On an island…

Since Norah was born last January, I haven’t gone more than a 24-hour period without seeing her. I spent the odd night at the farm this summer without her. Some days after coming home from work I only see her for a couple hours before she’s off to bed.  However, these absences pale in comparison with the one I am experiencing now. On Thursday morning I took B & Norah to the airport before work. They were off in Vancouver and Victoria to visit old friends of B’s. I used the time to install an air exchanger, and do other home repairs that are hard to do with Norah at home. They were to return tomorrow afternoon, and I’ve been counting the days. They are now in Victoria, on the island, but have been forced to stay one more day because of an impending snow storm on the island. So, they will remain there one more day, and I will remain here, on my own island, alone, cold, and without my girls.

Today, during our daily skype chat, I took these snapshots. A poor substitute for the real thing…

(Mis-)Adventures with Norah

After work today, Norah and I ran an errand. She likes to get out of the house as much as possible, and I needed to buy some ductwork to install an air-to-air exchanger, so I bundled her up, packed her into her seat, and headed to the industrial area.

Norah sang happily in the car on the way. I left her in her bucket seat and carried her inside of metal manufacturing shop. We waited a few minutes to get served, and it took a few more to make my layman self understood to the not-so-patient counterman. His impatience was justified given the context, mind you – I was the only one in the building who wasn’t a male contractor over 50. I was the only one in the building who didn’t know what he was talking about. I was the only one in the building who had a baby. I paid and carried Norah to the warehouse to wait for our wall stack, angle boot and pipe saddle to be gathered.

Here Norah finally got impatient. I tried my best to entertain her while maintaining some semblance of dignity. I didn’t think, “Oh, who’s a cute girl? Tickle tickle tickle. That’s daddy’s girl!” would wash with this crowd. Norah was not happy. I had no toys. No tools in my daddy toolbox – or none I wanted to use. I had nothing. Then I recalled B telling me that the only way to keep her happy earlier in the day was to give her the car keys. I knew she would scream when I took them away, but by then we’d be in the car, with the tin loaded, and none of the men who currently looked annoyed at her fussing would be there.

I handed her my keys and she stopped fussing instantly. I smiled to myself. Nicely done, Chris. The counterman came down with the last of my tin and hauled it out to the loading dock. I followed. “Which is yours?” he asked, motioning towards the seven dually 3/4 tons idling nearby. I motioned past the trucks to my car, the rear bumper peeking out from behind a mammoth Dodge. “It’s the car.” An uneasy silence followed. “Just put it down there,” I said, as toughly as I could muster, “I’ve got it.” I carried Norah to the car that I had left unlocked and put her seat in place. She played with the keys contentedly. I went back to the dock and grabbed a cardboard box with the smaller pieces I bought, and took it to the car. Norah smiled when she saw me through the window. I flattened one of the back seats to make room for the 5′ wall stack, and hustled back to the dock. I returned and loaded the last of my wares into the car. Norah smiled, babbling away.

Not wanting to disturb her happiness, I decided to pull a fast one – while she was still holding the keys, I carefully slipped the ignition key off of the ring. She protested slightly, grabbing at the keyless entry when it ever-so-briefly left her hands, but I prevailed. I shut her door and made my way around to the driver’s door. I reached down, grabbed the handle to open it, but it didn’t open. I tried again. Then I recalled a sound that didn’t seem significant to me at the time, but was becoming increasingly significant as my blood pressure rose. As I wrestled the ignition key off of the chain, Norah had pushed the lock button on the keyless entry.

I panicked. I didn’t even have the cell phone. I was going to have to go back into the metal shop, and while everyone working there listened, ask to borrow the phone, and explain to B how I had locked our daughter in the back seat of the car with the keys. My panic lasted about five seconds. Five of the longest seconds I’ve endured. I think if I had had the cell phone, in those five seconds I would have called B. But I didn’t. And I realized I had the car key in my hand. And it would open the door. Or it should. I’d never actually used it for that. But it should. And it did open the door, and I was able to drive away with some semblance of dignity intact. A small piece, anyway.

