Simian Farmer

Prelude II

The foetus is being a tad recalcitrant.  Here it is ten at night on Monday and he/she/it (please don't say that too fast) has given no signs of 'going towards the light tonight', as it were.  The pep-talk that my wife had with her belly on Saturday while Dex and I were out renting a movie seems to have been ignored. 

Ergo, she is now fully convinced it's a boy.

Amy had what will hopefully be her last doctor's appointment this afternoon.  That means I got to take off from work a couple hours early, which doesn't bother me terribly.  I'm only about half there this past week or so anyway.

Seems she landed herself a big one this time around!  Her belly's measuring 42 centimetres, which puts the baby's size at about 42 weeks, even though she's only at 39.  (I didn't know this about belly measurements: the distance around from the top of the uterus to the base, in centimetres, approximates the gestational size, in weeks, of the foetus.  42 weeks = big baby.)  The doc this afternoon estimated that Amy's got an eight and a half pounder in there.  Almost a full pound bigger than Dex when he was born.

When she was going to bed tonight, Amy likened the weight to our Jack Russell with his head chopped off.  I was so proud of how quiet I was at that point.  Filter firmly in place.

So far, prognosis is good and all signs point to, umm, patience?

The prognosis, at least by the measurement of her belly, also means that this child is the apparent answer to Life, the Universe and Everything.  With our current Son Of Awesome Perfection, we know that Spawn2 has big shoes to fill and already seems to be giving signs of greatness with that portentious size.

Amy's been having Braxton-Hicks contractions on an irregular basis lately.  That's how taut I wish my belly was.  She also got enlightenment on a dizzy spell she suffered on Sunday evening when my folks brought dinner over, though it caused me more than a little confusion at first.  (The enlightenment, not the dinner.)

"Hey Si, remember when I got up from dinner on Sunday and had to go lie down on the couch?"

"Yeah."

"And remember when you got your wisdom teeth out and you said you felt lightheaded the next morning and then passed out in the kitchen?"

"Umm, yeah..."

"I didn't tell you last night, but that's exactly how I felt.  At least up until the actual passing out part."

"What?  Really?"

"Yeah.  And my left hand was totally numb for about five minutes."

"I didn't know that!"

"Yeah well, so I asked the doctor about that today and she said the symptoms sound like the beginnings of a migraine aura."  She paused to take a sip of her ginger ale slurpee.  Ginger ale heals all corporeal ills these days.  It is Amy's panacea par excellence.

I politely asked her to elucidate.  "Huh?!"

"It looks like a migraine aura," she reiterated.  Another sip of the slurpee.

"What?"  Confusion reigned supreme.

"A migraine aura!"  The look in her eyes, patience fleeing, told me I had better be deaf or dumb.

I was becoming equally exasperated.  "A migraine or a... WHAT??"

"Oh Jesus, Si.  A migraine AURA," she said.  She set down her slurpee and waved both hands around in a large circle about her head.  "They're just preliminary signs of migraine headaches; sometimes happens in the late stages of pregnancy.  It probably doesn't mean I'll be getting any migraines."

I was a little sheepish.  "Oh.  Yeah, well, I didn't know that."

And so we wait.

That's about all this site will consist of over the next (hopefully few) days.  That is absolutely all that our lives consist of right now.  Ensure that our firstborn has all of his physical needs met, and some of his social, and wait.

Feed and water the dogs, and wait.

Jump out of my chair at work every time the phone rings, and wait.

Just wait.

*****

I'm teaching the dogs how to wait too.  With treats.  Dex wants in on the action, but there are only two treats.

Poor Declan.

Prelude

I went out with the boy to rent a movie Saturday evening after our dinner and before his bath.

(Adherence to routine is everything, you know.  Makes our world go 'round and helps reduce the wobble.)

Upon our return Amy informed me, "I had a discussion with Number Two while you and Number One were out just now."  (Images of Robert Wagner and Jonathan Frakes danced in my head as she said that.  The geek is buried deep.)

