Less Than Impressed

Again, I find myself less than impressed by health care in this province.

As I type, I am listening to Sontoo coughing, sniffling . . . not feeling all that well.

I took him to the clinic here in town yesterday. We waited about an hour (not bad) to be seen. The doctor looked at the spots on his chest very carefully. Given that Sontoo was vaccinated for chicken pox, the doctor could not decide whether or not it was a mild case. Fair enough.

“Keep him home from school until Monday, just to be safe,” I was told.

He then looked in Sontoo’s ears and throat and decided to take a swab to test for strep throat. Good.

Strep test came back positive. Prescription for amoxycillin and we were on our way.

Now, I know what you’re thinking . . . so what’s the problem??

The problem, my friends, is that we were at that self-same clinic two days prior, with the same symptoms, the same concerns. And I do mean the same. If anything, the symptoms were slightly less pronounced on the second visit.

And, on the first visit, we received a cursory exam, a similar may-or-may-not-be-chicken-pox diagnosis, no test for strep in spite of our expressed concerns about that precise disease, no prescription, a pat on the head and a push out the door.

The kicker? I’d take this all up with my family doctor, but he skipped town without telling any of his patients. I’m told the wait for an appointment with one of the two docs taking new patients in town is about 2 months.

Less than impressed.

Candy!

So . . . where were we?

(Checks back at blog . . .)

Good lord, the last time I posted was in 2013, December. Time flies.

So, quick update. Still a stay at home dad, still have two energetic sons (Sonwun and Sontoo), still have a lovely wife and am still coming back to my creative outlet once in a while when I the need to write rears its ugly head. (I think it was a review on Urban Spoon this morning that sparked the need to write again.)

I guess the most significant change of late has been the introduction of Sunny’s Treehouse Candy . . . my first real run at doing something to earn a little cash to add to the family stash. It started a couple of Christmases back when the wife and I decided to make candy for our family members who live in other provinces and countries. We wanted to do something different. So we did.

And just this last Christmas, the wife’s sister, who works in Toronto, asked us if we could pull off 5 $200 corporate gift baskets. We had no idea. But I’d read Richard Branson on Twitter say something like, “If someone asks if you can do something, say yes. Then figure out how and do it.”

So we did.

And then in January, we started hitting Farmer’s Markets here in town and in Winnipeg. We’re not yet profitable, but we’re getting there.

I gotta say, I really enjoy making the candy. We’re up to about 18 different flavours of Hard Candy, four flavours of Salt Water Taffy, Sweet and Salty Peanuts, Sponge Toffee and three different kinds of Brittle (peanut, chocolate peanut and almond).

We’ve designed a logo, labels and packaging in keeping with our Treehouse theme. (Mostly the wife there, she’s really good at this stuff!) We’ve sourced inexpensive suppliers for candy ingredients as well as packaging. It’s been an education and, in a couple of months, we might even be profitable!

So that’s what’s kept us sane over the winter. More later, I hope.

Accepted!

I'd read about it . . . and I found it hard to believe. I'd never experienced it, but the other Stay-at-Home-Dads shared their stories and swore it was true. They had been rejected, told they weren't welcome, at Mommy and Me groups.

Sad, in this day and age, that such discrimination still exists. Sexism, running unchecked in church basements and community centres.

I found it so hard to believe, until it happened to me.

It was about three years ago. I'd been an RCMP spouse for about 8 years when I discovered a Facebook page for us; for RCMP spouses to talk, share, commiserate and celebrate the life we all lead.

And yeah, I applied for membership. And I was rejected. So I wrote about it here.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. A comment on the "Rejected" blog post. From another RCMP spouse, an admin on another RCMP spouse Facebook page. And she was inviting me to join. INVITING me! 

So I did. And now I'm one of us. Thanks Sandy!

So let's see, what else? Animal butt magnets . . . still cracking me up!

Oh yeah, and while we're talking about sexist behaviour . . .

A quick review of "Mom's Ultimate Magnetic Family Fridge Calendar 2012."

First off, bought this one cause I didn't see "Dad's Ultimate Magnetic Family Fridge Calendar 2012." Mostly because there wasn't one. 

Second, mine didn't have the stickers in it. Don't know who to blame for that one. Walmart? Manufacturer? Who knows, but it had no stickers. And I like stickers with my calendar.

Third, the "magnetic" part failed. It fell off. I had to Superglue it back on. Bad, bad, bad.

You'll have to wait until next year for the full review of "2013 Family Calendar," but I will say it's wording is gender neutral and it has all of the promised stickers. It's up two points already.

Have a great Hump Day!

If you wanna be a cat wrangler . . .

All righty then, let's talk baseball, shall we?

Specifically, let's talk about a kid's first experience with "organized" ball. And let's talk about a parent's frustration with said baseball. And just for fun, we'll use myself and Sonwun as examples.

We signed up a month or two back. It's free, and worth every penny. Well, it's free except for the $50 deposit we had to put down for a "uniform." $50?? Cool, I thought. Must be the whole thing with pants, socks and hat.

Um, no.

For the $50 deposit, we got a shirt. A big shirt. A shirt that comes down below the boy's knees. A shirt that would definitely fit Neomom and, quite possibly, me. There may be a five-year-old or two on the planet that could wear this thing, but I've never seen one.

