MenGetPregnantToo

4-Year-Old in Onesie: A Glimpse of Time Flying by

It was a reminder of how small she still is, and a measuring stick for much she's grown; my daughter came downstairs last night wearing a purple onesie handed down to her from her older cousin.

There she stood in front of me; covered head to toe, resembling a little grape. The garment was pulling on her shoulders and plucking at her toes, like violet flannel shrink-wrap.
Due to its cramped sizing, we were prepared to make a donation of the footed pyjama; but the moment she saw it, my daughter protested. There is still that infant inside her, which either consciously, or through some emotional muscle memory, yearns to be seen as the helpless infant she once was.

Seeing her with those snaps, climbing from crotch to clavicle, and her feet wrapped in treaded cotton, made me realize how many years have passed since rubber stitching on her soles represented little more than a wink of humour, and hinted at the day when she might crawl, let alone walk.
Now, though she is only four and running still brings with it the uncoordinated risk of a tumble, the pencil measurements on the kitchen wall climb quickly, the pyjamas grow larger and larger, and her vocabulary resembles more so the protestations of a teenager rather than the babbles of a newborn.

I'm not sure if there is a ceiling for onesie sizing. I believe they exist to accommodate adult measurements; I remember girls adorning them on cool nights at summer camp, perhaps seeking that same perception of childhood, and the need to be cared for. As for more practical needs for adults sizes: the onesie did appear more than a century ago as a pure provider of warmth - disguised as what we now refer to as long underwear - complete with the convenient trap door.

As for my son - two years my daughter's senior - he abandoned onesies years ago in favour of Spider-Man sleepwear. But, even those bottoms are reaching above the ankle, and the top not quite making the journey to the wrist bone.

Imagine, seven year-old, and already outgrowing a super-hero costume.

When did that happen?

 

 

 

Overheard one hour ago in pew #11, as Grandma's choir performed Handel's Messiah:
"Daddy, how old is this music?"
"About 350 years."
Astonishment.
"Really?!?!"
"Shhhh. Yes." Pause. "He was the Justin Bieber of his time."
"What was his name?"
Pause.
"George."
"Really? Like the gorilla we have at school?!"
"Shhh...Yes, exactly."
Joy to the World.

Reply All, Chapter 2: That all being said, I will never understand people who don't at least acknowledge having received an e-mail invitation.

Smart Phone & Reply All: Why I Can't (but should!) Avoid Distractions

"Love it!"

"Great idea!"

"I'm in!"

These are just snippets of e-conversations I've been included in over the past couple of weeks. Generally, they have been responses to invitations to holiday parties (one of which I'm hosting), or groups (of which I am a member) chipping in for a gift. The problems are two-fold (hang-on, I just received an alert...gonna check my e-mail...brb), first: my smart phone which I have set to notify me  - with a delicately realistic water-drop sound effect - when I've received an e-mail. The second: people don't think before hitting 'Reply All'..

'RA' is the digital equivalent to 'Tell Everybody'. Imagine if such a technique was employed before the advent of electronic communication, using snail mail: an invitation would wait patiently in a mailbox fixed to a surface outside the front door of your home; when you returned from work, or a workout, or whatever chore pulled from your bed that morning, you might rescue the envelope from the cold, to the warmer, safer confines of your dining room table or kitchen counter. Later, once your coat was hung in the closet, the groceries were unpacked, and the kids had their noses in their textbooks, you might sit down with a coffee or tea and begin unveiling the day's postal deliveries. One of those might be an invitation. The notice would either include a phone number with which you would RSVP, or - if it were a solicitation for a more formal function - there may be a return envelope (postage included!) and reply card which would be filled out, and returned to the sender with the assistance of the men and women of your national postal service.

You were most likely not the sole invitee, but, despite that, you would not send your snail mail reply to every single person on the guest list. Imagine your snail mailbox engorged with a dozen or a hundred replies sent not only to the party's host, but to you, as well, a potential guest. Such is the reality since the development of Reply All.

