I am still wowed by the sight of snow-capped mountains as I strut along the avenue. Even better, we had the chance to hike at the foothills of some of those mountains on Canada Day with some friends. And in the winter, we'll be able to go snowshoeing up there!
I've had some nibbles in terms of job prospects but nothing substantial as of yet. I did reel in a small fish that will give me a bit of cash on the side but I need to land that tuna in order to provide for the family. These are some unfamiliar waters and I'm an un-experienced sailor to begin with, so I'm still feeling my way around out there on the sea of employment. I'm pretty patient as far as it goes so I'll just keep throwing the line out there.
Last Saturday, I did get a pretty cool non-paying gig though. I was at the U-20 World Cup sitting in the press box to cover the Scotland vs Costa Rica game for a local online sports magazine. They gave Gaston an official press pass and everything. Sitting there absorbing the match, impressed by those skilled young punks out there on the pitch, I thought to myself that I could definitely get used to that kind of work. And had it not been for an email that went into the Fifa dude's junk mail, I would have been at every first round match. The good news is that there is one 2nd round match still to be played in Vancouver and the teams as luck would have it are Spain vs Brazil. I'll have a sangria in one hand and a samba drum in the other come Wednesday night.
Well, it's evening which means it's getting chilly outside. Hear that Tainan, chilly! Eat your sweaty little hearts out! Now I will return into my pink-carpeted abode (no, we can't really believe we have pink carpets either) to stare blankly at the pale yellow walls until our other shipment of decorating stuff arrives from Taiwan. If you're ever in town, do look us up. It's real easy to find us, just remember the Commercial: Adanac rhymes with tabarnac! Then just look for the Tibetan prayer flags et voila! Or, if you're not the resourceful type come to 1837 Adanac St or give me a call at 778-318-0462.
This is oj just letting you know that Michele, lil' oj, Flea and me are off on the good foot. And like JB (RIP), it's right about time for the splits. Aiiiiiiiiiiii,,,ow. I shouldn't have tried that. A la prochaine!
oj
Sitting on the front patio of our new cozy abode ("cozy" of course being the code word for "tiny"), I notice cyclists struggle up and skaters cruise down the steep grade of Adanac St.. Flea lays sprawled out in the sun while Michele soaks it in wearing her Little Miss Sunshine t-shirt. Proof that it does occasionally get nice in the rainy city...
Ok, if you want to get technical about it, this was the second place we saw. However, the first one doesn't really count seeing as how when we strolled up at 1:15 - right on time - the landlord was counting a big bundle of cash and the new tenant, presumably with the 1:00 appointment, was already signing papers. "It happens", offered the landlord when he noticed us, not even bothering to look up from his wad. It all happened so quickly that I stood stunned frozen for a second; then I clued in that we had lost out. Oh, it's like THAT now. Such a humbling experience can be both motivational and educational. but it can also instill fear - especially seeing as how 95% of the places advertized for NO PETS in the classifieds. Funny, I see dogs around everywhere. Our friends Sean and Marie chose to offer 50$/month extra on top of the asking price to secure their place in Kits - and they don't even have any pets. So we were a bit concerned until Howie Baby left us a message saying on the same day - when he had previously said he'd get back to us in a few days - saying that it was ours if we wanted it.
Now we had to decide whether or not to take it without the luxury of comparing it to anything else. And so the Tibetan prayer flags and the fact that it rhymes with tabarnac proved to be too strong omens to ignore and we decided to take it and alleviate the stress of finding a place. And now that we've settled in, there is no regret whatsoever. It's clean, new and in a pretty cool part of East Van called Commercial Dr. It reminds me a bit of College St. in T.O. before it got all trendy and uppity. There are bars where South Americans and Italians are watching footy at all hours of the day. I must say that it is refreshing to be back in a multicultural setting after all these years away.
Things are falling into place rather nicely you'd say. Our biggest allies to getting sorted so rapidly have been Michele's parents. They have exceeded their generosity tenfold by supplying us with everything from deluxe bed, bedding, pillows, to kitchen stuff and large towels. All colour co-ordinated mind you. But the real kicker is the almost new, size-efficient, fuel efficient and no-frills efficient, 4 door Pontiac Wave, complete with go faster stripes on the side. It's basic. It's perfect. And it doesn't stop there. They also paid for our first year of insurance to boot, a sizeable amount for new drivers (apparently our combined previous 15 years Canadian driving experience means nothing to insurance folks as they offered us 0% discount- isn't that lovely).
