Archive for January, 2008

*Cough, Sniff*

I’m sick.  Boo hoo.

Eirinn has been grumpy and her nose has been leaking like a faucet for the past couple of days.  Teething right?  Did you know that teething has become a contagious ailment?  Apparently, what we thought might be teething turned out to be a nasty cold.  And Eirinn’s generous.  Oh, don’t touch her toys, but if you’re in the market for some disgusting sick germs, she’s got ’em and she’ll share ’em. 

So here I am, at home, miserable, and pregnant (read: unable to drug away my misery).  I’ll save you a rundown of my symptoms, but just believe me – I’m sick.  Boo hoo.


Follow the leader (with my recipe)

After weeks of eating completely healthy 100% of the timemostly healthy 85% of the time, something was bound to give.  I had turned myself into a regular Betty Crocker in months previous, after all, so a stick of pure butter, several cups of sugar, and a couple of egg yolks were bound to find their own way into a bowl, mix themselves together, fload their way into the oven and bake themselves into cookies.  And wouldn’t it be rude if I didn’t eat them all after they went to so much trouble?  I think it would be terribly ungrateful of me not to eat them all.

Ok, so no magic cookies, but after reading this, I felt compelled by the power of Jesus to whip up a batch of my World’s Greatest Chocolate Chip Cookies.  By the way, how much do you have to change a recipe before you can officially call them  your own?  ‘Cause I’ve done quite a bit of tweaking to this recipe and I feel rightful in calling them “my” cookies.  Especially when they are so darn delicious and irresistable.  Just ask Carly’s husband.

Carly called them Devil Cookies, which I completely disagree with.  Not only are they not Devil Cookies, but I think they were sent down by a higher power, in a gift basket, with a card signed “Enjoy – G.”  I’m just saying…they are that good.  In fact, I’ll be right back…


In an attempt to escape doing puzzles for the entire morning on Saturday, Eirinn and I decided to make these together.  It went much better than I expected.  Nothing “accidentally” broke.  “No one” had a fit.  And I think she enjoyed herself.  Mostly she watched me while asking “You need this?” of every measuring spoon, mixing utensil, and ingredient.  She helped me pour in the chocolate chips, receiving a handful of chips as a reward.

picture-357.jpg  She was an excellent chocolate chip pourer.  She didn’t spill one.  Or at least she ate up her mess before I saw it.

picture-362.jpg  Then we waited the long, torturous 15 minutes of baking time.  That heavenly smell was enough to send Eirinn into madness.

picture-363.jpg  See?  This is what she was driven to do while we waited.  Soccer in oven mitts.  Not an act of a sane person.  Is anyone else mesmerized by the Doras on her pants?  They are hypnotizing me into eating more cookies…

picture-365.jpg  And the prize for waiting?  Yummy cookies.  Well, at least yummy, melty chocolate chips.  She ate the cookie part about two hours later.

Some fruit should stay forbidden

This morning I was packing my snack suitcase (I have a lunch bag for snacks and a completely separate lunch bag for my actual lunch) and Eirinn saw me picking out mandarins.  Of course, Eirinn being Eirinn, asked for an “orange”, even though she knows and I know and she knows I know that she doesn’t like “oranges”.  Or mandarins.  But whatever.  I didn’t have time to explain that to her, so I just gave her one to play with.

First she threw it.  I told her it was not a ball.  She quickly turned this into a rule, shaking her finger, sing-songingly saying “Not a ball!”

Then she tried eating the rind.  Why her face didn’t screw up into a clenched little sphincter due to the bitter and the gross, I don’t know, but it didn’t.  So Anonymous Husband took it away from her.

When he left, I gave it back (don’t judge, I was busy and it was occupying her).  She then proceeded to throw the mandarin in the coincidentally perfectly mandarin-sized space between the fridge and the cupboard.

Seriously?  You really have to throw food in there?  There are starving kids in China. 

Couldn’t she be normal and throw crayons or shoes or rodents behind the fridge? 

To be fair, I can see the appeal – toddler in possession of forbidden fruit (literally), gap just big enough to fit fruit, busy mom not watching as closely as she should.  But, come on, let’s not waste the food.

The fishy puzzle

Eirinn loves puzzles.  I’ve said it before because it’s true.  She loves puzzles. 

Puzzles have replaced television as her all-time favourite past time.  She doesn’t do those puzzles where the little wooden pieces have the same shape as the little holes on the board.  Oh, no.  She doesn’t even own one of those.  She does the big kid puzzles with the puzzle-shaped pieces that fit together like a puzzle.  Can you tell I’m not a puzzle person?  I have no idea how to describe them.

I know!  Pictures!  Pictures always help the verbally disabled.  Like myself.

