Things That Are True - Just Write

The Imp comes to me, all fresh from the shower and little boy clean, looking for a hug. I gather him into my arms and lift him onto my lap. He's so gangly now, all legs and elbows and accidentally banging his head into my chin when he comes in for a hug.

I marvel at this child who just keeps growing, which is a ridiculous thing to say, because of course he keeps growing. That's what children do. I know that, intellectually, but I still struggle to understand on a cellular level that this being who once tucked in under one arm to breastfeed now spills out off my lap and onto the floor when he leans into me. Other developments, like language and socialization and his quirky sense of humour have nowhere near as much impact on me as the sheer undeniable size of this boy.

As he walks away from me, the hallway light shines on six inches of bare leg and ankle where once a bath towel dragged on the floor.




This post was written as part of Just Write from Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary.

Things That Are True - Newton's Laws

"Newton's First Law of Motion states that a body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it."

"I'm hiding, Mommy. You don't see me."

"A body in motion at a constant velocity will remain in motion in a straight line unless acted upon by an outside force."

"If a body experiences an acceleration ( or deceleration) or a change in direction of motion, it must have an outside force acting on it. Outside forces are sometimes called net forces or unbalanced forces."

"The Second Law of Motion states that if an unbalanced force acts on a body, that body will experience acceleration ( or deceleration)."

Today was a day of unbalanced, outside forces, if you define outside forces as sunshine, fresh air, and the irresistible appeal of things that need climbing. Which I do.


All that business about Newton's laws was scanged from this NASA page, because yay science!

Things That Are Random - Over the Pole Edition

The North Pole, y'all. The North Pole on Christmas Day - it's like I'm Reverse Santa, taking all the presents back! I'm in a plane! Going to Europe! And apparently I'm very excited about it!

I'm in a plane with wi-fi. The science-fiction loving thirteen year old me is a bit agog at the moment. (I highly recommend this living-in-the-future stuff.)

After what felt like six months but was really about three weeks of laying about on the couch helpless against the assault of viral bronchitis (thank you dude coughing in the seat behind me on the flight home from Honolulu) I am again on a long flight, this time Paris bound. We booked it ages ago, and managed to get business class seats...

INTERRUPTING TO SAY: where apparently flight attendants assume you're a doctor. Sit in the front row of the plane, and your odds of being mistaken for a person of class and education increase. Who knew? 

The head steward just asked me quite seriously if I was a doctor. The look on his face indicated that he fully expected me to say yes. (I shouldn't make light, they've just announced that there's a medical situation with one of the passengers and have asked for any doctors or paramedics to help out. Oh no. Hope it's not too serious.)*

As I was saying, we're in business class seats. I am pleased to report that the first row on the plane is all kinds of excellent. And because it's always cute when you put a little kid in grown-up surroundings:

"Can I offer you a little pre-flight cocktail? Orange juice? Very good, sir, here you are. And what will the monkey be having?"

Then Curious George's antics almost got us kicked out of our fancy seats:

Bad little monkey!

I have to say, bedtime shenanigans on a plane are surely one of the nine circles of hell. As the parent, you are powerless. You're surrounded by people – people of class and education. There's no way to just close the door and let a tantrum take its course. What good is a time out when a kid is already stuck in a seat for nine hours? Children sense this, the little vultures. You are reduced to wheedling and vague and mostly empty threats. I am grateful for seat belts, and the "you must fasten your seat belt at all times" rule. (I may have a lap belt installed in his bed at home, now that I think about it.) It took an hour and a half to get The Imp settled down to sleep, during which I might be alleged to have had thoughts of minor violence.

As I got the stank-eye from the dude across the aisle from me (who, by the way, has been coughing non-stop for the last hour because I have the worst flight-seat-placement karma ever) I happened to glance across The Imp's seat (don't make eye contact, don't make eye contact) out to starboard, and there, perfectly framed in the oval window, was the heart-stopping beauty of Orion in an above-the-clouds perfect night sky.

Orion has always been something of a talisman for me.

I took a deep breath and fixed my gaze on that line of three bright stars until The Imp grew bored of being a hooligan and put himself to sleep.

Sometimes I really do thank my lucky stars.





*It occurred to me even as I wrote that sentence that "not too serious" is a crock of shit. What people mean when they say that is, "I hope I don't have to see a dead guy being wheeled off the plane." What does "not too serious" mean, anyway? If someone just had a minor stroke, it's not too serious to me, but it's serious as, well, as a heart attack to the poor bastard whose brain just clogged up.