Not only does RA create more e-management for recipients; it adds bit-size politics to social gatherings. Potential guests are now kept constantly abreast of an ever-changing list of attendees. Will so-and-so be there? Will I be alone? Will it be crowded? Will I have to hear John Doe prattle on about his snow-blower as was the case in 2010? At the very least, e-vites solve part of the problem;  a site through which invitees respond to, and may keep themselves informed about,  fellow party-goers at least does not force everyone to sift through e-RSVPs. E-vites appease those who need to snoop stealthily through a maturing guest list without the whole exercise becoming WikiLeaks.

The same protocol should apply for responding to unsolicited - but possibly helpful - information. Well-meaning family members and friends often warn me of outbreaks of certain illnesses in the neighbourhood, or school. Parents - hi Dad - will send along studies regarding nutrition, politics, child-rearing and the Arab Spring. The argument in favour of delivering this information is clear: the sender feels it is beneficial to the recipient. Once it's in your inbox, your options are: delete, reply, forward...and Reply All. Here's where RA can get really ugly. If the information is sent to a large group, the downpour of 'Thanks!', 'Great Info', 'Here are some other interesting sites', and 'Here's how we handled the problem' can be enough to leave one soaking in e-formation...especially when one sets their smart phone so it alerts them - with a delicately realistic water-drop sound effect - every time an e-mail trickles to the inbox.

 Ok, now it's time I accept some responsibility for my own misery. Since I purchased my smart phone, less than a year ago, I have become enamoured with not having to log onto my computer to check my e-mail; I just listen for that sublime 'drop'. Of course, upon hearing the 'drop', I posses the freewill to ignore it. Sure. Do you ever eat just one potato chip? Me neither. What can I say? I need to know. Is it ego? Is it an excuse to step away from whatever chore I'm embroiled in? What if it's someone commenting on my blog?! Sure, I could turn off the notification. Sure, I could just delete the unwanted messages. But, I don't want to turn the faucet off...I love the 'drop'. And as for deleting messages, shouldn't the recipient have as much right to expect people to control the urge to Reply All as the sender feels they have to spread their message?

Tell you what. No one likes anyone who points out problems, yet offers no solutions. So let's try either these e-mail etiquette rules, or try mine:

1) Upon reading a message: before hitting Reply All, ask yourself: 'Is this message important enough that, before computers were invented, I would call or write someone about it?' If the answer is yes: go ahead, Reply All. If not, just Reply or Delete.

2) If you're enjoying this blog...forward the link to as many people as possible...forwarding is always allowed;-)

 

 

The Relationship Bank: Is a Manicure Worth the NFL Conference Finals?

"I'm headed to the Dominican in January. For the moment I'm going alone; I invited a friend of mine, but he has two young kids." a colleague told me.

"His wife isn't crazy about the idea of being alone with them for a whole week, I guess?" I asked.

"No, she's fine with it; she wants him to go. He doesn’t want to cash in all his favours."

HUH?!?! FOR A TRIP TO THE DOMINICAN!?!? For a parent, it doesn't get any better than a trip to an all inclusive without the kids.

For anyone who is not in a relationship or for those who are in a very one-sided one, let me explain how it works:

For most of you who read this blog, this concept is nothing new, this is one of those unwritten rules which everyone abides by, yet few are willing to speak of out loud. Acknowledging its existence would a) reveal this truism to your other half, who may not have been aware of this reality and/or b) change your relationship dynamic forever. I speak, of course, of the Relationship Bank.

