bambamblog

Savour It

For the most part, Oliver has adjusted amazingly well to having a sibling—he loves George, especially now that she's out of adorable blob phase and can actually play with him, or at least try to. She reveres him and of course finds him hilarious; their favourite game right now is chase, at which she is at a distinct disadvantage given even fast crawling can't keep up with running—but she doesn't seem to mind, and sometimes he even drops to his fours.

Still, there is the whole problem of my having to divide my attention between two. He's overall patient, but he also makes it clear how much he wants alone time with me, which I try (with Craig's help) to give him whenever possible.

When I pick him up at school, his first question following the usual "Can I wear my Canucks shirt now?" (this shirt still makes up at least one-third of our daily conversation—we're into year two of the obsession) is,

"Can I do something with you?"

Then,

"Do you want to do something with me?"

Second to Canucks attire, with Oliver, is a big deal. To be honest, his bond with me is sometimes overwhelming; it can be hard to catch my breath sometimes from the sheer force of it. There are nights when I'm told at least ten times how much I am liked and loved.

See? What am I complaining about. Life changes in the blink of an eye. This is a blink. There will be many, many years in the future where I will return to this blink and try to remember every blessed, intense second of it.

The Bad With the Good

Sometimes it’s tempting to write up only the cutest, most brilliant parts of your kids’ existence and interactions with you: anecdotes that prove how loving and (implicitly) exceptional they are, and which (implicitly, ever-so implicitly) reinforce that you’re a wonderful, open-minded parent who is raising a pure joy to the world.

I love writing up that material. But sometimes—imagine!—such fodder is scarce around here. There are three-tantrum nights where it’s pointless to put music on because the screaming, even from a closed door upstairs, is so insane. There are horrendous rejections of grandparents and kind friends. The other day, there was the first “I hate you!” (delivered at the top of lungs in a booze store, necessitating an order change in terms of quantity and alcohol content.)

I want to document the “bad” stuff a little more. When I think of it, my allegedly angelic behaviour as a child has provided fewer memories than my brother Dylan’s heinous acts of defiance, stubbornness, and outright thievery when he was little. Dylan lopped off plastic superheroes’ heads and basically funded an elementary school gang from the contents of my parents’ wallets. He teased me mercilessly and got booted from too many classrooms to count. There was an incident with a BB gun. He is now an unbelievably kind, interesting, and wonderful 40-year-old father of two girls and PhD holder.

All to say … Oliver is OFTEN bad. Yes, bad. Funny and … bad. We love him desperately but he tests us QUITE A LOT. He will likely turn out just fine, just like my brother.

Episode 1: Oliver Is Sometimes Extremely Not Very Polite

[We are at the Ron’s Diner for breakfast with my dad. Georgia is sitting beatifically or at least quietly as she stuffs her mouth with pancakes. Oliver is squirming around, falling out of his chair, and making evil faces at his poor Grumpa (my dad) who is only trying to engage him. I have hollandaise sauce all over me as I try to shove as much food in as possible before being jostled again by Oliver. It is NOT relaxing.

Craig finally steps up to the plate—someone has to—and reads a respectful riot act to Oliver. He delivers it calmly and patiently, much more patiently than I could do. The response, delivered just as calmly (actually under his breath)?]

“Zip it, dad.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Zip. It.”

Oliver is 3 3/4.

It was an interesting day.