Simian Farmer

Anticlimax

I really wanted to do something different for the last day.

I had all these grand intentions of actually scripting something.  You know, something meaningful -- something full of wry wit and insight.  Instead, I was able to scrounge about five minutes after Tavish's bath and before he got crabby enough to put to bed.  I scrawled a few words on a scrap piece of paper and ad libbed.  Sort of appropriate, really.

A couple notes:

- Declan's not wearing any pants.  I am.

- I realise Tav looks ridiculous with his hair parted down the middle like that, but it was just after his bath and it amused me.

- I got 'quantity' and 'quality' mixed up.

- I really am glad that I did this, even though I am never doing it again.

- I'm going bowling this afternoon with my 'team' from work to help foster unity within our department.  Which has nothing at all to do with any of this, but it's nice that I'll be getting paid to bowl.

See you on Monday.  Or later.

About a coffee table

Wil says, Maybe Amy better answer this one, but how the heck did YOU manage to latch on to such a beautiful, talented young woman?

Serendipity, my friend, serendipity.

I wrote about this last year some time but, going back to review, it comes across as too cute - though sincere - so I'll say again from scratch.

Amy and I ended up together by dint of frustration stemming from work and the retail therapy I used as a balm for my unwontedly aggravated state of mind.  I left work one afternoon in August of 2001 and drove directly to the canker sore of consumer excess that sits like an itchy scab near the outskirts of my home town: West Edmonton Mall.  It bugs you, but you can't stop going back to it.

I don't recall what pissed me off, but buying things made me feel better.  I was single and had some disposable income so went to get a new pair of sandals at a high-end outdoor retailers.  The Sales Chick who helped me was unassuming enough.  Incredibly competent, knew about and was interested in her job in a way that did not fit the mold of vacant-eyed, listless retail zombies.  (Later in our relationship Amy shared with me the fact that whenever they hired on part timers for holidays and big sales events, they were affectionately referred to as 'pylons'.)

Though I only went for sandals, this Sales Chick was so earnest in her approach that I was willing to try on a new set of cargo pants as well as some light-weight hiking shorts they'd just gotten in, you know, to see how they fit on a guy - no pressure.  (She's really very good.)  I left the store with all three purchases and a bemused expression that quickly morphed into intent.

I had a running partner with whom I discussed this Sales Chick a couple days later.  Used him as a sounding board.  I decided to go for it.  Her.

My phone call back to the store was poorly timed on her day off, so I went back in person.  (Since the return trip was several days after the phone call - of which Amy had since been informed - I was later told that if I had decided to call a second time that much later rather than show up in person I would have been summarily rebuffed.  Amy has certain expectations.)

As I strode into the store (after pacing outside for a full 10 minutes) I panicked at realising I had forgotten to look for a ring.  Seeing the Sales Chick, I scanned and, noting a naked left hand, approached.  In my 10 minutes of pacing outside the store I neglected to come up with an opening line.  This fact became clear after the two of us made eye contact, I proceeded towards her and she raised her eyebrows in polite expectation.

"I'm not here to buy anything," was the best I could come up with.  Thankfully, the Sales Chick was an astute observer of human nature and noted that neither did I have a bag in which I may have been returning something.  Ergo, I was there for her.  Of course.  I had inadvertently timed my visit just before her lunch break, on which she invited me to accompany her.

Seated in conversation she told me how she'd recently purchased an antique coffee table while in Canmore (a few hours away) but had a rental car at the time, not her truck, so was planning to drive back with her truck as soon as she could.  This, for me, was one of those rare occasions where all nine eight planets were aligned and opportunity was pounding on the door with a flaming battering ram while hordes of Uruk-Hai chanted "Grond!" in perfervid anticipation.

So bolstered, I politely informed the cute Sales Chick I would be driving to Canmore the very next weekend to run in a half marathon.  If it wasn't terribly presumptuous, could I offer to pick the table up for her after my race and drive it back?  She said yes, so I did.  That success under my belt, I then asked her out on a date.  It was early September and I asked her to accompany me to Oktoberfest -- at the end of October.  She said yes.  Again.

This was the only tricksy part of my approach since Oktoberfest was nearly two months away.  It wouldn't do but that we had to go on several other dates to fill in the intervening time.  Our first was to a downtown watering hole where we ate and drank little but talked for hours.  I asked to kiss her after walking her to her truck.  (Which is the only thing I'd change about that date; I should have just laid one on her.)

Everything just started from that.