Things That Are True - No Place Like Home

Today we woke up in Hawaii. This is a good way to start the day.

Self portraits over morning coffee

The morning was cloudy on and off, but warm. Short sleeves and flip-flops warm. We sorted out some hotel stuff (our usual hotel was all booked up for our first night on Oahu so we stayed somewhere else last night) and walked around Waikiki. It was a little surreal - since we were here just six months ago, it kind of felt like we hadn't left; like maybe that time in the rain and cold of Vancouver was just a bad dream from which we'd finally woken.

Then we hopped on public transit, (called, appropriately enough, The Bus) and made our way to my aunt's house, where we wished her a happy birthday and bestowed upon her the ceremonial offering of Hawkins Cheezies, the one piece of home she can't get on this island paradise.

After a quick visit, we made our way back to The Bus stop under cloudy and ominous skies. On the ride from Kaneohe back to Waikiki, The Imp fell asleep in my lap. Also, it started to rain; big fat tropical raindrops coming down in sheets. By the time we reached our destination, it was really pouring down. As we exited the bus, The Imp woke and, confused, asked "Are we still at Hawaii?" as he rubbed his eyes.

"Yes honey, we're still at Hawaii," I laughed in response. It was a fair question. On the plane he'd fallen asleep somewhere over the Pacific and woken up in Honolulu. It made sense, then, that he would fall asleep on the bus and wake in a new place too.

"It's supposed to look like Hawaii, but it just looks like Vancouver!" he shouted in disgust.

Right you are, kiddo. Right you are.

Hoping for sunscreen weather tomorrow. I know. My life is really rough.

Things That Are True - Plans? What Plans?

What's the saying? "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." According to google, it was John Lennon who said that, although I doubt he said it first, it being one of those universal truthy things that bonks us all upside the head on a fairly regular basis.

Oh, the things I was going to get done today! I was going to be the very model of productivity! No task left undone!

But yeah. A feverish three year old will muck that up. Especially when a fever that seemed to be going away suddenly spiked to 39.4 C and said three year old has a history of febrile seizures.

So instead, this is what most of the day looked like:

A feverish little boy, couch bound, tv on, Curious George as pillow

This is the part where I'm grateful that I have the freedom to put work aside and spend time helping my boy feel better, right?

Things That Are True - When the Fever Breaks

I am not freaking out.

This is a good thing.

When I picked up The Imp at daycare today, he looked tired, and a little wan. My mom-spider senses got a little twitchy. On the ride home (all four minutes of it) he fell asleep. Since I had just been describing to a friend how The Imp never. stops. moving, to have him fall asleep at 5:30 in the afternoon was a bit of a red flag. We got inside the apartment, and all he wanted to do was sit in my lap.

Me: "Okay, honey, come sit in my lap for one minute and then I'll start making dinner."
The Imp: "No. I want to have a long, long, long, long, very long hug."
Me: "Okay. Come sit with me and let's have a hug."

The Imp crawled into my lap, rested his head against my chest, and put his little arms around me.

Me: "What should we have for dinner tonight? Would you like to have French toast?"
The Imp, holding me tighter: "No. I just want to have a long, long hug."

It should be noted that French toast is one of The Imp's favourite meals of all time. He loves to help me make it, he loves that it can be eaten with syrup or jam and how cool is that? He loves French toast. It is second only to blueberry pancakes in The Imp's little foodie heart.

When he didn't even lift his head off my chest at the mention of French toast, I knew we had a problem.

Me: "Honey, would you like to cuddle with Mommy on the couch?"
The Imp: "Yes."

Three minutes later he was sound asleep. His cheeks were flushed, and a thermometer gently placed in his armpit revealed a slightly elevated temperature.

In months past, I would've gone into crisis management mode. I would've immediately put him to bed, dosed him with ibuprofen, taken his temperature every 15 minutes. I would've set up Seizure Watch HQ in his room (basically a pallet on the floor for me to not sleep on) and I would've stared at him without blinking for as many hours as it took for the sun to come up again.

In other words, I would've freaked out.

