My baby gave me a laugh first thing this morning. It was completely unintentional on her part - she certainly did not think it was in any way funny.
I had just got out of bed and wanted to check on my daughter to see if she was still sleeping. I put my ear to her door and thought I discerned a very soft sound. Careful not to wake her, should she still be sleeping, I very slowly and quietly opened her door, just wide enough to fit my head in. She was curled up on her bed, her back to me. I watched her for a minute. I still wasn't sure if she were awake or dreaming, when suddenly she sat up, and, two seconds later, turned around. When she saw me, her mouth opened in a short, silent shriek, her arms went flying into the air, and her eyes grew to twice their size. My first reaction was to laugh out loud at her reaction; that's when she knew it was me. She looked like she didn't know whether to cry or be angry with me. No wonder, and who can blame her? Poor kid's relaxing in her bed, when suddenly she turns around and sees a head peering at her from a crack in her door, which is in fact very reminiscent of the scene in The Tell-Tale Heart, where the creepy murderer very quietly opens the door to his master's chamber and just stands there in silence, watching the old man as he sleeps.
That was the first time I saw her frightened. It was real, genuine shock she experienced, poor girl. The look on her face was absolutely priceless. She forgave mommy pretty quickly though when she felt herself being picked up by a nice comfy pair of arms.
Sunday 24 July 2011
Wednesday 13 July 2011
She does everything but stand alone and walk
My daughter is now nearly 16 months old - and does not yet walk, nor does she even stand unsupported. But, strangely, she can do practically everything else.
That kid will climb upstairs in less than a minute. She will reach over the table and counters, her little hand coming dangerously close to the towel on which stand an unstable mountain of drying dishes (I wonder what would happen if I pulled on this? she must wonder, before mommy sprints towards her and prevents a disaster). An explosion of vocabulary erupts from her mouth, as she attempts to repeat every word I teach her. She can even point to her diaper and say caca. She can also pretend to be speaking on the phone: she puts her fist up to her ear (as though holding a receiver) and says hello? then mumbles something, says bye bye, and "hangs up." The other day, I was amazed at the fact that in reply to my question: what does a cow do? (incidentally, I had no pictures of cows handy, nor were there any in a nearby field, as we were, in fact, in the middle of the city) she replied, without hesitation, moooo! I had taught her that with the help of a book, only a few times before, but did not believe for one second that she would remember it, out of context!
But this is not all - she has also shown some inclination toward eating with a spoon (though she still generally insits that mommy feed her - it gets food to her mouth faster, after all). She will, once in a while, at the end of a meal, pick up her spoon and try to direct whatever food might happen to be on it towards her mouth. She is not always on target - sometimes she will get a cheek, chin, or nose-full of yogurt. She even understands that the napkin that is presented to her afterwards is for wiping her face. Sometimes she will grap it and pass it over her mouth - then insist on wiping the chin of the adult who has been feeding her.
So if she can climb stairs with perfect confidence, reach over tables and counters, learn new words each day, pretend to talk on the phone, make associations between animals and the sound they make, attempt to eat with a spoon, and wipe her own mouth, why cannot she walk, or at least stand on her own? I watch her, always thinking it's going to happen, but then at the last minute she always finds something to grab onto. She only once let go of a little table that was giving her support, and that only for a few seconds. She never attempted this feat again. There must be a reason for her being adventurous in so many other aspects of her life, but not this one.
Perhaps, because she is tall for her age, she thinks she is too far from the ground when she stands? I suppose it would be scary. Wow, that floor sure looks far away, she must be thinking. I think I'll just get closer to it before I attempt any sort of movement.
But then, how do you explain the stairs? Ooh, look, stairs, stretching up seemingly indefinitely. Wow, that sure looks high. I think I'll climb them! Hmmmm ...
That kid will climb upstairs in less than a minute. She will reach over the table and counters, her little hand coming dangerously close to the towel on which stand an unstable mountain of drying dishes (I wonder what would happen if I pulled on this? she must wonder, before mommy sprints towards her and prevents a disaster). An explosion of vocabulary erupts from her mouth, as she attempts to repeat every word I teach her. She can even point to her diaper and say caca. She can also pretend to be speaking on the phone: she puts her fist up to her ear (as though holding a receiver) and says hello? then mumbles something, says bye bye, and "hangs up." The other day, I was amazed at the fact that in reply to my question: what does a cow do? (incidentally, I had no pictures of cows handy, nor were there any in a nearby field, as we were, in fact, in the middle of the city) she replied, without hesitation, moooo! I had taught her that with the help of a book, only a few times before, but did not believe for one second that she would remember it, out of context!
But this is not all - she has also shown some inclination toward eating with a spoon (though she still generally insits that mommy feed her - it gets food to her mouth faster, after all). She will, once in a while, at the end of a meal, pick up her spoon and try to direct whatever food might happen to be on it towards her mouth. She is not always on target - sometimes she will get a cheek, chin, or nose-full of yogurt. She even understands that the napkin that is presented to her afterwards is for wiping her face. Sometimes she will grap it and pass it over her mouth - then insist on wiping the chin of the adult who has been feeding her.
So if she can climb stairs with perfect confidence, reach over tables and counters, learn new words each day, pretend to talk on the phone, make associations between animals and the sound they make, attempt to eat with a spoon, and wipe her own mouth, why cannot she walk, or at least stand on her own? I watch her, always thinking it's going to happen, but then at the last minute she always finds something to grab onto. She only once let go of a little table that was giving her support, and that only for a few seconds. She never attempted this feat again. There must be a reason for her being adventurous in so many other aspects of her life, but not this one.
Perhaps, because she is tall for her age, she thinks she is too far from the ground when she stands? I suppose it would be scary. Wow, that floor sure looks far away, she must be thinking. I think I'll just get closer to it before I attempt any sort of movement.
But then, how do you explain the stairs? Ooh, look, stairs, stretching up seemingly indefinitely. Wow, that sure looks high. I think I'll climb them! Hmmmm ...
Tuesday 5 July 2011
Playing with other kids
I can't wait for my little girl to start daycare - not because I'll be dancing around my living room with my hands in the air singing "Freedom! Freedom at last!" Not even one bit.
Ok, maybe a little freedom dance.
Actually, I can't wait for my daughter to have the opportunity to play with other kids her age. I cannot wait to see what skills she'll pick up. Though I'm hoping she'll at least be walking by the time she begins daycare. If not, I'm sure she will be soon after.
The point is, kids will learn from other kids. This weekend, we were at my aunt and uncle's house. My cousin was there, along with her husband and four-year-old daughter. My little girl played with their little girl the entire weekend, and by sunday, my baby stood on her own for the first time, for a full 4 seconds! She had been holding on to a small table, when she suddenly, and very much on purpose, let go! She teetered a bit, trying to find her balance, and just stood there, thinking nothing of it, while her mum watched, mouth agape and unable to move with shock. When my daughter put one hand back on the little table, I allowed the excitement I had withheld to burst out of me in the form of cheers and a profuse clapping of hands that got the little achiever rather confused. "Why is mommy so happy?" she must have been wondering as I picked her up in my arms and kissed her cheek several times.
I have not a doubt that this feat was accomplished simply because she had been watching a slightly taller child walk and dance around her.
Speaking of my little cousin, I would like to share a few of the stories I have picked up relating to her this weekend; some of these moments struck me as particularly surprising or amusing. As my only child is not yet four, I have no idea if some of the stories I have to tell will strike more experienced parents as typical of this particular age. I know that, to me, my little cousin appeared surprisingly old for her years.
First I must mention that I have a difficulty understanding most four-year-olds. I have had very short conversations even with six-year-olds that consisted of unintelligle babble followed by an awkward "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying" (this comment is always received with an indigant look on the part of the child). But my little cousin's words are as clear as day (pardon the cliché - I usually hate these, and only use them in the case of an emergency). She spoke so well, that I actually offered to let her read a story to my daughter. "That is ... can you read?" I asked uncomfortably, realizing my mistake. Of course she can't read. She's four. Actually, her mum assured me, she has been starting to sound words out. "Oh, of course. Well, she can sit with us and I'll read to them."
On our first evening, I stepped out to the balcony to join my cousins outside. I found my little cousin in the middle of quoting Harry Potter, in a very Hermione-esque voice. And in her very best Brittish accent.
"Wow, that's very good," I said. Then added, very honestly, "I've always wanted to be able to do that." I tried to speak to her in my best Brittish accent which, honestly, couldn't hold a candle to her perfect imitation of Hermione, Harry and Ron.
Later, after she had watched me change my daughter's diaper, she pointed to a picture of elephants on the bathroom wall and said how much she loved it. "And what are those?" I asked, suddenly and stupidly thinking I was talking to someone younger. "They're elephants," she told me, eyebrows raised in a I-can't-believe-you-just-asked-me-that look. "I am four, you know."
Ok, maybe a little freedom dance.
Actually, I can't wait for my daughter to have the opportunity to play with other kids her age. I cannot wait to see what skills she'll pick up. Though I'm hoping she'll at least be walking by the time she begins daycare. If not, I'm sure she will be soon after.
The point is, kids will learn from other kids. This weekend, we were at my aunt and uncle's house. My cousin was there, along with her husband and four-year-old daughter. My little girl played with their little girl the entire weekend, and by sunday, my baby stood on her own for the first time, for a full 4 seconds! She had been holding on to a small table, when she suddenly, and very much on purpose, let go! She teetered a bit, trying to find her balance, and just stood there, thinking nothing of it, while her mum watched, mouth agape and unable to move with shock. When my daughter put one hand back on the little table, I allowed the excitement I had withheld to burst out of me in the form of cheers and a profuse clapping of hands that got the little achiever rather confused. "Why is mommy so happy?" she must have been wondering as I picked her up in my arms and kissed her cheek several times.
I have not a doubt that this feat was accomplished simply because she had been watching a slightly taller child walk and dance around her.
Speaking of my little cousin, I would like to share a few of the stories I have picked up relating to her this weekend; some of these moments struck me as particularly surprising or amusing. As my only child is not yet four, I have no idea if some of the stories I have to tell will strike more experienced parents as typical of this particular age. I know that, to me, my little cousin appeared surprisingly old for her years.
First I must mention that I have a difficulty understanding most four-year-olds. I have had very short conversations even with six-year-olds that consisted of unintelligle babble followed by an awkward "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying" (this comment is always received with an indigant look on the part of the child). But my little cousin's words are as clear as day (pardon the cliché - I usually hate these, and only use them in the case of an emergency). She spoke so well, that I actually offered to let her read a story to my daughter. "That is ... can you read?" I asked uncomfortably, realizing my mistake. Of course she can't read. She's four. Actually, her mum assured me, she has been starting to sound words out. "Oh, of course. Well, she can sit with us and I'll read to them."
On our first evening, I stepped out to the balcony to join my cousins outside. I found my little cousin in the middle of quoting Harry Potter, in a very Hermione-esque voice. And in her very best Brittish accent.
"Wow, that's very good," I said. Then added, very honestly, "I've always wanted to be able to do that." I tried to speak to her in my best Brittish accent which, honestly, couldn't hold a candle to her perfect imitation of Hermione, Harry and Ron.
Later, after she had watched me change my daughter's diaper, she pointed to a picture of elephants on the bathroom wall and said how much she loved it. "And what are those?" I asked, suddenly and stupidly thinking I was talking to someone younger. "They're elephants," she told me, eyebrows raised in a I-can't-believe-you-just-asked-me-that look. "I am four, you know."
Monday 20 June 2011
Muffled Bangings in the Closet and Other Instances of Lack of Foresight
As my husband and I prepare for a family trip to Prince Edward Island tomorrow, my father offers to lend us his cooler. I put my daughter to bed and my husband and Dad head out to the garage. A few minutes later, I hear muffled banging noises, as though something is hitting the side of the house. My mother and I share an expression of puzzlement.
"Actually, it sounds like it's coming from inside the wall," I say.
My daughter, whose bedroom is right by the wall in question, starts wailing. I go outside to check out the source of the racket. My father has a ladder leaning into the garret, and he is handing down the cooler, lawn chairs and a beach mat to my husband.
"The attic is right by Baby's room!" I hiss. "You're keeping her awake!"
I go upstairs and take my daughter in my arms. She gives me a grateful hug, then, with under lip curled in a pout, looks to the closet, where a muffled banging has just ceased.
"There are no monsters in the closet," I soothe.
My daughter is now sleeping, and I find myself thinking: parents usually make every effort to keep monsters out of the closet, and here we are putting them in. What other instances of lack of foresight are we guilty of?
There are of course the classic cases of putting the wine bottle not enough out of her reach, and taking it away just in time to avoid catastrophic consequences; or putting her in her first miniature toddler car ride and asking the fraught-with-dire-repurcussions question: "What's that button for?" and watching your child whimper in panic as the vehicle begins to make weird rocking motions.
But I would have to say that my crowning moment of lack of foresight was the time I took my two-month old baby on her first airplane ride to visit her new family in New Brunswick. I hadn't wanted to be "encumbered" with a stroller, so I left it with my husband just before crossing the security checkpoint. There I was, with my very small baby in my arms, attempting to take off my jacket, shoes, bag, etc., all the while making sure I didn't drop her. I passed the metal detector, and thought everything would be a breeze from then on. But have you ever tried putting on a jacket, bag and shoes while carrying a baby? Not possible. Finally I had to resort to asking one of the security guards to hold my child for me while I put my things on. From that time, I take my stroller with me every time I leave the house.
But then, there are instances where fate is dead set against you. When I came back from Rome, my stroller apparently decided to take a break in Paris after weeks of rattling over cobblestone streets. It was nowhere to be found as I exited the plane; I had to walk through a mile of Charles de Gaulle airport with my 25-lb daughter in my arms, and quickly, to make our connecting flight. The stroller was returned to me a few days later, well rested and in a state of perfect nonchalance.
"Actually, it sounds like it's coming from inside the wall," I say.
My daughter, whose bedroom is right by the wall in question, starts wailing. I go outside to check out the source of the racket. My father has a ladder leaning into the garret, and he is handing down the cooler, lawn chairs and a beach mat to my husband.
"The attic is right by Baby's room!" I hiss. "You're keeping her awake!"
I go upstairs and take my daughter in my arms. She gives me a grateful hug, then, with under lip curled in a pout, looks to the closet, where a muffled banging has just ceased.
"There are no monsters in the closet," I soothe.
My daughter is now sleeping, and I find myself thinking: parents usually make every effort to keep monsters out of the closet, and here we are putting them in. What other instances of lack of foresight are we guilty of?
There are of course the classic cases of putting the wine bottle not enough out of her reach, and taking it away just in time to avoid catastrophic consequences; or putting her in her first miniature toddler car ride and asking the fraught-with-dire-repurcussions question: "What's that button for?" and watching your child whimper in panic as the vehicle begins to make weird rocking motions.
But I would have to say that my crowning moment of lack of foresight was the time I took my two-month old baby on her first airplane ride to visit her new family in New Brunswick. I hadn't wanted to be "encumbered" with a stroller, so I left it with my husband just before crossing the security checkpoint. There I was, with my very small baby in my arms, attempting to take off my jacket, shoes, bag, etc., all the while making sure I didn't drop her. I passed the metal detector, and thought everything would be a breeze from then on. But have you ever tried putting on a jacket, bag and shoes while carrying a baby? Not possible. Finally I had to resort to asking one of the security guards to hold my child for me while I put my things on. From that time, I take my stroller with me every time I leave the house.
But then, there are instances where fate is dead set against you. When I came back from Rome, my stroller apparently decided to take a break in Paris after weeks of rattling over cobblestone streets. It was nowhere to be found as I exited the plane; I had to walk through a mile of Charles de Gaulle airport with my 25-lb daughter in my arms, and quickly, to make our connecting flight. The stroller was returned to me a few days later, well rested and in a state of perfect nonchalance.
Wednesday 1 June 2011
Hot Summer (or, The Day My House Began Falling To Pieces)
June 1st. I love June. At the start of June I look forward to the coming summer. There is a promise of warmer days whispered in the wind.
Or, on this particular June 1st, a veritable, 30 degrees plus humidex, full blazing sun, scorcher of a day, complete with a wind that could blow your house down, I am actually looking forward to cooler days.
But to begin at the beginning. Let's go back to the last week of May. The week I came home from Rome, looking forward to a small reprieve from the hot Italian sun. The week, incidentally, when summer officially came to Montreal. In full force.
The first thing my husband and I noticed upon our return home is that the upstairs air-conditioner doesn't work. "Oh well," I shrugged. "I'm not a big fan of air-conditioning anyway."
