Category: Simon

Kid fears

Simon seems to be going through a fear stage, and I don’t remember Tristan ever going through something similar.

The first time I noticed it a couple of months ago, we were at the Farm and when the cows mooed in the next field over, he practically leapt into my arms and buried his face in my shoulder. Also at the farm, he was terrified of the bleating sheep. He curled his whole body into mine as I carried him through the barn; I’ve never seen him react like that, but could feel his fear in his posture.

Lately, the list of things that he says he is afraid of has grown to include clowns (okay, so I get that one), the sirens and truck horns at the Santa Claus parade, ghosts, and… snowmen. It’s going to be a long holiday season if he’s afraid of snowmen, considering they’re one of my favourite holiday icons and I’m sure I have a dozen or more iterations on the snowman theme in my box of Christmas decorations.

He doesn’t seem overly troubled by most of what he claims to be afraid of, but when he saw clowns at the parade (even across the street) he curled himself into me and averted his face until I assured him they were well out of sight.

I’ve been dismissing this as a two-year-old phase, but now that the list of things is growing incrementally toward pantophobia, I’m beginning to be concerned. This past weekend, at least a couple of times a day he would tell me he was afraid of something. Not to mention the fact that he’s getting to be a big boy – close to 40 lbs – and cradling him in my arms with my own growing belly is getting to be a problem!

Care to share your experiences with kid fears? Is it a phase to be indulged and waited out, or would you try to confront the fears?

The naming of Tristan Louis and Simon Francis

A couple of weeks ago, Chantal from Breadcrumbs in the Butter ran a lovely series of posts about how each of her four kids came to be named. I am fascinated by how people choose names, and always love to hear the story behind someone’s name.

I suspect I might have already told the story of how Tristan and Simon got their names, partly because I so love the topic that I tend to talk about it often and partly because after 600+ posts, it’s inevitable that I start to repeat myself. Those of you who know me in person are nodding vigourously at this point.

Regardless, because you know the topic of baby names had to come up eventually, and because I don’t have anything else percolating for today, let’s talk about names.

With Tristan, we always knew what his name would be. I don’t remember exactly when we decided on it, but we were thrilled at the ultrasound to find out he was in fact a he because we were solid on the name of Tristan for a boy and had not even an inkling of a name for a girl.

Tristan was chosen because of Beloved’s love of the Arthurian legends – King Arthur, knights of the round table, and whatnot, and I simply refused to allow any son of mine to be named Gwain or Galahad or Lancelot. Not that there’s anything wrong with those names, if you happen to like them. But as soon as he said “what about Tristan?”, I knew it was the one. (It didn’t hurt that Brad Pitt had played the noble but wounded Tristan in Legends of the Fall just a few years before, either!)

Tristan’s middle name was also an easy choice. My dad’s name is Louis, Beloved’s middle name is Lewis and his grandfather’s name is Louis. We knew unequivocally that he was Tristan Louis from the time I was five months pregnant.

The sticky part came with his surname. I didn’t change my last name when Beloved and I got married, and when I was pregnant we agreed that my surname would be a second middle name for any kids. But the more pregnant I got, the more important it became to me to have my surname equally represented. Unfortunately, our names hypenated are a bit of a mouthful, and Beloved was resistant to the idea.

We were still undecided when Tristan was born, but we were literally not allowed to leave the hospital until we completed a health card application for him – with his full name. We were all packed up, and Tristan was dressed in his going-home outfit, purchased specially by Granny. I was sitting on the bed and Beloved in the chair, and we glowered at each other, each unwilling to concede. In the end, Beloved capitulated, and I cried tears of relief as I filled out the form with the hyphenated surnames. There have been many times, as I spelled out his name for a pharmacist, or to make an appointment, that I silently apologized to him for saddling him with such a mouthful of a moniker. But mostly I’m proud that both boys carry my name, a name fairly unique and unusual, and I’ll let them decide if they ever want to truncate it to a single name some day. To my surprise, I just noticed the other day when Tristan’s first school picture came home that he is the only child in his class with a hypenated name.

The naming of Simon is a little bit less dramatic. Right up until he was born, we were vacillating between three names, even though Simon had been a front-runner in my mind even when we were naming Tristan. My brother had a friend named Simon when we were growing up, and he always struck me as kindly and thoughtful – two characteristics I attached to the name Simon. The other choices were Thomas and Lucas.