Granola Kid

Growing up, my parents did their best to provide wholesome food for us. They grew their own grain, ground it into flour, cultivated a massive garden growing everything from asparagus to zucchini, and bought anything they couldn’t grow at Old Fashioned Foods. Baking was sweetened with honey, not white sugar. We learned to appreciate simple treats, like fresh raspberries on ice cream, or, even better, fresh raspberries on granola and ice cream.

Not that I fully embraced this approach to food, mind you. I resented the thick whole wheat bread that seemed to suck the moisture from your mouth while you tried to eat a peanut-butter sandwich. I looked longingly at the processed meat my classmates ate, while I chewed grudgingly through a deer-sausage sandwich with homemade pickles. While I resented the bread then, I sure appreciate it now. And find that the older I get, the more closely I emulate my parents. Norah will grow up eating thick slices of brown bread, organic fruits and veggies, and locally sourced meats, much like I did. Norah will learn the joys of a fresh bowl of granola, much like the one I had last night after making a batch of Mom and Dad’s signature granola. I had forgotten how good homemade granola was until our last visit to see my Mom. Over the two weeks we wolfed down bowl after bowl of granola and I wondered how I lived without it in my daily diet. Since then, I’ve had granola for breakfast most days. And last night B and I made a double batch after Norah went to sleep. For those of you interested or inclined, here is the recipe we used:

3/4 c packed dark brown sugar (we used 1 c in a double batch and it is still sweet enough, I think.)

1/2 c butter

1 tsp. nutmeg

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp vanilla

6 c oats

1 c each – cashews, slived almonds, walnuts, pecans, sunflower seeds (shelled)

Raisins

Heat butter, brown sugar, and spices. Add vanilla after you take it off the heat.

Mix dry in a big bowl. Add the liquid and mix it up.

Cook on baking sheets at 350 for 15-30 minutes until golden, stirring occasionally while cooking. Add raisins or currents once it is cooled.

There are a lot worse things than being a granola kid, I think…

A moment of genius…

B spends roughly 8 more hours a day with Norah than I do. While I’m at work, she spends the day playing with Norah, feeding Norah, changing Norah, well, everything Norah – you get the picture. Consequently, I learn about Norah’s new tricks when I get home from work. I see her pull up on the ottoman the fifth time she does it, not the first. I see her sign for milk, or watch her roll the ball after B does. Rarely do I get to be the first to see or do something with Norah.

However, the other day, while Norah and I were eating breakfast (or more to the point while I was eating granola, and she was spitting her rice cereal out at me) I was hit by a stroke of genius. And that doesn’t happen often. When I finished my granola, I took Norah’s bowl of cereal and set it inside my bowl. I took my soup spoon and used it to feed her the cereal. She happily slurped it off the spoon. I grabbed a teaspoon, and continued. She ate the rest of the bowl happily. Nice!

Giving Thanks #8 – Cowlicks

Norah has more hair every day — and every day her cowlick gets bigger. And cuter. Even after a bath and a brush it stands tall. Cutest thing ever.

And, for good measure, a picture that shows that Norah has a good sense of humor — why else would she make that face when we took the picture?

And, since we just had a civic election, I’ll include this pic. Look how wise Norah is! She will use this when she runs for class president at pre-school. I’m already working on her campaign slogans, but not much that is relevant to toddlers rhymes with Norah. Plethora? Fedora? Hmmm…

 

Giving Thanks #6

Norah slept through the night on Saturday night. She didn’t wake at all. This in itself is cause for celebration. But wait, there’s more…

Monday afternoon, when I got home from work, I was holding Norah in the kitchen, watching as Brenda started making supper. I was taking advantage of some stolen cuddle time, kissing her face as she watched her mom. She then turned to me, and said, clear as day, “Dad.” Not “dadadadada” but “Dad.” DAD. What an amazing girl. My heart melted.

The next morning, I changed her diaper, and told her I was going to pick her up. As I took her and started to leave her room, she looked at me and said “up.” Clear as day. Up. Two new words in two days.

“Up,” added to “Dad” from the day before, and “Mom” from last week, brings Norah’s vocabulary up to three words. “Mom” is by far her favourite word – so far she has used it to mean “I want Mom to come feed me” or “Mom, why are you doing this to me?” or “There’s my Mom!” 