Not without cause; he's had a couple of febrile seizures in the past, and they are terrifying to behold. But this time I feel like I've got a handle on it. Don't get me wrong, I still won't sleep much, but at least I'll be not sleeping in my own bed. I'll check on him every few hours, and if he spikes a real fever, I'll administer ibuprofen as required. But I'm not panicking. I don't have knots in my stomach. I'm not picturing him turning blue with foam coming out of his mouth, which is what his first febrile seizure looked like. (Seriously, the most horrible experience of my entire life, thinking I was watching my 16 month old dying in my arms. I have no words.)

He's a sturdy little boy who's had a runny nose for a couple of days, and his body's fighting off whatever seething petri dish vector of disease daycare bug he's picked up this week.

And I am not freaking out. He's fine.

Right?

Things That Are True - Echoes

The second he woke up this morning, The Imp came striding out into the living room where I was curled up with a book, looked at me very intensely, and made the following announcement:

The Imp: I am taking away all your treats.

(We use the phrase "take away your treats" to keep his behaviour in line.)

Me: Really. Why are you taking away all my treats?
The Imp: Because you said no tv. So I'm taking away your treats.
Me: Why do you think I said no tv?
The Imp: I don't know.
Me: Because you were shouting and hitting last night at bedtime. Am I shouting? Am I hitting?
The Imp, reluctantly: Noooo.

It's so interesting to hear my own words echoed back to me by my child. I'm fascinated, watching him figure out how much power he has, how much power his words have. He's figuring out his place. He's crafting his worldview. And when I hear my words come out of his mouth, I'm keenly aware of how much influence I have on that.

I was reminded of this again later this morning, after breakfast, as we were getting dressed for daycare. He wasn't cooperating, and I told him if he didn't get dressed rightnow there would be no treats after school. He looked at me, dejectedly looked at his feet, and quietly said, "Fuck."

(Well, yay for using it in the correct context, I guess?)


Me, quietly: What did you say?
The Imp: Fuck.
Me: Honey, we don't say that word.
The Imp: You say it all the time.

(Um, yeah. He had me there.)

Me: You're right, I do say it. But I shouldn't. It's not a nice word. How about if I don't say it anymore, and you don't say it anymore either?
The Imp: Okay.

So we finished getting him dressed and got him off to daycare. There were no horrified stories of dropped f-bombs on pickup this afternoon, so I'm hoping that's the end of it. For now, anyway.

And I really do need to get a handle on the things I say. There's an echo in here.

Things That Are True - My Kid's a Genius

The other day The Imp was paging through a magazine that was sitting on our coffee table. He paused at a shampoo ad and looked up at HWSNBN.

The Imp: Is this a commercial?
HWSNBN, glancing up from his reading: Yes, it is. It's a commercial for shampoo.
The Imp: There's a girl in the commercial. Do only girls use this shampoo?
HWSNBN, taking more interest now: Well, I think that mostly women would use that shampoo, yes.
The Imp, not satisfied: But how many? How many girls use the shampoo?
HWSNBN: I don't know. I'd guess that this kind of shampoo would be used by women 95% of the time.
The Imp stops; thinks. Then: So only 5% of the time boys would use it?

HWSNBN and I gawk at each other across the room. Um, what?

The Imp is three years old. I fear he may be smarter than both of us.

(Help!)

But also: how awesome is it that my genius three year old can differentiate between editorial and advertising? Do we win at parenting or what?!

Things That Are True - Rules to Live By

Rule to Live By #1:

When life gives you a beautiful fall day and time to spend with your favourite people, don't be a fool. Take it and run with it.

Rule to Live By #2:

Pastry dough is no trifling matter.

Rule to Live By #3:

Dance every chance you get.

Things That Are True - Thanksgiving

Four years ago, I was sitting, surrounded by family and friends, at a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner, and it was everything I could do just to hold it together and not weep into my plate of turkey.


Nobody but HWSNBN and I knew I was six weeks pregnant. And no one but HWSNBN and I knew I was bleeding.


The doctor we'd seen two days before had told us it was almost certainly a miscarriage. We'd done blood tests to determine if the pregnancy was progressing or not, but that was on a Friday before the long weekend. The results weren't available yet.


After six years of trying, many many dollars spent on fertility tests and treatments, and seven cycles of IUI, I'd finally gotten the longed-for two pink lines on the pregnancy test. We'd been toying with the idea of telling our extended family at Thanksgiving dinner - what could make a room full of people we loved more thankful than news that the circle around that same table would be one larger the next year?

I looked normal on the outside, but I was falling apart. I alternated between being heartbroken, feeling numb, and wanting to scream. We said nothing. 