(The coffee table is still with us, but has been relegated to the basement.  Our older son became prone to administer unintentional cranial drubbings and Amy got tired of explaining away bruises to concerned family members and medical professionals.  Bugs me all to hell that we live without a coffee table in our living room, but what're you gonna do?)

EDITED TO ADD:

Moksha makes a salient point in his accusatory comment, stating I didn't really answer the gist of the question.  Really, what made Amy interested in ME that I was able to keep her?

In any relationship like ours, there exist a vast array of little things that create the initial attraction and so foster the bond that, for us, drew us together in marriage and the family way.  The unifying feature for the two of us is trust.  Amy and I have both been deeply hurt in relationships.  In me, she saw the glimmer of possibility of someone with whom she could exercise that damaged trust and know that it would forever be safe in my grasp.  I treasure it.

Outing the fat man

"So what's your take on the whole Santa Claus thing, Simon?"

I was confronted with this question en route to a cafe in Toronto last weekend.  We were in the slow process of searching for a parking spot in the midst of the break-up of Canada's largest Santa Claus parade; we had some time to kill.  I'm still not entirely sure what my whole 'take' on the jolly man in red is going to be in relation to our boys.  (We currently don't have a fireplace or chimney.)

On the one hand, all the feel good family type stuff generally associated with the Christmas season  - by which I am implying more than just the Christian tradition - is iconically and unavoidably tied to the man in red.  On the other hand, the current generally accepted physical incarnation of Santa Claus comes to the North American shopping public courtesy of the Coca-Cola Company.

Still, the question is really whether or not the Fraser boys are going to be getting presents from 'Santa' as they grow up and my wife and I subsequently wait for the day when the illusion shatters.  Or reality seeps through the cracks running around the bubble, which is what happened for me.  (Since I haven't officially conferred with Amy on this one I can't give a definitive answer.)

I think I might be more comfortable explaining the mythos of Santa and what the spirit of the season means to me.  I remember opening presents when I was smaller and giving thanks to Santa with pointed glances at my parents, letting them know that the gratitude was really directed at them and that the gig was up.  It was a fun game to play.  Now, in my thirties, I still do it.

I got tiny hand-written notes that accompanied the money I got from the Tooth Fairy in exchange for baby teeth placed under my pillow.  I still have the official little wooden container I used to store loose teeth under my pillow and inside which, the next morning, would be a couple quarters.  I wish I'd kept some of those notes.  My mother's tiny hand writing was immaculate.  I remember one that complained of the fact I had rolled over in my sleep and nearly squished the tiny fairy!

Easter mornings my brother and I would start by hunting for our chocolate and jelly bean laden baskets, followed by a search for coloured hard-boiled eggs.  It was way fun.  Oddly, the biggest disappointments came, for me, when I found out whether or not I had received a solid (yay!) or hollow (boo!) chocolate bunny in my basket.  Either way, it was gone within 24 hours and I was hoppin' high on sugar.

There are so many holidays that have mythical figures associated.  And kids are a lot smarter than most parents give credit for.  What I don't want to take away from my boys is the sense of wonder that was (and is still for me) associated with certain holidays.  This wonder was largely instilled because of the other-worldly figures associated with the occasion.

I still don't know exactly what I'm going to do.  Play it by ear, mostly?  I really like the idea of sneaking a whole bunch of presents under the Christmas tree on Christmas eve and doing my sons the courtesy of gobbling the milk and cookies I will be sure to instruct must be left out for a man with a belly that shakes when he laughs like a bowl full of jelly.

I certainly won't lie outright.  There are certain things I think are more edifying for a young child to suss out on their own, things that lend themselves to a maturing process.  This is probably one of those.

A tragedy and other things

Random stuff in my head right now:

I still have to get around to a very good question from Wil.  I've had it drafted for a couple weeks and feel bad for having put it off so long.  But it's got potential so I don't want to scrimp.  I'll probably leave it for my penultimate November post.  I plan to do a video of some sort for the 30th.

Engaged with a stiff serving of 10 year-old Laphroaig tonight.  Very rare that I allow myself scotch two nights in a row, but it's been a long weekend and I find that it's wrapped up fairly well.  Dex is back to his old self and, Sunday evening, Amy and I were sitting, absorbing his aura shortly before his bed time, wondering aloud to each other whither went our baby and who replaced him with a small boy.  (We didn't actually say "whither", I only normally get that pretentious in blog posts, though it's not completely foreign to conversational sprinklings.)

But back to scotch.  I'm sad to say that I currently only have Laphroaig and Auchentoshan to draw from here at home, meaning to cast no aspersions on the quality of those two fine beverages.  Matter of fact, Laphroaig is, to date, my favourite of all the scotches I've sampled.  But my cabinet would be vastly enriched with the likes of Talisker, Lagavulin, The Balvenie, a good MacAllen... and a couple of the Glens.  Perhaps a Kinchie and a Fiddich.