So, expectations are lowered somewhat. But let's look at that, shall we? What exactly are my expectations, and am I aiming too high?

1. I expect the coach, or coaches, to know and be able to impart the fundamentals.
2. I expect the coach, or coaches, to have some ability to handle five-year-olds. And yeah, I know that's like herding cats. But if you sign up to be a cat wrangler . . .

And, based on those expectation, I hope my boy will have a good time and learn a few things.

That's about it.

So, now, let's talk about the past couple of practices. A couple of weeks back, it was "picture day." And on this day, an individual with a digital camera and dreams of big bucks shows up to record, for posterity, the beginning of a dozen baseball careers.

But, rather than set up, say, behind the backstop, out of the way, this Geddes wannabe sets up on the diamond, rendering it uninhabitable for the future Blue Jays' practice. And the coaches, apparently, decide the outfield area is not a part of baseball.

And so, while the photographer plods through a dozen photos, taking the entire hour, the kids play a rousing game of "What Time is it Mr. Wolf" while I grind my teeth in the bleachers - for an hour.

And so, having missed out on batting practice (his favourite) the previous week, Sonwun and I show up, on time, at 5:55, as usual, the following week. And once again we're alone with the coaches. Slowly, the others dribble in until about 6:15 when there are enough, apparently, to begin practice.

And batting practice is on the agenda. Naturally, the kid who arrived at 6:15 is the first to bat. He gets about 8 minutes of practice. By the time Sonwun's time at the plate rolls around, at 6:57, he gets about two minutes.

And I grind my teeth in the bleachers.

Oh, and one more thing, for now. When learning to bat, it's important for the young player to raise the BACK elbow in anticipation of the pitch. Raising BOTH elbows is counterproductive to the batting process and not one of the fundamentals of baseball. It is also galactically stupid.

Okay, I'm done.

And, in fairness, I should point out that Sonwun is enjoying baseball, as well as What Time is it Mr. Wolf. And I should note that the coaches are volunteers, who are taking time away from their lives to, um, coach, this team. And for that I am begrudgingly grateful.

But still . . .

1. I expect the coach, or coaches, to know and be able to impart the fundamentals.
2. I expect the coach, or coaches, to have some ability to handle five-year-olds. And yeah, I know that's like herding cats. But if you sign up to be a cat wrangler . . .

Best Laid Plans II

Well, that didn't go as planned . . .

As I mentioned yesterday, with my back yard finally a more child-friendly environment, I invited four moms and their kids over for a "playdate."

I think I've mentioned before that this is a new concept for me. Growing up, we had a ton of kids in the neighbourhood. We played outside from sun-up to sun-down. My parents never had to worry, as every parent in the 'hood was watching us all and knew who to call if we started bleeding beyond what was considered acceptable.

No one EVER had to arrange a "date" on which to play. Every day was a playdate.

But I digress.

Here in Thompson, I know no one except the moms at playgroup. Playgroup was cancelled this week. Hence, the playdate invitation.

Of the four invitees, three didn't make it and the fourth sent her kids with her husband, who happened to have the day off.

You know, I'm thinking I'm just not one of the girls.

Sure, in retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that I'd chosen some great prizes for the wet t-shirt contest. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that I was baking my "special" brownies. And maybe the other moms just weren't that interested in the fact that I'd finally completed my International Porn collection.

Oh well, live and learn.

Okay, I know my mom and mother-in-law read this occasionally, so I should probably also point out that I'M KIDDING!

Once I get my hands on the German classic, Das Booty, then my collection will be complete.

Again, kidding, relax mom . . . But as for the playdate, the bottom line is, there's a nasty stomach flu going around Thompson right now, and it pretty much wiped out the potential playdate participants. Alas, there's probably at least another month or two of less-than-freezing weather up here, so we'll just have to do it another day.

I still had a good time with the other dad, watching the kids play and enjoying a coffee for an hour or so.

Anyhoo, the weekend's here. Unfortunately, Neomom is working, so the boys and I will just have to find ways to amuse ourselves. Sonwun is anxious to get out to the stores today to find a "love card" for Mother's Day. We'll see what he'd like to get her for a present. The last time I let him choose, he bought her mom a beach ball and a sticker book.

Ticked me off a little. That's what I was going to get her.

Have yourselves a great weekend! And hug your mom if you can!

"We don't like the black guys . . ."

"We don't like the black guys, right daddy?"

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. I was thinking the same thing when that sentence popped out of Sonwun's mouth yesterday. Somehow, somewhere, that phrase is going to come back to haunt me.

I'm not sure when and where, but I know it will. Could be in line at the grocery store checkout, could be at playgroup, could be at preschool, could be at the library, could be at the swimming pool. But it's gonna come back and bite me in the ass.

But it's not my fault. I was only trying to inspire a little national pride. And, even as I wrote that last line, I realized I'd better get explaining things before I dig myself a giant old hole.

We're talking Olympics here. I've been trying to get Sonwun involved, watching, understanding the games, nations, Canadian pride. But on Tuesday night our Canadian pride took a major hit at the hands of the U.S. hockey team.