Ten days, fifteen degrees later and no company is willing to even come look at our air-conditioner, claiming it "does not work with the particular brand of our unit." Well, bugger. We open our windows (which in fact provides an interesting sequel to this story, if you will kindly read on), turn on the air-conditioner downstairs full blast, but to no avail; the thermostats upstairs stubbornly indicate such horrible temperatures as 28.5 celcius. Even during the night, the readings on the thermostats hardly budge.
What's wrong with this house?? I feel like yelling. How can it be hotter inside than it is outside? But I already know the answer to that. We have chosen to live in a tall, skinny house that is sitting atop a hill on what most likely used to be an open field, with nothing to offer shelter from the blazing sun but a tiny twig someone planted on the front lawn ten years ago and that has since grown about half-an-inch per year. We are completely exposed.
Last year, we discovered with not a small amount of horror that we had set up our baby room in what, it turns out, is the hottest room in the house. We did everything we could to cool down that room come summer, including putting a roll-down blind in addition to the aluminum blinds that were already there, and even duct-taping some sun-deflecting material to the pane. It helped, but only a little. Finally we realized we would have to leave the a/c on full-time. At least it worked then.
Sick of that system, however, we decided to switch the baby's room with the computer room last winter. It was a project that took a couple of days. But it did make a difference. About 1 or 2 degrees' difference.
Last night, finding it impossible to sleep upstairs, we moved the entire family to the basement. We slept on the futon, and our baby slept in her play-pen (converted into a bed).
So now we have indefinitely vacated the upstairs part of our home (which I have just now decided to dub: The Kalahari), using it only to shower and change clothes.
But, when faced with temporary abandonment of its upper floor, instead of graciously accepting its shortcomings and patiently awaiting our eventual return, the house opted for revenge.
It is a very hot, but also very windy day today. This morning, I decided it would be nice to open the windows a bit, and let in some fresh air. My baby was napping in the basement and I was reading downstairs when suddenly I heard a very loud Bang! I ran upstairs, and upon looking in the bathroom I noticed that the window had been blown open to its beyond-fullest potential, and had slammed into the wall. I climbed into the tub, removed the screen and tried to pull the window closed. But the house was putting up a good fight. The rusty hinges had bent and snapped, and the window looked like it was ready to fly off on its own and explore new lands and sights, possibly considering a close neighbor's lawn as its first stop, or worse, a neighbor's head.
If this window flies away and lands on someone's head, or crashes through someone else's window, I will surely be sued, or charged with murder, or something, I thought as I held onto the window, fighting against a wind that appeared to see the potential for entertainment in this situation and seemed determined to see the worst possible damage done.
Right then I saw my next-door neighbor arrive home and get out of his van. Firmly gripping my window, I leaned outside and called out his name. He looked straight in front of him, then up. "My window's going to fly away! Help!!" I yelled in panic.
A minute later he was upstairs in my bathroom, one foot out on the roof, the other in my bathtub, hanging on to the window for dear life, yelling to his son who had made his appearance outside to fetch his friend next door, quickly!
"What are you doing up there, Dad?" his son yelled.
"I'm having a bath! Now hurry up!"
About fifteen minutes later, my neighbour is still in my bathtub, and the other on the roof. The two of them finally manage to force the window to relent and close. Only partly, though. The top half is secured, but the bottom half has proven impossible to fit back into the frame. The wind whistles shrilly through that bottom crack now, and when I close my eyes, I imagine I'm sailing a small, creaky boat on a rough sea.
As soon as the window was sufficiently closed and all possibility of a disaster had been averted, I ran out back to fetch the ladder. Only, when I put it against the house, it would not reach all the way to the roof. The neighbour had to run to his house to get his ladder, while the other guy sat on my roof below my bathroom window, casually looking around as though he were admiring the view, his wife staring up at him from my driveway.
After he managed to climb off my room, I thanked my neighbours, promised them a case of beer, and went back inside. My baby was still sound asleep in her bed in the cool basement.
Or, on this particular June 1st, a veritable, 30 degrees plus humidex, full blazing sun, scorcher of a day, complete with a wind that could blow your house down, I am actually looking forward to cooler days.
But to begin at the beginning. Let's go back to the last week of May. The week I came home from Rome, looking forward to a small reprieve from the hot Italian sun. The week, incidentally, when summer officially came to Montreal. In full force.
The first thing my husband and I noticed upon our return home is that the upstairs air-conditioner doesn't work. "Oh well," I shrugged. "I'm not a big fan of air-conditioning anyway."
Ten days, fifteen degrees later and no company is willing to even come look at our air-conditioner, claiming it "does not work with the particular brand of our unit." Well, bugger. We open our windows (which in fact provides an interesting sequel to this story, if you will kindly read on), turn on the air-conditioner downstairs full blast, but to no avail; the thermostats upstairs stubbornly indicate such horrible temperatures as 28.5 celcius. Even during the night, the readings on the thermostats hardly budge.
What's wrong with this house?? I feel like yelling. How can it be hotter inside than it is outside? But I already know the answer to that. We have chosen to live in a tall, skinny house that is sitting atop a hill on what most likely used to be an open field, with nothing to offer shelter from the blazing sun but a tiny twig someone planted on the front lawn ten years ago and that has since grown about half-an-inch per year. We are completely exposed.
Last year, we discovered with not a small amount of horror that we had set up our baby room in what, it turns out, is the hottest room in the house. We did everything we could to cool down that room come summer, including putting a roll-down blind in addition to the aluminum blinds that were already there, and even duct-taping some sun-deflecting material to the pane. It helped, but only a little. Finally we realized we would have to leave the a/c on full-time. At least it worked then.
Sick of that system, however, we decided to switch the baby's room with the computer room last winter. It was a project that took a couple of days. But it did make a difference. About 1 or 2 degrees' difference.
Last night, finding it impossible to sleep upstairs, we moved the entire family to the basement. We slept on the futon, and our baby slept in her play-pen (converted into a bed).
So now we have indefinitely vacated the upstairs part of our home (which I have just now decided to dub: The Kalahari), using it only to shower and change clothes.
But, when faced with temporary abandonment of its upper floor, instead of graciously accepting its shortcomings and patiently awaiting our eventual return, the house opted for revenge.
It is a very hot, but also very windy day today. This morning, I decided it would be nice to open the windows a bit, and let in some fresh air. My baby was napping in the basement and I was reading downstairs when suddenly I heard a very loud Bang! I ran upstairs, and upon looking in the bathroom I noticed that the window had been blown open to its beyond-fullest potential, and had slammed into the wall. I climbed into the tub, removed the screen and tried to pull the window closed. But the house was putting up a good fight. The rusty hinges had bent and snapped, and the window looked like it was ready to fly off on its own and explore new lands and sights, possibly considering a close neighbor's lawn as its first stop, or worse, a neighbor's head.
If this window flies away and lands on someone's head, or crashes through someone else's window, I will surely be sued, or charged with murder, or something, I thought as I held onto the window, fighting against a wind that appeared to see the potential for entertainment in this situation and seemed determined to see the worst possible damage done.
Right then I saw my next-door neighbor arrive home and get out of his van. Firmly gripping my window, I leaned outside and called out his name. He looked straight in front of him, then up. "My window's going to fly away! Help!!" I yelled in panic.
A minute later he was upstairs in my bathroom, one foot out on the roof, the other in my bathtub, hanging on to the window for dear life, yelling to his son who had made his appearance outside to fetch his friend next door, quickly!
"What are you doing up there, Dad?" his son yelled.
"I'm having a bath! Now hurry up!"
About fifteen minutes later, my neighbour is still in my bathtub, and the other on the roof. The two of them finally manage to force the window to relent and close. Only partly, though. The top half is secured, but the bottom half has proven impossible to fit back into the frame. The wind whistles shrilly through that bottom crack now, and when I close my eyes, I imagine I'm sailing a small, creaky boat on a rough sea.
As soon as the window was sufficiently closed and all possibility of a disaster had been averted, I ran out back to fetch the ladder. Only, when I put it against the house, it would not reach all the way to the roof. The neighbour had to run to his house to get his ladder, while the other guy sat on my roof below my bathroom window, casually looking around as though he were admiring the view, his wife staring up at him from my driveway.
After he managed to climb off my room, I thanked my neighbours, promised them a case of beer, and went back inside. My baby was still sound asleep in her bed in the cool basement.
Sunday 29 May 2011
Is it ok to let your baby eat off the floor at Starbuck's?
Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds. Ok, maybe a little.
We did a family outing this morning at Starbuck's. I love their low-fat banana chocolate chip cake. Doesn't sound very low-fat, though, does it? I'm not even going to start on the whopper I had later at Burger King. Well ... maybe I will talk about our outing at BK in a bit. But first, Starbuck's.
My husband is having coffee, I am chowing down on my banana cake, and our baby is sitting on the floor, having given warning that if she wasn't taken out of her stroller soon, a fit might very well be eminent. On the floor she goes, and while she's down there, I give her little pieces of banana cake in her hand. I don't much like feeding her when she's on the floor, because I have the impression of giving scraps to a dog, or throwing crumbs at a pigeon, or whatever. But she doesn't seem to mind.
Of course I hadn't thought this through, as usual. A little piece of banana cake rolls to the floor, and way beyond the 5-second rule, my daughter decides to pick it up and, before I can say anything, pops it in her mouth. I know at this point some parents may be cringing. But I would like to share with you some words of wisdom that my grandmother used to share with her kids:
"You have to eat two buckets of shit before you die."
Well, if that's true, my daughter is well on her way.
I don't believe in the lysol-everything solution to germs that has become some sort of fad lately. In fact, I strongly believe that exposure to germs are good for you. I mean, how else do we develop immune systems?
But when I saw my daughter go for another piece of some thing or other on the floor that had been left there god knows how long and by whom, I let a loud "no!" burst forth so suddenly and with so much force she actually flinched. Needless to say, she didn't try to eat that particular morsel of food she had found so inviting.
Now for Burger King. By the way, I am aware of the fact that I am on a fast track to gaining back the 5 lbs. I have lost last month in Rome. But I will compensate by having hummus and a green salad for dinner. Yum.
One of the first things we noticed was the noise. The ceilings were very high, which was perfect for letting the 40-some kids' screams bounce around the vast space. This is a place with family-friendly convenience parents cannot resist. Get food fast, let the kids run around the play-park. By the way, when did those fast food restaurant play-gyms turn into a three story contraption the likes of which one would expect to find at the Family Robinson treehouse in Disneyland?
These places are never just filled with happy kids who run around in their socks. There was one little boy who, for a reason unknown to me, decided to have a crying fit. His mother, a heavy lady who, had she been in a movie, would have likely been wearing a mu-mu and curlers in her hair, was carrying him to the bathroom, holding him firm against her chest by his shoulder and left leg, while he kicked and screamed, gradually turning purple in the face.
Oh, the joys of parenting!
We did a family outing this morning at Starbuck's. I love their low-fat banana chocolate chip cake. Doesn't sound very low-fat, though, does it? I'm not even going to start on the whopper I had later at Burger King. Well ... maybe I will talk about our outing at BK in a bit. But first, Starbuck's.
My husband is having coffee, I am chowing down on my banana cake, and our baby is sitting on the floor, having given warning that if she wasn't taken out of her stroller soon, a fit might very well be eminent. On the floor she goes, and while she's down there, I give her little pieces of banana cake in her hand. I don't much like feeding her when she's on the floor, because I have the impression of giving scraps to a dog, or throwing crumbs at a pigeon, or whatever. But she doesn't seem to mind.
Of course I hadn't thought this through, as usual. A little piece of banana cake rolls to the floor, and way beyond the 5-second rule, my daughter decides to pick it up and, before I can say anything, pops it in her mouth. I know at this point some parents may be cringing. But I would like to share with you some words of wisdom that my grandmother used to share with her kids:
"You have to eat two buckets of shit before you die."
Well, if that's true, my daughter is well on her way.
I don't believe in the lysol-everything solution to germs that has become some sort of fad lately. In fact, I strongly believe that exposure to germs are good for you. I mean, how else do we develop immune systems?
But when I saw my daughter go for another piece of some thing or other on the floor that had been left there god knows how long and by whom, I let a loud "no!" burst forth so suddenly and with so much force she actually flinched. Needless to say, she didn't try to eat that particular morsel of food she had found so inviting.
Now for Burger King. By the way, I am aware of the fact that I am on a fast track to gaining back the 5 lbs. I have lost last month in Rome. But I will compensate by having hummus and a green salad for dinner. Yum.
One of the first things we noticed was the noise. The ceilings were very high, which was perfect for letting the 40-some kids' screams bounce around the vast space. This is a place with family-friendly convenience parents cannot resist. Get food fast, let the kids run around the play-park. By the way, when did those fast food restaurant play-gyms turn into a three story contraption the likes of which one would expect to find at the Family Robinson treehouse in Disneyland?
These places are never just filled with happy kids who run around in their socks. There was one little boy who, for a reason unknown to me, decided to have a crying fit. His mother, a heavy lady who, had she been in a movie, would have likely been wearing a mu-mu and curlers in her hair, was carrying him to the bathroom, holding him firm against her chest by his shoulder and left leg, while he kicked and screamed, gradually turning purple in the face.
Oh, the joys of parenting!
Friday 27 May 2011
New Blog
I knew I was jinxing myself with that last post! Because, of course, the moment I wrote that my daughter was an absolute, perfect angel, marked the beginnings of screaming through breakfast, pulling of hair and scratching of face, refusing, positively refusing, to let mommy change her diaper, spinning this way and that and insisting on going around with her bum "au naturel."
Sigh.
Ok, so I'm sticking with this blog. I need it, after all. It serves as therapy.
But I did start a new one. A second blog. How did I get from one blog to two? Oh well, never mind. My second blog, which I will write with as much love and devotion as I have been writing this one, is on, well, writing. It is not a practical, step by step guide to how to get published. I would never presume to take such a liberty with my readers. No. This is a blog about me taking a first dip into the world of writing and publishing. And then seeing what happens.
If you would like to check it out, go to http://www.aspiringwriterdiary.blogspot.com/. Or follow the link at the end of my profile: Just Write. I think you have to go to "complete profile" to get to it.
Sigh.
Ok, so I'm sticking with this blog. I need it, after all. It serves as therapy.
But I did start a new one. A second blog. How did I get from one blog to two? Oh well, never mind. My second blog, which I will write with as much love and devotion as I have been writing this one, is on, well, writing. It is not a practical, step by step guide to how to get published. I would never presume to take such a liberty with my readers. No. This is a blog about me taking a first dip into the world of writing and publishing. And then seeing what happens.
If you would like to check it out, go to http://www.aspiringwriterdiary.blogspot.com/. Or follow the link at the end of my profile: Just Write. I think you have to go to "complete profile" to get to it.
Wednesday 25 May 2011
Back from Rome
Baby and I are back home - and feeling euphoric! I believe my new template reflects my mood: hummingbirds, little purple flowers in a green forest - speaking of which, everything is so verdant here! It's like, while I was away, the world seemed to wake up and don a new, beautiful, colourful dress it just couldn't resist buying as it presented itself, gorgeous and flowing, in a storefront window.
Rome was beautiful, extraordinary, unbelievable. But nothing beats hearing a robin singing a spring tune to the early dawn, trees, garbed in their fresh, new, pale-green leaves, fragrant blossoms just opening their rosy petals, and a warm evening wind carrying the aroma of grilled burgers on a barbecue.
I'm suddenly having a craving for a burger.
Anyway, I'm glad to be home. I missed it. I missed my kitchen. Yay! I have a kitchen counter again! And four, yes, four burners! Oh, and my dishwasher! How I've missed you!
Still. Rome was wonderful. I realize I have not written very often in this blog during my month in Rome. But when one is too busy seeing, well, everything ...
This puts me in mind ... I am seriously thinking of changing the title of my blog (and consequently the address). I will let my readers know, in a future posting, if I decide to do so.
I am a new mom. I adore my daughter. My wonderful, perfect daughter. So wonderful, in fact, that she never gives me so much as a headache. Except when she's pulling my hair - hard. I'm sure we'll kick the habit one day. I have read other "new mom" blogs. The women who write these seem to be able to stick to their chosen topic. I, on the other hand, appear to have some amount of trouble doing so. I could write about my daughter every day. But what would I write? "Today, she has taken two naps, 1h30mins each, and outside of these naps, played happily on the floor with her toys." I don't have to deal with tantrums. I don't have to deal with fussiness. Or endless crying, or painful teething, fevers, rashes, or even sleepless nights. They just don't exist here! I know I might sound like I'm bragging. I'm not. I'm not complaining either, mind you. I'm just grateful.