We learned a few days later that what I was experiencing was a subchorionic bleed; first through blood tests, and then confirmed by ultrasound a week later when we heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time. The pregnancy went to term. And now, four years later, we have The Imp creating a noisy joyful whirlwind of confusion in our lives.


Every year as we sit around the family dinner table discussing the things that make us grateful I wonder, "What if...?"

And when people ask me, "What are you thankful for this day?" it's easy to answer.

This day and every day.

Things That Are True - Epic Cuteness

In case you were in any doubt that I have somehow spawned one of the cutest boys that ever did live, I submit here for your viewing pleasure, the video we made tonight to send to HWSNBN to say goodnight:



And with that, I'm off to bed myself. Because hitting publish on a new post at 10:30pm on a Friday is an awesome way to build traffic to your blog, yo.

Wordless Wednesday - Grand Day Out

The Imp: How do I get into that space ship, Mommy?


(Print on canvas from Cici Art Factory, who I adore. Full disclosure: paid for the print myself.)

Things That Make Me Angry

I live in downtown Vancouver. Every day, I cycle the bike paths, walk the streets, and shop in the stores that made headlines and breaking news all over the world last night, as hooligans destroyed my city.

They were mostly young. They were mostly male. They were mostly white.

I don't know what that means, but it means something.

I am devastated. I was in the CBC Fan Zone yesterday afternoon, with The Imp. We've been there for the beginning of every game since they started screening them for the public. "We go to the hockey party!" exclaimed The Imp, every time the Canucks played. Without fail, it was a great experience. Face painting, "Go Canucks Go" signs; fans gathered peacefully to cheer on their team, celebrate their victories, and commiserate when they lost. Beach balls were batted around by the crowds. One afternoon, three separate groups of people noticed that The Imp was desperate to have a turn with the ball, and in front of my eyes, they conspired to make it happen, getting the ball to him so he could bat it back into the crowd. There were countless families there. Canucks fandom seemed to know no age, race, or ethnicity. The enthusiastic singing of O Canada before every game was deafeningly awesome - my voice and The Imp's added lustily into the mix.

The CBC Fan Zone in happier times

We'd watch the opening face-off, the first few minutes of the game, and then make our way, through happy crowds, home for dinner.

Yesterday started out the same. I picked him up early at daycare, we made our way to the fan zone at Robson and Hamilton, and found a patch of pavement to call our own.

But the energy was different yesterday. The makeup of the crowd skewed to young, male, and drunk. I posted on twitter:

"In the #fanzone. Most packed I've ever seen it. The Imp insisted he wanted to be here; I'll be surprised if he makes it to game time. #loud"

I saw an almost-fistfight when a security guard made a simple request of fans to sit down before the game even started. People were on edge.

I wanted to leave right then and there. The Imp wanted to stay. I convinced myself it was a one-off, that people would settle in as the game began and there was a focus for all the pent-up nervous energy. After all, it had been fun every other time.

The anthems were sung. It was loud, but somehow it wasn't the same.

The puck dropped. The game began. The energy in the crowd was intense.

My gut told me it was time to leave. The Imp insisted he wanted to stay. I fought an internal battle. "This could be one of The Imp's earliest memories; watching his beloved Canucks win the Cup!" vs "This crowd makes me anxious. This could get ugly."

I followed my gut; we left halfway through the first period, after the Bruins had drawn first blood. Once home, I tweeted:  

"Home. Fan zone vibe: sketchy. Everyone's wearing a jersey, but spider senses tell me the Ed Hardy factor approaches critical mass."

You know the rest. The Canucks lost. The city erupted in violence.

I am heartbroken. And I am angry.

I love living downtown. I've enjoyed the variety and diversity of urban life. I've loved raising The Imp so that he doesn't blink when he sees a same-sex couple, he's not thrown by different languages being spoken around him, and he's accustomed to lots of different skin colours in his world.

And I've felt safe here. The tremendous success and happy shiny feelings about the Olympics showed, I thought, that Vancouver had grown up. A cosmopolitan city, it could handle huge crowds and public celebrations.

Not so.

I'm absolutely heartsick at how wrong I was, how wrong everyone I know was, and how wrong, it seems, the authorities were about what would happen if and when the Canucks lost.

I hate the fear I feel now. I'm angry because I will now never quite feel safe in a Vancouver crowd again. The Celebration of Light takes place right on my doorstep every summer. A few hundred thousand people crowd into my neighbourhood to watch the fireworks, and I will never feel comfortable taking The Imp out into that crowd again. The veneer of civility is too thin. I'm angry that I can't unsee that now.