(For the record, we outplayed them, outshot them, but ran into a smokin' hot goaltender. We should have won. But, bottom line, regardless, is that we lost. Ugh.)

Anyway, Sonwun identifies the teams by colour. We, Canada, are the white guys, the good guys, the ones to cheer for. Sonwun has assigned the title "the black guys" to Team U.S.A., based on the dark colour of their jerseys. And they are the bad guys.

And thus, when the U.S. went up against the Swiss yesterday, Sonwun took a look at the two teams on the ice— the Swiss in white and the U.S. in dark blue— and checked with me before cheering.

"We don't like the black guys, right daddy?"

"Um, right buddy. But we call them Team U.S.A. We are Team Canada. And those guys in white there are Team Switzerland."

"The white guys?"

"The guys with the white shirts, yes."

"But we don't like the black guys. They're bad."

"Well, they're not bad, they're just on the other team; Team U.S.A."

I still have some work to do here before I allow Sonwun out in public again.

When I'm writing, I have the time to explain the situation. I'm not sure I'd have the opportunity to explain it to someone in line at the grocery store before accusations and fists started flying.

Anyhoo, we didn't have to worry about this in the Canada-Russia game. And, by the way, WAHOOOOO! Nothing brings out the beast in a Canadian hockey team like a game against Russia. Here's hoping the momentum can carry our boys on through to the gold.

But I digress.

Today is preschool day and I'm a little worried the topic of the Olympics may come up and Sonwun will feel the need to share his new-found wisdom.

I must de-program him this morning. Teach him, among other things, the difference between dark blue and black and the difference between the phrases "the guy in the black shirt" and "the black guy."

The nice thing here, I suppose, is that he doesn't understand why it would make a difference. He doesn't understand racism. Why would he? These things are taught, they are not inherent.

Maybe I'll just put the de-programming on hold. Children have no trouble with children of other races. To them, it just doesn't matter, doesn't really even register. Children are children. People are people and the only difference, to Sonwun anyway, is the colour of their jersey in a game.

It's a good way of looking at things. Who needs de-programming? The kids or the adults?

Happy Thursday! And GO CANADA!

Grrrrrr!

The people who lived in this house before us must have been younger than me.

Why else would you install giant mirror doors on the closet in the breezeway? They have got to go.

First thing in the morning, I don't need to see me. I am doing my damndest to live under the illusion that I'm still young, vibrant and all that good stuff. Mirrors, especially double-door, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, have a negative impact on that illusion at 5 a.m.

Okay, that's thought #1 for the morning.

Thought #2:

Batman just isn't good enough any more.

As I sit here this morning, I am listening to Sonwun do his best to sing along with the Spiderman theme song. "Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a spider can . . ."

He loves his superheroes and has a constant thirst on for the next Justice League DVD rental from Blockbuster.

And while I remain Superman, Neomom remains Batgirl and Sontoo is still Robin, Sonwun has upgraded. He is no longer merely Batman. He is now Batman Flash.

In the Justice League videos, Flash is the touted as the fastest man in the universe, which apparently has struck a chord with my eldest. Thus the change in nomenclature.

Thought #3:

I hate discipline. I think I've mentioned this before. And I think I've mentioned that I recognize it is a necessary part of raising responsible, respectful boys. But I still hate it.

Yesterday, Batman Flash was wandering around the house with his little space rocket launcher. It was part of a Hotwheels set. When attached to the track, it launches its little rocket when the cars go by. No major velocity here, but it shoots something and that is highly attractive to a four-year-old superhero.

So Batman Flash (he insist upon being called that) wanders through the kitchen as I'm cooking supper (ribs, mashed potatoes, corn) and he's got that look in his eye. I'm Superman, so I know the look.

It's the look that says, "I need to find something fun to shoot with my rocket launcher."

As he is headed in the direction of Sontoo, I take a moment to head off discipline. I offer the warning, a little reminder, a directive.

"Sonwun, do NOT shoot your brother with that thing."

He acknowledges the advice and I go back to my cooking.

But he does not break pace. He continues into the dining room in the direction of Sontoo. So I put down the potato masher and follow quietly.

And, again, without breaking pace, he walks up and shoots his brother in the head.

As I said, it's a very, very low velocity device. Sontoo barely notices the hit. But that's not the point is it? The point is his gross and blatant disregard for Superman's warning, advice, law. Honestly, that level of disregard for my edict took me by surprise.

"SONWUN," I yell.

He spins around and drops to the floor like he's been hit with a taser. He's caught and he knows it.

And, well, to make a long story short, immediate corrective measures were administered.

I hate discipline. But I just can't have him believing that my directives are an option or that it's okay to shoot his brother with rockets. As he gets bigger, his rockets will get bigger as will their destructive potential.

And it's these things that I think about. It's these things that turn my hair grey. It's these things that make me despise the giant mirrors at 5 a.m.

A Note from Preschool

I am bringing fruit. Or so I've been told.

Last week when I went to pick up Sonwun from preschool, one of the teachers walked up and handed me a note. I was a little worried about opening it, as the previous week, a teacher came and told me Sonwun had earned his first "time out" at preschool. Proud moment.

So I opened the note:

"It is your turn to provide a snack for our upcoming party. Please be sure to read all labels and prepare food carefully as we have a number of children with severe allergies. Thank you in advance for your contribution. Each class has 20 children. You are asked to bring (and then hand-written) fruit."