But here's the thing. People need to suffer to write. Or so I've heard. Actually, I don't believe that, not one bit. But I do believe that a writer needs something to write about. So far, in this blog, I've written about a Tempo car shelter, my ex-dog, ex-boyfriends, handsome (or not) Italians, and how to lose weight (by the way, I lost 5 lbs in Rome! Living almost exclusively on pizza, pasta and gelato! Ok, now I'm bragging). Actually, looking back, it was only in March that I wrote faithfully to the topic of motherhood.
I have a confession to make. You know how some people say that when they have a baby, parenthood becomes their whole life, and their child takes up 100% of their time? Their entire lives have changed, and their baby has become their only priority. Well, that's just not true with me. Sure, my daughter gets everything she needs, including her mother's undying and deepest love. But mommy needs her own life, too. I could never be a stay-at-home mom. Right now, that's what I'm doing, but that's only going to last another very few months. My daughter is going into daycare in the fall, and even now she is spending the mornings with my neighbor, who is, incidentally, a stay-at-home mom. With four kids.
I am a mom. But I am also a writer. A new, just started emerging into the scary world of query letters, submissions and, of course, rejections, writer. I am also working on a first book. An intimidating, 530-pages manuscript that I began 8 years ago. This monster is taking my every last bit of courage to edit.
So there it is. I need a steady topic for my blog, one to which I will write, or else I will just keep going all over the place. Why not let it be: Confessions of a New Writer (or something like that)?
I'll keep you posted.
Rome was beautiful, extraordinary, unbelievable. But nothing beats hearing a robin singing a spring tune to the early dawn, trees, garbed in their fresh, new, pale-green leaves, fragrant blossoms just opening their rosy petals, and a warm evening wind carrying the aroma of grilled burgers on a barbecue.
I'm suddenly having a craving for a burger.
Anyway, I'm glad to be home. I missed it. I missed my kitchen. Yay! I have a kitchen counter again! And four, yes, four burners! Oh, and my dishwasher! How I've missed you!
Still. Rome was wonderful. I realize I have not written very often in this blog during my month in Rome. But when one is too busy seeing, well, everything ...
This puts me in mind ... I am seriously thinking of changing the title of my blog (and consequently the address). I will let my readers know, in a future posting, if I decide to do so.
I am a new mom. I adore my daughter. My wonderful, perfect daughter. So wonderful, in fact, that she never gives me so much as a headache. Except when she's pulling my hair - hard. I'm sure we'll kick the habit one day. I have read other "new mom" blogs. The women who write these seem to be able to stick to their chosen topic. I, on the other hand, appear to have some amount of trouble doing so. I could write about my daughter every day. But what would I write? "Today, she has taken two naps, 1h30mins each, and outside of these naps, played happily on the floor with her toys." I don't have to deal with tantrums. I don't have to deal with fussiness. Or endless crying, or painful teething, fevers, rashes, or even sleepless nights. They just don't exist here! I know I might sound like I'm bragging. I'm not. I'm not complaining either, mind you. I'm just grateful.
But here's the thing. People need to suffer to write. Or so I've heard. Actually, I don't believe that, not one bit. But I do believe that a writer needs something to write about. So far, in this blog, I've written about a Tempo car shelter, my ex-dog, ex-boyfriends, handsome (or not) Italians, and how to lose weight (by the way, I lost 5 lbs in Rome! Living almost exclusively on pizza, pasta and gelato! Ok, now I'm bragging). Actually, looking back, it was only in March that I wrote faithfully to the topic of motherhood.
I have a confession to make. You know how some people say that when they have a baby, parenthood becomes their whole life, and their child takes up 100% of their time? Their entire lives have changed, and their baby has become their only priority. Well, that's just not true with me. Sure, my daughter gets everything she needs, including her mother's undying and deepest love. But mommy needs her own life, too. I could never be a stay-at-home mom. Right now, that's what I'm doing, but that's only going to last another very few months. My daughter is going into daycare in the fall, and even now she is spending the mornings with my neighbor, who is, incidentally, a stay-at-home mom. With four kids.
I am a mom. But I am also a writer. A new, just started emerging into the scary world of query letters, submissions and, of course, rejections, writer. I am also working on a first book. An intimidating, 530-pages manuscript that I began 8 years ago. This monster is taking my every last bit of courage to edit.
So there it is. I need a steady topic for my blog, one to which I will write, or else I will just keep going all over the place. Why not let it be: Confessions of a New Writer (or something like that)?
I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday 11 May 2011
What's with all the Nutella?
Here are a few odd bits and pieces of my observations on Rome, having been a "resident" here for two weeks now.
Where have all the good looking Romans gone?
Seriously. They must all have been deported. Someone some day had the brilliant idea of shipping off a considerable portion of Rome's men to different countries around the world, for the greater good of civilization.
Following my last stay in Rome, I would tell people that in the three weeks I spent here, I saw two ugly Italian men. That was it. I felt very sorry for them.
I am reading a book - many people may be familiar with it - Eat, Pray, Love, an excellent book in which the author tells numerous tales of her voyages abroad. She spent four months in Rome, and writes that the men here are "achingly beautiful" (or something to that effect). I know what she's talking about; I saw them repeatedly the last time I was here. So what happened in the last very few years? I just don't see them anymore. They have mysteriously vanished.
When I was 17, I met a very handsome military man in Rome named Carmine. I bet Carmine is now pot-bellied and balding.
It is a fact commonly known that Western women are gawked at and whistled at and flirted with continuously in Rome. When I was 17, it was very, very true. Now, obviously, this fact has been transformed into myth. Is this true only for me? Because I am 32 years old and traipsing around Rome pushing a baby stroller? Or is it because, as Elizabeth Gilbert mentions in her book, Roman men have decided to fight against their stereotype and prove to the world that they can be gentlemen as well? Perhaps. And yet, there is the odd one or two who refuse to change and proudly flaunt their talent for awkward flirtation. Like the typical middle-aged man who, moving aside to let me cross the street with my stroller, says behind my back: "Ciao bella!" Or the man behind the counter at the gelato place who asks me where I'm from and tells me I am very beautiful (unfortunately, I could not say the same for him. Poor man.)
So, to recap, the head-turningly handsome men in Rome I remember appear to have vanished. Or, perhaps, as I do have the most good-looking man in the world for a husband, every other man, whether he be Canadian or Italian, now looks to me like he has scrambled eggs for a face. Or something like that.
Why all the ugly little dogs?
Everywhere you go, you come across someone walking a little dog. Most times, it's an ugly little dog. With short legs, hopelessly tangled and greasy, brownish grey fur, and sometimes even a touch of mange; this is an accurate description of most dogs I have seen here. Why? And where do they come from?
Tourists are, after all, the very worst.
And they have single-handedly ruined Rome. I mean, there are more tourists than Romans in Rome, I am sure of it. The Fontana di Trevi has been turned into a veritable Disneyland, the Piazza di Spagna is a haven for people selling fake jewelry, fake purses, and pointless, very noisy toys for all the annoying tourists' kids. Finally, visiting Saint Peter's Basilica has become about as fun as wandering around an airport, with guards, gates, and security checkpoints everywhere.
Rome does not look like itself anymore. Where, for example, are all the pickpockets and gypsies? The professional purse-snatchers? The children walking around with a board that they put in tourists' faces to distract them while they relieve them of their belongings? They have probably given up any attempt to make a living in this city, thinking that if they were to try their hand at stealing someone's purse or wallet, they would risk the common indignation of a mob of tourists. Suppose that their intented victim is part of one of the very many tour groups that dominate the streets of Rome. If a member of such a group was to be targeted for the riches on his person, the result would certainly be a concerted effort of some twenty or thirty men, women and children wearing matching hats or handkerchiefs, to come to the rescue of their fellow vacationer and collectively fall on the head of his attacker.
Finally, what's with all the Nutella?
It is everywhere. Stuffed inside croissants, smothered between layers of cake, piped into the center of cookies, or proudly displayed in huge containers in shop windows, Nutella has taken Rome by storm. It is even featured as a gelato flavour. At the grocery store, you have your pick between three or four different kinds of Nutella. Every café, bakery, or patisserie has a great big tub of nutella sitting on a top shelf, often right by the window, as if to say to every passer-by: "Look! We have Nutella here!" It is even used in carefully contrived plots of deceit. Chocolate croissants and cookies are actually Nutella croissants and cookies. You may think you're ordering a piece of chocolate cake, when what you're actually paying 7 euros for is Nutella cake. At least I haven't seen a Nutella tartuffo. Yet.
Needless to say, I do not think I will be ordering any hot chocolate. I just might get a hot Nutella.
Where have all the good looking Romans gone?
Seriously. They must all have been deported. Someone some day had the brilliant idea of shipping off a considerable portion of Rome's men to different countries around the world, for the greater good of civilization.
Following my last stay in Rome, I would tell people that in the three weeks I spent here, I saw two ugly Italian men. That was it. I felt very sorry for them.
I am reading a book - many people may be familiar with it - Eat, Pray, Love, an excellent book in which the author tells numerous tales of her voyages abroad. She spent four months in Rome, and writes that the men here are "achingly beautiful" (or something to that effect). I know what she's talking about; I saw them repeatedly the last time I was here. So what happened in the last very few years? I just don't see them anymore. They have mysteriously vanished.
When I was 17, I met a very handsome military man in Rome named Carmine. I bet Carmine is now pot-bellied and balding.
It is a fact commonly known that Western women are gawked at and whistled at and flirted with continuously in Rome. When I was 17, it was very, very true. Now, obviously, this fact has been transformed into myth. Is this true only for me? Because I am 32 years old and traipsing around Rome pushing a baby stroller? Or is it because, as Elizabeth Gilbert mentions in her book, Roman men have decided to fight against their stereotype and prove to the world that they can be gentlemen as well? Perhaps. And yet, there is the odd one or two who refuse to change and proudly flaunt their talent for awkward flirtation. Like the typical middle-aged man who, moving aside to let me cross the street with my stroller, says behind my back: "Ciao bella!" Or the man behind the counter at the gelato place who asks me where I'm from and tells me I am very beautiful (unfortunately, I could not say the same for him. Poor man.)
So, to recap, the head-turningly handsome men in Rome I remember appear to have vanished. Or, perhaps, as I do have the most good-looking man in the world for a husband, every other man, whether he be Canadian or Italian, now looks to me like he has scrambled eggs for a face. Or something like that.
Why all the ugly little dogs?
Everywhere you go, you come across someone walking a little dog. Most times, it's an ugly little dog. With short legs, hopelessly tangled and greasy, brownish grey fur, and sometimes even a touch of mange; this is an accurate description of most dogs I have seen here. Why? And where do they come from?
Tourists are, after all, the very worst.
And they have single-handedly ruined Rome. I mean, there are more tourists than Romans in Rome, I am sure of it. The Fontana di Trevi has been turned into a veritable Disneyland, the Piazza di Spagna is a haven for people selling fake jewelry, fake purses, and pointless, very noisy toys for all the annoying tourists' kids. Finally, visiting Saint Peter's Basilica has become about as fun as wandering around an airport, with guards, gates, and security checkpoints everywhere.
Rome does not look like itself anymore. Where, for example, are all the pickpockets and gypsies? The professional purse-snatchers? The children walking around with a board that they put in tourists' faces to distract them while they relieve them of their belongings? They have probably given up any attempt to make a living in this city, thinking that if they were to try their hand at stealing someone's purse or wallet, they would risk the common indignation of a mob of tourists. Suppose that their intented victim is part of one of the very many tour groups that dominate the streets of Rome. If a member of such a group was to be targeted for the riches on his person, the result would certainly be a concerted effort of some twenty or thirty men, women and children wearing matching hats or handkerchiefs, to come to the rescue of their fellow vacationer and collectively fall on the head of his attacker.
Finally, what's with all the Nutella?
It is everywhere. Stuffed inside croissants, smothered between layers of cake, piped into the center of cookies, or proudly displayed in huge containers in shop windows, Nutella has taken Rome by storm. It is even featured as a gelato flavour. At the grocery store, you have your pick between three or four different kinds of Nutella. Every café, bakery, or patisserie has a great big tub of nutella sitting on a top shelf, often right by the window, as if to say to every passer-by: "Look! We have Nutella here!" It is even used in carefully contrived plots of deceit. Chocolate croissants and cookies are actually Nutella croissants and cookies. You may think you're ordering a piece of chocolate cake, when what you're actually paying 7 euros for is Nutella cake. At least I haven't seen a Nutella tartuffo. Yet.
Needless to say, I do not think I will be ordering any hot chocolate. I just might get a hot Nutella.
Monday 2 May 2011
Viva La Cucina Italiana!
As I sat indulging in homemade Minestrone soup yesterday evening, slowly allowing my senses to fully experience the flavours, I could not help being amazed: I created this? Actually, it had everything to do with Italy. I really had no hand in it.
Before I left home, a friend who comes from Algeria and is now studying in Montreal said to me: "You’re so lucky to be going to Rome. You get to eat Italian food! I miss the flavours of the Mediterranean..."
I understand what she means. The last time I was in Rome was seventeen years ago, and I have never forgotten the flavour of the fresh tomato and basil combination in a pizza margherita. Food just tastes better here. The flavours are more intense. Probably because most of the food one buys in Rome is fresh.
The next time you are at the grocery store, take a good look at the fruit and vegetables you buy. Where are they from? Most of our food is imported. This, of course, is not surprising when Canadian winters last approximately half the year. We don’t have the time or weather to grow much of anything.
I found the recipe for my Minestrone soup online from Ricardo.com. I omitted the bay leaf (for the practical reason that none could be found), and the celery. I used shallots in lieu of a plain, yellow onion. I of course bought the vegetables at a local fruitteria. The shopkeeper even gave me fresh basil for free. I also put real parmigiano reggiano on the table, as a garnish. None of that pre-shredded parmesan, of course.
Shopping for food in Rome is fun. Not to mention an excellent way of practicing one’s Italian. The vendors are very friendly and most will speak to you in Italian, granting you their patience and meeting you half-way to make sure you understand each-other.
In Canada, shopping for food is not something most people enjoy doing; rather it is generally considered a dull and often tiring chore. Most people go grocery shopping once a week. We plan our meals in advance and fit a trip to the supermarket in the slot of time we have set aside in our rushed and busy lives. Some people even prefer ordering fast food to cooking at home, something I am sure most Italians would find unbelievable. I myself am only very rarely part of the “order at home” set, but I do have a large freezer where I store meat I buy on sale. I also pre-plan my meals.
In Rome, shopping for food is quite a different experience. The supermarkets here are, by all definitions, tiny. They are no bigger than our convenience stores. In preparation for dinner, one does not purchase food in an oversized, “we-have-everything concept,” chain superstore. To shop for one meal in Rome, I need to make several stops. And I will walk to each of them.
For example, in preparation for my minestrone dinner, I walked to the “supermarket” (which has a grand total of 2 ½ aisles) for canned beans and pancetta (which, incidentally, I could also have bought at the local cured meats shop). I then walked to the fruitteria, where I bought green beans, carrots, tomatoes, garlic and fresh basil. After that, I walked back to the supermarket, where I bought dried oregano (because the fruitteria didn’t have any that was fresh). Finally, I went to the Casa di Pane (House of Bread) for a homemade Italian loaf.
The result? The most delicious minestrone I have ever eaten, made with fresh ingredients I had carefully picked out that very afternoon. The carrots tasted very much like carrots, as did the green beans, and the fragrant basil, of course. And the tomatoes ... well, no words can do justice to their divine flavour. This is Italy, after all.
Before I left home, a friend who comes from Algeria and is now studying in Montreal said to me: "You’re so lucky to be going to Rome. You get to eat Italian food! I miss the flavours of the Mediterranean..."
I understand what she means. The last time I was in Rome was seventeen years ago, and I have never forgotten the flavour of the fresh tomato and basil combination in a pizza margherita. Food just tastes better here. The flavours are more intense. Probably because most of the food one buys in Rome is fresh.
The next time you are at the grocery store, take a good look at the fruit and vegetables you buy. Where are they from? Most of our food is imported. This, of course, is not surprising when Canadian winters last approximately half the year. We don’t have the time or weather to grow much of anything.
