blogthecat

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.

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.  

Quagmire

So this aft Oliver and I are on a quick trip round the ‘hood to pick up various sundries. He’s in the Snugli carrier since he so prefers it to the stroller and my back and shoulders can withstand his 20 lbs for a short jaunt like this. We’re in Meinhardts, the horrendously expensive deli/grocery store on Granville, shopping among the snooty snooties. After picking out a restrained half dozen items we line up and wait our turn for the cashier. A till opens up, and we make our way up to the counter feeling quite pleased with ourselves for our cute and quiet performance in the store. Then Oliver erupts:

“EEE-uurgh!”
(Beat).
“Eeeeeehhhh-uurrgh!”
(Beat. Beat.)
“Uurrghh!!!”

A close, pungent smell slowly but devastatingly oozes out of the pure polyester Snugli. The cashier looks discreetly away. Her face is going red. She has to deal with us, but she’s trying hard to a) not vomit, b) remain expressionless. Oliver is turned outward as per Snugli protocol, but I know his face is a) as red as hers from the exertion, and b) expectant, since at home when he poos, we congratulate him or soothe him if it looks like it’s been a tough go. I, meanwhile, am grappling with the fact that a) my baby has just pooed on me in public and b) I don’t know what decorum and decency would have me do in our predicament.

We’re all confused—the cashier, Oliver, and me. We remain mute as she rings through each item as fast as she can yet not so fast as to let on her revulsion. I pay, pick up my bags, and walk to the door briskly but not so briskly that I acknowledge my mortification. Oliver’s the only one who has recovered: he babbles happily away, knowing that despite the lack of positive reinforcement, he’s pooed mightily and well.

Memory making

I don't know where I stand yet on family photography. On the one hand, my dad is a brilliant photographer, and he and my mom have some ridiculously good and beloved family albums as a result. On the other, I like most experiences to happen sans camera interruption or influence. There isn't much time to figure it out, as I was made ruefully aware of today.

Today, I put Oliver in the baby swing at the kids' park for the first time. His dad was in Frankfurt, and his grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles live far away. There was only me. Only me to witness his bemusement as I lifted him into the seat, his excitement at being airborne, his wide-eyed surprise upon being swung, and finally his laughter and wild joy at being caught and pushed again, and again, and again. I will never forget the soft fall sun, the darling wisps of fine, blond hair flopping about his face, his eyes crinkled in merriment, and his open-mouthed grin as he floated up and down, away from me, back to me, away, and back, both of us locked in a long, delicious moment of pure, mutual delight.

I may be lugging that camera around a bit more.

Etymological concerns

OMG it hurts when your baby bites your nipple! I’ve been waiting for Oliver to do it, having heard other mothers talk about it, but nothing prepares you for the clamping down of two razor-like teeth on intensely sensitive skin. Thankfully, I had read about what not to do: scream bloody murder at the top of your lungs and whack baby’s head until he lets go—which is precisely what it feels like you must do to stop the blinding pain. No, there is a better option: draw baby’s head in until your boob surrounds his nostrils and he must release to breathe. I don’t know if I can say I so much drew Oliver’s head in as buried it deep, fast, and with feeling into my boob.

He did release. Then he did it again. This time after I smothered him, he actually looked up at me and grinned. A new game. Oh no!

p.s. Is that where the word "nip" comes from? I don't doubt the action could have prompted a new word.

First post, post-Oliver

Aaagh! I have no idea how to start this post. I’ve wanted to write every single day since Oliver (previously known as Little Dude or the LD) burst into our lives four months ago, but sheer exhaustion and confusion about what and how much I want to write about Oliver here has kept me away. Of course, the more I delay writing, the more daunting it seems, so I’m just going to do it and abandon any hope of this first post doing justice to Oliver and everything I’m feeling because of him. For the next little while, I’m going to write in a way that reflects my new reality: one moment at a time, in fragments.

So I’ll begin with a fragment from a night not long ago. It was one of the many times we’ve had with Oliver in which the most mundane of moments is the most achingly, dizzyingly full experience imaginable.

He was drunk on milk. We lay together on the bed and I watched his goofy, half-conscious smiles as he revelled in his full tummy and groggy head. Though ready to sleep, he resisted for a few minutes, limbs flailing, head whipping from side to side, over and over. Eventually the pull of sleep won, and he succumbed and went limp. I moved my face closer to his, and listened to the little sing-song moans of his breathing. Oliver’s breath smells like almost nothing; only a memory of warm milk gives it any substance at all. Sweet, delicate, and like nothing else in the entire world.

Like Oliver.