Tavish, too, cast himself in a nearly perfect Sunday.  Granny and Grumpy whisked Dex off to the museum for the afternoon while Amy went off to do a Stampin' Up demonstration.  I was left with an unwontedly content, happy baby and a spot of free time.  Ever since we got our new queen mattress to replace the old double which replaced the soiled (short-lived and sadly expensive) queen mattress, we discovered that we only saved a single queen sized sheet set.  I undertook to double that by buying a new flannel queen set, it being winter and all.  Tav and I came home with a pale blue set decorated with shiny, happy snowmen.  Amy nearly squealed with glee when she saw my choice and took them downstairs immediately to wash so as to give our bed a sartorial comfort boost as soon as possible.  She's languishing therein as I type this.

Dex and I went grocery shopping Saturday afternoon at Superstore.  Their cart system requires that you plug a loonie into the locking mechanism as incentive to return it properly rather than leave empty carts strewn haphazardly about the parking lot.  A man was returning his cart as Dex and I were seeking one, so I thrust a solid dollar coin in the gentleman's direction, proffering a silent exchange (a common practice in Superstore parking lots across the nation; indeed, some often find dollar coins foisted upon them ere their groceries are fully removed, so eager are some shoppers to get the most convenient cart).  The gentleman accepted the coin and turned to walk away as I flopped my boy in the seat.  The goodman did an about face and said he had a better idea: why didn't I just buy my boy a treat with the coin instead?  And gave me back the dollar.

Christmas spirit has found its way to our little corner of the world.  Declan and I enjoyed an Aero chocolate bar as we left the store.

In the same altruistic mental state, Amy came home Saturday from some running around bearing a small container of York peppermint swoops.  She gave them to me in recognition of my serving as an excellent model of both husband and father this weekend whilst caring for my beloved family.  There are very few ways to my heart faster than peppermint chocolate fashioned in the shape of potato chips.  And those that are can't be mentioned lest this website receive an X rating.  I'm finishing them off right now and must admit they're not the best accompaniment for 10 year-old scotch.  But I don't smoke cigars.  Though I would eat chocolate cigars.

And the tragedy implied in the post title?  Amy came tripping out of the bathroom Sunday afternoon, moaning, both hands clasped tight to her head, a stricken look etched on her face.  I was snuggled on the couch with Declan and my good wife ran straight to us.  "LOOK!" she shouted, hands still held tight to her head as she thrust her pate under my scrutiny.  I surveyed the landscape and quickly saw what caused her outcry.

A grey hair.

"TWO OF THEM!"  she corrected.  And was right.  "Now I have to go and pluck them both!"  Which she did, leaving me very little opportunity to commiserate.  Only six days into her Jesus year.  Portentous?

Not all was lost though; we ended on a high note.  Sunday evening after the boys were both in bed we made our own with freshly laundered and still-warm sheets.  I got the electric blanket fired up and Amy got a smile on her face.  "Going to bed with shaved legs in new flannel sheets - it doesn't get much better than this!"

The end is nigh

Well, this is the last Sunday I'll be posting for that stupid NaBloPoMo I signed on to do.  I'm too lazy even to link to the site as netiquette would dictate.  Hit Yoda over there on the right if yer so inclined.

Unpleasant weekend so far.  Got up early Friday morning and bundled up for the minus-20-something weather and took to the snow covered driveway with a vengeance.  Got nearly done when I heard a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at the living room window.  I turned to see my wife wielding a stricken toddler -- neither of them looked entirely well.  I went in the house to discover the tummy troubles that had, just the day before, inflicted themselves on wee Tavish had migrated to both my wife and first born son.  They were both pretty busy at both ends.

Tavish soon woke to inform us that although he may have stopped vomiting like a world champion, he could still do explosive diarrhea with his eyes closed.  Well, more scrunched-like and red-faced.  But you get the idea.

So Dad called in sick to work and shuttled between the three patients.  May I say how incredibly disgusting dogs are?  I won't provide details.

Saturday was better since Mom and Dex were also.  Time to catch up on the laundry that had been pitched down the stairs and try to keep up with Tavish who showed no signs of letting up with his efforts.  Sunday morning will hopefully provide a respite.  (It's late Saturday as I type this.)

So now I go to polish off the last of the dishes with a small sense of urgency because, once done, I plan to treat myself to a very stiff 10 year old Auchentoshan.