I found the recipe for my Minestrone soup online from Ricardo.com. I omitted the bay leaf (for the practical reason that none could be found), and the celery. I used shallots in lieu of a plain, yellow onion. I of course bought the vegetables at a local fruitteria. The shopkeeper even gave me fresh basil for free. I also put real parmigiano reggiano on the table, as a garnish. None of that pre-shredded parmesan, of course.
Shopping for food in Rome is fun. Not to mention an excellent way of practicing one’s Italian. The vendors are very friendly and most will speak to you in Italian, granting you their patience and meeting you half-way to make sure you understand each-other.
In Canada, shopping for food is not something most people enjoy doing; rather it is generally considered a dull and often tiring chore. Most people go grocery shopping once a week. We plan our meals in advance and fit a trip to the supermarket in the slot of time we have set aside in our rushed and busy lives. Some people even prefer ordering fast food to cooking at home, something I am sure most Italians would find unbelievable. I myself am only very rarely part of the “order at home” set, but I do have a large freezer where I store meat I buy on sale. I also pre-plan my meals.
In Rome, shopping for food is quite a different experience. The supermarkets here are, by all definitions, tiny. They are no bigger than our convenience stores. In preparation for dinner, one does not purchase food in an oversized, “we-have-everything concept,” chain superstore. To shop for one meal in Rome, I need to make several stops. And I will walk to each of them.
For example, in preparation for my minestrone dinner, I walked to the “supermarket” (which has a grand total of 2 ½ aisles) for canned beans and pancetta (which, incidentally, I could also have bought at the local cured meats shop). I then walked to the fruitteria, where I bought green beans, carrots, tomatoes, garlic and fresh basil. After that, I walked back to the supermarket, where I bought dried oregano (because the fruitteria didn’t have any that was fresh). Finally, I went to the Casa di Pane (House of Bread) for a homemade Italian loaf.
The result? The most delicious minestrone I have ever eaten, made with fresh ingredients I had carefully picked out that very afternoon. The carrots tasted very much like carrots, as did the green beans, and the fragrant basil, of course. And the tomatoes ... well, no words can do justice to their divine flavour. This is Italy, after all.
Sunday 1 May 2011
Our Apartment in Rome
We live just outside the Vatican walls - on a street with impossibly narrow sidewalks called Via Aurelia.
The first time I walked on this street, I nearly experienced half a dozen heart attacks. The sidewalk is just wide enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. It winds down a hill, where cars, buses and trucks appear without warning from just around the next curve, driving a little too fast for my comfort. To make matters worse, the city has planted light posts in the very middle of the sidewalk, thus necessitating my circumnavigating them as skilfully as possible, driving the stroller on two wheels until I've made it past these infuriating obstacles.
On our seconde day in Rome, I found another street, with very wide sidewalks, that safely takes us down the hill. There is only one small downside to this seemingly wonderful find: a four-flight set of stairs at the end of it.
Unfortunately these stairs are the only way to get, well, anywhere. If it's between the stairs and the panic-provoking sidewalk, I choose the stairs. Especially as each step is conveniently large enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. If I take it one step at a time, I can easily avoid a scene similar to that in the movie "The Untouchables," where a stroller makes its way, unrestrained, down a flight of stairs, making anyone watching want to scream: "The baby! Save the baby!" (though this scene was set in the middle of a gun fight, which is unlikely to happen here).
The street that leads to these stairs is the loveliest around our place. It is lined with trees, and here and there a plump gathering of rambling roses set along the edge of a stone wall fill the air with a musky scent. Iron gates offer a glimpse into courtyards graced with potted plants and laundry drying on a line. The most beautiful I've seen is one where a flight of stone steps, remisiscent of antiquity, leads up to a terrace.
One of my favorite buildings along this street is one of red and yellow brick, with green shutters and tall, narrow doors leading out to balconies with wrought iron railings.
Further down the street we are greeted by an awe-inspiring sight: behind the Vatican wall rises the cuppola of St. Peter's Basilica, shining like silver in the afternoon sun.
Our apartment building, with white walls and dotted with balconies, stands nearly at the top of the hill, almost directly behind the Vatican. Glass doors open from the living room and one of the two bedrooms onto a balcony overlooking a courtyard. Scenes of Italy, painted on canvas or represented on colourful prints, adorn the walls inside. An old red wood cabinet with blue shelves and glass doors that lock with a vintage key is set against the wall by the kitchen. Pale blue and yellow, or royal crimson and gold curtains bestow on each bedroom either a Romantic or antique look.
Hardly a sound and rarely more than a breeze and the beautiful, rich song of a bird reaches us through our open windows. The area around our apartment is quiet and peaceful. At the very beginning of the street that leads to our building, an arched gateway looks into a small courtyard where on a pedestal stands a white marble figure of the Virgin Mary. Above the gate, carved on the arching wall, are the latin words "pax et bonum."
Peace and happiness.
The first time I walked on this street, I nearly experienced half a dozen heart attacks. The sidewalk is just wide enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. It winds down a hill, where cars, buses and trucks appear without warning from just around the next curve, driving a little too fast for my comfort. To make matters worse, the city has planted light posts in the very middle of the sidewalk, thus necessitating my circumnavigating them as skilfully as possible, driving the stroller on two wheels until I've made it past these infuriating obstacles.
On our seconde day in Rome, I found another street, with very wide sidewalks, that safely takes us down the hill. There is only one small downside to this seemingly wonderful find: a four-flight set of stairs at the end of it.
Unfortunately these stairs are the only way to get, well, anywhere. If it's between the stairs and the panic-provoking sidewalk, I choose the stairs. Especially as each step is conveniently large enough to fit all four wheels of the stroller. If I take it one step at a time, I can easily avoid a scene similar to that in the movie "The Untouchables," where a stroller makes its way, unrestrained, down a flight of stairs, making anyone watching want to scream: "The baby! Save the baby!" (though this scene was set in the middle of a gun fight, which is unlikely to happen here).
The street that leads to these stairs is the loveliest around our place. It is lined with trees, and here and there a plump gathering of rambling roses set along the edge of a stone wall fill the air with a musky scent. Iron gates offer a glimpse into courtyards graced with potted plants and laundry drying on a line. The most beautiful I've seen is one where a flight of stone steps, remisiscent of antiquity, leads up to a terrace.
One of my favorite buildings along this street is one of red and yellow brick, with green shutters and tall, narrow doors leading out to balconies with wrought iron railings.
Further down the street we are greeted by an awe-inspiring sight: behind the Vatican wall rises the cuppola of St. Peter's Basilica, shining like silver in the afternoon sun.
Our apartment building, with white walls and dotted with balconies, stands nearly at the top of the hill, almost directly behind the Vatican. Glass doors open from the living room and one of the two bedrooms onto a balcony overlooking a courtyard. Scenes of Italy, painted on canvas or represented on colourful prints, adorn the walls inside. An old red wood cabinet with blue shelves and glass doors that lock with a vintage key is set against the wall by the kitchen. Pale blue and yellow, or royal crimson and gold curtains bestow on each bedroom either a Romantic or antique look.
Hardly a sound and rarely more than a breeze and the beautiful, rich song of a bird reaches us through our open windows. The area around our apartment is quiet and peaceful. At the very beginning of the street that leads to our building, an arched gateway looks into a small courtyard where on a pedestal stands a white marble figure of the Virgin Mary. Above the gate, carved on the arching wall, are the latin words "pax et bonum."
Peace and happiness.
Friday 29 April 2011
New Mom in Rome
You will have noticed that I have temporarily changed the title of my blog. I am writing this from an apartment on Via Aurelia, close to the Vatican wall. For the next month, I will be writing from Rome.
My mother is doing research at the Vatican's Secret Archives, and she and my father have rented an apartment in Rome for one month. I was invited to come along; all I had to pay was my airline ticket. I figured, with no husband at home and having 24 hour charge of our baby, why not do in Rome what I would be doing at home? Except that in Rome, I can dine al fresco at a trattoria, see the Coliseum, climb the Spanish steps, and walk in Piazza San Pietro. In the past three days, I have already done these things, and more.
Before I go on, I would first like to apologize to those among my readers who think I may be bragging. I do not wish to brag. What I would like to do, is take you along with me.
Imagine, if you will, a busy street in Rome, lined with 18th century palaces, the façades of which have been blackened by time, dirt and diesel. Now, take a left turn on a narrow, not-so-busy, cobblestone street, which leads to the small Piazza San'Ignazio. Here it is quiet. Around you stand apartment buildings with shutters on the windows and baskets of flowers hanging on the window sills. A trattoria - pizzeria, where tables and wicker chairs are set under white parasols, quietly awaits the dinner hour. Before you rises a 17th century church, the church of San'Ignazio, imposing in its size, beggin the question of how it manages to be tucked away, seemingly hidden, in this quiet Piazza.
We enter the church and slowly make our way down the nave, admiring the detailed illusionist ceiling, which looks like a dome but was in fact painted on flat canvas. While we stand in silent contemplation, my baby, who is in her stroller playing with her feet, suddenly purses her lips together and emits a very loud fart-like "Pppprrrrrrr" sound.
"Thank you for your opinion," my mother says, and I try not to laugh.
When we once again step outside, I take another look at the buildings surrounding the piazza, at the cobblestone and the trattoria, and I feel that I am really in Rome.
That feeling would very soon fade. After a few minutes' walk, I suddenly found myself in Disneyland.
Actually, it was the Fountain de Trevi. I have read that one can hear the fountain before one sees it. All I could hear, and indeed see, were the crowds. Hundreds, perhaps a thousand, people were piled around the fountain. Wives were being photographed about to throw a coin over their left shoulder with their right hand into the fountain. Teenagers were climbing over and under railings. Romans carrying polaroids were trying to cash in on the fountain's popularity by offering, for a small price, to take tourists' picture as they tossed their coins. Big as well as skinny men dressed as Roman legionnaires charged 3 euro to take a picture with them. Vendors called on the crowd to buy their pictures, jewelry and toys.
As I stood in mute amazement, I suddenly heard three sharp whistle blows. Police men and women were standing guard around the fountain. Apparently not achieving the results they had hoped for, the continued to blow into their whistles, this time with long, drawn-out breaths, making their faces turn purple in the process. Some of the fountain's patrons had decided it would be a good idea to stand on the very slippery, marble edge, over which water tended to run, thus making it very likely that they should slip and fall, thus polluting the work of the Baroque master.
I remember the last time I saw the Fontana di Trevi. It was nearly fifteen years ago. My family and I were the only people standing before the fountain.
In spite of the amusement park crowd, I squeezed my way to the edge of the fountain and threw in my coin. Except I did it wrong and had to find another coin to throw in with my right hand over my left shoulder (and not the other way around).
We left the fountain and made our way to Piazza di Spagna, where we sat on the steps and my daughter made eyes at the two men sitting behind us. Evening was setting in, so we decided to find a place to eat. Along the busy streets leading from the Piazza are innumerable trattorias, where a waiter tries his very best to usher you under one of his parasols and onto a seat. A rotund Italian was trying his luck with me, when my mother, who was a few feet behind, called out to me. The waiter, thinking she wanted me to stop at his trattoria, called out, in imitation of my mother: "Fera!" I laughed, and he was pleased, but the reason my mother had stopped me is because she had spotted a terrace hidden in a quiet nook down a short alleyway. This was perfect. Tables with green and white checkered cloths and wicker chairs sat under a leafy canopy, from which lanterns hung.
This is one of the things I love about Rome. What I believe my daughter loves about Rome, is the endless parade of handsome waiters to flirt with. They pinch her cheeks, wink at her, talk to her in Italian, and she grins and laughs, evidently fully enjoying herself.
My mother is doing research at the Vatican's Secret Archives, and she and my father have rented an apartment in Rome for one month. I was invited to come along; all I had to pay was my airline ticket. I figured, with no husband at home and having 24 hour charge of our baby, why not do in Rome what I would be doing at home? Except that in Rome, I can dine al fresco at a trattoria, see the Coliseum, climb the Spanish steps, and walk in Piazza San Pietro. In the past three days, I have already done these things, and more.
Before I go on, I would first like to apologize to those among my readers who think I may be bragging. I do not wish to brag. What I would like to do, is take you along with me.
Imagine, if you will, a busy street in Rome, lined with 18th century palaces, the façades of which have been blackened by time, dirt and diesel. Now, take a left turn on a narrow, not-so-busy, cobblestone street, which leads to the small Piazza San'Ignazio. Here it is quiet. Around you stand apartment buildings with shutters on the windows and baskets of flowers hanging on the window sills. A trattoria - pizzeria, where tables and wicker chairs are set under white parasols, quietly awaits the dinner hour. Before you rises a 17th century church, the church of San'Ignazio, imposing in its size, beggin the question of how it manages to be tucked away, seemingly hidden, in this quiet Piazza.
We enter the church and slowly make our way down the nave, admiring the detailed illusionist ceiling, which looks like a dome but was in fact painted on flat canvas. While we stand in silent contemplation, my baby, who is in her stroller playing with her feet, suddenly purses her lips together and emits a very loud fart-like "Pppprrrrrrr" sound.
"Thank you for your opinion," my mother says, and I try not to laugh.
When we once again step outside, I take another look at the buildings surrounding the piazza, at the cobblestone and the trattoria, and I feel that I am really in Rome.
That feeling would very soon fade. After a few minutes' walk, I suddenly found myself in Disneyland.
Actually, it was the Fountain de Trevi. I have read that one can hear the fountain before one sees it. All I could hear, and indeed see, were the crowds. Hundreds, perhaps a thousand, people were piled around the fountain. Wives were being photographed about to throw a coin over their left shoulder with their right hand into the fountain. Teenagers were climbing over and under railings. Romans carrying polaroids were trying to cash in on the fountain's popularity by offering, for a small price, to take tourists' picture as they tossed their coins. Big as well as skinny men dressed as Roman legionnaires charged 3 euro to take a picture with them. Vendors called on the crowd to buy their pictures, jewelry and toys.
As I stood in mute amazement, I suddenly heard three sharp whistle blows. Police men and women were standing guard around the fountain. Apparently not achieving the results they had hoped for, the continued to blow into their whistles, this time with long, drawn-out breaths, making their faces turn purple in the process. Some of the fountain's patrons had decided it would be a good idea to stand on the very slippery, marble edge, over which water tended to run, thus making it very likely that they should slip and fall, thus polluting the work of the Baroque master.
I remember the last time I saw the Fontana di Trevi. It was nearly fifteen years ago. My family and I were the only people standing before the fountain.
In spite of the amusement park crowd, I squeezed my way to the edge of the fountain and threw in my coin. Except I did it wrong and had to find another coin to throw in with my right hand over my left shoulder (and not the other way around).
We left the fountain and made our way to Piazza di Spagna, where we sat on the steps and my daughter made eyes at the two men sitting behind us. Evening was setting in, so we decided to find a place to eat. Along the busy streets leading from the Piazza are innumerable trattorias, where a waiter tries his very best to usher you under one of his parasols and onto a seat. A rotund Italian was trying his luck with me, when my mother, who was a few feet behind, called out to me. The waiter, thinking she wanted me to stop at his trattoria, called out, in imitation of my mother: "Fera!" I laughed, and he was pleased, but the reason my mother had stopped me is because she had spotted a terrace hidden in a quiet nook down a short alleyway. This was perfect. Tables with green and white checkered cloths and wicker chairs sat under a leafy canopy, from which lanterns hung.
This is one of the things I love about Rome. What I believe my daughter loves about Rome, is the endless parade of handsome waiters to flirt with. They pinch her cheeks, wink at her, talk to her in Italian, and she grins and laughs, evidently fully enjoying herself.
Friday 22 April 2011
Losing the baby weight (or, Walking until the balls of my feet are touching pavement)
Losing the post-pregnancy baby weight is a challenge nearly every new mom faces. I consider myself one of the lucky moms: I only had ten pounds to lose, post pregnancy. I've heard of women who have gained forty, fifty, even sixty pounds of weight not related to actual "baby fat." They must have had a nasty surprise when stepping on the scale for the first time after coming home from the hospital.
When I took note of the weight I would have to lose, I remember thinking, "Well that's not too bad. It'll probably come off automatically, right?" I reasoned that, with my back-to-normal mobility, the weight that had piled on during pregnancy would just melt off.
I was wrong. Ten months later, I still had not lost a single pound. I knew I had to take action.
My baby is now 13 months old, and I have finally gotten my pre-baby body back. I can fit in my old jeans. I lost ten pounds in three months!
The fact is, I knew all along how to do it. But it was only in February that I decided to go ahead and actually make an effort. It worked.
