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The Chosen One

How does one teddy become The One? How does he go from teddy to Teddy?

Is it the way his fur tumbles into his eyes? His slightly sad and bereft expression? Is it his smell—does he just beg to be scrunched up to a slobbery little face and inhaled? Does he seem somehow more real than the countless other stuffed candidates lined up for the job?

Whatever the reason, Oliver chose his Teddy two days ago suddenly and fiercely. He calls for Teddy anxiously when he’s gone missing (“de-DEH!”). He’s branded Teddy with an avocado french kiss. He crawls with Teddy clenched in one fist, dragging him facedown across the floor. Today he pitched Teddy out of the stroller just so he could say “uh-oh!’ with pretend surprise. Teddy felt the stroller wheels—at least two of them—before I could rescue him (and place him right back with his loving tormentor). Teddy then played with Oliver in the park, which for Teddy meant a lot of sand sandwiches and not much else. Teddy is already looking ragged after a two-day reign.

But I know he’s happy. This is the fate every stuffed animal dreams of. Every blight, every ground-in clump of dirt, every tear and new deformity, all these are badges of honor. To be loved hard is the lot of every Teddy.

Envy

Do you ever look at someone and go, “I want to trade?” Like, “I want to look like that person and have everything they have. It looks so easy and nice. I want to shed all my crappy bits and forget I ever had them.” That sort of thing? I do sometimes, and I did today at, surprise, Meinhardt’s, that den of inequity and upturned noses I go to every day because I'm lazy (it's around the corner).

I saw this woman, about my age, with her daughter, about seven, waiting at the deli just like me and Oliver. They were basically wearing matching outfits, which sounds like loserville, but at that moment it wasn’t. Poofy short black skirts, tanks, and thin cream cardigans, all of the finest material. Willowy frames. Clothes hanging just so. Expensive gladiator sandals. Mom with black toe polish, girl with red. Perfectly messed but elegant ponytails. Delicate, refined faces only kissed by the sun.

Awed and impressed, I blurted out: “Did you guys just get your toes done today?”

It was probably only a second before the mom responded, but it felt like an eternity, maybe because of the coolness of her gaze. “No, it’s been a while.” It wasn’t mean, but it wasn’t kindly either. She might have been having a bad day. Maybe "guys" was the wrong word.

I do know that I didn’t want to be her anymore. I looked down at my always slightly disheveled self and then further at Oliver’s complete messiness (at all times at least one of: crazy hair, belly popping out, drool strands, food debris, or boogers) and I knew we made people smile. People talk to us constantly. People laugh with us, they open doors for us, and they pick up after us when we drop our belongings everywhere. They might not want to be us, but we’ll take what we've got. It’s a lot.

Moment

Hey baby look at us in this field full of tiny daisies. Pender Island, BC.

Hazy sky, lazy sun. No hike because you screamed as only you can scream and begged us to take you out, out, out of that awful backpack. Out you came into our arms. To the car. To the school. To the playground. You got dirty. Slipped a rock into your mouth. Found a cigarette butt, presented it to us with pride. Looked for anything round just so you could declare it “bah.” Finally your eyes glazed over. We found the softest grass. Spread the blankets. Nestled in. Your hand traced my face for a while. Then went quiet. Asleep. Asleep among the tiny daisies on Pender Island.

How to Give Your One-Year-Old Nightmares

1. Take him to the Stanley Park little farm for kids right before feeding time for the animals
2. Park him in front of a big sheep just before it starts braying
3. Nearly pee when said sheep gets entire farmyard rioting for food—goats, llamas, geese, cows, and especially cocks—which makes one-year-old and indeed all children present cry
4. Whisk him away to the safe haven of the birds and bunnies, and meet irate and hideous-looking male turkey, aka “the gobbler"
5. Run for your lives back the way you came, which is unfortunately right past the still-unfed sheep who by now looks deranged and monstrous
6. Decide to take detour because poor mommy didn’t get a chance to stroke the goats—and isn’t this all about me anyway?
7. Reluctantly abandon goats and take one-year-old one final time—for good measure—past sheep and out exit doors
8. Ask him repeatedly on trip home what various animals sound like, forgetting that "Baaaa" might not be a perfect association just now

Bad parenting 101.

Bring on the cheese

Who are you? Who who, who who?

Today I walked into our neighborhood coffee shop, Phoscao, a little lighter than usual. It was a nanny day, and for once I didn’t have Oliver strapped to me or in the stroller in front of me. I anticipated owners Kin and Kam’s disappointed reaction upon seeing me so unencumbered, but they still managed a smile. While they made my coffee, I scanned the shop to see if anyone I knew was there, and sure enough a couple of moms I talk to at the playground had taken over the back bench with their babes.

“Hi Chandra! Hi Amy!” I said, approaching their table and dodging their little ones who were scrambling about on the floor.

Blank stares.

I stepped closer, imagining there must be sun in their eyes or that I was too far away. Nope—nothing.

For some reason, I adopted a querying tone: “I’m Oliver’s mom? Kiley?”

Bright smiles of comprehension: “Oh yes, yes! Kiley! Kiley, how's it going? Where's Oliver?”

From then on, the conversation was smooth. But it was a bit stunning to not be recognized by people you chat with a couple of times a week—sometimes about quite personal things. I realized, not for the first time, but more viscerally than I had before, that I am incomplete, even a stranger, without Oliver to these moms. Our babies are our shorthand, our reason for speaking at all.

Later in the day I headed over to the park with Oliver and saw Chandra again. She smiled widely this time.

“Hi Oliver! How are you?" she asked, bending down to his eye level.

