Float like a hummingbird . . .

So, this morning, Sonwun is sporting a cast, a lovely new sling thanks to Neomom and a black eye, courtesy of Sontoo.

It hasn't been a great weekend for him.

The cast on his arm is itchy. World class itchy. Stay-awake-half-the-night-tossing-and-turning-and-kicking-and-crying itchy.

Well, the first night it was anyway. Last night he got a better night's sleep and, thusly, so did I.

Yesterday, during a ride in the bicycle trailer, Sontoo delivered a headbutt that has left Sonwun's left eye swollen and bruised. No one saw exactly what happened but, according to Sonwun, it was a headbutt. The jury is still out on whether or not it was an intentional foul.

As for the broken arm, it has somewhat limited his normal activity. Bike riding is out. Swimming is out. Soccer is out. And that means he must find new ways to put his other arm in danger. While I am touting the benefits of Wii tennis and bowling, Sonwun is trying to figure out how to use the swing the back yard with one hand. He's trying to leap from the ottoman to the couch and land in such a way as to protect his wounded wing. And he's begging to go back to the playground: the scene of the crime. (I guess he really didn't want me to cut it down.)

I guess I wouldn't want it any other way. I mean, he's not letting this arm thing get the best of him or curtail his idea of what are permissible and prudent activities. Four-year-old's shouldn't be prudent. They should be pushing the limits at all times. Plenty of time left in life for playing it safe.

Anyhoo, plan today is to head off to Paint Lake and enjoy what is supposed to be a beautiful day. We will, of course be joined by Uncle Davey, Aunt Nizzie and Grampa, who arrived for their visit last Wednesday. Two days before my daredevil busted his wrist.

No, he won't be able to swim, but I'm sure he'll find plenty of rocks to climb on, places to run at full speed and plenty of playground equipment to swing, slide, leap and climb upon.

With a broken arm and a black eye, I am just hoping he doesn't add to his list of injuries today. I don't want to have to explain every bump, bruise and abrasion on the boy to a Child and Family Services employee. They're all legit mind you, 'cause he's a normal little boy. He's got the speed and energy of a hummingbird and the grace of a rhino. It's a recipe for disaster.

So, that's my weekend and my plan for the day.

Have yourselves a great week.

Win or You're Fired

Win at all cost. Second place is for the first loser. Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing.

These are not lessons I am teaching my son, but someone apparently is. I'm looking at you Barney. You and the Stepford children aren't fooling anyone. Get the minions "sharing" and then swoop in and collect it all.

And don't think you're off the hook Caillou.

But I digress.

For some reason, Sonwun has become obsessed with "winning." I've been seeing it since before swim class and the trend is growing. At swim class, he had to be first to the other side of the pool, first to the lifejacket area, first to put on the lifejacket. At home, he must be first to the car, first to open the door, first down the stairs and first up the stairs. And with each triumphant finish, he declares, "I win."

And, when I inadvertently and thoughtlessly walk up the stairs and make it to the top before him, he cries.

Today, we hit a new level and one that is telling me I need to temper his quest for the Prime Minister's office. At least for now.

The boys were playing relatively quietly downstairs after breakfast. Sonwun building a train set and Sontoo observing and making mental notes on how best to destroy the creation. It was the perfect time for Daddy to dash off for one of those glorious, relaxing 45-second showers.

I wasn't 10 seconds in when I heard Sonwun in the bathroom. So much for relaxation. I ordered him out, rinsed the shampoo from my head, quick soap down, rinse and out. (Four days, four hours, 57 minutes until mom gets home and I get a nice, long, hot shower.)

Anyway, got myself dried off, clothes on and headed for the stairs where I find Sonwun, the elder at 3.75 years, standing on Sontoo (18 months old) half way up the stairs.

I should note at this point that, while I am becoming more comfortable with Sontoo's stair-scaling ability, he is nowhere near the point of having earned my complete trust. It's a long staircase and it's hardwood floor at the bottom. I live in constant fear of the day he loses his balance and takes a tumble. And with Sonwun using him as a surfboard for the trip, I don't like his chances of escaping unscathed.

Now I'm as cool a Dad as I can be at the best of times and even at some of the worst of times. But at this time, I lost it. I should note that Sontoo was not complaining. He's learned that he is, among other things, a stepping stool, toy provider and, at times, a toy.

But that doesn't mitigate the crime.

What do you think you're doing? I asked. (And yes, I've read in the keener mom magazines that I am not supposed to ask that question. But sometimes, it's gotta be asked. Sue me.)

"I didn't want Sontoo to win," came the casual reply, as if it were the most logical and reasonable excuse for standing on his brother's back.

Well, a logical and reasonable punishment for this transgression was administered and I'm pretty sure he'll think twice before Sontoo surfing again.

Honestly though, I don't know where this came from. I'm not sure if it's just a natural "boy thing," or not. I mean, at swimming lessons, all of the boys want to win. And maybe that's where he got it. He hasn't been up late enough to hear mommy and daddy trash-talking over a game of sequence and I never let him watch the proceedings of the House of Commons. It remains a mystery.