I suppose some of my readers may be wondering how I did it. Let me first say, that I didn't do any Atkins, Dukan's (a new version of Atkins), South Beach, West Coast, whatever diet. I don't believe in diets, for the very practical reason that they are not sustainable. Ever.
So what, finally, is my secret to losing weight and keeping it off? Drumroll please ...
Eat well and exercise!
Allow me to elaborate:
I used to do Winsor Pilates. But this kind of exercise, as my husband kindly pointed out one day, is practically useless. Instead of working the entire body, one spends twenty minutes focusing on one muscle. And lying on the floor, hoping to get ripped abs, isn't going to burn fat; you'll just end up with hard abs hidden under a layer of flubber. And, if you're like me, you'll also end up feeling bloated. That's why I don't do a lot of abs exercises - just a few effective ones, and I always make sure to suck my belly in when I'm doing them.
My husband, who, as I have before mentioned, is in the military, explained to me that it's really quite simple: the best way to burn fat, get in shape, and most important, feel healthy, is to work on strength and cardio at the same time.
I was at Chapter's one day and I happened to notice a series of Jillian Michaels DVDs for sale. I bought one, thinking I would give it a try. It has two workout levels, 25 mins. each (which usually gives me more than enough time for a workout and shower while my baby naps), and incorporates weights into the workout.
Toward the end of the 25 mins., as I found myself doing jumping squats, feeling like my thigh muscles were going to fall off, sweating profusely, and listening to Jillian telling me I should be "gargling my heart in my throat," I knew I was getting a kick-ass workout. A few weeks later I bought other DVDs - it's important to vary your workout, to prevent your body from reaching a "plateau."
It's not easy finding the motivation to exercise. Instead of calculating how many minutes a week I "should" exercise, I ask myself, "how can I get some exercise today?" If I don't have time, I don't do it. But I always count it among my priorities. Today I spent the late morning, and most of the afternoon with my husband and daughter doing one of my favorite things: walking in downtown Montréal. By the end of the day, I felt like the balls of my feet had dug holes into the bottom of my shoes and were touching pavement. The muscle just above the back of the knee on my left leg felt just plain funky. My toes hurt. And when I got home, I noticed I had gotten a sunburn all over my face. In April. But I felt great! And isn't that what matters? Plus, I never for even one half-a-second felt guilty about the chocolate gelato I had had on rue Mont-Royal. I earned it!
I will finish by pointing out something I realized not too long ago: eating well and exercising shouldn't have an end-goal. In fact, one should never stop doing it. It's a lifestyle. I don't do it just to lose weight. I do it to feel good in my body. And if I do it for that reason, weight loss will naturally follow.
When I took note of the weight I would have to lose, I remember thinking, "Well that's not too bad. It'll probably come off automatically, right?" I reasoned that, with my back-to-normal mobility, the weight that had piled on during pregnancy would just melt off.
I was wrong. Ten months later, I still had not lost a single pound. I knew I had to take action.
My baby is now 13 months old, and I have finally gotten my pre-baby body back. I can fit in my old jeans. I lost ten pounds in three months!
The fact is, I knew all along how to do it. But it was only in February that I decided to go ahead and actually make an effort. It worked.
I suppose some of my readers may be wondering how I did it. Let me first say, that I didn't do any Atkins, Dukan's (a new version of Atkins), South Beach, West Coast, whatever diet. I don't believe in diets, for the very practical reason that they are not sustainable. Ever.
So what, finally, is my secret to losing weight and keeping it off? Drumroll please ...
Eat well and exercise!
Allow me to elaborate:
- Eating well means eating food that is good for you. Whole grain cereal? Good for you. Pop Tart? Not good.
- When I go grocery shopping, the only things I buy that are not part of the perimeter foods (fruits & veggies, bread, milk, eggs, yogurt, etc.) are whole grain cereal, high-fibre granola bars, low-fat pudding (a relatively rare treat), pasta, and spices.
- I listen to my body. I only eat when I'm hungry. When I feel full, I stop. Except in the case of soup for dinner, I never take seconds. The proof that this worked? I managed to shrink my stomach; I'm not as hungry now as I used to be.
- After unsuccessful attempts at trying to stop evening snacking altogether, I compromised: I only allow myself to eat fruit, yogurt, or a low-fat pudding after dinner.
- I eat fruit, yogurt, or a high-fibre granola bar if I'm hungry between meals. Incidentally, I don't force-feed myself raw brocoli for a snack. Gross. Those of you who enjoy it, you just go right ahead and indulge.
- I drink water whenever I'm thirsty. I only have one small glass of juice at breakfast, and a glass of skim milk for dinner.
- I cook at home nearly all the time.
- I read the labels to see what's in the food - instead of focusing on what the food does not contain. When I buy bread or cereal, I look at the ingredients and choose something that begins with whole grains or wheat.
- I never deny myself treats (surprise!) - within reason. Obviously I'm not going to scarf a chocolate cake every night. Fast food is a rare treat. Once every few months is ok. Once a week would make me gain weight. When I have guests, I prepare a dessert that is either healthy (ex: fruit salad), or that doesn't leave leftovers. Think chocolate mousse - it's relatively easy to adjust the recipe for the number of guests. When I am invited over to someone's house for dinner, I am not one of those women who beg for just a tiny sliver of cake. I'll take a regular piece, thank you. And make up for it the next day.
- I love chocolate. I don't believe in denying myself chocolate. I do, however, believe in real chocolate. A kit-kat bar is not chocolate. I allow myself one square of at least 70% chocolate or one low-fat chocolate pudding a day. I once bought myself a Lindt dark chocolate bar that lasted two weeks. And I wasn't the only one eating it.
I used to do Winsor Pilates. But this kind of exercise, as my husband kindly pointed out one day, is practically useless. Instead of working the entire body, one spends twenty minutes focusing on one muscle. And lying on the floor, hoping to get ripped abs, isn't going to burn fat; you'll just end up with hard abs hidden under a layer of flubber. And, if you're like me, you'll also end up feeling bloated. That's why I don't do a lot of abs exercises - just a few effective ones, and I always make sure to suck my belly in when I'm doing them.
My husband, who, as I have before mentioned, is in the military, explained to me that it's really quite simple: the best way to burn fat, get in shape, and most important, feel healthy, is to work on strength and cardio at the same time.
I was at Chapter's one day and I happened to notice a series of Jillian Michaels DVDs for sale. I bought one, thinking I would give it a try. It has two workout levels, 25 mins. each (which usually gives me more than enough time for a workout and shower while my baby naps), and incorporates weights into the workout.
Toward the end of the 25 mins., as I found myself doing jumping squats, feeling like my thigh muscles were going to fall off, sweating profusely, and listening to Jillian telling me I should be "gargling my heart in my throat," I knew I was getting a kick-ass workout. A few weeks later I bought other DVDs - it's important to vary your workout, to prevent your body from reaching a "plateau."
It's not easy finding the motivation to exercise. Instead of calculating how many minutes a week I "should" exercise, I ask myself, "how can I get some exercise today?" If I don't have time, I don't do it. But I always count it among my priorities. Today I spent the late morning, and most of the afternoon with my husband and daughter doing one of my favorite things: walking in downtown Montréal. By the end of the day, I felt like the balls of my feet had dug holes into the bottom of my shoes and were touching pavement. The muscle just above the back of the knee on my left leg felt just plain funky. My toes hurt. And when I got home, I noticed I had gotten a sunburn all over my face. In April. But I felt great! And isn't that what matters? Plus, I never for even one half-a-second felt guilty about the chocolate gelato I had had on rue Mont-Royal. I earned it!
I will finish by pointing out something I realized not too long ago: eating well and exercising shouldn't have an end-goal. In fact, one should never stop doing it. It's a lifestyle. I don't do it just to lose weight. I do it to feel good in my body. And if I do it for that reason, weight loss will naturally follow.
Monday 18 April 2011
Happy baby
My daughter has been very happy (and a bit hyper) lately. No surprises there, for her father is home this week. I also wonder, however, if her grandfather hasn't been secretly giving her a dose of his potent, turkish-style coffee in her sippy cup.
Actually, she's been just a bit more "awake" than usual for the past week. We've only spent the last two days with her grandparents. She's so excited to be here, she lets out these high-pitched sqeaks while rocking her upper body in fast and seemingly uncontrolled motions. I guess she's just a happy baby. And well she should be, for her grandfather spends most of his time carrying her around and playing with her. When he's in the house, she wants nothing to do with her mom, dad, and grandma. But that's ok, because we know she loves us just the same.
Here's a precious parenting moment: the other day, I picked my daughter up at my neighbor's house just before lunch; when she saw me, she said "Maamm!", and proceeded to pump her little fists in the air with so much vehemence she nearly struck herself in the face. It gives a mother such a wonderful feeling, when her baby is so excited to see her she nearly punches herself.
When my daughter gets really excited, she does the strangest things. One of the funniest is her head-banging move. I pick her up, and sometimes this will make her so happy she will rock her head forward and back in a very fast, brisk motion, just like some long-haired 80's rocker. I always have to move my head a bit to the side to make sure our faces don't get into what would be a very painful collision. Another thing she does is her "Ray Charles"; that's when she'll rock her body from side to side while looking up at the ceiling. I ought to put some sunglasses on her face when she does this and take a video.
She also loves to be applauded. Whenever she does something new, we let out a cheer and clap our hands. This makes her so happy, she bounces on her tush while clapping her hands, as though to say: "Look! Aren't I fabulous?" Of course, sometimes she gets carried away, and as one hand misses the other, she comes dangerously close to slapping herself in the face (just like with the fist-pumping thing).
My daughter is a happy baby. And with so many people around her who love her, why wouldn't she be?
Actually, she's been just a bit more "awake" than usual for the past week. We've only spent the last two days with her grandparents. She's so excited to be here, she lets out these high-pitched sqeaks while rocking her upper body in fast and seemingly uncontrolled motions. I guess she's just a happy baby. And well she should be, for her grandfather spends most of his time carrying her around and playing with her. When he's in the house, she wants nothing to do with her mom, dad, and grandma. But that's ok, because we know she loves us just the same.
Here's a precious parenting moment: the other day, I picked my daughter up at my neighbor's house just before lunch; when she saw me, she said "Maamm!", and proceeded to pump her little fists in the air with so much vehemence she nearly struck herself in the face. It gives a mother such a wonderful feeling, when her baby is so excited to see her she nearly punches herself.
When my daughter gets really excited, she does the strangest things. One of the funniest is her head-banging move. I pick her up, and sometimes this will make her so happy she will rock her head forward and back in a very fast, brisk motion, just like some long-haired 80's rocker. I always have to move my head a bit to the side to make sure our faces don't get into what would be a very painful collision. Another thing she does is her "Ray Charles"; that's when she'll rock her body from side to side while looking up at the ceiling. I ought to put some sunglasses on her face when she does this and take a video.
She also loves to be applauded. Whenever she does something new, we let out a cheer and clap our hands. This makes her so happy, she bounces on her tush while clapping her hands, as though to say: "Look! Aren't I fabulous?" Of course, sometimes she gets carried away, and as one hand misses the other, she comes dangerously close to slapping herself in the face (just like with the fist-pumping thing).
My daughter is a happy baby. And with so many people around her who love her, why wouldn't she be?
Sunday 10 April 2011
I Once Had a Dog Named Jip ...
I once had a dog named Jip. Now, it appears, her name is "Chanel." That's what her new owners named her. Oh well. She belongs to them now. But to me she will always be Jip.
I have had Jip for eight years. I adopted her as a pup when I was living and working in China. I guess that very fact should have rung some alarm bells: People who like to travel might want to think twice before getting a dog. Still, I wanted a little Chinese dog, and I got one. For the next eight years we were firm friends. I brought her back to Canada, we lived with my parents for a while, I took her to live with me in an apartment while I worked on my B.Ed., and finally we landed in a suburb outside Montreal, where she learned that a dog will inevitably fall into the background in any family scene where there is a baby.
I suppose it was time for her to begin her retirement. I had been thinking about it for a long time and finally came to a decision.
I found the perfect home for her. A wonderful couple living in a small house in the country. The lady is retired, and both are exceedingly fond of dogs. Jip didn't even seem to mind my leaving her with them. Not even so much as a whimper escaped her as I bent to give her one last kiss on the nose. She seemed content.
Jip was a handfull. It took me a year to train her and even after all that hard work she would occasionally rebel. But I loved her and she proved to be a faithful companion. She also provided me with a lot of laughs. I will therefore share some of the most amusing "Jip stories" I have kept stored in my memory:
In the neighborhood where I now live also lives a tiny black dog named Snoopy. A very ill-behaved dog, as it turns out. One day as I was walking Jip in the park I noticed Snoopy playing with his owners. He wasn't on a leash, which is strictly against the rules. Jip found a shaded spot beneath a tree to do her business. As I waited and Jip squatted, I suddenly heard a man yell: "Snoopy! Snoopy! Here!" Oh no, I thought to myself. I knew what was coming. I had barely time to turn around when out of nowhere came Snoopy, teeth bared and snarling. Jip looked up in time to see Snoopy jump on her back just as she was mid-shit. As I made up my mind not to get involved and just let those two work things out on their own, Snoopy's owner came over, at a very slow pace, to retrieve his dog. "Sorry," he grinned. Sure. How would he like to have someone jump on him while he's sitting on the toilet? The man grabbed Snoopy and tore him off Jip, who by then was livid. I led her away; she no longer seemed interested in finishing her business.
From the first time my husband and I gave our newborn baby her bath, Jip was in the washroom with us. The second or third time, she got a special treat. As I held my baby over the tub while her daddy washed her hair, she suddenly decided to pee all over my hand. It trickled down my arm, onto the counter and down to the floor. Jip immediately pounced on it and drank - as I mopped my hand and cringed.
Only a few weeks after I adopted Jip I changed jobs; I was offered a teaching position at the Taizhou TV college in Jiao Jiang. Soon after we got settled in our new apartment at the teachers' residence, one of my colleagues invited me to her apartment for some tea. She seemed a little shy and embarrassed to be speaking with a foreigner - there were only about six of us in Jiao Jiang at the time, including two young children. I tried to show her that there was nothing scary about me, and eventually she seemed to feel more at ease. It was at this very point that Jip, who I had brought along with me, ran out of my colleagues bathroom, proudly brandishing a very dirty maxi-pad in her mouth that she had obviously just pulled out of the waste-basket. My colleague turned red with mortification and bolted after my dog, trying to grab the pad from her. But Jip was too quick, and I practically had to tackle her before we could relieve her of her treasure. "Bad Jip!" I scolded. My colleague never again invited me over for tea.
The first time I spent the night at my husband's house (he was then my boyfriend), I brought Jip along, as I could not leave her alone at my apartment. The next morning, as we were just waking up, Jip jumped on the bed and proceeded to make the most disgusting hacking and gagging noises. As she let out the last gag, followed by a magnificent cough, my husband said: "yaaah ... you're dog's sexy." He had no idea then that dogs in many ways resemble their owners ...
I will miss you, Jip!
I have had Jip for eight years. I adopted her as a pup when I was living and working in China. I guess that very fact should have rung some alarm bells: People who like to travel might want to think twice before getting a dog. Still, I wanted a little Chinese dog, and I got one. For the next eight years we were firm friends. I brought her back to Canada, we lived with my parents for a while, I took her to live with me in an apartment while I worked on my B.Ed., and finally we landed in a suburb outside Montreal, where she learned that a dog will inevitably fall into the background in any family scene where there is a baby.
I suppose it was time for her to begin her retirement. I had been thinking about it for a long time and finally came to a decision.
I found the perfect home for her. A wonderful couple living in a small house in the country. The lady is retired, and both are exceedingly fond of dogs. Jip didn't even seem to mind my leaving her with them. Not even so much as a whimper escaped her as I bent to give her one last kiss on the nose. She seemed content.
Jip was a handfull. It took me a year to train her and even after all that hard work she would occasionally rebel. But I loved her and she proved to be a faithful companion. She also provided me with a lot of laughs. I will therefore share some of the most amusing "Jip stories" I have kept stored in my memory:
In the neighborhood where I now live also lives a tiny black dog named Snoopy. A very ill-behaved dog, as it turns out. One day as I was walking Jip in the park I noticed Snoopy playing with his owners. He wasn't on a leash, which is strictly against the rules. Jip found a shaded spot beneath a tree to do her business. As I waited and Jip squatted, I suddenly heard a man yell: "Snoopy! Snoopy! Here!" Oh no, I thought to myself. I knew what was coming. I had barely time to turn around when out of nowhere came Snoopy, teeth bared and snarling. Jip looked up in time to see Snoopy jump on her back just as she was mid-shit. As I made up my mind not to get involved and just let those two work things out on their own, Snoopy's owner came over, at a very slow pace, to retrieve his dog. "Sorry," he grinned. Sure. How would he like to have someone jump on him while he's sitting on the toilet? The man grabbed Snoopy and tore him off Jip, who by then was livid. I led her away; she no longer seemed interested in finishing her business.
