After a year and a quarter of trying to avoid certain “mom-conversations” at playgrounds or blogging extensively about Simone’s bowel movements or how happy she is to skip around the house singing old Irish pub songs, I realize I have made no advancements in being an avant-garde Mr. Mom.

True, I won’t take the bait when a parent starts to bitch about how a particular clothing chain no longer carries those perfect $50 shoes for her precious so-and-so who will undoubtedly suffer from collapsed arches before he/she turns 12. And I refuse to line up at the YMCA, at 3 am, every new year in hopes of winning the annual lottery to get a place on the waiting list for pre-school. But that’s not really avant-garde. Just a healthy dose of well-aged cynicism–a mechanism I use to avoid being solely defined by parenthood.

In spite of this, being an at-home parent has messed with my brain. Good or bad, the jury is still out. But I am prone to some peculiar behaviour–enough to make me shake my head in bewilderment when I’ve taken stock.

An example:

The other day, Simone wanted to have a tea-part. Terrific, I thought, I love tea parties. What 34-year-old male doesn’t love tea parties? I mean, what more splendid way to spend the morning than lining up stuffies, laying out miniature versions of cutlery, cookware, and food, and feeding punkin’ pie to each little bastard one by one? This particular day, the festivities were taking place upstairs in ‘Monie’s room. We laid out picnic blankets, arranged an infernal amount of Beanie-Baby bears–each aptly named for their appearance: pink bear, brown bear, slack-jawed bear, stupid-grin-penis-shaped-nose bear…etc–and set out the plastic plates. Simone turned her back to “prepare” the food on her plastic stove top.

While I waited, I checked the positions of all the guests and without even realizing it began re-adjusting them to make sure each had an equal share of the picnic blanket. Next, I went downstairs to fetch a couple of bears I knew were under the couch lest they felt left out. I made sure they could share plates as there weren’t enough to go around. I put down extra blankets for the outcasts, searched the closets for a few stragglers who may be hungry too. A moronic sense of fairness and care displayed for the inanimate. All the while Simone yammered away about the waffles she’s trying to cook and how they were very hot and one needed to blow on them first before eating.

Then I stopped. All the bears in perfect equidistance from one another. The floor of the bedroom now an amphitheater for those damned to never shut their eyes nor open their mouths. It hit me. Ho-ly Sheee-it. This was not something knew. I must do this all the time.  Simone hadn’t looked at me strange once. In fact, she acted like I was supposed to do this–it was expected. The bears were real for her, a part of her social circle. And for a moment, however brief or perverse, they were for me too.

This does not bode well for me next time we’re at Toy Traders.

A quick post touting a new line of West Coast clothing for kids. Kiri Kids is a sweatshop-free, ethically run, 100% Canadian company. Unique designs are inspired by nature, aquariums, zoos, parks, and just about from anywhere and anything. Thanks in part to designs from my dear wife and her capable hands, the clothes are boutique-level and high quality.

Check the site out and order your Christmas gifts for sons and daughters, nephews and nieces, grand-kids galore.

Kiri Kids Website

The clothing model may look familiar too…

Healthy Sleep Habits, Healthy Baby by Marc Weissbluth, M.D. is the book we decided to roll with in getting Simone on a proper sleep schedule. A fairly succinct method that’s presented in step-by-step fashion. You establish a night-time routine (which we already have), but when it’s time for bed and the lights are off, no more interaction. The parent on duty remains in the room (or doorway, or whatever) and only moves to place the child back in bed. A couple of example in the book mentioned the first few nights being close to sleepless and being prepared for numerous “jack in the box” moments.

Since Simone is now sleeping on a mattress on the floor, the crib long-since dismantled, we figured we’d be in for trouble and opted to alternate nights. Here’s how the progress went:

• Night One: 180 trips back to bed, 3 wake-ups during the night (also trips back to her bed).
• Night Two: 90 trips back to bed, 2 wake-ups during the night.
• Night Three: 30 trips back to bed, 3 wake-ups during the night.

And the pattern is reasonable consistent this way. As it stands, Simone gets up roughly 20 times before finally settling down to sleep. The process works better when Papa Harry is at the help, as for some reason she pushes the boundaries even harder when Mommy is on duty.

I’m not sure if this is a huge success, as the book claims to have a healthy pattern within 4-5 days. We’re a bit past that and I’m still having to get up 3 times during the night as Simone has conditioned herself to waking completely out of her sleep cycle and booking it to our room to try and sleep in our bed.

