Category: Ah, me boys

Gift ideas for 4 and 6 year old boys?

The last scrap of cellotaped wrapping paper has barely been vacuumed out of the carpet following the holiday frenzy when we have to start thinking about gifts for the boys’ birthdays. Simon will be four on February 1 and Tristan will be six (!) on March 7.

Care to share any inspiration (or horror stories) on your Christmas gift experiences this year?

In our house, the big hits were Lego and Star Wars. My mom got the boys those light-up, colour-changing Light Sabers that go whoo-oo when you swing them around, and the boys absolutely love them. Tristan got a ridiculously complicated Naboo space ship Lego set, which is too complex for him to build by himself but has kept him and Beloved busy in the building and rebuilding. Simon got a whole bunch of preschooler-appropriate action figures – more than a dozen, maybe as many as twenty when you factor in the Superhero set Granny gave him.

Outside of that, the classic game MouseTrap has been a hit. I figured I’d have to help them with the set up at least for a couple of months, but to my surprise and delight the boys were playing it by themselves within just a few days. Simon seems to like it the best, but he needs Tristan’s help to play. Altogether a fun choice.

I got a giant bucket of Tinker Toys from Costco, thinking about how much Tristan loves to build stuff with Lego, but I have to admit that they were a bit of a bust. We spent a while one afternoon building robots, but I remember Tinker Toys being more fun and easier to work with. Meh on the Tinker Toys.

The best reaction of the Christmas season was the look of astonished delight on Tristan’s face when they opened the table-top air hockey game from Granny. Simon gets a little frustrated with losing to his big brother rather constantly, but I’m sure with not much practice they’ll be evenly matched.

Another big hit was the Little Tykes Digital Camera. (I only picked this one up because it was half price at Costco, and boy am I ever glad we got it!) It takes surprisingly good pictures that you can easily dump onto your computer. We haven’t actually printed any out yet, and probably won’t, but it’s fun for the boys just to take the pictures and see them on the laptop. So far, the winning photos seem to be Tristan’s series on the cat running away from him all over the house, and a lovely portrait of the toilet (thankfully empty) by Simon.

Those were a few highlights from our Christmas bounty. In general, Tristan seems to have a fondness for building toys and artsy stuff like drawing, while Simon favours board games and action figures. So — any recommendations for the birthdays coming up?

At least they have good taste in music

For the longest time, my iPod was generally something I used only at the gym. I’m not overly fond of headphones because (and I know this is why most people like them) I don’t like being insulated from the outside world. And there is something about my ears that actively rejects ear buds.

We got a transmitter for the car, but didn’t seem to remember to use it except for longer trips… and even then, the power outlet was often prioritized to the DVD player for the boys. (When it worked.)

Eventually, though, the boys came to realize that they liked the music on my iPod and started asking us to bring it into the car more often, and I started building up one of those “on the go” playlists of the songs that they were asking for again and again.

For Christmas, Beloved got me an AM/FM radio thingee where you can just slide your iPod into the docking station and listen to it through the speakers, which I love. And so, unfortunately, do the boys. I’ve got hundreds of great songs on there, a handful of playlists for upbeat or mellow or nostalgic moods, and yet every time they see the iPod, we’re stuck listening to the same five songs over and over and over and over and over again.

Now, I suppose it could be worse. The Wiggles CD hasn’t been dusted off in a while, and I don’t remember the last time we listened to the Pixar Cars soundtrack, or one of the ubiquitous Disney movie CDs that Beloved collects. They have, after all, selected these songs from the ones that I liked enough to include on the iPod in the first place, and truth be told they’re even among some of my favourites. But there’s too much of a good thing, right?

Tristan and Simon’s favourite songs, circa winter 2008:

  1. I Don’t Like Mondays – The Boomtown Rats (Tristan’s fave)
  2. Superman Song – REM
  3. It’s Not Easy – Five for Fighting
  4. Crabbukkit – KOS
  5. Home for a Rest – Spirit of the West (Simon’s fave)

I can just imagine them at school, singing their favourite lyrics out loud. Tristan singing about a schoool shooting “And he can see no reasons / ‘Cause there are no reasons / What reason do you need to die?” and Simon doing his inimitable fiddle dance as he bellows ” You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not at my best / I’ve been gone for a month / I’ve been drunk since I left / And these so-called vacations / Will soon be my death / I’m so sick from the drink / I need home for a rest / Take me home….”