And you?  You get a couple pics of the boys.  Dex is holding a recent picture he drew on his magnetic board.  It looks to me like a man who is surprisingly happy after an unfortunate accident with a drill press.  And Tavish, from Saturday morning, is smiling in a sunbeam, which is just all kinds of cute.  (Click them to embiggen.)

Avian luftwaffe

A couple weeks ago my wife was outside filming a clip of a large herd of birds that infrequently roosts in one o' them big trees out back.  Very cool to see them flying around.

And then the unexpected...

What would Yoda do too?

INT. A SMALL, DINGY, DARK ROOM.  AT FIRST GLANCE IT LOOKS TO BE A NEAT HOVEL LONG INHABITED BY A DIMINUTIVE CREATURE PROVIDING FOR A BARE MINIMUM OF PHYSICAL NEEDS.  A SMALL FIRE SERVES TO PREPARE MEALS.  UPON CLOSER INSPECTION, THE ROOM RESEMBLES A MEDIUM-SIZED KITCHEN TABLE WITH A BLANKET THROWN OVER TOP AND A NIGHT LIGHT.

SIGH: Look, I'm sure this colour scheme is fine, and the CSS looks Web2.0 compatible.  I just don't understand why we can't see Yoda now.

CREATURE: Patience! For the Blogger it is time to eat as well. Eat, eat. Hot. Good food, hm? Good, hmm?

Moving with some difficulty in the cramped quarters, Simon sits down near the fire and serves himself from the pot. Tasting the unfamiliar concoction, he is pleasantly surprised.

What would Yoda do?

INT. SIMON'S BASEMENT. 

THE GLOW OF THE MONITOR IS THE ONLY SOURCE OF LIGHT.  SIMON'S FACE IS HAGGARD; EYES BLOOD-SHOT; LIDS DROOPING FROM FATIGUE.  HIS T-SHIRT IS STAINED WITH TWO DAY-OLD BABY PUKE AND LEFTOVER... SPAGHETTI SAUCE?  HIS PALSIED HANDS HOVER OVER THE KEYBOARD AND THE MOUSE IS SMEARED WITH GRIMY SWEAT STAINS.  THE SCROLL WHEEL STICKS.  SIMON NEARLY SWOONS IN HIS CHAIR AND, RECOVERING, IS NOT SURE IF HE'S DREAMING OR AWAKE.  HE BEGINS TO TYPE.

SIGH: (sighs) Now all I have to do is find this Yoda...if he even exists.  Still...there's something familiar about this place. I feel like...I don't know...

STRANGE VOICE: Feel like what?

SIGH: (looking at the creature) Like I'm being watched!

Can't keep up

Update:

Regarding Mark's comment about the big ol' cheeks on Tavish.  Holy man, you should see how much this kid has plumped up in the past months.  You can see the granny wrist rolls pretty well in the picture; yet another means for him to store excess food.  His expectoration hasn't slowed so much as to account for the weight gain, but that boy can sure pack back the food.  Indeed, it sometimes seems he's hardly content unless he has a spoon or a bottle in his mouth.

(Note to self: record a future dinner feeding session.  That should lend some perspective.)

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

Yeah, I got nothing today.

Still catching up on stuff from the weekend.

Here's a picture of the boys from Amy's birthday dinner on Monday night.  Declan's all, like, "Dude."

Hello? Is this thing on?

Moksha Gren says, Why do you KEEP blogging? What makes it so important in your hectic child-rearing / wife-appriciating / job-working life to throw such a time-consuming hobby into the mix? And how do you think it's going?

Holy, I've asked myself that on any number of occasions.  The end of September saw two years doing this on a regular basis.  It's been 770 posts, 2,500 comments and 50,000 unique page hits.

I started doing this, in part, to preserve some thoughts and events surrounding the rearing of my firstborn son, and now my second.  That evolved into retrospective and introspective type pieces where I attempt to relate my own previous experiences with what's happening now.  I never want to get so wrapped up in the present that I can't apply some lesson I learned (or ought to have learned) years ago.

Then something strange happened.  People started commenting.

There is really very much more than that.  The comments were another impetus to keep saying a few things that were in my head, of course.  But then some of the personalities associated with those comments coalesced into real people after a time and honest to goodness friendships blossomed where none were at all expected.

I had thought, at first, this was simply going to be a means for me to keep track of a few of the more memorable things associated with bringing up two boys.  Now, unexpectedly, it's also become a small forum to foster some number of relationships that have come to mean something special to me.

This post really deserves more detail than I'm giving it here, and if I'm reminded to do so in the near future, I'll definitely expound.