She don’t do this kind:


She do this kind:


With great speed and accuracy.  She has a few of them.  They have either 20 or 24 pieces and, oddly enough, they are all scenes of under the sea.  Maybe that’s the universal toddler puzzle picture du jour.  I wouldn’t know, being a non-puzzler and all.

I think this is great.  The puzzles as a whole allow her to practice her hand/eye coordination and the topics of the puzzles (numbers, opposites, and the one in the picture, colours) are very educational.  She has improved her knowledge of colours exponentially.  Improved, not mastered, but it has taught her more than we could any other way.  And we’ve tried.  We started to think she was either colour blind or had a whole in her brain where her colour recognition should have been.  Turns out she’s just stubborn and wanted a puzzle to teach her, not Mommy and Daddy.

She does them non-stop.  First thing in the morning I have to dodge pieces to get her cereal to her mouth (yes, I still feed her her breakfast – geniuses shouldn’t have to feed themselves).  After work she runs to her puzzles and does them over and over again.  “Do puthle ‘gain?”  I think it’s safe to say that she lawbs her puzzles.


In other news, my sister got a puppy for Christmas.  Well, it started out a puppy.  A cute, little, black and white, Shih-Tese (say that in your head and I dare you not to laugh).  Sophie is a Shih-Tzu, Maltese cross which, even though we paid for a pure bred Shih Tzu, we’ve always suspected Bosco to be.

I say she “started out” a puppy because in her short three month life, she has morphed into a wee little devil-dog.  If you’re furry and small, she will eat you.  If you even remotely resemble a shoe, slipper, or sock, she will eat you.  If you are my daughter’s pants, she will eat you.  Or at least try, seeing as her teeth are still little pin pricks. 

She absolutely tortures poor Bossy.  She pulls his tail, bites his arse, hangs off his ears.  All this makes him bark, which makes Murphy bark at Bossy, which means Bossy then has an evil midget devil-dog hanging off his butt and a big ol’ meat-head yelling at him to shut up.  Poor guy can’t win for losing.  Whatever that means.

Lucky for Bosco, we got to puppy-sit Sophie this weekend.  We brought the devil into his sanctuary.  Dude was not impressed.


And all Blue Bear had to say was “HALP!”

p.s. Notice Bosco’s incredibly long hippie bangs?  He’s getting his hair did tomorrow.

Lapses in memory

You know, when people said “I can’t remember what life was like before *insert spoiled and frequently mauled baby’s name* was born”, I always figured ‘people’ were just romanticizing their situation.  Making me feel jealous that I had a baby who cried all the time, didn’t sleep EVER, and hated most things related to not crying and sleeping.  And they were doing this on purpose.  ‘People’ can be so cruel sometimes.

But now that Eirinn is older and she only cries when she’s throwing a fit (for the sake of this post, we won’t discuss how often these fits occur) and sleeping isn’t going to cause her skin to melt off (most of the time)(it still isn’t her favourite; puzzles are her favourite), I can kind of see where ‘people’ are coming from.

Just yesterday I was planning out our weekend (yes, on a Tuesday; when you have kids the planning of days never ends), and it got me thinking about what we did on weekends before Eirinn was kicking around.  And do you know what?  I couldn’t really remember.  I seem to think there was a lot of Canadian Tire, and we may or may not have done our grocery shopping in peace, but this is all just speculation and hearsay.  I have no idea what we did.  I’m sure we slept in.  We must have slept in.  And I have a faint recollection of, on occasion, getting a whole box of donuts for lunch.  Yes, one box of donuts, two people, one lunch.  Those must have been sweet, sweet times.

Is this lapse in memory permanent?  Is it placenta brain?  Is it just going to get worse when fetupus arrives?  Am I going to lose another two years, captured only in pictures, of a life that could quite possibly be a work of fiction?

Because other than these faint flickers in the back of my mind of a life that may or may not have been, I can honestly say that I can’t remember what life was like before Eirinn was born.

What I do know is that before Eirinn we had less to laugh about, less to be proud of, and less to live for.  That sounds sad and depressing, but it’s quite the opposite.  Before she was born, we had a great life with a nice little house, loving families, and good jobs.  And after?  Now we have a better life, one that has been enriched forever with an extremely intelligent, hilariously funny, and incredibly sweet little girl.  And I’m sure, I’m sure, that when fetupus makes his or her grand entrance our better life will be instantly transformed into an even better and fuller life.

Two major developments

Eirinn went pee pee in her potty today!  For the first time!  On purpose!  AWESOME!

We’re still not potty training her, but first thing this morning she asked to use the potty.  I was all “hubba-wha?”, but I snapped out of it and obliged.  There was no action, but that’s ok.  The desire to use the potty is a good first step.  At least she doesn’t hate the thing.