Okay, he hasn't been expelled. Good.

After reading the note, I had a couple of quick questions. First one being, when is the party? Second: What are we celebrating? Superbowl? Louis Riel Day? (Don't get me started). Ground Hog Day? Our Fourth Freakin' Month of Winter? WinterFest in Thompson? A birthday? The really dumb kid got his driver's licence?

I was told the party is Thursday, but I forgot to ask what we're celebrating. But I guess with fruit, it really doesn't matter. I'm not cutting cantaloupe in the shape of a groundhog or a traitor.

I suspect, but am not sure, that they gave "daddy" fruit because it's easy. Which is fine with me. Sure, I could have baked a cake (oh, it's for Valentine's Day by the way) and it would have been great. But they gave me fruit. Kind of like when you're the only guy at the office pot luck and they ask you to bring "buns" or "chips." You're a man, you're incapable of cooking. Meh, whatever.

Anyhoo, rather than spend an afternoon cutting fruit, I'm probably just gonna pick up a fruit tray at Safeway. Maybe 2. How much fruit will 20 kids eat anyway?

I have set up my computer to send me an email on Wednesday afternoon to remind me, on Thursday morning to remind me again and an alarm will sound half an hour before preschool, to remind me one more time.

When you mess with my routine, I get confused. And with the truck out of commission, things are already a little messed up. But I think I've got it covered. I will bring fruit.

Have a great Tuesday.

Boom!

So I'm sitting at the computer yesterday morning. Sonwun clomps down the stairs and wanders into the kitchen. The following conversation ensues:

Him: Dad, can I see something blow up?

Me: I don't think so.

Him: Why?

Me: Why do you want to see something blow up.

Him: Because maybe it will be cool. Maybe I would want to see it again blow up. I'm a boy and I think stuff is cool.

No point really, just a slice of my life. Every now and again, he'll come up with stuff that just makes me shake my head. This was one of those things.

Anyhoo, yesterday was kind of a slow, quiet one. Got in a run on the treadmill. Well, a good brisk walk anyway. It had been more than a week and I figured running would probably hurt. But I made it more than two miles and read four or five chapters of James Patterson's Big Bad Wolf while doing it. All good.

As I mentioned yesterday, last night kicked off Thompson's WinterFest. No, we did not go out in the -30 weather to warm up by the bonfire, suck back a few hot chocolates or see the fireworks.

Turns out, though, that Sonwun and I got a front-row seat for the fireworks while sitting on the couch. The living room window faces the direction of the rec centre, so we stayed warm and still got to ooh and ahh to our hearts' content. Sonwun really enjoyed the show.

So I guess he got what he requested earlier in the day. He got to see something blow up again and again. He is a boy, after all, and thinks that stuff is cool.

Monday

Well, it's Monday.

Neomom starts evening shifts this week, my least favourite.

Starting the week on a bit of a down cycle. Not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the weather, the Wolf Moon, who knows?

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that yesterday I wanted to take Sonwun bowling here in Thompson. So I looked up the alley in the phone book, the one that, according to it's Yellow Pages ad, is "Open Seven Days a Week." Sunday is apparently the eighth day of the week up here. They weren't open.

Finding shit to do up here, on days when Neomom's off and on days when Neomom isn't swamped with homework, is not easy. And even when it seems like plans are coming together . . .

Take tonight for example. Thompsonites (Thompsonians?) are kicking off WinterFest 2010. It starts tonight with the big kick-off - fireworks, a bonfire, hot chocolate and so forth.

Problem 1: Neomom's working.

Problem 2: It's still going to be -30C (-22F) before wind-chill and I am not taking the kids over to the rec centre to stand around outside in THAT, hot chocolate or not.

Anyhoo, maybe there is some other stuff later on in the month. WinterFest apparently goes on throughout the month. It even includes a "Kids Concert Series" at the Letkemann Theatre, wherever the hell that is. The series apparently runs on Saturdays and includes acts such as Heather Bishop, Bubblemann, Dave and Louie Ventriloquism and Buff Handel.

Never heard of any of them. But, if the planets align at some point this month, we may just check one out.

Apparently there are other events associated with the month-long festival, but locating a complete schedule is difficult. I just spent half an hour trying on the net, but have had no luck. There was some reference to dog-sled races but, again, no schedule, time or place.

So, for today, we're probably house-bound yet again.

Hope your Monday's looking better.

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

The good news is that Sontoo's tummy troubles were apparently of the 24-hour variety. So yesterday, he did not throw up once.

Neomom, on the other hand, got her turn. So she was home all day yesterday.

And again, the good news is that she's feeling much better today and has returned to work.

The bad news is that today is my turn. Feel like crap. So, very short post.

See you tomorrow, hopefully.

Tummy Trouble

So, rough day yesterday.

And it started so optimistically. Got a decent night's sleep, blog completed before anyone else woke up, good attitude.

In spite of the forecast of "flurries" overnight and into Sunday, I awoke Sunday morning to a good four or five inches on the ground and plenty falling. This continued and the forecast was modified to include a snowfall warning. Hmm. A little off there boys. Enjoy that job!