"Oh yes?" I said.  "And what was that?" 

"Monday."

"Hmm??"

"He's coming on Monday." 

(Amy's convinced it's a boy, by the way.)

"And how do you know that?"  I said.

"Well, you two were out and I thought I'd take the opportunity to have a quiet little chat and convince Number Two to come out a little early.  I told him Monday."

"And did he concur?"

"He didn't say, really.  But I'm banking on Monday."

"I should then too, eh?"

"Probably best."

"Yes, I suppose it's probably best.  Monday then."

*****

I'm not quite as convinced as my wife that the start of the new week will bring the new life.  But just in case, we've got everything prepped for the final, and most important, phase of:

Operation: S.P.A.W.N.
(Small Person Approaches Wondrous Nascency)

We'll be ready.

The final medal round

The past two weeks, when not at work or sleeping or wishing that my basement were a wee bit warmer, I've been completely hypnotised by the 2006 Winter Olympics.

I check the CBC website several times per hour day while at work.  I eat my dinner with the chair pushed far back from the table so I can see the short track speed skating oval.  I unwittingly stroke the head of our Boxer dog with what a casual observer might mistake to be affection, so distracted am I.  Something, obviously, has my attention.

"Hey Si, could you please watch Declan there?  He's standing on the edge of the couch with his back to the floor.  It's scaring me half to death!"

"Yeah, sure honey.  Oh MAN!!  Here's the shot that won it for Gushue this morning.  SIX points!  Who scores six points in a single end of curling?!   There's only eight rocks to begin with.  That is so sweet!  One more gold, baby!"

"Simon!!  Your son!"

I think my wife and son will be glad to have it done.  My wife for sure.  Evenings can return to reruns of CSI on SpikeTV.

It will all be coming to a close this Sunday, and towards the end we'll be reminded to cast our eyes, our attention and a heightened sense of anticipation west, back across the Atlantic Ocean, to Vancouver for 2010.

Before it ends though, there are some medals that won't be handed out, and they really ought to be.  Considering the diverse cultural spread that's evinced at an event like this, I fall in love with some of the names that pop up on the TV screen and for which it is obvious the colour commentators have been practising.  Others I don't so much fall in love with as marvel at.  Still others make me laugh.

During the final weekend of the 2006 Winter Olympics, here is my small selection of Olympic names that, in some way or other, tickled me for the past couple weeks.  They have been sorted into bronze, silver and gold categories.

Internal minutiae

I find that my mind these days is preoccupied almost exclusively with thoughts stemming from the imminent arrival of the next eminent member of our household.  As I sit in meetings at work I will frequently discover that what started as a conversation centred on the key performance indicators that have been drafted for our largest mining project has devolved to a frown of consternation at the realisation that over half of the nipples we have at home for both the four and eight ounce bottles need to be replaced since they're more than three months old.

I figure that as long as it looks like a frown of concentration I'm still good.

*****

Other random stuff:  (mostly about the boy)

*  Declan's new favourite word (mine and Amy's too) is 'boat'.  I wish I could accurately describe the incredible degree of concentration with which Dex approaches its enunciation.  It verges on four syllables and completely engages the lower half of his face while his eyes stare guilelessly into your own.  The 'O' and the 'A' are sometimes pronounced separately.  While his lips are puckered at the end of the two vowel syllables, the tip of his tongue escapes briefly to engage his top teeth in the first half of the 'T' then sneaks back in to allow a brief, sharp exhalation that punctuates the overall vehemence with which he tackles his vocabulary.

*  Speaking of Dex's vocabulary, it's growing exponentially these days.  Amy and I have a hard time keeping up with him; almost every day brings a new word he's been encouraged to say or randomly picked up in conversation.  Apparently, we're going to have to stop cussin' like truck drivers in his presence.