And I'm angry that I can't unsee the images of people wantonly destroying my neighbourhood. Setting cars on fire, breaking windows, and looting? Who does that?

I don't understand the people who do that. I just don't. And I don't believe it had anything to do with hockey. I saw footage of a person using a hammer to break the windows of a bank. Who brings a hammer to watch a hockey game? Who comes to a hockey party with gasoline to set things on fire? Who brings a baseball bat to a hockey game, just in case they feel like breaking the windows of an SUV parked blocks away from the arena? People were throwing bricks through store windows. Where are they getting bricks in a city built of concrete? Who brings bricks to a hockey game?

There was premeditation involved here. The loss of the game was just a pretext; the spark that lit a fire long set and stoked.

It's no secret that I am warm and fuzzy about social media. I blog, I'm on flickr, I'm on youtube, I'm on facebook, linkedin, listgeeks, pinterest, and twitter. I've met people I adore through social media. I've learned a tremendous amount, and I've benefited hugely, both personally and professionally, from the connections I've made online. I've been a huge cheerleader in my social circle for the benefits of social media. I love that everyone has a voice, everyone has the opportunity for community, and we become our own content generators and media channels.

Maybe I've been naive, but last night I saw a side of social media I hadn't even known existed.

The violence, the destruction, those were the acts of relatively few people. Out of 100,000, there were maybe a few hundred actively involved in creating the mayhem. But there were thousands of people standing by, watching. Taking pictures to post on facebook. Chanting, clapping, and posing in front of burning cars only feet away, high fiving each other. Jeering and leering gleefully at the damage being done, at the taunting of riot police. Thousands of people who chose not to go home, but to stand by and watch, and laugh at the spectacle. And tweet about it.

For these people, the (in this case mostly young, predominantly male) milling about observers and inciters, is nothing real until it's been on a screen? And being on a screen, is it then not real, but spectacle? Have they been so desensitized to violence that when they see it right in front of them, it's entertainment?

Over and over again, news cameras caught thousands of people taking pictures, getting in the way of emergency responders, making it harder to defuse the madness. There was a self-consciousness to it: I saw people running from looted stores, one hand full of stolen merchandise, the other with a camera phone on, recording the whole thing to relive later on youtube.

Is this online space, where I have found education, community, and solidarity, the same space inhabited by people who actually tag themselves on facebook committing criminal acts?

My son is a digital native, growing up in a post-facebook world. The mere act of me writing this blog is creating a digital footprint for him before he even has a say in what gets shared. His generation will never experience our antiquated concepts of privacy.

How do I raise him, in this oversharey, tweet-happy environment? How do I make sure this lovely little boy, who loves the Canucks as only a three year old can, doesn't become one of these young men, completely unconcerned, gleeful even, about being caught on camera in this appalling behaviour?

The Imp went to sleep last night as the madness was descending. He missed it all - saw no footage, no photos. I've kept it that way this morning. He's staying home from daycare today because I am not prepared to answer his questions. His daycare is in the immediate vicinity of where the violence started last night. The Imp's uncannily observant; he sees everything. He asks questions about everything. And I don't know what to tell a three year old about broken glass on the sidewalk, boarded up windows, and burn marks on the pavement. So I'm postponing the discussion; opting out for 24 hours to sort out my own conflicted feelings and to try and figure out what a three year old needs to know.

But I do know this: "We have met the enemy and he is us."

Things That Are True - Kid + Grownup Clothes = Cute

We have a very happy little Canucks fan, here wearing HWSNBN's retro hockey sweater.

The only time I ever think twice about living downtown is during the NHL playoffs when the Canucks are having a successful run.

Longer spring days mean The Imp insists, "It's morning time!" as the prolonged sunset creeps in past his dark curtains at bedtime.

And loud cheers from balconies and open apartment windows all around us put the lie to my, "Okay buddy, the game's over, time for bed!" when it's really only the end of the second period.

I can usually explain the "they just scored" cheers away just by saying that people are happy the Canucks won the game. He accepts that. "I'm happy too!" he says. "Go, Canucks, go!" he shouts before I get him calmed down enough to drift off.

The day The Imp figures out there are three periods in a hockey game? I'm hooped.

Things I've Learned - When in Doubt, Post the Cute

Three day headache + HWSNBN is away + super clingy Imp = not as much fun as you'd think.