The Relationship Bank exists, like the Twilight Zone, in the recesses of your both your mind, and that of your significant other. It is a subconscious (or perhaps more obvious than that) awareness of accumulated "me" time. "Me" time can be loosely defined as any time during which you are more free than your partner to be your own person; to indulge in selfish behaviour (which can range from putting on a movie for the kids so they leave you be for 90 minutes, to a latte alone in the car, to a trip to Vegas). Example: my wife, last week, went for a facial at 2:30pm - the hour one of us would be normally obliged to walk with our 4-year-old daughter to pick up our 7-year-old son at school, take care of homework and snack, and start thinking about supper. No big deal for me; it was a nice enough day for a brisk walk, and certainly more fun than the activity I was engaged in at the time - stripping wallpaper. But still, for this service, a small deposit was made (virtually and psychologically) into my account in our relationship bank.

Likewise, while my wife works one of her many late evenings, I often invite my buddy over after the kids are in bed to eat junk food and watch some really crappy movies; this generates a couple of free-time bucks in her account. As you may have guessed, in the relationship bank, there are no joint accounts.

But, this guy, Mr. 'I Can't Make It to the Dominican', just doesn't get it. The pinnacle of the relationship bank - the ultimate return - is a "free" trip down south. It's winning the showcase showdown of relationship responsibility. If you're not going to - with your wife's blessing - play golf in the Caribbean, what are you saving up for?? Are you going to keep on top of home renovations and cook candle-light dinners for her for a decade and then hope to sail around the world with Loni Anderson and the complete collection of Star Trek DVD's to keep you company??? (Don't pick apart the metaphor; focus on the greater point).

As for my bank, it's pretty even; except for that trip to France my wife took when our son was 7-months-old. That's a deposit which is still feeding off interest. And the spa facial? The NFL Conference Finals are coming up...

 

 

The Things I Remember are as Remarkable as The Things I Forget

Bartholomew and the Oobleck. A Dr. Seuss classic in which King Derwin of Didd forces his magicians to concoct a new form of precipitation; he's tired of the same-old, same-old rotation of sunshine, fog, rain and snow. The result is Oobleck: a limey, thick, sticky goop which really gums up the works in the Kingdom of Didd.

My daughter chose this as our bedtime story the other night; it was one I had read countless times as a child, and it is still as magical. Not only did I, as a pre-schooler, own the book, but I also spent hours wearing out an LP (!) which on side A told the story of Bartholomew and the sticky, invading goo, and on side B recounted a similar ego-driven disaster for Yertle the Turtle. I had a small collection of Dr. Seuss stories I would listen to alone in the basement; my imagination stirred by stories being read out for me at the steady speed of 33 1/3 revolutions per minute.

Even today, when I read these stories to my children, especially "Sneetches and Other Stories", I can't help but imitate the voices I heard from my record player 35 years ago.

There are other things which, for some reason, I recall with great clarity from my childhood. For instance: leaving my bedroom on my seventh birthday to discover the new X-Wing fighter my brother left for me on the threshold of my door. It seems, sometimes, there is no logic to which memories I retain or forget. When I was about five-years-old, we boarded a train for Winnipeg. We had a sleeper car; we were gone for several days. Yet, all I remember from the trip is wandering from my berth to the coach car where one of my parents was seated, only to look down and notice I was wearing only my underwear and a t-shirt. Why would I remember that, yet nothing more from a trip out west? Maybe because it imitates so closely the classic nightmare of showing up in a public place, naked.

I remember hearing Sgt. Pepper for the first time, also at about the age of five; my cousin - ten years my senior - slipped a set of (huge!) stereo headphones over my ears, and set the needle on the record. Through the magic of hi-fi (with wire), it seemed to me those first notes of the orchestra tuning up surround me, coming from every direction. I remember getting into an argument with a friend over a game of pitch and catch - I was about 10 now - and him getting so angry he threw a bat at me (though I don't remember what I said, I do remember having a big mouth back then). I remember staying up overnight to watch "Three Women" with my brother, and using instant coffee to make through until morning, when I headed to high school in a fog. I remember my first real kiss: April 21, 1986. I remember my surprise that this was really happening, and a sense of panic at the realization that not only did I have no idea what I was doing, but that, since we were at a bus stop, the #66 could pull up any minute, and catch me in a awkward lip-lock. I also remember thinking she kissed me in a manner which suggested I wasn't the first boy she kissed. I even remember the birthday of the girl involved; she turned forty on Tuesday.