*  We have been successful (mostly) in our continued inculcation of courtesy within the boy.  Most times when anyone in the house sneezes it is quickly followed by a slightly timid:  "Bess ooo?"

*  Declan is also tidier than Amy and I could have hoped for.  About half the time he will clean up whatever pile of toys he is done with, especially if there is a dedicated box or bag that they came from.  This goes for his animal-shaped bath sponges as well.  Also his dishes; he'll pick up and hand to the nearest parent his plate when he's done his meal or emptied his sippy cup.  He takes it a bit far though.  While Amy was showering this week he trundled into the bathroom, threw back the curtain and insisted that she take the empty juice cup from him.

*  I have a new favourite pen.  I have never felt passionate about a pen before but now find myself developing just that sentiment.  As a lefty, finding the proper writing instrument is a big deal, having suffered from Inky-Pinky syndrome for much of my life.  I have to use a roller ball style else the ink doesn't dry quickly enough for me.  I need a fine line since anything wider than about 0.5 mm just sort of bugs me.  Enter the Pilot G-Tec C4.  It has a 0.2 mm rollerball tip that makes a 0.4 mm line; it has non-smudge ink (in four colours); and I find that it gives the same sort of tactile pleasure as a 0.5 mm mechanical pencil.  So there.  Now if only I could improve my lamentable penmanship.

*  Dex has gotten into the habit of walking around (or just sitting around) with the inner fingers of both hands crossed over the outer.  A few people that have seen him like this have thought that he has a slight deformity.  He doesn't, he's just weird.

*  Canada is shooting for its first ever men's curling Olympic gold medal today.  They're guaranteed some colour of medal out of the game, elevating our count to a winter record of 20.  The team is (mostly) from Newfoundland and to give you an idea of how big a deal this is, the minister of education has closed the schools across the entire province of Newfoundland and Labrador for the afternoon so that the children can go home and watch the match, which starts at 1 pm local time.

*  Dinner is becoming difficult.  PB&J sandwiches or Kraft Dinner are just about the only sure-fire successes for the boy.  I discovered that boiled weiners and a pool of ketchup work pretty well too.  Eggs and meat and veggies are very much more hit and miss, depending on his mood.  Fickle child.

*  The only time I don't have my cell phone on my person is when I'm sleeping in bed with my wife.  This is in anticipation of The Call coming any day now.  I get jittery every time I hear a ring.

*  I need a third cup of coffee.

Blog filler

Damn you, Paul!  Damn you to Hell!! 

Or, if you don't believe in the fire and brimstone thing, then Windsor instead.

15 seconds: Shake yer bouti

The best Christmas present Declan got this year was a toddler sized back pack full of 30 multi-coloured wooden blocks that occupy his attention for upwards of an hour at a time.  (The pack makes an excellent hat while he's in the midst of construction.)  He's even progressed to the point where he can stack two of the cylindrical blocks vertically on top of one of the rectangular ones.

A fledgling Parthenon?  Who's to say, really.  The proof is there that his current levels of hand-eye coordination and manual dexterity already exceed that of his father when inebriated.  You go, son.

Of the 30 blocks, only about 18 remain, sadly.  The missing have been victimised by the canines of the house, constantly on the prowl for unguarded chewables to challenge their obviously hardy digestive tracts.  If they can grab something without immediate remonstration, finders keepers.  The blocks have either been transformed to sawdust in the poo or are stored outdoors to be sniffed out and consumed in the spring when the rot brought on by the melt has made mastication less of a challenge.

*****

An unexpected fringe benefit of my wife and I both acquiring nasty head colds this weekend was the rapidly emptied jumbo tissue box that became available as an alternate receptacle for Dex's blocks.  It's much more fun to shake them vigourously out the opening of the box than the rather more quotidian zippered back pack.

He's very thorough.

 

Star Wars Valentines

This falls under the "Too Good Not To Share" category.