When Simon finally made his way into the world, 10 days past my due date and after nearly 30 hours of efforts to entice him to leave the womb, I knew when I saw him that he would definitely be Simon. Since we gave Tristan the name of Beloved’s grandfather and my father as a middle name, we gave Simon the name of my grandfather and my mother (in masculine form) as a middle name. Simon Francis.

I worried a little bit about “Simon says” and “Simple Simon”, and I even considered the impact of one of my childhood favourite shows, “Simon in the Land of Chalk Drawings.” Remember that theme song?

Oh, you know my name is Simon
And the things I draw come true.
And the pictures take me take me take me
Over the garden wall with you.

(Ironically, the Teletoon network here in Canada started running an updated version of that cartoon when I was home on maternity leave with Simon, but when I asked a young teenage acquantance of ours if he had ever had someone tease him about the song, he had no idea what we were talking about.)

In the end, of course, I love both names. I couldn’t imagine them being named anything else.

Rest assured you can expect much more on the topics of baby names in the next six months! In the interim, care to share your baby naming stories?

Celebrating Simon’s birthday

Although today is Simon’s birthday (and thank you for all the birthday wishes!), we celebrated it with the family last Saturday. And since Simon’s story yesterday was perhaps one of my wordiest stories ever, I’ll let the pictures do most of the talking for this one.

In the morning, we went for a walk to Hog’s Back Falls. It was the perfect day for a winter walk – clear and mild and still. This is my favourite time of year to visit Hog’s Back, because the snow is white and clean but the spring melt is beginning and you can hear the water rushing nearby.

First, I took a turn pulling Simon in the sled…

…and then Tristan took a turn.

Then Simon realized he could get into a lot more trouble under his own power. Here he is walking with Beloved.

We brought some bird seed and peanuts, but to our great disappointment, we discovered that chipmunks are hibernating creatures. Or, at least we didn’t see any. But there were chickadees and nuthatches who were quite willing to sit on our fingers and have a snack.

(See, Andrea? Emma and Tristan would at least have this in common!)

All that walking made for a great afternoon nap for Simon, but alas, not for mummy. While Beloved and Tristan went off to the library, I decorated the kitchen and living room. The balloons and streamers were intentionally put up high and out of reach, but the box of Wiggles cards (Valentine’s Day cards, in fact, but don’t tell Simon) got taped up at toddler eye-level throughout the main floor.

Granny and Papa Lou came over for dinner, and we made sure to have Simon’s favourite food, which you really should hear him pronounce because it’s so damn adorable: gu-a-co-MOOOOOO-leeee. (Other special birthday guests could not make it, sadly, because their beautiful baby girl developed croup that day, which Simon has somehow managed to catch via my phone conversation with her mother. Go figure. “What did you get for your birthday, Simon?” “Croup.”)

And of course, what birthday would be complete without prezzies? Tristan was very helpful in extricating the presents from their packages with Simon.

For years, I have contemplated getting a cash register toy for the boys – since Tristan’s 2nd birthday, I think. Beloved has always seen it as a bit of a lame gift. I perservered (yes, I’m laying it on thick, hoping Beloved is reading today) and was – can you believe it? – right! They loved it!

And a special bravo and thank you to our bloggy friends who suggested an AquaDoodle as a great gift for a two-year-old. (Nancy, you get props for being the first to suggest it – I remember when you first got one for the Troops and how much they liked it.) Granny read all your suggestions, and in the end chose the fancy Thomas the Tank Engine AquaDoodle. Even mummy and daddy get a kick out of playing with this one, and watching the Thomas train follow the tracks we’ve drawn. The boys like it so much, they even (gasp!) SHARE it!!

And of course, no Wiggles birthday would be complete without a Wiggles cake…

… and a birthday boy to enjoy it.

Happy Birthday, Simon! You are more wonderful (two-derful?) with every passing day. I love you!

Simon, the human alarm clock

I’m a morning person. In the first half of the day I’m at my most productive, my most energetic. I like waking up, knowing a fresh day stretches out before me. Most mornings, all I need is a cup of coffee and a couple of minutes to shake the cobwebs from my head, and I’m ready to go. On the fairly rare occassions when I sleep in, it’s never any later than 8:00 am.