That’s not too inappropriate, is it?

Oedipus Redux

We’re sitting in Harvey’s, waiting for the boys to finish their fries so we can head over to Toys R Us (an exciting family night on the town!) Tristan, sitting beside me on the bench, is playing with an onion ring, which prompts a discussion about rings on fingers and my rings in particular.

“There’s one from Granny,” I say, showing him a white gold band with a ruby set into its face, a ring given to my mother before my parents were married by a rich aunt of my father. “And these two are from Daddy. See, it looks like one ring, but really there are two together on the same finger. So two rings, plus one ring is how many rings?” I ask, since Tristan is beginning to work on his math skills this year.

“Is that your wedding ring?” Tristan asks, ignoring the math question and already knowing the answer because they’ve long been fascinated by my rings.

When I say yes, it is, I can see the wheels turning in Tristan’s head. “So Dad,” he says, his eyes serious, “did you kiss Mommy when you got married?”

Beloved and I both laugh, and confirm that yes, we have in fact kissed. Tristan, by far the less kissey of my two boys, surprises me by turning to me and planting a fat kiss right on my mouth.

“There!” he says. “Now I’m married to Mommy, too!”

Seven random things about… Simon

About a million years ago, Laura from Lunatic Fringe tagged me for the “Seven Random Facts About Me” meme. I’ve done a bunch of these over the years, and it’s getting tough to come up with more fresh stuff that you don’t already know about me, which is part of the reason I’ve sat on this for so long.

Then, inspiration struck. You might not need to know seven more random things about me — but what about seven random things about Simon, the cutest preschooler on the planet?

Simon

1. He’s adorable. No, really, he is. He’s one of those sweet-natured, flirty, adorable three-going-on-four-year-olds who just seem to have a natural ability to charm people. And he uses it shamelessly to his advantage.

You're my brother

2. He’s going through a kissing phase right now. I’m laughing to myself just thinking of his puckered puss as he offers it to me to be kissed many, many times a day.

Simon at six months

3. He’s adventurous in his food choices. He’ll try just about anything, and often asks for us to share what we’re having. He loves salsa (even and perhaps especially the hot stuff), fruits of all kinds (but he favours bananas and apples), guacamole, and mustard. He’s also a “dipper” and will dip just about any kind of food into any kind of dip.

First birthday cake

4. He’s got a preternatural memory. He regularly beats all of us at Memory-type card games, and even his preschool teacher has commented on his ability to remember details of past experiences. He quantifies everything from a few hours ago to last year as “Remember a long, long time ago, when….?” but recalls far more than I ever do. Someday, that will come back to bite me in the ass in a big way – mark my words!

Easter eggs

5. He likes predictability and routine. Every single morning, he asks me the exact same questions: “Is Jen coming today?” and “Are you going to work, or the gym, or the airport today?” (Granted, I go to work five days a week, and the gym once a week, but I’ve only gone to the airport twice, maybe three times, in his entire lifetime. And yet, the airport ranks in his daily questioning – and will be further ingrained when in fact I do fly out to Toronto for another conference next week!) He also asks me, every day without fail as I walk in the door and often before I get my shoes off, “What’s for dinner tonight?”

Simon's first birthday adventure

6. He’s feisty. He’s got a temper, likes to get his own way, and doesn’t take kindly to being scolded. He’s not cowed by our voices raised in anger, but yells right back. However, he’s also easily appeased.

at Grand Bend

7. He seems to have a strong affinity for music. He loves to dance, to sing, to play musical instruments. Where Tristan loves Thomas the Tank and Scooby Doo, Simon prefers the Wiggles and the Doodlebops.

Simon

What, that’s it? I’ve got seven already? But, I’m not done yet! I didn’t get a chance to tell you about his unruly curls, how he crawls into bed with me in the morning almost every day, how he still says “lellow” instead of “yellow” and I secretly kind of prefer it, and how he sometimes calls me “Mama doo doo” for reasons that baffle me, and… and…

Simon the caterpillar

Spam and curses – or, cursed spam

What the holy hell is going on with the spam all of a sudden? My spam filter has caught more than 700 spam comments since Friday, and I’ve deleted another dozen or more spam trackbacks. That’s about four times what it usually is. Seriously, I’m getting a little annoyed. And the vast majority of them have Greek names attached to them – go figure.