He's got one other expression that has me scratching my head as well. At lunch today, he was complimenting my cooking (I make a mean sandwich). He also expressed appreciation for his yogurt. He said that the boys that made it wouldn't get fired. If it was yucky, they should be fired, he added.

Fired? Where on earth did that come from? The wife has never threatened to fire me, and attempt to find an equally glorious trophy husband. He's never been up late enough to watch The Apprentice, so I'm at a loss.

I asked him about it. "Where did you learn the word fired? Who got fired?"

"The ones who didn't eat their vegetables. They got fired from you."

I remain at a loss.

I TOLD YOU SO!!!

There are times when, as a parent, you really want to say, "I told you so."

And there are times you can do it. And there are times you can't.

As I've mentioned before, Sonwun has taken a liking to Buzz Lightyear and his annoying catchphrase, "To infinity and beyond."

The phrase is usually announced by Sonwun just prior to one of his leaps; from the couch, from the stairs, from his bed, from the bathroom counter. The kid just lives on the edge at every opportunity.

And, god help me, I've tried to dissuade him from these daredevil leaps. But, as he has 3.5 years of experience on the planet, he knows a lot more than I do. After all, he's made the leap dozens of times and nothing's happened. So, based on that experience, nothing will ever happen.

I have also done my best to encourage my little mini-me to pick up his toys. And while all of the toys are included in that encouragement, I am particularly picky about the little ones: the lego pieces, the little men from Geotrax and the little Matchbox cars and trucks. To be fair, it's not just about neatness. It's also about me going to the washroom at 3 a.m. and stepping on three or four of these little torture devices on the way. It's about not being able to yell, because it's 3 a.m. It's about resisting the urge to go and wake Sonwun for some impromptu tidying.

So you probably know where I'm going with this. This morning, I'm tidying the kitchen. The boys are downstairs doing what they do best. They are messing things up, pulling blankets off the couch, scattering toys, fighting over toys - they are being little boys.

And then I hear it: "To infinity and beyond," THUMP, WAAAAAAHHHHHHHH.

And, as a parent with a few years under my belt, I know it's not one of those I-need-attention, I'm-bored kind of screams. It's the kind that means he's actually done some damage. And this time, he's taken his flying leap off the stairs and landed on a piece of Tow Mater, Lego version. He's hobbling up the stairs when I find him, tears streaming down his scrunched up little face. He is in pain.

It take a minute or two of wailing before he can tell me where it hurts. I take off his Lightning McQueen sock (a little something for you irony fans) to find a puncture wound in his little foot. It's right in the middle, where it's gonna hurt the most. There's a little blood, but nothing serious. After a few more minutes of staggered breathing, he's able to tell me he landed on Tow Mater.

I want to say it. I want the lesson to sink in. You've been warned about "flying," haven't you? I've asked you to pick up your toys, haven't I? Do you see why now? It's the same reason I tell you not to step on the dog's head while she's sleeping. It's why I say, don't put that fork in the wall socket, don't tie that thing around your neck and stop jumping on the bed. Do you see it's not to make your life miserable? Do you see that it is because I love you and do not want to see you get hurt?

But now's not the time.

Now is the time for cleaning the wound with ice cold water. It's time for polysporin and a bandaid. And it's time to wipe away the tears and offer a big hug. It's time to put on his favourite movie and sit him on the couch until the pain goes away.

There will be plenty of time, once he's feeling better, to attempt to impart a little wisdom, to try to make him see that A+B doesn't always equal C, but when it does, it can really hurt.

It's a lesson that I'm sure I will have to impart, time and time again, for the next 20 years or so. Will he learn it? I hope so, but it took me more than 20 years to figure it out, why should he be any different?

Dyson and the Dusties

"To infinity and beyond!"

Friggin' Toy Story. Now that I've hidden the Sears' Christmas Wish Book, I hear the above from Sonwun more than I'd like. It is usually preceding a loud thump as he leaps from a couch, chair, picnic table, porch or bed in an attempt to fly.

And like Buzz Lightyear, the best he can hope for is to fall, with style. If not, it's: "To infinity and beyond" . . . thump . . . "waaahhhhhaahhhhhh . . . Daddeeeeeee!"

I think if I ever get asked for a movie idea by the good folks at Pixar, I'm going to suggest a primary character that cleans his room, with style and a catch phrase. If the kid's got to imitate what he sees in his movies, why not something useful.

Why not Dyson and the Dust Rhinos? We've got cross promotion with that nice Swedish guy and his cyclonic vacuum and we've got a couple of fun-loving, yet misguided rhinoceroses (rhinoceri?) who insist on making a mess. (They could be voiced by Rosie O'Donnell and Kirstie Alley!)

Our young hero, Dyson, will be trapped in his room every morning after the nocturnally active rhinos take advantage of the clothes and toys left strewn about the floor, devouring some of the mess to create a Megamess (trademark pending).