Anyhoo, the snow didn't bother me as I had no plans at all to leave the house. Neomom was working and the boys and I were quite happy to hunker down for some Mario Kart, a little laundry, a little cleaning . . . a typical kinda day, plus Mario Kart.

Just before breakfast, however, Sontoo projectile vomited all over the kitchen, himself and me. No biggie. My optimism was alive. At least he didn't hit the carpet, or one of the couches, chairs or dog. Easy clean-up and it gets me started on the laundry early. See? A silver lining on the cloud of puke.

I'm watching Sontoo from here on. He seems happy, no fever, good appetite at breakfast. Must have been the milk he had earlier. Didn't agree with him.

So, he's playing in the living room about half an hour after breakfast and . . . FIRE TWO! This one got his favourite blankets, an area rug and his fresh pajamas. In the process of pajama removal, it also got his hair pretty good.

Okay, the area rug is machine washable, as are his clothes. At least he didn't get the furniture.

Got that one cleaned up, Sontoo got a bath and then it was just all smiles and sunshine until lunch. Oh, I mean smiles, sunshine and diarrhea. He's now fillin' diapers like sandbags in New Orleans before Katrina.

So, my shirt smells like puke, there's the aroma of poop everywhere, my fingers have that Desitin stuff smell (to ward off related diaper rash) . . . but hey, it's almost lunchtime.

Sontoo turned up his nose at the Kraft Dinner. Usually loves the stuff and I figured it was important to get some food in him. Fair enough, the most critical element is drinking and he did put away a fair bit of liquid.

After lunch and another diaper change he settled in for his nap and made it through until 3:30 without another gastronomical eruption.

Again, happy, smiling, no fever when he got up. More juice. And then Round 3. The living room chair took a small hit, and his favourite blankets were mortally wounded. When I got him out of the chair, he did his impression of a moving lawn sprinkler, walking five steps, puking, five more, more puke: covering the maximum amount of floor space.

(Now this is where Sonwun nearly lost his life. As I am scrambling to minimize damage and maximize paper towel use, he has the nerve to say "Daddy, you're in the way. I can't see Mario Kart! Relax, he's still alive.)

Anyway, to wind up this long story and make it a little shorter, we made it through supper and bedtime. But after about 2 hours in bed, the poor little sucker woke up and created a pool in his bed and destroyed about five books with Volley Number 4.

As I write this at 5:20 a.m., I can now hear him in the baby monitor calling for me. A new day begins. (Pause to fetch Sontoo).

Wow, a dry diaper and he's now sitting in the living room chair (which is covered by a blanket) downing his first juice of the day. Here's hoping it comes out where it's supposed to. Wish me luck.

Have a great Monday!

A trip around the Weird

So . . . 5 a.m. The house sleeps on.

This morning, I played one of my favourite games, "Next Blog."

It involves that button at the top of your screen by the same name. It opens a portal to new worlds, new minds, new philosophies, new lives. And it seems infinite.

Don't know if you've ever hit that button before or not. But if you haven't, and you have a little time on your hands, I dare you.

This morning, I took a short trip through the life of a man cycling through India. I read several accounts of "why men suck" by women with relationship issues. I was treated to the works of a number of excellent photographers. I learned a little bit about why some people feel the need to cut themselves with razors.

As I said, the list is endless and every time you push the Next Blog button, a new world awaits. Some I can relate to, some I can't even begin to imagine.

Let's go there now.

Next Blog: Written by a 22-year-old Malaysian male. It's called Lucky Strike 14. Not sure why. Today's entry is about the New Year, the Chinese New Year and beginning the Year of Tiger. (Last year was apparently the Year of Ox.) The writer contemplates his graduation from University in a year or two and his entrance to the working world. He concludes with the thought that it's best to enjoy and live in the present. Good friends = good times. Why mess with it?

"My dream is simple. I hope no matter what path we are heading to, our friendship bond will always be there. Stay connected. If possible, invite me to your wedding Malaysian=). Friendship forever ya~!!!"

Next Blog: Brat Princess. Again, not sure why. A quick scan tells me it's about, well, a brat princess. Make-up tips, look what I bought, gold is good. Let's move on.

Next Blog: The Thornocks - a family name for a family blog. It's written by mom and this entry is about daughter Ryleigh's 3rd birthday, complete with pictures. Cute kid, cute family, cute blog. I can relate as the stay-at-home parent. I read it through and even check a few back issues.

Next Blog: Hello! Okay, this is a first. Came across some "naughty" pictures, complete with someone's description of their sexual exploits in a sort of poetic voice; and not great writing. Not particularly interested, moving on . . . in a minute, hang on. Moving . . . on . . . right . . . now . . . that's not how you spell THAT . . . poor grammar . . . and that's just not possible . . . okay, seriously, moving on.

Next Blog: A tribute to Michael Jackson by Xin Hong. Not particularly interested, moving on.

Anyway, you get the idea. Next time you're bored and want to read a little "slice of life" from a variety of perspectives, give it a try. You might be amused, you might get bored, you might find inspiration, you might find a lot of spelling errors. But odds are good you're going to learn something. And that makes the trip worthwhile.

Enunciate!