I wade through all of them, because the spam filter does occassionally snag a legitimate comment by mistake, but it’s getting to be an onerous task. I may have to look into some sort of comment validation, much as I hate those things. Sigh. The splogs are getting out of hand, too, but while I find it annoying to see that “Floyd wrote an interesting piece on (keyword): here’s an excerpt” followed by my content, I don’t have the heart or the inclination to follow up on each and every one of them. (I’m finding about three a week these days through the trackback spam.) Did I mention sigh?

***

Tristan has picked up one of my linguistic peccadilloes. On more than one a few occasions lately, he’s looked at something and said, “What the hell is that?” And each time I gently correct him and say that “hell” is not polite, and we should say, “What the heck is that?” instead. But “hell” is so low on my radar screen of curse words that I’m sure I say “What the hell” or, more likely, “what the bloody hell” about sixteen times a day without even realizing it.

For a truly delightful article on a son’s indoctrination to the wide world of curses, check out this piece from the UK Guardian a couple weeks back (hat tip to Andrea, where I first saw it.)

Babies, brownies and boys

The brownie mixes have been calling to me. Every time I go grocery shopping, even though I’m not a huge dessert fan, the brownie mixes have been singing their chocolately siren song, and I finally gave in and bought a box.

We were heading over to my folk’s place for dinner, and knowing that Papa Lou is a big fan of brownies, I decided we’d share. We were driving over there, me with the still-warm pan of brownies in my lap, and the scent of warm, melty chocolate filling the car.

“Are we going to share the brownies?” asked Tristan, who had been salivating since they were baking.

“That’s right,” I said. “One piece for each of us.”

“Yeah,” agreed Tristan. “One for me, one for Simon, one for Daddy, one for Mummy, one for Granny, and one for Papa Lou.”

“Well,” I said, “I think I should get TWO pieces.”

“Two pieces? No way!” Tristan replied.

“Sure,” chimed in Beloved. “One for Mummy, and one for the baby.”

From behind me, Simon laughed loud and hard. “Mummy, you can’t give a piece to the baby!” he said indignantly. “You’ll make a mess of your shirt!!”

I toyed briefly with a lesson in maternal biology, and even started to explain about how the baby gets energy from the food I eat, but it was clear that I’d lost them to the image of me with brownie smushed into my shirt. Ah well, they’ll figure it out one of these days.

So far, we’ve had a few conversations about what it’s like for the baby to live in my belly, and how he will come out. While I was quick to correct the idea that he’ll be egressing through my belly button, I haven’t gotten too specific about exactly where the exit is. Simon doesn’t seem particularly interested either way (at least he’s stopped insisting, “But I don’t WANT a baby brother!” at every mention of the baby) but Tristan is quite engaged with the idea of the baby growing and eventually being born.

We were out walking the dog on Friday night and the boys were telling me about how many kids they’ll each have when they grow up to become daddies. (Be still my heart.) Simon wants “at least three” and told me that when he goes off to work, our nanny Jen will take care of his babies for him. (No mention of a wife here, but I’m quite happy with his implicit endorsement of the nanny.)

Tristan started out saying he wanted ten kids, but by the end had settled on a more manageble three. When I asked him who the mommy of his children will be, he explained that “one day, I’ll be walking down the street, and I’ll see her and then we’ll have lots of babies.” Does this give anybody else a distinctly cave-man image? I can just see him, carrying her off to his place over his shoulder.

The one where she bans Star Wars from the house

We were having dinner last night. Spaghetti and garlic bread, a simple and favourite family staple. I had been updating Beloved on my appointment Monday with the midwife, and told Tristan that the “ladies who help the baby come out” said that he and Simon should come to the office one day so they can hear the baby’s heart beat and even feel the shape of the baby. (How amazing is that? I can’t imagine my OB offering to host my kids for a shared family appointment. Matter of fact, the midwives encouraged it. I made the right choice in going with the midwives for this baby. I’m so happy with them.)