How grateful I am that Norah has come into my life!

Giving Thanks #4

Norah’s sleep has been a cause of serious stress since she was born. From weeks 3 to 12, the only place she would sleep at night was on my chest. Any attempt to put her down would result in instant waking, and sustained crying. Luckily, she started to sort things out around the 4 month mark, and has continued to make progress, and then regress, and then make more progress before regressing, then progressing, ever since. As such, I am thankful for every night, like tonight, where I put Norah down in her crib, sleepy but awake, and she rolls on to her side, and goes to sleep without a peep. I savour each night like this, not taking anything for granted, knowing it may all change tomorrow. Thanks for tonight, Norah!

Giving Thanks #3

Today, Norah went in for her 9 month checkup. She is very healthy, and continues to be over the 95th percentile in height and weight. While I am thankful for this, I am also thankful for Tommy Douglas, former Saskatchewan Premier and the father of socialized medicine in Canada. Without Tommy’s wisdom and tenacity, we could find ourselves in the same horrible predicament as the USA. So thanks, Tommy, for allowing us the freedom to take Norah to the doctor whenever we need.

Blah blah blah

Just the other day, all of a sudden, Norah’s verbalizing became more sophisticated. Instead of simple constructions, like a single consanant with a single vowel (goo, eee, ooh, etc) she now rambles on and on. “Blah, blah, blah,” she’ll say, and pause, then continue on, “Blah blah dah dah blah blah.”

The other day we were at a neighbours and a friend was holding Norah, doing his best to make her laugh with silly faces. Norah was unimpressed, turned to face B, said “Blah blah blah blah blah blah” and turned back to look at the silly faces. She did this a few times, each time addressing Brenda, as if to say, “Get a load of this guy. Why are you letting him hold me? Seriously?”

While Norah babbled away nonsensically, I thought of what my Dad would have said if he were there with us: ”Gee, Chris, she sounds just like her Dad!”

Introducing…the Baby-Bidet!

While responding to a friend’s request for new-baby stories, I remembered a story I thought I might as well share here, too. (To be perfectly honest, after writing it up for her blog, I though, geeze, that took a while. I should put it on my own blog, too, and get some mileage from it there, as well.)

********************************************************************************************************************

When N was around a month old, she stopped pooping regularly. She would eat, and eat and eat and eat and not poop. By the third day of not pooping, she would start to get fussy. By the fourth day, she was inconsolable. Mercifully, by the fifth or sixth day she would squirm and scream and unleash a quantity of poop that would sufficiently fertilize a moderately sized garden. It would easily escape the confines of the feeble diaper, and spread itself over every surface within the vicinity. The good news is that after swabbing the decks, we would have a happy baby again, until about day five as the process repeated.

One of N’s poop vacations ended while Brenda was out at her yoga class. I was left to tackle the mountain of watery dung alone, and was caught off guard. You see, I usually fulfilled the role of first mate, providing wipes, paper towels, gas-masks, and a fresh diaper to the captain. These were uncharted waters for me.

I peeled back the poop-soaked diaper, and immediately jammed it back on her bum, reeling from the shock of the smell. I reluctantly pulled back the diaper again, and stared at the thick layer of mustard-like paste that coated her poop deck.

I removed the diaper and held up N’s legs, suspending her above the poop. I stared at the wipes, sitting just to the left of N’s change table, firmly enclosed in the plastic case that keeps them from drying out. The plastic case just within reach. The plastic case that takes two hands to open.

N was now flailing a bit in response to the bum-freedom she was experiencing, and in danger of squirming back into the poopy mess. Ignoring the wipes, with my free hand I cradled the back of her neck, and carried her poop soaked body to the sink. I used my elbow to turn on the tap, and let the water pressure do the cleaning that I couldn’t. The poop washed down the drain, and she was clean again.

We used the baby-bidet a few times after that, when N’s poop was especially explosive. While I haven’t started marketing the baby-bidet for mass consumption, I do recommend it as a quick cleanup method for especially nasty, sticky poops!