So . . . Sontoo is at the repeating phase of his short little life. At almost-two, he latches on to a word, or phrase and rattles it off, time and time and time again, until Daddy's eyes cross and he's about to go postal.

What's more, if you don't respond each and every time to his request or statement, he'll get a little pissy about it. This is especially true if he fakes a fall.

"I tumbleweed dada, I tumbleweed dada, I tumbleweed dada, I tumbleweed dada."

Each successive declaration increases in volume and irritation factor. It's one of those days. Patience is rapidly dwindling (Sonwun, surrounded by a mountain of toys: "I'm bored.") and I've got a mess of stuff to do today.

After feeding the boys and cleaning the kitchen, I got a load of laundry in, completed my grocery list and headed for Safeway. Upon arrival and prior to exiting the van, Sonwun recited his self-styled and traditional oath of good behaviour (believing it would earn him Mario Kart time) and then proceeded to shatter said oath 30 seconds into the fresh produce aisle.

Sontoo, on the other hand, decided it was a good time to break out of his shell. He offered a chipper "Hewwo" to anyone within 15 feet and, keeping with his newfound joy of repetition, continued hewwoing until he either got a response or out of sight.

And he saved his best for the checkout. In the magazine rack was a Thomas the Train colouring book. Sontoo loves Thomas and all of his friends from the Island of Sodor. In particular, he recognizes and knows the names of Thomas, James and Percy.

And, at the checkout, he started reciting the names. He got stuck on Percy and kept repeating, at successively increasing volume, the name Percy.

Problem is, his enunciation is still a little on the weak side. And so, while I knew exactly what he was saying, the checkout girl, the three people standing in line, the next checkout girl and the people in her line, heard my 2-year-old son was repeating the word "pussy" over and over and over and at ever increasing volume levels.

And, because he's feeling quite social this day, he's actually speaking to, and looking at, the checkout girl while saying this.

I've got nothing else to add. Have a great day.

Cross Your Fingers Please

So . . . another Monday.

Kind of a weird weekend here.

Got a call from my mom Friday evening. She's been dealing with an intestinal blockage and has undergone a number of tests, over a number of weeks to determine what exactly it is.

On Friday, she'd been told it is a tumour and it may be cancerous. She's also been told there are some "spots" on her liver that are questionable. She was obviously devastated, as was the rest of the family as the news got out.

There's a biopsy scheduled for today.

Now, with three or so family members in the medical field (one doctor, two nurses), medical reports have been faxed all over North America and they've been studied. The overwhelming sentiment is that, yes, it's possible, but it's more on the unlikely side than the likely. Either way, we'll have to wait for today's test results.

So, this past weekend has been a bit of a bust. Hard to concentrate on anything for any length of time. Played a lot of Wii Mario Kart.

I had planned to rectify a mistake I made at Christmas, but never got around to it. Maybe today. It will be a frustrating, but relatively mindless task.

At Christmas, after cooking and serving what was perhaps the most perfect and juicy bird known to Christendom, I proactively and immediately dumped the the carcass into my huge stock pot, added some stuff and let it simmer over night.

The following day, having produced what is perhaps the most delicious turkey stock known to the Turkey Stock Exchange (TSE), I freezer-bagged said stock and placed it in the freezer, along with some leftover turkey, so that I might, at a later date, create the most delectable turkey soup since the Soup Nazi.

And then I realized I had made what is perhaps one of the most boneheaded miscalculations of the Christmas season. You see, the freezer rack gaps were not close enough together to adequate contain the bags of stock. In other words, they kinda sagged between the gaps and then froze, making them a permanent part of the freezer.

Not sure how to remedy this one. I see a few options:

1. Bend the metal racks and squeeze the stock bags out.

2. Heat the stock, somehow, and then squeeze the bags out.

3. Cut off the hangy down parts of the bag, remove stock and re-bag.

I'm kinda leaning toward option 3, with a dash of option 1 where it will work without permanently damaging the racks.

Anyway, that's where I'm at this Monday morning. Will let you know how everything turns out. Here's hoping for good news all around.

Night and Day

It's amazing how different two brothers can be.

On the one hand, we have Sonwun, the extrovert. He wants friends, he wants to play, he wants to go to preschool, he wants to go to swimming class, he wants to go to his friends house. If Jack The Ripper held out his blood-soaked hand while standing over a fresh corpse, Sonwun would grab it, ask where they were going and ask if they could get ice cream on the way.

Last year I was concerned about Sonwun going to preschool, having heard stories of wailing, screaming, gnashing of teeth as daddy dropped off child and turned to leave. I was worried I wouldn't have the strength to do the right thing and keep on walking.

Turns out I didn't have anything, and I mean anything, to worry about. I said good-bye at the classroom door and he didn't even look back. Onward to new adventures, new people, new friends. See ya later, whats-yer-face.

On the other hand, we have Sontoo, the introvert. He wants mommy, daddy and Sonwun. No one else, end of story. If he loses track of me at playgroup, which is held in a small gymnasium, he starts cooking up a meltdown of biblical proportions. If I don't notice and respond within 15 seconds, he's howling like a banshee, snot is running down his face and the sobbing shakes his little body like an electric shock.

And if one of the other poor, unsuspecting, but well-meaning mothers picks him up to comfort him, he turns it up to 11.