But I’ve met my match. There’s early, in a birds-are-singing and sun-is-shining kind of way, and then there is “oh no, you can’t be serious – it’s two hours until sunrise!” kind of early. Could someone please explain that to Simon? It’s a good think he’s so damn adorable, else I would have locked him in a crate in the basement by now.

I can’t remember the last time my alarm, set for 5:45, actually woke me up. This morning, I was profoundly asleep at a little past five when Simon’s whimpering “Mummy? Mummy?” wafted down the hall. I woke up with that sickening feeling of being yanked to the surface of an ocean from some incredible depth beyond the reach of daylight, where only eyeless fish live in thermal vents.

I’ve given up on trying to coax Simon back to sleep most mornings. IfWhen he wakes up between 4 and 6 am, I try sticking his soother back in his mouth and patting him back to sleep, which never works. If it’s really early, I’ll try rocking him a bit and turning his CD lullaby back on, which never works. I’ve begged, pleaded, cajoled and ignored, none of which ever work. Mostly, I just pick him up and carry him into our bed, where he flops about like a landed trout while I try to convince myself I don’t need more than six hours of sleep a night. He crawls around on our bed, sticking his fingers in our ears and pulling my hair and kneeling on my nipples (at least I can say that the rest of the day is guaranteed to be an improvement from having someone kneeling on my nipple) until either one of us gives up and brings him downstairs or, more likely, Tristan wanders in and crawls on to the bed, too.

This morning, even though as soon as Simon saw me he began to dance in his crib and chatter cheerfully “All done, Mummy. Up! Up! All done!” while holding out his soother to me like a prize, I stubbornly refused to give up hope that this might be the morning Simon curled up in my still-warm bed to fall blissfully back to sleep. I picked him up, berating myself for my spinelessness – and felt something warm and wet soaking into my t-shirt. He’d peed through his diaper, two layers of jammies, a blanket and his crib sheet. I stripped him and his bed, piled everything in a corner, and dressed him for the day, all without turning on a light or opening my left eye. I think he’s wearing brown and khaki cords with a red sweatshirt over a lime green t-shirt. He’ll never remember when he grows up, I’m sure.

I was still debating hauling him into bed and using our combined body weight to pin him under the duvet when Tristan wandered in, rubbing his eyes and whimpering. Tristan, who has had virtually no accidents in the two months since potty week, had peed through his pull-up, jammies and sheets. I reassured him that everyone has accidents, dried and dressed him and stripped his bed – just in time to hear my alarm go off.

Every morning for weeks I’ve written a blog post in my head, pleading for help from the blogosphere on how to get Simon to sleep until – let alone past – 6 am. I’ve thought about it as I rocked him (unsuccessfully), ignored his cries (unsuccessfully), tried to get him to sleep in my bed (unsuccessfully) and given up and just gotten up with him (unhappily). For all the time I’ve spent thinking about this post, it’s an incoherent mess, isn’t it?

Any thoughts, bloggy friends? We’ve tried keeping him up later, or putting him down earlier. I’ve tinkered with naps. No matter what I do, they both rise before sparrow’s first fart. It’s been almost a year since we relented to CIO sleep training to get Simon to sleep at night, and I have absolutely no problems putting him down for naps or at bedtime – in fact, it’s one of the best times of our day. But how, for the love of god HOW do I get him to sleep just a little bit later?

If you need me, I’ll be the one standing in the kitchen, trying to get the coffeemaker to drip directly into my mouth.

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He walks! He talks!

Simon has joined the illustrious ranks of the world’s bipeds. I love the new walker’s toddle, stumbling around with stiff bowed legs and arms held up and open, ready for the inevitable crash. He’s quite good at it now, having gone from his first tentative steps a couple of weeks ago to being able to cross the room and navigate corners and clutter with ease.

I watch him careen off the furniture and plop uncerimoniously onto his butt, and think how much that would hurt if it were me landing with that much force on my ass-end, even with all the padding I’m carrying around these days. Kids are impressively durable! It’s the bounce that makes me cringe. I wish I could bounce with impunity, but I fear I would end up with my tailbone somewhere between my ears if I fell on my tucus as often and with as much aplomb as Simon does.