Part of the problem is, I think, because our pattern has always been to let her into our bed around 6 a.m. so we can snooze for one final hour or so. Now that she’s out of the crib and mobile, she most likely assumes she can hit us up for some warmth whenever she pleases. It looks like we’re going to have to get stern about even the 6 o’clock visit, which sucks because a little family bonding has always been kind of nice. But two nights ago, when I had to stay outside Simone’s door from 3:30-5:30 a.m. I knew all things must come to an end. The world for a good night’s sleep.

But enough of all this. We’ve still got some work ahead and then off to boarding school for her. Get thee to a nunnery. Or something. Nah.

More humorous anecdotes to come.

I’ve been avoiding the journal-type entires lately, mostly because the last three weeks or so have been hellish with Simone’s sleeping. To do a “Dear Daughter” type of thing might require me to call down the trials of Job.

Plenty of brilliant moments during the day, but each and every time I sit down to write–which for this blog is generally in the evening–all I can hear is Simone throwing a diabolical fit upstairs. Kicking the wall, shaking the crib, screaming until she runs out of air. WOOOOT parenting.

And poor Sandra–as if her life isn’t stressful enough. No more few hours of unwinding in the evening. Her “self” time is down to zero. Either she’s in Simone’s room, trying to soothe her, or she’s downstairs groaning at the lack of peace. Well, we do get some peace. About 10 minutes before our own retirement to the hallowed halls.

Sandra started putting a pillow and blanket in Simone’s room to lie on the floor until dear daughter fell asleep. This resulted in numerous games of peek-a-boo and an immediate habit where Simone refused to go to bed unless Mommy lay down too. Bad idea, in my mind. Not Sandra’s intentions, of course, but the habit part. Whether I’m right or wrong, I feel Simone needs to develop her own mechanisms for falling asleep–something I thought she had until three weeks ago.

Come to think of it, this probably started while we were in Tofino and Sandra and Simone slept on mattresses together in our little hut.

So how in the blue hell does someone go from falling asleep within five minutes to writhing in horror whenever “sleepy time” is even mentioned? I did some research online and clearly Simone is not unique in this regard. Lots of parents go through it. But I’ll be the first to admit I don’t give one hot damn what other parents are going through at this moment. All I want is a healthy wife, sleeping kid, and some time to collect my thoughts in the evening. My online searching brought up various concerns: earache, night terrors, in need of a change of scenery.

I like this last one. The first two don’t seem to apply, as Simone sleeps pretty good throughout the night. Maybe Simone is done with her crib and needs to hit the ol’ mattress on the floor. Of course, this could lead to her racing down the hall all night and refusing to go to bed. Most likely it will.

I think a more sophisticated regiment is in order. We’ve been reasonably good with routines so far. Bathtime, snack, teeth-brushing, stories, and then bed. But our routines end when she doesn’t go to sleep. We’re erratic and inconsistent, and sometimes not on the same page. It has to be far worse for a mother to hear her own kid calling her upstairs. Must pull at something deep and instinctual.

It’s gotta be a hard-nose approach–for our sanity as well as Simone’s. If she calls for us, we go in ONCE, tuck her in, make sure she’s comfy. No talking other than a shush or “sleepy time” comment. Then we leave. And she bawls and howls and rages. But she’ll fall asleep too…eventually.

That’s what I think, anyway. This only works when we’re at home and there are little disruptions. We’ve had a lot of visitors this summer, which has been great and exciting. But it’s also been shit for keeping a routine. Gotta be done now. Earplugs ready.

We need our evenings back.

And if anyone asks if we’re having another kid, I have a large, tread-worn object for you to insert into the orifice of your choosing.

Okay, this site is too badass to not post about: Teefury.com. Basically, the site takes designs from artists around the world turns them into T-Shirts, or Tee’s of the Day. Each T-shirt is up for one day, starting at midnight, and once 24 hours is up the shirt is gone–no longer available. Artists are paid per shirt and retain all rights to their original designs (a huge plus). And the shirts are cheap too, usually $9 (USD).

They had a promo on a few weeks back, 3 Tees for $15 bucks (plus $5 shipping). Shirt selection was random, meaning I could only choose my size and had no clue what shirts I would get until they arrived. But I figured, hell for $20–which is usually the cost of one good T-shirt, even if only 2 of the 3 were passable, I’d still be in the clear. All 3 arrived today and they’re all skookum.

What’s cool is that the shirts are completely original, not found anywhere else. And if you don’t like the shirt of the day, you only have to wait 24 hours to catch the next one. Great concept, promotes cool designs from burgeoning artists–and pays them based on sales.