Math is hard, yo.


But hey, look! In-happier-times random photo fun! Action shot, even!

Street hockey in the downtown core. I am Canadian.

Things That Are Surprising - Biohazard

Alternate Title: My Parents Went All the Way to Hawaii and All I Got Was This Lousy Duvet

Yesterday late afternoon, The Imp was so busy playing in the adjoining room that he neglected to go to the bathroom before he, uh, went to the bathroom. "I pee! I pee!" he shouted in consternation, from the newly wet spot atop the giant king sized bed he'd been sleeping on, without incident, the previous two nights.

"Oh no!" We ran into his room, yanked him off the bed and ran to the toilet. Alas, we were too late.

We immediately stripped the duvet cover off, and yes, he'd wet the corner of the duvet. Damn.

Knowing that the duvets aren't usually laundered between guests, we called housekeeping right away. We wanted to let them know the duvet needed to be cleaned, and we were hoping to get a clean replacement before The Imp's bedtime.

Housekeeping came promptly to address the situation. It should be noted that they were at all times calm, polite, professional, and as accommodating as they could be. What we didn't realize was that our simple attempt to do the right thing had unleashed a no-doubt OSHA mandated triumph of policy over common sense.

HWSNBN: Will we have to pay to have the duvet cleaned?
Housekeeping: We cannot clean the duvet.
HWSNBN: What? Why not? It says on the tag, "Dryclean Only."
Housekeeping: It is a biohazard. It cannot be cleaned.
HWSNBN: Biohazard? A quarter-cup of toddler pee is a biohazard?
Housekeeping: Yes. The duvet must be thrown away.
HWSNBN: You're telling me that this perfectly good duvet has to be thrown away because The Imp peed on the corner of it?
Housekeeping: Yes. It is a biohazard.
HWSNBN: So people can have sex on the duvet, and have AIDS or hepatitis, and the duvet can still be used, but a little bit of little boy pee, and it has to be thrown in an incinerator?
Housekeeping: Yes.
HWSNBN: Are you kidding me?
Housekeeping: No, sir. It is a biohazard.
HWSNBN: But urine's sterile!
Housekeeping: It is a biohazard.

It went on like that for a while.

Biohazard? Who, me?

Housekeeping asked us why The Imp wasn't in a crib. Um, because he's almost three? Because he hasn't slept in a crib in a year and a half? They asked us why he wasn't in diapers. Because he hasn't had an accident in six weeks!

Eventually, housekeeping agreed that they did not have to dispose of the duvet right that minute. They would leave the duvet with us. They would cover the mattress in plastic to prevent any issues in the five remaining days of our stay.

And we would have to pay for the duvet. Had he managed to pee on the mattress itself, we would have had to pay for an entire new bed. (!!!)


Listen, I'm not the mom that thinks her little darling can do no wrong. I don't think it's cute that he peed on someone else's property. Nor do I think that it's funny, or even appropriate, that someone else should have to deal with the results of his potty-training misadventures. I take full responsibility for my child's behaviour wherever we go.

And obviously, we were concerned that he'd peed on the duvet. We didn't want the next guest to unwittingly be sleeping under a blanket with little boy pee on it. That's why we called housekeeping in the first place - because honestly, an hour later, the duvet was totally dry and even knowing he'd peed on it, we couldn't find the spot. Had we not told them, they would never have known.

And I'm not writing here to try and unleash the collective rage of twitter parents. I'm not looking to get anything for free - I don't even need or want an apology. I'm not interested in a backlash against the hotel or its employees. They are merely following the procedures and policies set in place by a corporate entity, in an environment so litigious that common sense simply isn't a factor.

But... but... The robotic "It is a biohazard" response seemed a little ridiculous to me. When I tweeted about it, other parents overwhelmingly agreed. We are, admittedly, a subset of humanity enured to the bodily fluids of small children. But as Alexandria at Clippo pointed out in response to my incredulous tweets:

Exactly.

Little boy pee isn't cool, but I'm pretty sure it's not the most biohazardy thing ever to be found in one of their hotel rooms.

We don't know yet what the duvet is going to cost us. Or how we're going to get it home. But I am not throwing away a perfectly good duvet just because The Imp peed on it. If that was a thing, we'd have to get rid of almost everything we own.

What do you think? Is the hotel's reaction appropriate? Should we have just rinsed out the pee spot in the sink and kept our mouths shut?