From the first time my husband and I gave our newborn baby her bath, Jip was in the washroom with us. The second or third time, she got a special treat. As I held my baby over the tub while her daddy washed her hair, she suddenly decided to pee all over my hand. It trickled down my arm, onto the counter and down to the floor. Jip immediately pounced on it and drank - as I mopped my hand and cringed.
Only a few weeks after I adopted Jip I changed jobs; I was offered a teaching position at the Taizhou TV college in Jiao Jiang. Soon after we got settled in our new apartment at the teachers' residence, one of my colleagues invited me to her apartment for some tea. She seemed a little shy and embarrassed to be speaking with a foreigner - there were only about six of us in Jiao Jiang at the time, including two young children. I tried to show her that there was nothing scary about me, and eventually she seemed to feel more at ease. It was at this very point that Jip, who I had brought along with me, ran out of my colleagues bathroom, proudly brandishing a very dirty maxi-pad in her mouth that she had obviously just pulled out of the waste-basket. My colleague turned red with mortification and bolted after my dog, trying to grab the pad from her. But Jip was too quick, and I practically had to tackle her before we could relieve her of her treasure. "Bad Jip!" I scolded. My colleague never again invited me over for tea.
The first time I spent the night at my husband's house (he was then my boyfriend), I brought Jip along, as I could not leave her alone at my apartment. The next morning, as we were just waking up, Jip jumped on the bed and proceeded to make the most disgusting hacking and gagging noises. As she let out the last gag, followed by a magnificent cough, my husband said: "yaaah ... you're dog's sexy." He had no idea then that dogs in many ways resemble their owners ...
I will miss you, Jip!
Tuesday 5 April 2011
A Tribute to Exes
First, I would like to apologize: for those of you who are expecting a post filled with funny baby stories, you will be disappointed. Today's post has nothing to do with being an "at home mom." Tonight I felt like going back a few years, to my pre-marriage and motherhood state. To a time when I was a girl in her twenties who would go from one bad relationship to the next, firmly believing she would never find the right person.
Funny how he just comes along, one day, and everything changes.
I was getting my hair done tonight, and my hairdresser and I somehow got on the subject of ex-boyfriends. We went over a good part of our respective collections, and worked through a long list of men we'd dated, had a relationship with, or briefly met - and laughed heartily at them all. It was amazing to me how two women who don't even know each-other can find so much to talk and laugh about where men are concerned.
Before I go on, I would just like to say to all single women: He's out there.
I know, I didn't believe in that line myself, until I met him. I was sceptical. And well I might be, after the dozen or so men who had plagued my life.
I do not mean to rant. Far from it. My aim in writing this blog is to make people laugh. So here is a short list of amuzing, hilarious or sometimes incredible things I remember about my exes (or guys with whom I've been on very short dates). All I can say is: thank god that part of my life is over with!
I hope, after having read all this, people out there won't think me cold. I really am not. I just like to look at the humourous side of life. With all the crappy dates and relationships we women have to go through, is there any other way to look at it?
Funny how he just comes along, one day, and everything changes.
I was getting my hair done tonight, and my hairdresser and I somehow got on the subject of ex-boyfriends. We went over a good part of our respective collections, and worked through a long list of men we'd dated, had a relationship with, or briefly met - and laughed heartily at them all. It was amazing to me how two women who don't even know each-other can find so much to talk and laugh about where men are concerned.
Before I go on, I would just like to say to all single women: He's out there.
I know, I didn't believe in that line myself, until I met him. I was sceptical. And well I might be, after the dozen or so men who had plagued my life.
I do not mean to rant. Far from it. My aim in writing this blog is to make people laugh. So here is a short list of amuzing, hilarious or sometimes incredible things I remember about my exes (or guys with whom I've been on very short dates). All I can say is: thank god that part of my life is over with!
- In my late teens I dated this guy who was very sweet. Somehow they always are in the beginning. His issue was that he was clingy. And needy. And sometimes jealous. Not jealous of other men - jealous of things that would take my attention away from him. I realized this had become an issue when he threw a water bottle (followed by a tantrum) at the TV as I was watching a Simpsons episode at his house. I guess he wanted my attention.
- My first boyfriend's nickname was Fuji. After some wrestler. Enough said.
- I once met a guy through the internet who turned out to be much older than his picture had suggested. As he approached my table at Starbucks where I was waiting for what I expected would be a tolerably cute guy, I thought: "It's not possible." But I was trapped. There was no running away. So I sat through coffee with him, pretending to be interested in what he was saying, all the while forming a plan in my head that would consist of going to the bathroom, staying there a few minutes, wetting my face just enough to make me look ill, and fake a sudden bout of nausea. I never did do this, but I was seriously considering it.
- I met a guy with whom I went on three dates. After that it became absolutely necessary for me to stop seeing him. Especially as, with a strict adherence to the third date rule, he tried to kiss me. Why did I have to put a stop to it, you may ask? He was perfectly amiable, and we got along superbly from the very start. There was only one slight problem: he bore an uncanny resemblance to my brother. So you see, it was impossible for me to keep seeing him. I mean, from the back, he looked exactly like my brother! Now, that's just disturbing.
- My first proposal was from a guy who decided to buy me a ring instead of paying me back the money he owed me for putting him in the hospital. Ok, I'll explain. I didn't actually put him in the hospital. He had an ulcer, we were in China, and he needed some money to get treatment at the hospital for one week. Being a poor art teacher, he couldn't afford it. So I advanced him the 1,500 yuan. Months later, instead of getting my money back, I get a ring. We had talked about marriage, but I had decided I had had enough of China, and wanted to go home. He still insisted on proposing, and I was forced to turn him down, the poor man. It really was sad. But he insisted I keep the ring. I still have it. I'm also short of 1,500 yuan.
I hope, after having read all this, people out there won't think me cold. I really am not. I just like to look at the humourous side of life. With all the crappy dates and relationships we women have to go through, is there any other way to look at it?
Friday 1 April 2011
Strange reasons why babies cry
Explain to me again: why is she crying?
Newborns cry because they're hungry. Later, babies cry because they're tired or cranky. Crying becomes more and more emotional. But by the time they're a year old, babies can sometimes cry for reasons that just seem weird.
Ok. This first example is a complete mystery to me. I cannot explain it. Then again, I wasn't in the room when it happened.
I am spending two weeks in my hometown. My best friend has come over for a visit. She and my mom are playing with my baby while I am upstairs with my dad, printing something from the computer. Suddenly I hear crying. Shrieking, my-heart's-going-to-break crying. My mother and my friend are making soothing noises, trying to calm my daughter. Then they start laughing.
"What's up?" I ask as I make my way downstairs.
"She was standing, then fell on her bum," my friend explains. "Then your mom picked her up and held her for a minute. She stopped crying ..."
"And then," my mom continued, "we both started talking to her, and she seemed fine, until I told her that they both had the same name" (I gave my friend's name to my daughter for her middle name).
"Then she looked at me," my friend said, "and just started crying! As though she didn't like the idea of having the same name as me. So we both just started laughing."
See? Just plain weird.
The second incident happened yesterday, when my aunt came over for supper. We were all in the living room, and she was playing with my daughter, doing her very best to entertain her. My baby seemed to like my aunt very much, and it was obvious she found her amusing.
My aunt then sat on the sofa, and began playing "horsey" with my daughter's stuffed Winnie the Pooh bear. This is a game my daughter loves - she always laughs when I sit her on my knee and do a soft galloping motion. My aunt wanted to show her that Winnie could gallop too.
Only at one point, she made Winnie gallop very fast, until the bear was thoroughly shaken. We all thought this was cute and funny, and started to laugh. My daughter, who had been watching my aunt through the whole performance, suddenly began crying. The cries quickly turned to shrieks. She was obviously terrified. I suppose it must have been traumatizing, watching her bear's head hit its feet like that. I picked her up and held her, soothing her as best I could while at the same time attempting to stiffle my giggles. After she stopped crying, she turned her head and stared hard at my aunt, her brow set in a determined frown, and her eyes clearly saying: "You're not coming anywhere near me! And you're never touching my bear again either!"
Newborns cry because they're hungry. Later, babies cry because they're tired or cranky. Crying becomes more and more emotional. But by the time they're a year old, babies can sometimes cry for reasons that just seem weird.
Ok. This first example is a complete mystery to me. I cannot explain it. Then again, I wasn't in the room when it happened.
I am spending two weeks in my hometown. My best friend has come over for a visit. She and my mom are playing with my baby while I am upstairs with my dad, printing something from the computer. Suddenly I hear crying. Shrieking, my-heart's-going-to-break crying. My mother and my friend are making soothing noises, trying to calm my daughter. Then they start laughing.
"What's up?" I ask as I make my way downstairs.
"She was standing, then fell on her bum," my friend explains. "Then your mom picked her up and held her for a minute. She stopped crying ..."
"And then," my mom continued, "we both started talking to her, and she seemed fine, until I told her that they both had the same name" (I gave my friend's name to my daughter for her middle name).
"Then she looked at me," my friend said, "and just started crying! As though she didn't like the idea of having the same name as me. So we both just started laughing."
See? Just plain weird.
The second incident happened yesterday, when my aunt came over for supper. We were all in the living room, and she was playing with my daughter, doing her very best to entertain her. My baby seemed to like my aunt very much, and it was obvious she found her amusing.
My aunt then sat on the sofa, and began playing "horsey" with my daughter's stuffed Winnie the Pooh bear. This is a game my daughter loves - she always laughs when I sit her on my knee and do a soft galloping motion. My aunt wanted to show her that Winnie could gallop too.
Only at one point, she made Winnie gallop very fast, until the bear was thoroughly shaken. We all thought this was cute and funny, and started to laugh. My daughter, who had been watching my aunt through the whole performance, suddenly began crying. The cries quickly turned to shrieks. She was obviously terrified. I suppose it must have been traumatizing, watching her bear's head hit its feet like that. I picked her up and held her, soothing her as best I could while at the same time attempting to stiffle my giggles. After she stopped crying, she turned her head and stared hard at my aunt, her brow set in a determined frown, and her eyes clearly saying: "You're not coming anywhere near me! And you're never touching my bear again either!"
Saturday 26 March 2011
Terracotta soldiers followed by pasta
There is a special exhibition at the Montreal Art Gallery: Emperor Qin's terracotta soldiers. How ironic that I've been to China no less than thrice and have never seen the terracotta army, and my first glimpse of it is in Canada.
Obviously, seeing a few statues in an art museum must be nothing compared to seeing the entire unearthed army as a whole. Though, apparently, many of the soldiers have still not seen light in over 2000 years. Still, it would be amazing. I guess I'll just have to go back to China. One day.
But I digress. A terracotta soldiers exhibition is obviously not the ideal place to bring your one-year-old. Though she is incredibly patient and mild-tempered, I could not possibly have expected her to sit quietly in her stroller while we passed from room to room, looking at a series of grey statues. I'm sure she would have preferred to see big, quacking, dancing ducks (or something like that).
We had not been inside the exhibition for five minutes, and had not yet even seen one single soldier (just some vases and a drainage pipe from some palace), when my baby made it clear to me that she would not stay in her stroller one minute more without screaming. I picked her up, and for the rest of the tour, while my aunt pushed the stroller, I carried my 24 lbs. daughter in my arms. As she waived at every passing stranger, I looked at the terracotta soldiers and read the blurbs written about nearly every one of them. I figured I had better take my time, since I had paid 20$ to get in. It wasn't so bad, really. My lower back didn't hurt that much by the time I had passed through every room.
Afterwards we went to an Italian restaurant. My daughter sat in her high chair and waited patiently for her supper, passing the time by flirting with every waiter in the restaurant. These waiters were fairly cute men, and they loved smiling and waving at my baby. Who was just thrilled, naturally. When one waiter in particular began waving and winking at her, she became so excited that she grabbed (or rather, pinched) my arm as if to say: "Look mommy! He likes me he likes me!" As the waiter continued to smile at her, she pinched my arm harder and harder, until I practically yelled with pain. My aunt thought this was hysterical.
Obviously, seeing a few statues in an art museum must be nothing compared to seeing the entire unearthed army as a whole. Though, apparently, many of the soldiers have still not seen light in over 2000 years. Still, it would be amazing. I guess I'll just have to go back to China. One day.
But I digress. A terracotta soldiers exhibition is obviously not the ideal place to bring your one-year-old. Though she is incredibly patient and mild-tempered, I could not possibly have expected her to sit quietly in her stroller while we passed from room to room, looking at a series of grey statues. I'm sure she would have preferred to see big, quacking, dancing ducks (or something like that).
We had not been inside the exhibition for five minutes, and had not yet even seen one single soldier (just some vases and a drainage pipe from some palace), when my baby made it clear to me that she would not stay in her stroller one minute more without screaming. I picked her up, and for the rest of the tour, while my aunt pushed the stroller, I carried my 24 lbs. daughter in my arms. As she waived at every passing stranger, I looked at the terracotta soldiers and read the blurbs written about nearly every one of them. I figured I had better take my time, since I had paid 20$ to get in. It wasn't so bad, really. My lower back didn't hurt that much by the time I had passed through every room.
Afterwards we went to an Italian restaurant. My daughter sat in her high chair and waited patiently for her supper, passing the time by flirting with every waiter in the restaurant. These waiters were fairly cute men, and they loved smiling and waving at my baby. Who was just thrilled, naturally. When one waiter in particular began waving and winking at her, she became so excited that she grabbed (or rather, pinched) my arm as if to say: "Look mommy! He likes me he likes me!" As the waiter continued to smile at her, she pinched my arm harder and harder, until I practically yelled with pain. My aunt thought this was hysterical.
Tuesday 22 March 2011
The Seventh Circle of Hell (otherwise known as the doctor's office)
My husband left for Alberta yesterday. Not only did this depress me exceedingly, but this morning I had my daughter's 12th month doctor's appointment and vaccinations to look forward to. It's not the appointments themselves that bother me. It's the wait. The interminable wait.
The first thing I should point out about my baby's doctor is that the woman is perpetually late. About 85% of the times I bring my daughter in for an appointment, this doctor is not even in her office. And so we wait, and wait, and wait, until she decides to show up. No explanation is given of course by the ever hostile, bespectacled, balding receptionist (and yes, I am actually talking about a woman here), who, as you sign in, looks at you over her glasses as though you are nothing more than a piece of dirt that had the audacity to make it's way into the waiting room.
Any parent out there will understand that to wait with a one year old for the doctor is one of life's most painful experiences. Imagine now, that the reason you wait, is not necessarily because the waiting room is full of people. Today, I had only three people before me. Imagine that you are waiting because the doctor is for some unexplained reason incapable of showing up at her office on time. As I waited, silently and slowly coming to a boil, I started to make up my mind that, if this doctor did not show up by 10:30, I was going to leave. I was imagining what I would say to the receptionist.
But did not have need for such mental rehearsals, for it turns out I "only" had to wait 30 minutes after my appointment time to see the woman confidently step out of the lounge and coffee room, not even glancing at the pregnant women and parents of young children who had been sitting on their asses, making feeble attempts to entertain themselves or keep their babies busy. She grabs a file, heads to her office, and calls the first patient. Fifteen minutes later, I am finally granted my turn, my baby is looked over, I am given some advice (resulting in adding to my level of stress, as it happens), and am promptly shoved out of the office.
I will remind my readers at this point of a previous blog, entitled "Raising a Baby Ievitably Comes With a Certain Amount of Confusion," in which I wrote about strange advice I have received from other parents. One of these concerned the way my baby sits: on her bum, with her legs bent and her heels just by her hips. When one of my friends, after reading this blog, told me that what those parents had told me was indeed true, and that I needed to correct this sitting position, I figured I might as well ask the doctor. And so I did.
I was expecting her to laugh it off and tell me that the world of parenting is full of myths. Instead, she pulled out a chart as she told me in no uncertain terms that for my baby to be sitting in this position is very bad for her legs. She showed me the chart, on which were illustrations of positions babies should never sit or sleep in. These include sitting in the way I describe above, sleeping on her stomach, sleeping curled up in a ball (again on her stomach), and sitting on her knees. Right. Like kids never sit on their knees. All these images represented my baby's usual sitting / sleeping positions. How was I supposed to change every position that has become usual for her?