Household Nudity has already been discussed, along with the cursory wiener-honking incident. But the topic of anatomy never really goes away. Amidst our tentative foray into toilet-training, Simone has taken a keen interest in watching other people use the bathroom. Parents, grandparents, friends, neighbors–doesn’t matter. If you mention that you’re going upstairs to spend-a-penny, Simone races up after–well, she usually passes you on the stairs and beats you to the throne.

Spending hours upon hours of time with Papa, she sadly bears witness to a much different urinating process than her own. She no longer points and asks what such a strange apparatus is. She simply calls it out in affirmation–which brings on a host of new questions, over and over and over. An example…

Simone – Penis!

Papa – Yes, that’s what it is.

Simone – Monie have a penis?

Papa – No, Simone has a vagina.

Simone – Jyna?

Papa – That’s right.

Simone – Mommy have a jyna too?

Papa – You betcha.

Simone - Mommy have a penis?

Papa – Um…no. Mommy’s a girl.

Simone – Monie’s a girl too?

Papa – That’s right.

Simone – Papa have a jyna?

Papa – No, Papa’s a boy.

Simone – Monie’s a boy too?

I’m sure you get the picture by now. A little slow on the draw, I should have recognized she wasn’t really learning anything by half-way through the conversation. It just goes on and on and on…until a loud truck goes by the bedroom window and her attention leaps elsewhere.

Grandma and Grandpa have arrived from Ontario bearing gifts. One box in particular contained vinyl splendid vinyl. Nostalgic albums for Mom and Dad, from when we were kids. Now to see if they mean anything to you. So far the only album you really love to listen to is Radiohead’s In Rainbows, the sounds of which cause you to jump up into my arms and request a dance around the room.

You’re a good singer, though–and I think you’ll find some good tunes on these albums too.

Simone is practicing somersaults off the couch onto the floor. I should be worried, I know—neck breaking potential and all. Still, after a particularly feisty roll she giggles and lets out a tremendous fart.

Papa – Simone! Was that you?

Simone – Yeessss.

Papa – Did you just fart?

Simone – No I didn’t; Papa did.

And my work is done here. Brings a tear to the eye when your own learn how to blame farts on others at such a young age.

A lesson in anger management. Your mother has just called to say she’s 10 minutes from the bus loop where we are to meet her. I realize I need to change your diaper and race you upstairs, two at a time, down the hall, to the change blanket. You immediately wrench yourself from my grasp, race to Mom and Papa’s bedroom, and hide in the closet. Normally this is a fun game, but I’m feeling the pinch of time and have no truck with your antics.

I storm after you, pull you out of the closet, chastise you, and prod you down the hall back to the change blanket. You fuss the entire way, sit, drag your heels, cling to the door frame. I get you on the blanket and in a fit of anger I pull your shorts down, tear away the diaper flaps and yank the diaper from your bottom.

Bad move.

I forgot it was number two.

A turd, the size of two or three Toblerone segments, launches into the air, wavers in its new found gravity, and with a perfect arc, squelches down onto the blanket to rest like a finely molded sculpture. I stare at it without comprehension.

I look at you. You look at the fresh nugget of shit, then back to me. You point.

‘Monie’s poop.

Quite right…’Monie’s poop.

You point at the diaper. My shoulders sag in defeat. Then the giggles start.

We are precisely 10 minutes late in picking up your mother.

Sounds like a cautionary proverb. In some sense it is, as my sister had a nasty bout of flu at her place that required her caring for two boys in between bouts of her own vomiting. I had hoped to avoid that. Yet here I am, whopping fever and headache, trying to comfort an equally sick child who only wants her mommy at times like these. Not that I blame her. There are certain levels of comfort only moms can provide. In fact, it crossed my mind today to call home and talk to my own Mother because I was feeling so lousy. Sometimes one just needs to be soothed.

Out of all the “things one is simply not prepared for after a baby is born”, the increased frequency of illness sits high atop the list. I’m a wuss when I’m sick. Most men are, but I become the complete antithesis to stoicism. I have friends who are fairly stoic–or at least they try to give that impression. I am not like that. And when I get sick, I become the emotional equivalent to a high-school beauty pageant loser. I mope about, take slow, careful steps everywhere to emphasize my illness, I get weepy during commercials. Quite tragic when you think about it. Worse, today I got choked up watching Kung-Fu Panda…who does that? Honestly.

But getting ill more often is a concern for me. Pre-Simone, I maybe got one cold every one or two years. This year alone I’ve been sick at least four times–today being the worst yet. Quite certain other parents experience similar issues. How to combat it? Vitamin C? Echinacea? Strict eating habits (all I want to eat right now is Freezies)? Should I be getting a flu shot?

What say you? Oh, and note: when ill, you really notice when you need a new mattress on your bed.