And does anyone need a king sized duvet, recently peed upon just a little bit?

Things That Are True - Travel

Quick update from the middle of the Pacific:

The Imp could not contain his curiosity through the process of checking our bags, getting our boarding passes, going through security, and customs at YVR. It was great - his constant questions kept him busy and distracted enough that he wasn't too worried about all the strangers and officials in uniform. I'd carefully prepared him in the days leading up to our flight, explaining what was going to happen as best I could. I think that really helped; The Imp can handle almost anything as long as he knows what to expect. (In other words, he is exactly like me.)

He insisted on carrying his own "suitcase"

The flight went really, really well. Better than I could have reasonably hoped, actually. I brought stickers, flash cards, writing/drawing stuff, and my iphone. He was so entranced with the whole being-in-a-plane thing that he didn't even start to get antsy for the first hour. During the six hours we were captive in our seats, The Imp enjoyed dry-erase pen/letter writing activity cards, I Spy puzzle cards, and five episodes of the Backyardigans on my phone. And a teaspoon of Gravol - I was the motion-sick kid that puked everywhere we went; I figured preventative measures were entirely appropriate.

He listened really well. He charmed the flight attendants and the other passengers. He flirted with the pretty French-Canadian girls across the aisle from us. The couple of times he got a bit squirmy and wanted to get out of his seat, we reminded him that The Pilot (figure of myth and legend in The Imp's mind) wanted him to keep his seat belt on, which was amazingly effective.

Despite having traveled a lot and knowing the uncomfortable, irritating reality, I still have a slightly romantic notion of the whole process of flying. I can't help but remember how exciting it was when I was a kid: my mom would dress us up in our best clothes, we'd get special treats (like chewing gum), and the flight attendants would give us colouring books and crayons. My first trip to Hawaii, I was about a year older than The Imp is now. It was a Big Deal.

I hope we made it a Big Deal for The Imp, I hope as an adult memories of his childhood travels with us come to him through the same rosy filter I use for mine. But the reality? Ugh.

Air Canada, even on a six hour international flight, doesn't give you a meal unless you pay for it. The options? From Tim Horton's, Quiznos, and the like. Ugh.

The dairy-free options? Exactly two.

Wait for it.

Cup-a-soup style noodles and Pringles.

Sodium and unpronounceables. Awesome. And no ingredient lists for the wraps and sandwiches, so even if I pulled the cheese out of them, there was no telling what was in the bread or spreads used. Gah.

Good thing I'm paranoid. Before the flight, I insisted we buy some kappa sushi, inari, and a package of chopped fresh veggies I spotted at a vendor once we got past security, as a "just in case." The Imp devoured the sushi. I shudder to think what his behaviour might have been like had we filled him full of the chemical stuff.

And, tip for travelers here: carrot, celery, and cucumber sticks are excellent for take off and landing. The Imp's doesn't really get the whole "chew but don't swallow" concept of gum, but chewing on crispy vegetables cleared his ears perfectly - without the adds-to-antsy-behaviour sugar and food dyes in candy. Win!

We got off the plane and were greeted by my aunt and uncle at the airport, with the most fragrant and beautiful puakenikeni leis, including one they'd had especially made Imp-sized. The Imp, whose body clock was telling him it was 11pm, was subdued but polite and happy. I desperately wanted to get a picture of him with his great-aunt and great-uncle and the lei they gave him, but when we put him down in a seat in the airport while we waited for our luggage, he fell into a deep, deep, fire-alarm-has-no-power-against-this sleep almost immediately.

This was the best I could do as he slept in my arms at the car rental counter:

Aloha!

Welcome to Hawaii, Imp. I hope you love it as much as I do.



If you're interested in following our travel adventures on twitter, I've invented the hashtag #SNBNHI (Shall Not Be Named Hawaii) for our travel tweets.

Wordless Wednesday - 980 Days

What a difference 980 days can make:

The Imp's first passport photo: two weeks old

The Imp's updated passport photo: two weeks ago

Things I'm Learning - Toddler Crafts Sneak Up on You

I wasn't going to do a Valentine's Day type post - I'm not an especially Valentinesy type girl.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not anti-Valentine's Day; I don't hate it. Nor am I against other people celebrating it. I'm not the cynic in the corner muttering into my glass of wine that it's a trumped up holiday, a Hallmark invention, an excuse to boost sales in February after the retail doldrums of post Christmas consumer burnout.*

No.