I know I'm a week late in being topical with this post, but the humour will transcend all bounds of space and time.

A whole schwack of Star Wars themed Valentine's cards... with a little something extra.

GO READ THEM ALL!!!!  NOW!!

"Declan, don't laugh at your dad; he's wearing a dress."

Every year, even before Christmas arrives, I start looking forward to the annual Burns Night supper that I've had the pleasure to attend for nine of the past ten years.  (That one year, back when they were still adamant about holding it on January 25^th come Hell or high water, it was on a Wednesday and I was in the North Country working and cursing a blue streak about my inability to attend.)

I have a book on my shelf titled, The Poetical Works of Robert Burns.  It is leather-bound, very slightly smaller than the length of my outstretched hand and just exactly as wide.  It has no publication date inside the front cover, but is made more precious to me by the presence of an aged inscription from some previous owner.  Inside the very well preserved cover, the pages are yellowed and have a hint of crackle to them.  The second page, in black calligraphy, is inscribed:

Betty Sutherland
Burns' Cottage
Alloway,
Ayr
28.7.26

Any Burns afficianado worth his haggis knows that Robbie was born in Alloway.  I have no idea who Betty Sutherland is, or was, but I'm grateful for whatever series of unlikely events brought this particular copy of Burns' works, dating to 1926 at least by the inscription, into my hands.

It is one of the very few physical possessions to which I ascribe any real value -- for the facts of its content and age -- and it is with that in mind I go forth each year, on or about the 25^th of January, clad in my highland best, to pay irreverent homage to The Bard.  (I should think that a room full of alarmingly elderly men, most of whom are at odds with each other to despatch their sobriety, and wherein the main course is stuffed inside a sheep's stomach with the sphincters tied off, is not the most notable melieu in which to pay one's respects to a departed poet.  I should also think that Burns would have had it no other way.)

Pet Peeves (part 4)

It's been a long time since I've updated any of my pet peeves on here, but an incident this morning reinforced one of the ones I feel most strongly about.

In fact, I feel so strongly about it that I refuse to go back and clean up the ass end of that last sentence; it just sounds wrong to me, but so be it.

I am not a horribly introverted man.  I used to be.  Much more so than I am now.  Conversation is still not one of my strong points, at least insofar as inanities go.  Engage me on some intellectual level though -- or philosophical, religious, contentious, several other -itiouses -- and I'll get much more animated.

Trying to engage me in random pleasantries will most often get you a rather laconic reply.  Striking up that sort of conversation in the men's room at work (or any other public rest room) might extract a couple syllables at most.

I have always failed to see the impetus behind conversing with the tile wall in front of you as you pointedly avoid making eye contact with the other person who is also, ostensibly, conversing with the tile wall in front of him.

Bathroom conversations should never progress beyond the following example:

Simon: "Hey."
Some guy:  "Hey."

Simple acknowledgement of the existence of the person with whom you just made eye contact is quite sufficient after one has crossed the boundary defined by the men's room door.  A single jerk of the head in lieu of any sort of vocalisation is also acceptable.  Almost preferred.

There are very few reasons for extending conversation beyond the example above.  The brief list below should give you an idea of what is acceptable:

1. "Building's on fire!"
2. There is no second reason.

I'm sorry, but anytime I have my hoojackapiffy in my hand, regardless of the reason, I don't really feel like talking.  I don't care who you are.

15 seconds: Multi-tasker

My son Declan has learned, in his short 21 months on this planet, how to do a great many things.

He is also able to demonstrate how to do a great many of them simultaneously.

Here, for instance, he shows how he can drink his apres-dinner milk, watch the CBC Olympic coverage of the Slalom Skiing event and wear his fine plastic bucket hat, all at the same time.  At appropriate moments, he can even hide behind said plastic bucket hat when a crash looks imminent.

There are people 43 times his age who would give their superfluous appendix to be so capable as my son.  Heck, I'll just bet you're one of them.