Yet, while watching a home movie of my son as a two-year-old, I realize how little I remember of him as a toddler. Why is that? Why would I retain so much useless information from decades ago, yet not be able to recall moments involving my son from so recently? When discussing with my wife where to hold the kids' next birthday parties, I realize I don't remember where we had their last ones.

My mother has framed photos of each of my kids on her wall. Each frame is comprised of eleven small photos:  one for each of the first eleven months of their lives, and one larger photo on the middle, taken on their first birthday. As I examined them, I remembered the children looking like that, but I have such little recollection of the person they were; how they were, at that age. 

I think of that often, now. When my son is twelve, will I remember how he was at seven? When my daughter has a four-year-old of her own, will I be able to tell that pre-schooler stories of how her mother was at that age? Or, rather, will the only memories which live that long be the same ones which have already survived these past few decades? Will the Sneetches, and Oobleck, and Yertle, and Sgt. Pepper hold more prominence in my memory than the moment my children first walked or spoke?

Perhaps my early memories, recorded at 33 1/3 revolutions per minute, were easier to hang on to than more recent ones, which seem to be streaming through me at 100 megabits per second.

 

Personal Space: Those Who are Too Close for Comfort.

Step off!

I was picking up a burger alone at 20-foot-long lunch counter yesterday; this woman sidles next to me to have a look at the specials on display. At first she was a foot away, then, as though she couldn't examine the green beans from where she was, she closed in to such a short distance that I actually had to step away from her to avoid being nudged. Did I mention we were the only two at the counter? What is with people?

I'm not enough of an egomaniac to assume she was flirting; she was easily twenty-five years my senior, and clearly focused on the steamed veggies - not on me. She was just one more person on this planet who seems to have lost any sense of personal space. Patrick Swayze explained it best in the first few seconds of this clip (the rest in just for old-times sake):

   

People are invading others' spaces more and more.  Another example: I was on the phone at my desk, talking to my wife about supper; my last words were "Ok, on my way home I'll pick up some pork chops to throw on the barbecue." The moment I hung up, a colleague sitting next to me remarked: "Mmmm....pork chops."  I understand overhearing someone's conversation is at times unavoidable. But, there's a difference between hearing and listening, and it's another level of intrusion entirely to offer an unsolicited comment about a conversation you were not a part of. Now, to have a conversation at work, I leave my desk, seek a quiet section of hallway, and use my cell phone to call home; the danger of brain tumours be damned.      

Similarly when I'm in line at the grocery store, or any other retail outlets where there is a clear order in which the clients will be processed, I bristle when I feel the person directly behind me brush against my clothing as they draw closer to the cash register. You will NOT be processed sooner if you reduce the amount of space between yourself and the person (me!) in front of you.

 

While driving, I don't mind being tailgated in the left-hand lane of a highway, those lanes are reserved for passing; if I'm not passing, I should move over. BUT it drives me (pardon the pun) nuts  when fellow motorists are glued to my bumper while waiting for the lane to our left to be clear. Those jerks finish a close second to those who block my entry to an expressway during rush hour traffic. Do they not notice my on-ramp is running out of real estate and I have no choice but to merge? Have they also not realized that at this hour of the morning, there is not much to be gained by being in front, as opposed to behind me, when we are all moving at 3 miles an hour?

Canada is large enough for each citizen to have nearly three square kilometres (1.9 miles) to themselves (granted, most of that land is, for a large  a large part of the year, frozen solid - but Canada is home to some wonderful parka manufacturers), so can we make a new rule that no one should be touching, leaning, nudging or bumping someone else, unless such behaviour is expected or welcome? Next time I get bumped by an old lady at a burger stand, I'm throwing an elbow.