He talks now, too. He’s mastered “up”, “nite nite”, “dog” and “ball”. No mama, no dada, but a reasonable stab at “Tistn”, which shows me my place in the family heirarchy. He also babbles ferociously, and I would really like to have use of a Babel Fish for just a day or so to know what it is he is going on about. He’s probably complaining about my cooking.

A friend of mine who has studied linguistics or anthropology or childhood development or something like that (hey, I can’t remember everything) told me that babies are born with the capability to make all the sounds in all human languages, and it is around the age of one year that they begin to whittle out all the sounds they won’t need to speak in their mother tongue. Kind of like undifferentiated linguistic stem cells, I think. I guess that’s why some days I swear he’s spouting off a Wagnerian libretto in gutteral German, other days he sounds like he’s being raised in Chinatown and still other days it sounds like he is speaking in that throat-clicking language of the Inuit.

I want to say this is one of my favourite stages of babyness, but then I said that about the age of 4 to 6 months, when they first start to beam at strangers and sit up for themselves, and about the tiny newborn stage when their cries sound more like angry cats than hungry babies. And I love the next stage, where growing vocabularies intersect with a burgeoning awareness of the world.

What is/was your favourite baby stage?

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You are one!

Happy Birthday, beautiful boy!! A year ago you joined us. You did not want to come out. You were ten days late and still you defied 24 hours of medical inducements before you changed your mind. After days and hours of stubborn resistance, however, once you set your mind to coming out, you wanted to come out NOW and there was no slowing you down. You are truly your mother’s boy, you know. You fired yourself down the birth canal so quickly that despite the fact I was in labour for an entire day, your head was as round as a cherub’s. Just three, maybe four, pushes and out you came with your little fist clenched and held over your head in victory. Ouch.

Frankie, do you know how much you have changed my life? Do you have any idea of the gifts that you and your brother make of every single day? The transition from no baby to one baby in life is obviously a huge change, but who would have guessed that the change from one to two would be just as, perhaps even more, traumatic – and eventually, jubilant.

Every day with you has been a lesson that two siblings are not two of the same child. Just when I thought I had at least the basics of mothering a baby down pat, you came along and showed me I still had a lot to learn. You were easier to nurse but a terrible sleeper. You did not want to sleep through the night, and you especially did not want to sleep alone. You vocally and even tearfully preferred me to any other human being for the first few months, and I was secretly flattered and pleased, although it wore a little thin after a while. You were hungry, hungry, hungry and you pulled milk out of me like you were drawing it not from me but through me, as if I were a straw that dowsed the milk from the very air. And you grew, my little baby. You started out a whopper at ten pounds, and you were off the charts from the word go. Mama don’t raise no tiny babies in this house.

You have the most wonderful way of scrunching up your face when you smile. We call it your “scary baby” face, and it is so adorable my heart soars just thinking about it. You are a mischievous soul, and I call you “pesky baby” as you move from one source of trouble to another. No coffee cup may rest on a table, no stray piece of paper may remain within reach, no heat register shall remain unexamined in your quest to discover all the universe’s secrets. You love to remove things from containers. I have given up on refolding the tea towels, aprons and oven mitts before I put them back into the drawer you empty four, five and six times a day. You love to put things into containers, and you do not take kindly to me preventing you from putting bits of food from your high-chair tray back into the bowl I am feeding you from. You love to hold something in your hand with your arm outstretched and flex your wrist back and forth, and I love to watch you do it.

You don’t really speak yet. You have mimicked the musical sound of “uh oh”, but I haven’t heard the words pronounced. You don’t quite walk yet, although you do “cruise” the furniture, and just last Sunday you decided to walk across the living room while holding on to your little walker toy. And you even did it while Daddy had a video camera near at hand, you clever boy! You can crawl like nobody’s business, and you can get to the top of the stairs so quickly that you’ve nearly given me several heart attacks.

You are incredibly tolerant of your older brother as he snatches things from you, pokes, pulls and shoves you and even rides you like a pony. We tell him to be careful, because we bet that one day you will be the ‘bigger’ brother and he’ll be sorry. Just this weekend, you both set your sights on the same truck and for the first time you would not relinquish it to him. We’re in trouble now! It makes me giddy with joy to think that I get to spend the rest of my life watching you two grow up together, to think that I have created brothers.

There are simply not enough words to tell you how much I love you, to tell you how happy you make me, to tell you what a difference you make in the world.

Happy birthday, beautiful boy!

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