After closing the deal for our July 1st move, we headed back to the little paradise of Gabriola to visit, and gather the rest of our stuff (that includes Flea) where were treated to Alberta beef steaks the size of our plate (sorry veggie freaks but damn are they tasty), roasts and fresh strawberries on ice cream as the hummingbirds whizzed around getting high off nature's nectar. It was tough tearing Flea away from her new home in the country, and her pal Daisy, but we stuffed our little car to the max and headed for the big city. Leaving the relaxed vibe of Gabriola to come back to the city was a little like paradise lost for the three of us.
Now comes the potentially scary part. We're on our own, jobless, and moving into an unfurnished apartment. You know what that means. You need all the little details you normally take for granted like a can opener, scissors or an elastic for instance. If you want to cook, you suddenly realize you need a wooden spoon or spices - all of them. You room needs a bedside table, the living room needs chairs. You even need tupperware for leftovers! Money evaporates as quickly snow in the winter here. When they say that Vancouver is one of the top 5 best places to live in North America, they are obviously talking about it from the point of view of those who have the bread - loaves of it. No matter how much I had mentally prepared myself for the inevitable expense of starting from scratch, there is still an involuntary twitch everytime I take that plastic card out to swipe more money out of my account. Some of the locals might think I'm autistic. From my numerous past moves, I've learned to not even bother converting amounts back into the old, cheaper currency I was used to. It was ok to calculate paying 10,000 NT for a 4 bedroom place with huge kitchen, 2 bathroom and but then to settle for this much smaller (albeit much newer) 2 bedroom for about 32000 NT... Shit, I wasn't supposed to do that!
However, there are always gives and takes with anywhere you live. In my ever-optimistic outlook, I submit that I cannot put a price on the clean air I am breathing in - and even more importantly that the bump as we affectionately call him/her - is breathing in through her/his mother. And I know that it's all still new and all but I am still wowed by the sight of snow-capped mountains as I strut along the avenue. Even better, we had the chance to hike at the foothills of some of those mountains on Canada Day with some friends. And in the winter, we'll be able to go snowshoeing up there!
I've had some nibbles in terms of job prospects but nothing substantial as of yet. I did reel in a small fish that will give me a bit of cash on the side but I need to land that tuna in order to provide for the family. These are some unfamiliar waters and I'm an un-experienced sailor to begin with, so I'm still feeling my way around out there on the sea of employment. I'm pretty patient as far as it goes so I'll just keep throwing the line out there.
Last Saturday, I did get a pretty cool non-paying gig though. I was at the U-20 World Cup sitting in the press box to cover the Scotland vs Costa Rica game for a local online sports magazine. They gave Gaston an official press pass and everything. Sitting there absorbing the match, impressed by those skilled young punks out there on the pitch, I thought to myself that I could definitely get used to that kind of work. And had it not been for an email that went into the Fifa dude's junk mail, I would have been at every first round match. The good news is that there is one 2nd round match still to be played in Vancouver and the teams as luck would have it are Spain vs Brazil. I'll have a sangria in one hand and a samba drum in the other come Wednesday night.
Well, it's evening which means it's getting chilly outside. Hear that Tainan, chilly! Eat your sweaty little hearts out! Now I will return into my pink-carpeted abode (no, we can't really believe we have pink carpets either) to stare blankly at the pale yellow walls until our other shipment of decorating stuff arrives from Taiwan. If you're ever in town, do look us up. It's real easy to find us, just remember the Commercial: Adanac rhymes with tabarnac! Then just look for the Tibetan prayer flags et voila! Or, if you're not the resourceful type come to 1837 Adanac St or give me a call at 778-318-0462.
This is oj just letting you know that Michele, lil' oj, Flea and me are off on the good foot. And like JB (RIP), it's right about time for the splits. Aiiiiiiiiiiii,,,ow. I shouldn't have tried that. A la prochaine!
oj
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