Anyhoo, I am a little concerned with this. Wednesday, for example, he kind of took his introversion to another level (12?). At playgroup, he did not leave me for more than 5 minutes in two hours. Seriously. He just wanted to lay on my chest as I sat in a chair. He never wants to do that when there's a good hockey game on. Come to think of it, he never, ever wants to do that at home. Ever.

Now, it's possible this was in response to his decision to wake up at 5:15 a.m. and not go back to sleep. But that's only 45 minutes off his regular wake-up time. And I'm sure that if we were home he would not have been acting that way.

In addition, we can not even think of leaving him with a babysitter. He will not stand for it. Now if we lived closer to family, I think we could break him. But I just can't see leaving him with a babysitter we hardly know, in this new city, while he screams bloody murder the entire time. Just wouldn't feel right about that.

I realize preschool's a couple years off still, but we've got to adjust this attitude before we get there, if only for our own sanity. Neomom and I need to get away once in a while and it will be a lot easier if Sontoo agrees to allow a babysitter into the house while he's awake.

And on a completely different note, chipotle and meat loaf are made for each other. Chipotloaf? Delicious!

Have a great weekend.

I'm Superman

Congratulate me. I'm Superman.

The title was bestowed upon me recently by "the gweatest Superhero ever," Batman.

Batman, it seems, has replaced my eldest son. He has become the Caped Cwusader and the Dark Knight. He's quite adamant about it. He has Batman pajamas, complete with cape, Batman socks and he insists on reading Batman books at bed time. His "school shirt," which must be clean each and every preschool day, is, of course, a Batman shirt.

Until recently, Sonwun was Spiderman and the rest of the family remained mortal but, for reasons known only to the Dark Knight, he switched loyalties, personas and pajamas around Christmas.

It's a little confusing for Sontoo, who has just mastered everyone's name and was quite proud of it. I've heard him being chastised at the dinner table for saying "Hewo Sonwun."

"I'm not Sonwun, I'm Batman."

"Hewo Sonwun." (He's big into repeating stuff.)

"I'M BATMAN!"

Neomom, by the way, has been dubbed Batwoman and Sontoo has been promoted to Robin.

I'm the only one outside of the Bat family, but I think Superman is a pretty good title. I just wish Batman would stop questioning my superpowers.

"Can you lift that bus daddy?"

"Just one?"

"Can you lift that hotel daddy."

"Not sure, never tried."

"Can you lift 10 busses daddy?"

"Look, a puppy."

I picked up a few Batman videos recently for my Caped Cwusader, and he's been enjoying them. I got the cartoon ones, as I figured the live-action ones would be a little too scary just yet. But even the cartoons are a little spooky. He seems to be handling them okay, although he does want Superman by his side when he views them. Batwoman is on night shift this week and we wait until Robin has gone to bed before viewing.

The next evolution, I'm sure, will be a request for a bat utility belt and I'm not sure it's a good idea. Sonwun has always been a big fan of throwing things around the house, and tying things together (Sontoo included) so I'm a little leery about handing over a belt with a grappling hook and Batarangs.

Anyhoo, it's playgroup day today. Batwoman has a lot of homework to do, so it will just be Batman, Robin and Superman attending.

Right now, I must concentrate on being faster than a speeding bullet, leaping tall buildings in a single bound and making pancakes for breakfast.

Such is the life of a superhero.

Happy Hump Day. Celebrate as you see fit.

Short and Sweet

Well, the day started almost perfectly. Sontoo, who is still in the early phases of communication, covered all the bases.

He calls from his crib at 6 a.m., daddyyyyyyyy, daddyyyyyyyy. I hear it through the baby monitor in the basement, where I'm enjoying my coffee and Andre Agassi's book, OPEN. I'm several chapters in and so far, it's interesting and very readable. I admired Agassi when he was in his prime, the whole rebel thing in addition to his outstanding play. But when you find out where it all came from . . . I'll let you read the book.

Anyway, I make my way upstairs before Sontoo wakes up momma. I open the door, walk in, close it.

"Hewooe Daddy!" he says, in a chipper little voice that always makes me smile.

"Hi Sontoo."

I turn on the little lamp and turn to see him on his back, smiling. He rolls over, gets to his feet and balls up the gramma blankets. He has two, and he won't go to bed without them.

He collects them in his arms, stands and waits to be picked up. I oblige and he snuggles into my shoulder as we take the short walk to the change table.

"Towmater," he says, pointing to the brown tow truck character on his Cars wallpaper.

When the change is over, he rebundles the gramma blankets and snuggles back into my shoulder for the trip downstairs. It's early, so I'm hoping we can settle in together on the couch, maybe snuggle and rest for a few minutes

"Dwink pees," he says, just as I get comfortable.

I get back up and go to fill a sippy with milk.

I return. He laughs with anticipation when he sees the cup.

"Denk oo," he says upon receipt of said cup.

For me, that's the perfect start to any day. Happy, content boy. Please and thank you. Not yet 2 years old.

It's gotta be a good day.

Shower Interrupted

So . . . yesterday I'm in the shower. It's one of my peaceful places and it has become more and more peaceful in the last couple of months.