So Tristan and I started talking about the baby, and he tells me that mommies go away to have their babies. (This also builds on a conversation from a few days before, where we read an “Arthur” book about a dog that goes missing and it turns out she’s hidden to have her puppies.) I say yes, mommies go to the hospital to help the babies come out.

“And Padmé went away to have baby Luke and baby Leia,” he observes. I’m nodding in half-remembered agreement of the mythology of the last movie of the second Star Wars trilogy – which the boys aren’t allowed to watch because they’re too violent. Before I can see what’s coming, he looks at me with his solemn, gorgeously clear gray-green eyes and says, “And Padmé dies when she goes away to have the babies. But you won’t die, Mommy.”

I’m so rocked by the speed with which this previously innoccuous conversation has degenerated that I can only think to say, “Yes, well, but – that’s just a story. That doesn’t really happen. EVER.”

Tristan carries on, unperturbed and in a tone that is both reassuring and seeking assurance. “You won’t die for a long, long time, right Mommy? Not until you’re very old.”

Swallowing hard against a tide of emotion that I absolutely cannot allow to show on my face, I repeat again that it’s just a story, it’s like the cartoons on TV and not real, and change the topic as fast as I possibly can.

Afterwards, I confront Beloved and ask how they know Padmé dies if they haven’t seen the movie. He has no idea, but thinks it might be in the Star Wars lego video game they love.

That’s it. No more Star Wars, no more video games. We’re going back to all Blues Clues all the time around here.

The one where her preschoolers use Google to find porn

The boys were playing on the computer the other day, while I was sitting on the couch nearby reading. I couldn’t see the monitor from where I was sitting, but I could hear the sound.

They’re getting quite proficient with the computer, and can load and play games pretty much without supervision. Their game of choice is Star Wars Lego, so when I heard rap music instead of the Star Wars theme bleating from the speakers, I was more intrigued than concerned.

I came around the corner in time to see they had made their way to You Tube, and were watching a video with Jamie Kennedy’s name plastered across the top. It was a stop-motion animation of Star Wars Lego minifigs set to some rap song, and as I blinked in surprise at the screen, the Princess-Leia-in-her-metal-bikini minifig was bent over double and spanked by a Police Man minifig.

(You’ll pardon me for not linking to it. I’m not sure if I could find it again if I wanted to, and I’m not sure I want to.)

Part of me is absurdly pleased with their computer literacy. I’ve watched Simon, who can’t spell and who is still dicey on his letter recognition, use Google to get to his favourite sites – which, prior to this week, were limited to Nickelodeon and the Wiggles and did not include Star Wars porn.

In this case, they had put their little (three and five year old, mind you) heads together, and used the Google search box in the toolbar. Tristan knows that Star Wars starts with S – heck, he can probably even spell it by now – and the autofill on the toolbar did the rest. One, two, three clicks on the Google search results and who knows what they could have come up with.

Needless to say, we’re now looking into parental controls for the Internet.

At least my daughter-in-law will be obedient

Tristan has been thinking a lot lately about how things will be when he grows up.

First, there will be a new set of rules. Nobody will ever have to cut their fingernails, or go to bed if they don’t feel like it, or share with their brother.

And he’ll be financing his long-nailed and sleepy lifestyle with a variety of career options. These are the things he has told me he wants to be when he grows up, in roughly the order he announced them:

  • an elephant trainer
  • King (I love this one)
  • a fry cook (curse you, Sponge Bob)
  • an animal doctor
  • a hairstylist (!!)

Last week, he looked at me with those stunning, clear gray eyes of his and confided, “Mommy, I know who I’m going to marry when I grow up.”

“You do?” I asked, my heart already breaking with the cuteness of it. “And who might that be?”

“Katie!” he announced with assurance.

I could only laugh. I mean, she’s a gorgeous blond with soulful brown eyes, and she’s as loyal as the day is long, but I don’t think it will ever work out for them.

Did I mention Katie is our dog?

Katie in the sunshine

Dr House at the Children’s Hospital

Yesterday, I put 157 kms on the car: 50 kms round trip dropping Beloved off at work and going back home to pick up Tristan; 25 kms round trip to CHEO (the Children’s Hospital) for an appointment; then I dropped off Tristan at school, dropped off Simon for his first day of nursery school (!), picked Simon up an hour later, picked Tristan up, and drove another 50 kms round trip to fetch Beloved.