I’ve learned that most mornings she releases the floodgates fills her diaper to capacity pees at approximately somewhere between 10 and 11.  How specific, you say?  Well, anyone who has run errands and packed exactly 3 diapers, only to be off by one tragic diaper, knows that the timing of the bodily functions in babies and toddlers is not an exact science. 

Anyway, so at about 10, I asked her if she wanted to use the potty again, and I got a resounding YEAH!  We read two potty books while she was perched on her throne.  And what did we receive as reward for our efforts?  A PIDDLE!  If measured, it would have probably been an eighth of a teaspoon, but so what?  We Had Action!

We clapped, we cheered, we hugged, we partay-ed.  Then we parlayed directly into a full blown temper tantrum because I wanted her to *gasp* get dressed for the day.  Could I be any meaner a mom?


She has also nearly weaned herself off of the bottle.  She was only getting one before nap and one before bed but as of last week, she has decided that bottles are, and I quote, “Bleck.”

Great!  Except she won’t drink milk from a cup.  Un-great.  I’ll have to either improve my power of coercion or come up with more creative ways to get enough calcium into her.  Luckily, yogurt, shredded cheese, and steamed broccoli aren’t “Bleck.”

Dear Baby Eirinn

Dear Baby Eirinn,

At 22 months, you have become less “Baby” and more “Toddler”.  Even “Little Girl”, sometimes.  You are older than your years almost two years and it’s making me forget what you were like as an immobile, incoherent, helpless infant.  This maturity is an endless source of pride for your Daddy and I.  We can’t help but brag about you, even to each other. 

You have so many talents and so much knowledge, I’d be afraid to list them for fear of forgetting some of the most important.  But the most recent, and “in progress”, development is your grasp on colours.  Your response to the question “what colour is this?” is still “blue” every time and without fail, but you have one puzzle that is quickly changing your opinion that every colour is blue.  You match the coloured fish to the matching coloured word with no effort at all, and when asked what colour each fish is, you know.  You know every time.  Sometimes I think you just tell us all the colours are blue because you think it’s funny.  Make these silly grown ups believe they’re smarter than you so they won’t make you get a job and pay rent.  Smooth.

You now turn everything into a rule.  And you are very strict.  You shake your head, wag your index finger, and repeat what we’ve told you in that sing-songy voice that oozes authority.

For example.  Bugba has a step ladder.  When you see the step ladder, you look at us, wag your finger, furrow your brow, and say “No climb a ladder.”  And we don’t because you said so.

You are becoming more and more affectionate.  With me.  With everyone else you are becoming more and more easy to trick into being more affectionate.  Without asking, totally unprovoked, and on more than one occasion, you have told me “I love you, Mommy.”  If that wasn’t enough to turn this Vulcan into a blubbering pile of running mascara and snotty Kleenex, your toddler accent is.  “Ah Laaaaawb You, Mommy.”

You also comfort me when I’m sad or feeling sick.  You’ll ask me your usual “What doin’, Mommy?” and if I say “crying” or “I feel sick, baby” you come to me and pet my arm with a worried look and say “it’s ok, Mommy.”  Of course, my “crying” is fake because you did something like wouldn’t do what you’re told.  But the fact that you are remorseful and comfort me more than makes up for it.

We’ve started to say “Daddy will be mad at you” (or “Papa” if you’re not at home) when you do something you know you’re aren’t supposed to be doing.  And you know this is coming.  Sometimes you ask if Daddy’s going to be mad at you.  The answer is usually yes.  Especially when you put your feet on the dinner table.  I often retract this promise when you say “No Daddy mad at you”, in a soft voice with a pout. 

You have a new brother or sister on the way, but it’s too early for you to know this.  I won’t burdon you with the fact that life as you know it is now over until much closer to D-Day.  It will be different, that’s for sure, but I hope good-different.  I hope you find yourself a friend out of the new little one.  One that you can teach all your talents and knowledge.  One you can lay down the law to (with Mommy and Daddy’s help, of course).  One you can kiss and hug and Laaawb.  One you can comfort.

Mommy and Daddy are going to be busier once baby #2 arrives.  We are going to be tired, and we are going to be occupied sometimes with someone who isn’t you.  For this adjustment that you never asked for, I’m sorry.  But it will get better.  When the baby is older and tougher and can play and keep up with your bountiful energy, he or she will be fun and you’ll be glad we decided to have him or her for you.

And know this.  Know that you will always be our Baby Eirinn.  Know that we will make time for just you.  Know that we will love you endlessly, unconditionally.

Because you are our Pumpkin and we laaawb you, too.

Mommy and Daddy

Tornado Eirinn

The life and times, trials and tribulations, crimes and punishments, lessons learned and scores settled by my daughter, Eirinn, AKA The Tornado.

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When I Wrote

January 2008
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