It wasn't long ago that a 45-second shower was the max. I just wasn't comfortable leaving the boys alone for any longer than that. And they were usually in the bathroom at the time, seeing who could throw the greatest number of items into the tub in that 45 seconds.

But lately, they seem content to do whatever they're doing, downstairs, while I enjoy a solid five minutes in the shower.

And yesterday, following half an hour on the treadmill, I was confident that Max and Ruby were keeping the boys sufficiently occupied, so I headed for the shower and my five minutes of peace and solitude.

I got about three.

And then Sonwun, the elder, came charging into the bathroom crying. And it was a real cry, not a whiny attention-seeking cry.

"I hurt my little brother," he said.

Now, I've heard this line before and, when it's accompanied by this particular kind of cry, it means he's actually hurt his brother and usually on purpose. And when Sontoo starts crying it scares Sonwun, who immediately comes to confess. It's never been anything really serious, maybe a bonk in the head or a fat lip. Yes, it needs addressing, but it isn't the end of the world.

"What happened," I ask, as I turn off the water.

"I hurt my little brother and his face is all red," Sonwun replies.

Oh shit. Now that doesn't sound good.

I leap out of the shower, grab a towel and go running down the stairs, expecting a gory scene involving some manner of Fisher Price impalement. Leaving a trail of wet carpet I make my way to the top of the basement stairs, where I find Sontoo . . . smiling and laughing. Sure, you could see that he'd been crying, but he was over it now and was just finding my hastily constructed toga quite amusing.

So, following interrogation, I learned that Sonwun had smacked Sontoo in the mouth with his Spiderman utility rope and hook. It probably pissed Sontoo off to the point where he actually turned red while crying. But he wasn't bleeding anywhere and the pain was quickly forgotten.

The utility hook has been confiscated, as Sonwun had been warned umpteen times about swinging it wildly around the house, especially anywhere near his younger brother.

Anyhoo, that was my excitement for yesterday.

And, to keep with the theme of the last couple of posts, my gourmet cooking tips for the day:

1. When the bag of tatertots says cook at 450 degrees for 20 minutes, and the fish sticks need to be cooked at 400 degrees, you can do the tots at 400 degrees for half an hour and they come out perfect.

2. When you put a frying pan in the oven at 400 degrees for 14 minutes, the handle gets very hot. It will hurt a lot if you try to pick it up without oven mitts.

My culinary words of wisdom for the day.

Happy Hump Day. Celebrate as you see fit.

Chipotle Rules!

Okay, my new favourite flavour is chipotle. I added a little to the bbq sauce recipe last night on the slow-cooked baby back ribs and WOW! Love this stuff.

At dinner last night, Sonwun flatly rejected the ribs and cried when I made him try just a bite. Sontoo, who usually loves his ribs, rejected them as well. Neomom loved them.

So I guess that's pretty much par for the course in my culinary exploration game.

Chipotle peppers, as I've learned, are actually just smoked jalapeno peppers, which accounts for the little kick (or big kick, depending on variety and concentration).

Anyway, the flavour was a welcome addition to my quickie barbecue sauce last night. I actually make two types of sauce - the quickie and the batch.

The quickie is ketchup based. I don't really measure anything, just kind of throw it together in a cereal bowl, starting with maybe a cup and a half of ketchup. I'd guess two tablespoons of brown sugar and an equal or slightly greater amount of white vinegar. That's the base and from there it's just a matter of adding flavour depending upon my mood and availability.

Generally speaking, I add garlic powder, chilli powder, maybe some Dijon mustard, curry powder, salt, pepper and a dash or two of Worcestershire sauce. Last night I left out the chilli and Dijon and added a couple of shots of chipotle based bbq sauce. And it was awesome.

Must look into locating some straight chipotle powder, or paste for the future, as it would better suit the batch recipe. That one I only make once or twice a year, depending on time and storage space.

For the batch, I used my 5-gallon Dutch oven.

I start with a cup of well chopped onion and half a cup of chopped garlic, which I fry for a few minutes in hot oil in the Dutch oven. Once those two ingredients have softened, I start adding the rest of the stuff:

4 cups tomato puree

1 cup brown sugar

1 cup Worcestershire sauce

3/4 cup honey

3/4 cup ketchup

1/2 cup creamy horseradish sauce

1/2 cup tomato paste

1/2 cup balsamic vinegar

1/2 cup Dijon mustard

1/4 cup dark molasses

1/4 cup dried onion

1/4 cup garlic powder

1/4 cup chilli powder

1/4 cup curry powder

Juice from one or two limes, depending on size.

2 cups water

(Chipotle amount to be named later)

Anyway, I bring this to a boil and then turn the heat down to let it simmer for about half an hour. Then I let it cool, put it in Tupperware containers, freeze most of it and keep some out for immediate use.

Now, I need to point out that this recipe is a lifelong work in progress. I don't consider it perfect, just yet. It's good, but it still needs some polish. I think the chipotle is going to go a long way toward my goal. Try it if you like, play with it, add or subtract whatever floats your boat.

As for right now, it's almost breakfast. For Sonwun, I think we'll try cinnamon toast waffles with chipotle syrup. And for Sontoo, apple-cinnamon oatmeal, with chipotle yogurt.

Happy Tuesday!