Seriously? We need a second car.

***

The appointment at CHEO was kind of funny. I’d finally gotten around to asking Tristan’s ped about a spot that he’s had at the crown of his head back at his well-baby five year appointment in the spring, and the ped suggested a pediatric dermatologist take a look at it. It was actually a pinpoint scab that I noticed the day Tristan was born, and the nurse tried to tell me it was likely where “the probe” broke the skin, despite my insistence that there was no probe (I may have been in the throes of labour, but I was still paying pretty close attention to what came and went between my legs!) Over the years, it has become a hairless raised blistery bit about the size of a blueberry, and although I’m not overly worried about it, I figured we should get it checked out. Over the summer, he also developed a rather ugly black mole on his leg that we also wanted to have checked.

We’re puttering around the house getting ready for the appointment, and Tristan is loagy, hiding under a blanket and reluctant to get his shoes on. I finally feel his skin, and am not sure whether he feels flush because of the blanket or because of something else. Sure enough, I finally get him up and moving and realize he’s got that distinctive glassy-eyed look that spells fever. I debate for a few minutes, think of the five-month wait for this appointment and the work stuff I cancelled to stay home, and make the executive decision to tylenol him up and head out anyway.

We wait for more than a half an hour at the CHEO clinic, and though he’s subdued, he’s also fidgety and not terribly warm. He’s off, but not dealthy sick.

Finally, we get called in. A moment later, a very young woman (or maybe I’m just very old now) comes in with his chart and introduces herself as the resident, and asks me if it’s okay if more than one doctor does the examination this morning. I’m thinking she means her and the senior doc, so I’m fine with that.

She takes the case history, leaves, and a few minutes later comes back with not one, not two, but three other people, and Dr House, the Pediatric Version begins. There’s one obviously senior doc, and three very young (they still had student cards!) associates. He lays out the scenario and solicits their best guesses as to the diagnosis. Meanwhile, each of them paws through Tristan’s hair to prod his scalp, and then pokes and squeezes the mole on his leg.

Remember, Tristan is not feeling well in the first place. And, I don’t think he even knew about the spot on his head. He is tolerant of the attention, but barely.

The doctor and his acolytes bandy about some very scary terms and some long Latin names. The perky blond with freckles suggests one thing, and the senior doc tells her, “No no, that usually presents as red, lace-like adhesions.” The lanky brunette with the eyelashes suggests the spot on his leg might be a residual foreign object imbedded under the skin, and blushes furiously when the senior doctor shoots me an inclusive look and says, “Don’t you think the mother might have noticed a trauma severe enough to embed something in her child’s leg?”

Just when I think we’re done, the senior doctor asks if we mind if the next group comes in. I blink silently, my brain still trying furiously to file away the various diagnoses for later consultation with Dr Google, and in the end nod faintly. It’s hard not to laugh when FOUR MORE student doctors file in and begin to poke, prod and generally irritate the snot out of poor Tristan.

Finally, we get a confirmed diagnosis. The spot on his head was likely a simple absence of skin that formed in utero, and the bump itself is just a cosmetic scar that may or may not resolve itself. Removing it would introduce the possibility of worse scarring, so we agree to leave it alone and I am silently grateful that at least Tristan is taller than all his classmates and so at least it won’t be terribly noticable if we keep his hair longish. The spot on his leg is a Spitz Nevus, which Dr Google tells me is a benign tumour that is often misdiagnosed as a melanoma. Melanoma and tumour are the only two words I’ve grasped all morning, and I am happy about neither, although the “benign” keeps me from truly panicking. The doctor suggests we remove it as a precautionary measure, and sets us up with an appointment next Wednesday. While my brain grapples with the implication of the speed with which he wants it removed (this must be more serious than his gentle manner is letting on, cries the hypochondriac in me) the more logical part of my brain protests aloud the date. “Does it have to be Wednesday? It’s truly the worst day of the week for us.” Sure enough, this doctor only visits CHEO on Wednesday mornings.

Another Wednesday, another day of missed work, another 150 kms of driving. But at least I got to watch a live version of Dr House’s pleasant alter-ego. That counts for something, right?