To escape his room, Dyson will have to enlist the help of his friends, Mr. Clean and Penelope Pledge (who has a lovely lemon scent that drives Dyson wild) to restore cleanliness in his world. Oh, the product placement, the merchandising dollars are just dancing here! McDonald's will be giving away little vacuum cleaners with every happy meal.

In the end, when young Dyson learns to pick up after himself, Megamesses (trademark pending) are no longer a problem and the Dust Rhinos are starving. And that's when a cute little Dust Bunny (obviously played by the charming and vivacious Valerie Bertenelli), saves the Rhinos and turns them from their evil ways by teaching them to eat more sensibly with the help of her bunny friend Jenny Craig. More merchandising, more product placement, more money!

But a catch phrase is what we really need here. Something that will inspire preschoolers world-wide to clean their rooms, every day.

Yippee kay yay mothermessers, ala Bruce Willis in Die Hard?

Do ya feel messy today? Well do ya, punk! (While holding a Dyson Animal over a Dust Rhino's head)

Hasta la vista, dusty?

We're gonna need a bigger mop! (Jaws)

I crap bigger than you. (City Slickers . . . okay, maybe not appropriate)

I love the smell of windex in the morning!

Brushes? We don't need no stinking brushes?

Well, it's a work in progress. Let me know if you come up with a catchphrase that will both inspire kids to clean their rooms, and make me gobs of cash. Both are important.

In the meantime, I am working with Sonwun by encouraging him to pick up two items and put them away each time before he leaves his room. It's a start and, by the time my movie comes out in four or five years, most of the stuff should be off the floor.

For now, I am sensing, with my nose, that Sontoo is in need of assistance. Seems he's decorated his diaper with his take on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Doodie calls.

Mommy's home in one day, three hours and 37 minutes!

Bad Weekend

Crap, what a weekend.

I'm seriously questioning my daddy skills following two near disasters yesterday. The first scared most of the crap out of me and the second got everything that was left over.

Let's start with Sonwun. Sonwun likes mints, the Scotch mints, spearmint to be specific. Each ride in the van begins with the question, "Daddy, may I please have a mint."

Yes, we have worked on his pleases and thank-yous and we are quite proud of it.

But I digress.

He's been enjoying the mints for more than a year and we have become quite confident in his ability to enjoy them without choking. Well, yesterday he requested and received his mint and we were on our way to the store when I heard a gurgle-cry-moan from the back of the minivan. I looked around and there were tears flowing down his face and he was half crying, clearly having trouble. I yelled at him to speak, wanting to know he wasn't choking, and at the same time I was trying to look for a place to pull over. Speak, speak, speak!!

In the three or four seconds that it took me to pull off the road, I was going over anti-choking measures I'd learned when he was a year old. At that time, he was choking on some food at lunch. I called 911 that day and, by the time I was able to reach someone ("all of our operators are currently busy, please stay on the line . . ." Seriously) I had turned him upside down and thumped him on the back. Technically, it was the wrong thing to do, but it turned out right. The food was dislodged and I stopped shaking about 8 hours later.

Immediately following that episode, I looked up choking and learned that, even at that age, I should have Heimliched him. I read up on the procedures, determined that if it ever happened again, I'd be ready.

SPEAK!!

Fortunately, yesterday, the Heimlich wasn't needed. He started speaking and crying and everything turned out fine. But it was about 10 seconds of pure terror for both of us.

And then it was Sontoo's turn. I was in the middle of cooking supper. Sonwun was watching Finding Nemo. Sontoo was upstairs exploring. The bathroom door was closed, so I knew he couldn't get into trouble. All of the other rooms have been toddler-proofed.

So I stepped outside for a minute and was sitting on the back steps when, off in the distance I heard a crash, a loud crash, and I heard a baby starting to cry. I wondered what was going on over in those apartments a block or two away. I didn't want to listen, so I went back inside and closed the door. But the sound didn't go away. In fact, it was louder.

I rushed upstairs to find Sontoo standing beside an overturned dresser. Thank goodness he wasn't under said dresser. But he was standing in a sea of broken glass. A glass jar that we'd been using as a piggy bank, an antique clock with a glass face, several little porcelain statues - all smashed and littering the carpet.

I scooped him up and started inventory. I was sure I was going to find blood somewhere, or at the very least a nasty bruise. But, miraculously, he was fine; not a scratch. I still don't know how he managed to pull the dresser over, but until I figure it out, that room will be off limits as well.

In spite of the fact that it all turned out well, I spent a rather sleepless night, getting up at 2 and 3 to check on Sontoo, thinking I might have missed something, expecting to find a bruise that took time to develop. I checked on him in his crib and then went downstairs to listen to him breathe through the baby monitor. It was a long night.

But this morning, everyone seems fine. I'm very tired and very leery about letting either one out of my sight. All part of being a daddy, I guess. Still, I can't wait 'til mommy gets home so that we can share the paranoia and the panic of parenthood together.

Four days, four hours, 28 minutes to go.