"So, what happens if my baby sits ... and sleeps in these positions?"
"Her legs will become all croooked. She will have problems with her feet. You will have to put special shoes and leg braces on her. These must be corrected."
I almost wanted to laugh at her doomsday predictions.
"But, how can sleeping on her stomach hurt her legs?"
"It could crush them."
Huh?
"Um, all right. So how do I correct these positions?"
This was followed by an explanation of how I should teach her to sit with her legs in front, tell her no when she sits in the "wrong" positions, check on her before I go to bed and turn her on her back if she is on her stomach. Then I am allowed to go to sleep and forget about it. Well, thank goodness.
"I mean," the doctor said, with a laugh, "you can't just wake up every ten minutes to check on her."
When I got home, I began right away to correct her horribly dangerous sitting positions. I quickly realized that it's not that easy. I found myself constantly moving her legs to the front of her, but she is always moving, and how can she push herself up on her knees when her feet are in front of her? I also realized that, when her legs are in the "correct" position, she is very limited in her ability to reach for a toy. Needless to say, my poor baby found this very frustrating. So did her mother. It became hard to tell which one of us would crack first. I finally decided to compromise and allow her to sit with one leg in front, the other bent to the side. I don't remember seeing that particular illustration on the chart.
I will leave my readers with two questions: How many children out there are sitting in the "wrong" position, without being corrected, simply because no one told the parents anything about it, and consequently they never asked their baby's doctor? And, just how many children are walking with corrective shoes and braces these days?
The first thing I should point out about my baby's doctor is that the woman is perpetually late. About 85% of the times I bring my daughter in for an appointment, this doctor is not even in her office. And so we wait, and wait, and wait, until she decides to show up. No explanation is given of course by the ever hostile, bespectacled, balding receptionist (and yes, I am actually talking about a woman here), who, as you sign in, looks at you over her glasses as though you are nothing more than a piece of dirt that had the audacity to make it's way into the waiting room.
Any parent out there will understand that to wait with a one year old for the doctor is one of life's most painful experiences. Imagine now, that the reason you wait, is not necessarily because the waiting room is full of people. Today, I had only three people before me. Imagine that you are waiting because the doctor is for some unexplained reason incapable of showing up at her office on time. As I waited, silently and slowly coming to a boil, I started to make up my mind that, if this doctor did not show up by 10:30, I was going to leave. I was imagining what I would say to the receptionist.
But did not have need for such mental rehearsals, for it turns out I "only" had to wait 30 minutes after my appointment time to see the woman confidently step out of the lounge and coffee room, not even glancing at the pregnant women and parents of young children who had been sitting on their asses, making feeble attempts to entertain themselves or keep their babies busy. She grabs a file, heads to her office, and calls the first patient. Fifteen minutes later, I am finally granted my turn, my baby is looked over, I am given some advice (resulting in adding to my level of stress, as it happens), and am promptly shoved out of the office.
I will remind my readers at this point of a previous blog, entitled "Raising a Baby Ievitably Comes With a Certain Amount of Confusion," in which I wrote about strange advice I have received from other parents. One of these concerned the way my baby sits: on her bum, with her legs bent and her heels just by her hips. When one of my friends, after reading this blog, told me that what those parents had told me was indeed true, and that I needed to correct this sitting position, I figured I might as well ask the doctor. And so I did.
I was expecting her to laugh it off and tell me that the world of parenting is full of myths. Instead, she pulled out a chart as she told me in no uncertain terms that for my baby to be sitting in this position is very bad for her legs. She showed me the chart, on which were illustrations of positions babies should never sit or sleep in. These include sitting in the way I describe above, sleeping on her stomach, sleeping curled up in a ball (again on her stomach), and sitting on her knees. Right. Like kids never sit on their knees. All these images represented my baby's usual sitting / sleeping positions. How was I supposed to change every position that has become usual for her?
"So, what happens if my baby sits ... and sleeps in these positions?"
"Her legs will become all croooked. She will have problems with her feet. You will have to put special shoes and leg braces on her. These must be corrected."
I almost wanted to laugh at her doomsday predictions.
"But, how can sleeping on her stomach hurt her legs?"
"It could crush them."
Huh?
"Um, all right. So how do I correct these positions?"
This was followed by an explanation of how I should teach her to sit with her legs in front, tell her no when she sits in the "wrong" positions, check on her before I go to bed and turn her on her back if she is on her stomach. Then I am allowed to go to sleep and forget about it. Well, thank goodness.
"I mean," the doctor said, with a laugh, "you can't just wake up every ten minutes to check on her."
When I got home, I began right away to correct her horribly dangerous sitting positions. I quickly realized that it's not that easy. I found myself constantly moving her legs to the front of her, but she is always moving, and how can she push herself up on her knees when her feet are in front of her? I also realized that, when her legs are in the "correct" position, she is very limited in her ability to reach for a toy. Needless to say, my poor baby found this very frustrating. So did her mother. It became hard to tell which one of us would crack first. I finally decided to compromise and allow her to sit with one leg in front, the other bent to the side. I don't remember seeing that particular illustration on the chart.
I will leave my readers with two questions: How many children out there are sitting in the "wrong" position, without being corrected, simply because no one told the parents anything about it, and consequently they never asked their baby's doctor? And, just how many children are walking with corrective shoes and braces these days?
Thursday 17 March 2011
Feeding your baby is easy! When going out, go for Asian food.
First, let's talk about ease in feeding your baby. By the time she's one, it's so simple, it's practically laughable. Prepare food, place food on tray, occasionally hand her a sippy cup, and that's that.
Of course, there's always the screaming that comes after dinner, while I'm busy cutting up a piece of fruit for dessert. The scream that says plainly: "You're not giving me my fruit fast enough gimme-gimme-gimme-gimme NOW!" Frantically cutting up pieces of orange, I'm praying I don't slice off my finger with the knife; finally, I practically throw the first pieces onto her tray and watch her gobble them down as I speed through preparing the next slice.
But other than that, it's easy. Not like some baby food preparation gadgets commercials would have you think. If you've been watching Comedy Gold during the day, you might know what I'm talking about. The Baby Bullet. Babies are sitting in their high chairs, screaming until they grow purple in the face, and all because mommy has the gall to try to feed them baby food from a jar. As if babies can tell the difference.
A young mom sits with her contented baby on her lap. "You need the Baby Bullet," she gushes. "It allows you to prepare the best organic baby food for your baby." Notice the redundancy of the word "baby"? The commercial would also have you believe that preparing your own baby food automatically means it's organic. But in order to prepare organic food, you have to buy organic. I'd love to know where they get organic sweet potatoes - I've noticed they're kind of hard to find at the grocery store.
And what about the extra sugar they claim comes in the food jars? Here are the ingredients for jarred apples: apples, citric acid. Oh, and by the way, if you want to save money, buy the unsweetened Mott's Fruitpacks. Same thing as what comes in the baby jars. Only much less expensive.
Preparing baby food is not complicated. It certainly does not require the entire Baby Bullet set. For the three months your baby will be eating purée (months 6 - 9), one might as well use the blender one most likely already has stored in one's kitchen.
My baby's pediatrician told me on the ninth month visit: "Your baby can now eat whatever the family eats. Except the obvious things, like egg whites and peanuts, at least until the first year. Just cut into little pieces. Oh, and not too spicy." That sounded just perfect.
Of course, meals have become increasingly messy. Pasta sauce in the hair, potatoes in the ears, and bananas up the nose. That's what happens when you eat with your fingers. But I love watching my baby eat and appreciate (and yes, even wear) her food. I also love occasionally taking her out to restaurants.
This afternoon, my husband and I took our baby out for a walk in downtown Montréal. It was a beautiful, early Spring day. It was 9 degrees celcius, the sun was shining and the snow was melting. We were in a carefree mood, and hadn't even brought a booster seat or (gasp!) a bib along with us. When we decided on an Asian restaurant for lunch, I wondered if we had come too little prepared. The restaurant had one high chair, but no tray. I figured we'd have to place her food directly on the table. But that was not necessary. Actually, we managed to have one of the most mess-free meals ever.
I started by giving her pieces of a half-a-muffin I had left over from that morning. I gave her one piece at a time straight in her hand. When our plates arrived, I decided to try something new. I had ordered a Pad Thai with egg and chicken pieces. The wonderful thing about Asian food is, the meat is already cut up into little pieces. I also discovered that there is in fact nothing so easy as feeding your baby with chop sticks. I had ordered a Pad Thai, and all I had to do was pick up a piece of chicken, egg, veggie or noodle (one of the short pieces), and placed it directly in my baby's open mouth! Easy! And, unlike with a spoon or fork, it makes virtually no mess! Plus, my daughter loved being fed by two bright red sticks, expertly handled by mommy!
Of course, there's always the screaming that comes after dinner, while I'm busy cutting up a piece of fruit for dessert. The scream that says plainly: "You're not giving me my fruit fast enough gimme-gimme-gimme-gimme NOW!" Frantically cutting up pieces of orange, I'm praying I don't slice off my finger with the knife; finally, I practically throw the first pieces onto her tray and watch her gobble them down as I speed through preparing the next slice.
But other than that, it's easy. Not like some baby food preparation gadgets commercials would have you think. If you've been watching Comedy Gold during the day, you might know what I'm talking about. The Baby Bullet. Babies are sitting in their high chairs, screaming until they grow purple in the face, and all because mommy has the gall to try to feed them baby food from a jar. As if babies can tell the difference.
A young mom sits with her contented baby on her lap. "You need the Baby Bullet," she gushes. "It allows you to prepare the best organic baby food for your baby." Notice the redundancy of the word "baby"? The commercial would also have you believe that preparing your own baby food automatically means it's organic. But in order to prepare organic food, you have to buy organic. I'd love to know where they get organic sweet potatoes - I've noticed they're kind of hard to find at the grocery store.
And what about the extra sugar they claim comes in the food jars? Here are the ingredients for jarred apples: apples, citric acid. Oh, and by the way, if you want to save money, buy the unsweetened Mott's Fruitpacks. Same thing as what comes in the baby jars. Only much less expensive.
Preparing baby food is not complicated. It certainly does not require the entire Baby Bullet set. For the three months your baby will be eating purée (months 6 - 9), one might as well use the blender one most likely already has stored in one's kitchen.
My baby's pediatrician told me on the ninth month visit: "Your baby can now eat whatever the family eats. Except the obvious things, like egg whites and peanuts, at least until the first year. Just cut into little pieces. Oh, and not too spicy." That sounded just perfect.
Of course, meals have become increasingly messy. Pasta sauce in the hair, potatoes in the ears, and bananas up the nose. That's what happens when you eat with your fingers. But I love watching my baby eat and appreciate (and yes, even wear) her food. I also love occasionally taking her out to restaurants.
This afternoon, my husband and I took our baby out for a walk in downtown Montréal. It was a beautiful, early Spring day. It was 9 degrees celcius, the sun was shining and the snow was melting. We were in a carefree mood, and hadn't even brought a booster seat or (gasp!) a bib along with us. When we decided on an Asian restaurant for lunch, I wondered if we had come too little prepared. The restaurant had one high chair, but no tray. I figured we'd have to place her food directly on the table. But that was not necessary. Actually, we managed to have one of the most mess-free meals ever.
I started by giving her pieces of a half-a-muffin I had left over from that morning. I gave her one piece at a time straight in her hand. When our plates arrived, I decided to try something new. I had ordered a Pad Thai with egg and chicken pieces. The wonderful thing about Asian food is, the meat is already cut up into little pieces. I also discovered that there is in fact nothing so easy as feeding your baby with chop sticks. I had ordered a Pad Thai, and all I had to do was pick up a piece of chicken, egg, veggie or noodle (one of the short pieces), and placed it directly in my baby's open mouth! Easy! And, unlike with a spoon or fork, it makes virtually no mess! Plus, my daughter loved being fed by two bright red sticks, expertly handled by mommy!
Tuesday 15 March 2011
A one year old in the house!
On Sunday, I celebrated my daughter's birthday with my husband, parents, in-laws, and husband's best friend who happened to be in town. My daughter's birthday is actually not until next Sunday, but hey, we're optimists.
No, actually, it's just because everyone happened to be able to come to our place last weekend, so it worked out better that way. Besides, it's not like my baby knows the difference. Plus, she definitely appreciated all the spoiling.
My father spent approximately four hours Sunday morning icing a Care Bear cake we had baked the night before. My parents had brought over the cake pan they have had since the '80s - when my brother and I were young, we used to love having our Care Bear cake on our birthdays. I suppose, once we entered our pre-teens, my father must have been thankful he didn't have to slave over these cakes anymore.
He should never have kept the cake pan. Poor Dad. Four hours of hard labour later and I was placing the immaculate, perfectly iced, upright bear in front of my daughter. Giving her free reign to do whatever she wanted to with the cake.
At first she merely tapped it in the face with the palm of her hand, flattening its right eye and ear. Then she started planting her fingers in the icing. Finally, when she began looking at me as if to say, "So, what am I supposed to do with this thing?" I decided it was time to give the bear a lobotomy (that is, cut a piece out of its head).
I placed the piece of chocolate cake, covered in icing, on my daughter's tray, and she had films and pictures taken of her as she dug in, getting icing all over her clothes. Miraculously, she did not get any in her hair. We all thought she would simply play around with her cake a bit, but when she started hungrily shoving sizeable pieces into her mouth, my mother suggested someone had better take the tray away from her, before she made herself sick. I snatched the tray away, and my daughter gave me a chocolatey, icing-filled grin.
That day, she didn't so much as have a stomachache. Evidently, she is a chocolate-lover in the making. Just like her mom.
No, actually, it's just because everyone happened to be able to come to our place last weekend, so it worked out better that way. Besides, it's not like my baby knows the difference. Plus, she definitely appreciated all the spoiling.
My father spent approximately four hours Sunday morning icing a Care Bear cake we had baked the night before. My parents had brought over the cake pan they have had since the '80s - when my brother and I were young, we used to love having our Care Bear cake on our birthdays. I suppose, once we entered our pre-teens, my father must have been thankful he didn't have to slave over these cakes anymore.
He should never have kept the cake pan. Poor Dad. Four hours of hard labour later and I was placing the immaculate, perfectly iced, upright bear in front of my daughter. Giving her free reign to do whatever she wanted to with the cake.
At first she merely tapped it in the face with the palm of her hand, flattening its right eye and ear. Then she started planting her fingers in the icing. Finally, when she began looking at me as if to say, "So, what am I supposed to do with this thing?" I decided it was time to give the bear a lobotomy (that is, cut a piece out of its head).
I placed the piece of chocolate cake, covered in icing, on my daughter's tray, and she had films and pictures taken of her as she dug in, getting icing all over her clothes. Miraculously, she did not get any in her hair. We all thought she would simply play around with her cake a bit, but when she started hungrily shoving sizeable pieces into her mouth, my mother suggested someone had better take the tray away from her, before she made herself sick. I snatched the tray away, and my daughter gave me a chocolatey, icing-filled grin.
That day, she didn't so much as have a stomachache. Evidently, she is a chocolate-lover in the making. Just like her mom.
Friday 11 March 2011
Sleep deprivation (but it has nothing to do with the baby!)
These last few days, I have not been getting enough sleep. Not because of my daughter. Oh no. The obliging little angel does 12 hour nights. She's wonderful. So why am I not getting enough sleep?
Who the bloody hell knows. My body has, for the past few days (or is it weeks?) inexplicably decided to wake up one to two hours before my baby usually gets up. It's exhausting. Especially as I cannot seem to be able to get back to sleep. I just lie there, stupidly, thinking about all sorts of things. I feel like a super stressed career woman. Who doesn't have to go to work.
No. I have to go shopping. Because I am having a party on Sunday for my daughter's first birthday. Actually, her birthday is a week from now, but this Sunday my husband, parents, in-laws, even my husband's best friend, are in town; an opportunity too perfect to pass up. So we're celebrating a week early.
So, as I was saying, I'm planning a birthday lunch for Sunday. Until yesterday, I had absolutely no idea what I was going to serve my guests. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about it. That is, I had planned on a Care Bear cake. But that was about it. I phoned my mother in a panic.
"Mom! I'm going to have eight people plus a baby at the house on Sunday! What do I feed them?"
"How about some nice quiches?"
Right. Like I want to be baking quiches on my husband's first weekend home.
"How about I order pizza?" I asked hopefully.