People want to celebrate love, I say have at it! An excuse to eat chocolate? Um, okay!


Since I eat chocolate every single day anyway, I don't need February 14th to tell me it's okay. And since I live in the modern world in a country that allows me a great deal of personal freedom, I don't need February 14th to tell me to celebrate the love in my life. Every day, I get up and choose to spend my day married to HWSNBN. There are no constraints - moral, cultural, or financial - on my decision to stay with him. I want to be with him. Every day. Some days more than others; he does, after all, snore on occasion. But living in a world where I don't have to stay married to someone means that I choose, over and over again, to be with him. And he with me. If that's not a daily affirmation and celebration of our love, I don't know what is. So we don't do anything special for each other on Valentine's Day. And since we don't do anything special for each other, it never occurred to us to do anything special for The Imp.

(I will take this moment to apologize to his future spouse now: sorry for not teaching him to buy flowers and stuff on this most auspicious day. Hopefully our example will have taught him, however, to buy flowers and stuff for no reason at all, and that will make up for it. Still friends?)

That being said, we do have one small, goofy Valentine's tradition. Six years ago this month, we moved into our apartment. We were both working absurd hours at the time, and couldn't manage to schedule the move in of All Our Stuff until the weekend after Valentine's Day. For a couple of weeks we had our bed, our clothes, and not much else. No dishes, no books, no furniture... That Valentine's Day, we both arrived home late, and famished. Our romantic 9pm Valentine's dinner was a couple of slices of pizza HWSNBN picked up on his way home. Having no cutlery, plates, or napkins - not even a tea towel - we stood together over the kitchen sink hoovering back our lukewarm meal. As a joke, the next year I arranged to have pizza handy, and we leaned over the sink to eat it, giggling like fools. We've done it every year since.


But that's not what this post is about!


This is a post about Crafty Stuff. Although I'm not a crafty gal, despite my love of cooking, sewing and crochet projects that I never finish. I recoil from glitter and glue sticks with something akin to horror, and am mightily grateful that The Imp can get his craft on at daycare, and I don't have to a) come up with fun stuff for him to do or b) clean up the mess after. Score one for outside the home childcare!


And then daycare provided a class list for Valentine's Day.

They were careful to explain that cards were optional and not expected, but that if we were going to bring something, we had to bring something for everyone. Fair enough. I tucked the list into my bag and promptly forgot about it, until the evening of the 13th, when I suddenly remembered. We've never had to do anything for the big day before - at his last daycare all the kids were so little they wouldn't have known what was going on. But now he's hanging with the big kids, the 3-5 year olds, and they most definitely do know what's going on.

It was dark and raining. I did not feel like venturing out to buy cards that would almost certainly end up in the garbage within 48 hours.

So I dug through the "craft supplies" (a plastic bag jammed in the back of a closet) and found: construction paper (someone had given us a pad) and markers. And we have tape and scissors.

The Imp: What we doing, Mommy?
Me: (faking enthusiasm) We're going to make cards for all your friends at school!
The Imp: Happy Birthday cards? (he's made a few of those, mostly scribbles, for family)
Me: Not birthday cards, Valentine's cards!
The Imp: Okay!

I handed him a piece of pink construction paper and a red marker to distract him while I tried to figure out what the hell we were going to do. He promptly and happily began to scribble.

Inspiration! I swapped The Imp's well scribbled-upon paper for a clean sheet, drew heart shapes onto it, and cut them out. Great, now we have hearts. Um...

Green, blue, yellow, and orange construction paper became simple one fold cards. I stuck tape on the back of the heart shapes, The Imp stuck them on the front of the cards. Perfect. I wrote "Happy Valentine's Day!" and "From [The Imp]" on the inside and presto voila alakazam, we can haz Valentine's Day cards for 25 kids in twenty minutes or less for zero dollars.

Fancy.

We wrote his classmates' names on the front of the cards, and delivered them to everyone's decorated paper bag card receptacle this morning. Win!

One of the other parents at daycare this morning looked at our efforts and said, "I can't believe you made all those cards."

Truth? Neither can I.

And now I have a mess to clean up.

*Although in writing that, it occurs to me that it all may be true whether I'm a cynic or not.

Wordless Wednesday - Coolness Quotient

There is no doubt in my mind: The Imp is cooler than I ever was. Even back when I thought I was cool.

This post is part of A Lot of Loves' Wednesday of Few Words linkup.