“Fine!” I answered for him. And that was that. And it’s okay, it really is … I do it, too, I’m sure … but it’s still weird.

My little grey spirit

My baby Franny passed away last month. She had been losing weight but showed no signs of pain. She was slower and quieter, but she still came down every night at 8 pm to yell at me and eat bites of my dinner beside me. Lately, she was turning up her nose at nothing—pizza, bread, pasta, whatever. As long as I was eating it, she wanted it. Then we would cuddle. No one could cuddle like Fran.

For the last half-year or so, she stole her time with me at night, knowing that Oliver took every ounce of my attention and energy in the day. She knew there was less of me for her, and she accepted this without protest. This made me love her even more than I had before. She asked only that I adore her desperately for a little while at the end of each day. I did so happily and every bit as desperately as she might have hoped for.

I found solace burying my face in Franny’s fur at the end of long days with Oliver, days that—as any mother of a new baby knows—are not only joyful but exhausting. With her, I became a little more just me again, me as me and not as mother too, me as nerves and heart and thoughts and dreams. All these I would pour into her little body, and she received them gratefully.

This cat, this cat was a good cat. This cat was a little part of my soul.

Merry, merry Boxing Day

Though we spent Christmas very quietly this year, with just me, Oliver, Craig, a motley tree, and minimal presents, Christmas was still … that day you’ve been waiting for, preparing for, and knowing you should somehow behave and feel differently on than all the rest of the days of the year. In other words, it was a slightly weird day per usual—parts of it wonderful and parts of it overwhelming and underwhelming all at once. I’m a Boxing Day kind of girl myself, I realized this year.

This Boxing Day, Mr O woke up with a brand new front tooth, which is a source of pride today as opposed to a source of agony yesterday. He is obsessed with wrapping his tongue around it and along his gumline, sending great gobs of spittle in every direction. We are constantly wiping his face and our … everything.

After several bib changes and much wringing out of our own clothing, Craig and I finally got us all out the door to face the blizzard that has enveloped Vancouver this holiday. We popped O in his stroller, mushed through slush and stubborn snowbanks, and made it as far as the IGA before O mounted serious protest. We released him, heaped the groceries onto the stroller, and took turns carrying him to our next destination—lunch at Earl’s with James and Monique.

At lunch, despite the fact that we were noshing during naptime, O was adorable if massively drooly. He stared long, hard, and enviously at Craig’s beef dip sandwich, so we broke of bits of the buttery meat and popped them into his mouth. Between bites, O alernated between gazing adoringly at James and hugging me, cooing contentedly (and wetly) in my ear.

We broke from lunch to face the elements again—the snowfall was only intensifying. I ploughed the stroller along, and Craig carried O, who yelled meaningfully and constantly at the snow—he feels very strongly about it. People smiled and gaped at our babbling (and very loud) boy as they walked by. The stroller threatened to capsize but didn’t, O could have begun crying from tiredness but didn’t, and we all made it home intact and pleasantly whipped from the weather and exertion.

We freed O from his snowsuit, changed him, and plopped him on the bed. I hopped in on the other side, pulled him into me, tugged the flannel sheets and duvet up around us, and breastfed him into dreamland. Above us, snow covered our skylight, letting in only soft, blue light. I looked down upon O—whose cheeks were still flushed and cool from the snow, and who snored lightly and rhythmically—and felt deliriously happy and lucky.

Merry, merry Boxing Day.

Regression

Over the months, Craig and I have taken to calling Oliver “Oliver” about one-twentieth of the time we address him. This is unsurprising, as Craig calls me “Kiley” about one time in 50, and I call him “Craig” about half that much (depending on how much trouble he’s in—“Craig” is almost always delivered in a serious tone, and it makes him snap nervously to attention—if you think that’s tyrannical, please note that Craig whistles for me as to a dog in public places and I whip around immediately). All to say that we are extreme nicknamers and it’s no shock that we would continue the tradition with Oliver.

So far Oliver has acquired:

• Mr Moo
• Mr O
• O
• Ooonu
• Moom
• Meem
• Mee-moo
• Gomer
• Gomey-gome
• Gome
• Homard
• Boy boy
• Little man
• Leedle leedle (as in l’il l’il, the short form of little little)
• Doodle
• Mpopo

I’ve been a bit worried that we’re in the process of confusing wee O about his real name—that we’re upsetting some crucial building block in language acquisition. But I did some Internet research and was greatly relieved by what I found on the Linguistic Society of America website:

“Children acquire language quickly, easily, and without effort or formal teaching. It happens automatically, whether their parents try to teach them or not.”

I’m glad to hear Oliver won’t be totally dependent on us to learn words, because I am losing my own by the bucketful each day. Pointing at things and grunting can be remarkably effective. And it turns out salad is a great finger food.

Sleep, blessed sleep, I shall lay claim to you again one day …

Weirdos

This morning I licked Oliver. He had just fallen asleep beside me, and it wasn’t enough to just watch him as I usually do. So I bent my head down, stuck out my tongue and touched the tip of it to Oliver’s warm cheek. Then I did it again, this time with a little more motion—sort of like a cat licking one of her kittens. It was lovely. Not much taste, maybe a little salt, but maybe not. I just liked the thrill of doing it.

When I next saw Craig, I let him know what I had done.

“I licked Oliver this morning,” I said.
“Mm-hmm,” he mumbled distractedly.

“Yep, I licked him right on his cheek—twice,” I noted, this time with a little more expectancy.
“Good.”
Somewhat taken aback by his lack of reaction, I asked, “Have you ever licked Oliver?”
“Routinely.”
“Really? On his cheek?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“How often?”
“Every couple of months or so.”

So there you have it—Craig and I have both taken to licking Oliver.