Hmm. Maybe not.
Finally I decided on a really simple soup I could prepare in advance and stuff in the fridge until Sunday. I'll go to the groceries for baguettes, cold cuts and cheeses on Sunday morning. Oh, and wine, of course.
This morning, after I dropped my daughter off at the babysitter's house, I did a couple of loads of laundry, took a shower, and went shopping. Except I was really tired even before I stepped foot out of the house. I had woken up at 5:30 this morning and for one hour lay in bed revolving the following cycle of thoughts in my brain:
"Where am I going to find time to make the stupid soup? Should I do my Jillian Michaels workout this morning? Should I get rid of the dog? What if I don't find anyone decent to take her? Why can't I get back to sleep? Can't forget to pick up gift for baby's birthday. Where am I going to find time .... etc."
After the groceries, I headed to the mall, where I decided on two beautiful books with poetic texts and bright illustrations for my daughter's gift. I was going to be rushed to pick her up at the babysitter's, but I just had to get myself a Starbuck's mocha frappuccino (light). I was starting to feel my head spin, my eyes were watery from fatigue (and those horrible bright lights at the mall), and I felt like my face was paling.
On the way home, I quickly drank my coffee. For those of you out there who don't know me personally, I am not a regular coffee drinker. At all. And Starbuck's doesn't skimp on caffeine. It took me no more than five minutes to feel totally awake (finally) and with that came a feeling of complete cheefulness. Even the radio, which usually plays complete rubbish, decided that it would enhance my good mood by playing some of my favorite songs. When Tom Petty (yes, I did say Tom Petty - and why not?) came on, I put the volume up and started belting out: "Yeah I'm free! Free falling!" Next, I was upper-body dancing and tapping on the steering wheel to the Black Eyed Peas' "Tonight's gonna be a good night." By the time I got home, I was practically bouncing.
I picked up my baby and took her home, where I gave her some milk and prepared our lunch. I watched "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" (again - seriously) and laughed my ass off. It was the episode where Will and Carlton make Geoffrey (the butler) believe that he won 26 million dollars, prompting him to quit. I love the part where they go to the restaurant where he started a new job, and Will says to the snooty Maître D': "Oo am I? I'm a black man with a short fuse!"
While my daughter ate her half-grapes, I played my favorite song on my laptop: "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga. I sat in front of my baby and danced as I sang out loud "I want your love, and I want your revenge, you and me could write a bad romance." Perhaps not the most appropriate song for a baby, but she can't understand the words anyway! Besides, she loved it! She laughed and even danced, sitting in her high chair, as I sang to her! I mean, she must have felt pretty special, having her own private dinner and show!
Who the bloody hell knows. My body has, for the past few days (or is it weeks?) inexplicably decided to wake up one to two hours before my baby usually gets up. It's exhausting. Especially as I cannot seem to be able to get back to sleep. I just lie there, stupidly, thinking about all sorts of things. I feel like a super stressed career woman. Who doesn't have to go to work.
No. I have to go shopping. Because I am having a party on Sunday for my daughter's first birthday. Actually, her birthday is a week from now, but this Sunday my husband, parents, in-laws, even my husband's best friend, are in town; an opportunity too perfect to pass up. So we're celebrating a week early.
So, as I was saying, I'm planning a birthday lunch for Sunday. Until yesterday, I had absolutely no idea what I was going to serve my guests. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about it. That is, I had planned on a Care Bear cake. But that was about it. I phoned my mother in a panic.
"Mom! I'm going to have eight people plus a baby at the house on Sunday! What do I feed them?"
"How about some nice quiches?"
Right. Like I want to be baking quiches on my husband's first weekend home.
"How about I order pizza?" I asked hopefully.
Hmm. Maybe not.
Finally I decided on a really simple soup I could prepare in advance and stuff in the fridge until Sunday. I'll go to the groceries for baguettes, cold cuts and cheeses on Sunday morning. Oh, and wine, of course.
This morning, after I dropped my daughter off at the babysitter's house, I did a couple of loads of laundry, took a shower, and went shopping. Except I was really tired even before I stepped foot out of the house. I had woken up at 5:30 this morning and for one hour lay in bed revolving the following cycle of thoughts in my brain:
"Where am I going to find time to make the stupid soup? Should I do my Jillian Michaels workout this morning? Should I get rid of the dog? What if I don't find anyone decent to take her? Why can't I get back to sleep? Can't forget to pick up gift for baby's birthday. Where am I going to find time .... etc."
After the groceries, I headed to the mall, where I decided on two beautiful books with poetic texts and bright illustrations for my daughter's gift. I was going to be rushed to pick her up at the babysitter's, but I just had to get myself a Starbuck's mocha frappuccino (light). I was starting to feel my head spin, my eyes were watery from fatigue (and those horrible bright lights at the mall), and I felt like my face was paling.
On the way home, I quickly drank my coffee. For those of you out there who don't know me personally, I am not a regular coffee drinker. At all. And Starbuck's doesn't skimp on caffeine. It took me no more than five minutes to feel totally awake (finally) and with that came a feeling of complete cheefulness. Even the radio, which usually plays complete rubbish, decided that it would enhance my good mood by playing some of my favorite songs. When Tom Petty (yes, I did say Tom Petty - and why not?) came on, I put the volume up and started belting out: "Yeah I'm free! Free falling!" Next, I was upper-body dancing and tapping on the steering wheel to the Black Eyed Peas' "Tonight's gonna be a good night." By the time I got home, I was practically bouncing.
I picked up my baby and took her home, where I gave her some milk and prepared our lunch. I watched "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" (again - seriously) and laughed my ass off. It was the episode where Will and Carlton make Geoffrey (the butler) believe that he won 26 million dollars, prompting him to quit. I love the part where they go to the restaurant where he started a new job, and Will says to the snooty Maître D': "Oo am I? I'm a black man with a short fuse!"
While my daughter ate her half-grapes, I played my favorite song on my laptop: "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga. I sat in front of my baby and danced as I sang out loud "I want your love, and I want your revenge, you and me could write a bad romance." Perhaps not the most appropriate song for a baby, but she can't understand the words anyway! Besides, she loved it! She laughed and even danced, sitting in her high chair, as I sang to her! I mean, she must have felt pretty special, having her own private dinner and show!
Wednesday 9 March 2011
Raising a baby inevitably comes with a certain amount of confusion
Raising a baby is confusing. Take, for example, the flood of advice that comes your way. Some good, some contradictory to other advice, and some just plain ludicrous. Some advice comes uninvited. When I was still expecting my baby, I read somewhere (or in several places) that parents always encounter other parents who will feel it incumbent upon themselves to share their wisdom. Only thing is, once these bits of wisdom come out of their mouths, they often tend to sound more like folly. The first time I met such "other parents," the first thought that came to my mind was, "Wow! They really do exist!" As they gave me the benefit of their experience, I sat back, enjoyed, and indulged in a bit of suppressed giggling. For what else can one do?
The most valuable piece of advice (and I am speaking strictly of entertainment value, of course) these parents in particular gave me was this: upon seeing my daughter sitting on her bum, knees bent and feet by her hips, they suggested that I ought to teach her not to sit like that, or she would develop knee problems. I smiled at them and said, because I really could not help it: "Why? because she's already in her mid-fifties?" Still, they meant well, and I thank them for their concern. Of course I have no intention of following their advice. If my daughter's knees hurt, she will sit in a different position on her own. Or learn not to bend her knees (giggle).
Of course, as a new parent, I am fully aware that I need help. Advice that is freely given to me, I take or I leave. Often I will seek advice. I am a strong believer in asking mom for help - since, obviously, she's seen it all and been through it all before. I also subscribe to a weekly parenting newsletter, and sometimes receive some quite interesting advice, not only on how to care for my baby, but how to help her learn about the world around her. For example, the last newsletter I received assured me that my baby ought to be learning about object permanence by now. To help her develop this, why don't I try the following experiment: show her a toy, then place it under a cup. Lift the cup, and give her the toy. Repeat two more times. Then, hide the toy under a different object, say, a box. Watch her look for it under the cup. Easy!
Sure. What do you do if your baby is more interested in the cup and doesn't want to have anything to do with the bloody toy?
Oh well. Never mind. I know she already knows about object permanence. She just likes to develop her own games, that's all. Like when she goes in the bathroom, closes the door, giggles as I ask myself outloud: "Where's baby? Where is she?", then swings the door open, shrieking with glee, because of course she knows her mother's there all along!
So, really, when you get to know your own baby, you develop your own instincts, and most of the time you know exactly what to do. Because you're her parent, and parents just know. And because you read all those books while you were pregnant.
Before I close, there is one thing perhaps some kind parent out there could help me figure out. Why is it that my baby goes around all day, speaking all the syllables in the history of language, especially NaNa, DaDa, BaBa, but refuses still to say MaMa, even though that's the first word she's supposed to say? According to the books, anyway.
The most valuable piece of advice (and I am speaking strictly of entertainment value, of course) these parents in particular gave me was this: upon seeing my daughter sitting on her bum, knees bent and feet by her hips, they suggested that I ought to teach her not to sit like that, or she would develop knee problems. I smiled at them and said, because I really could not help it: "Why? because she's already in her mid-fifties?" Still, they meant well, and I thank them for their concern. Of course I have no intention of following their advice. If my daughter's knees hurt, she will sit in a different position on her own. Or learn not to bend her knees (giggle).
Of course, as a new parent, I am fully aware that I need help. Advice that is freely given to me, I take or I leave. Often I will seek advice. I am a strong believer in asking mom for help - since, obviously, she's seen it all and been through it all before. I also subscribe to a weekly parenting newsletter, and sometimes receive some quite interesting advice, not only on how to care for my baby, but how to help her learn about the world around her. For example, the last newsletter I received assured me that my baby ought to be learning about object permanence by now. To help her develop this, why don't I try the following experiment: show her a toy, then place it under a cup. Lift the cup, and give her the toy. Repeat two more times. Then, hide the toy under a different object, say, a box. Watch her look for it under the cup. Easy!
Sure. What do you do if your baby is more interested in the cup and doesn't want to have anything to do with the bloody toy?
Oh well. Never mind. I know she already knows about object permanence. She just likes to develop her own games, that's all. Like when she goes in the bathroom, closes the door, giggles as I ask myself outloud: "Where's baby? Where is she?", then swings the door open, shrieking with glee, because of course she knows her mother's there all along!
So, really, when you get to know your own baby, you develop your own instincts, and most of the time you know exactly what to do. Because you're her parent, and parents just know. And because you read all those books while you were pregnant.
Before I close, there is one thing perhaps some kind parent out there could help me figure out. Why is it that my baby goes around all day, speaking all the syllables in the history of language, especially NaNa, DaDa, BaBa, but refuses still to say MaMa, even though that's the first word she's supposed to say? According to the books, anyway.
Monday 7 March 2011
Top Ten Funny, Disgusting or Disturbing Things My 11-Month Old Did This Month
10. Started a game where she sticks her mouth, tongue and nose to the glass panelled doors that lead to the dining room and makes faces - but only on the condition that her mommy does the same
9. Has taken to wearing her foam books as hats
8. Has suddenly got into the habit of calling me "NaNa" (???)
7. Has become obsessed with the telephone (but she's not even fifteen yet!!)
6. Has made numerous attempts to drink her bath water
5. Has thrown the remote control at the dog (and the phone, and her toys, and her table tray - I thought that one was securely fastened?)
4. Just yesterday, she lovingly caressed my face with her chubby, tiny little hand - and then poked her finger right in my eye
3. Has just now gotten completely entangled in the computer's power cord
2. Plunged her hand in the toilet bowl for the first time
1. One day, I smelled something funny coming downstairs in the morning, but was not able to identify the source - until my daughter showed me, clasped in her little fist, a piece of dog poop she had fished out from underneath the dining room table (what was the dog doing pooping there, anyway?)
9. Has taken to wearing her foam books as hats
8. Has suddenly got into the habit of calling me "NaNa" (???)
7. Has become obsessed with the telephone (but she's not even fifteen yet!!)
6. Has made numerous attempts to drink her bath water
5. Has thrown the remote control at the dog (and the phone, and her toys, and her table tray - I thought that one was securely fastened?)
4. Just yesterday, she lovingly caressed my face with her chubby, tiny little hand - and then poked her finger right in my eye
3. Has just now gotten completely entangled in the computer's power cord
2. Plunged her hand in the toilet bowl for the first time
1. One day, I smelled something funny coming downstairs in the morning, but was not able to identify the source - until my daughter showed me, clasped in her little fist, a piece of dog poop she had fished out from underneath the dining room table (what was the dog doing pooping there, anyway?)
The Battle with the Tempo Car Shelter
Ironically, my very first post has nothing to do with being a mom at home. Though it has everything to do with all those big outside-the-house chores one must do on one's own when one's husband is not around.
We have a Tempo car shelter in our driveway - it looks like a big white tent and they're all the rage in Québec. When I stepped outside my door this morning to take my daughter to the neighbor's where she spends half-days (and I get a break to write - or deal with house chores), there was a full-blown storm and I was up to my knees in snow. The front flaps to the car shelter were opened (indeed they were never closed all winter - this morning was our first real snowstorm), and I noticed a snow-drift just behind the car. I dropped my daughter off, returned to the shelter, and began shovelling.
So far so good - until I got the snow out and tried to close the flaps. They were iced over and stuck to the metal frames; I had to yank hard to de-crust them. The result was that it loosened the snow that had built up on top of the shelter. I didn't realize this right away, however, as I was working from inside the "tent". I finally managed to pull the flaps loose, and proceeded to glide them down the metal bars where they would join in the middle and I would be able to close them with a series of hooks tied at the end of elastic bands.
Right. It's never that easy. The flaps wouldn't join - there was at least a foot-long gap between them. Now what?
I stepped out from under the shelter and began pulling with all my might. Snow was gathering quickly in my jacket's hood and on the back of my neck. My struggling yielded little results, and I decided to take the lazy route and tie the flaps down by inserting the metal hooks in the holes for the elastic bands - which is not where they are supposed to go but what the heck. I was freezing, it was windy, and I was fighting with two heavy flaps that were flying like sails in the wind. I pulled the upper metal hook to the nearest hole, looking up as I did so, gave it a good yank - and received a mouthful of snow as the buildup on the roof of the shelter finally gave way. Sputtering and spewing, I cursed out loud (thank goodness there were no kids around - lucky for me the schools were closed). After I shook the snow out of my hair, I proceeded to the remaining hooks.
Once I was done, I surveyed my work, and finally walked into the house, two good inches of snow stuck under my boots, and swore not to step foot outside for the rest of the day. Except to pick up my daughter at the neighbor's, of course.
We have a Tempo car shelter in our driveway - it looks like a big white tent and they're all the rage in Québec. When I stepped outside my door this morning to take my daughter to the neighbor's where she spends half-days (and I get a break to write - or deal with house chores), there was a full-blown storm and I was up to my knees in snow. The front flaps to the car shelter were opened (indeed they were never closed all winter - this morning was our first real snowstorm), and I noticed a snow-drift just behind the car. I dropped my daughter off, returned to the shelter, and began shovelling.
So far so good - until I got the snow out and tried to close the flaps. They were iced over and stuck to the metal frames; I had to yank hard to de-crust them. The result was that it loosened the snow that had built up on top of the shelter. I didn't realize this right away, however, as I was working from inside the "tent". I finally managed to pull the flaps loose, and proceeded to glide them down the metal bars where they would join in the middle and I would be able to close them with a series of hooks tied at the end of elastic bands.
Right. It's never that easy. The flaps wouldn't join - there was at least a foot-long gap between them. Now what?
I stepped out from under the shelter and began pulling with all my might. Snow was gathering quickly in my jacket's hood and on the back of my neck. My struggling yielded little results, and I decided to take the lazy route and tie the flaps down by inserting the metal hooks in the holes for the elastic bands - which is not where they are supposed to go but what the heck. I was freezing, it was windy, and I was fighting with two heavy flaps that were flying like sails in the wind. I pulled the upper metal hook to the nearest hole, looking up as I did so, gave it a good yank - and received a mouthful of snow as the buildup on the roof of the shelter finally gave way. Sputtering and spewing, I cursed out loud (thank goodness there were no kids around - lucky for me the schools were closed). After I shook the snow out of my hair, I proceeded to the remaining hooks.
Once I was done, I surveyed my work, and finally walked into the house, two good inches of snow stuck under my boots, and swore not to step foot outside for the rest of the day. Except to pick up my daughter at the neighbor's, of course.
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