Here and Everything In It

P Is For ...

This morning, Brad had a cup of tea. And Innis had his nap. And these two events are not usually amazing enough to post about in and of themselves, but there is more to this story.

Oh yes.

So, Brad has the bladder of a girl. And what I mean by that is that he has no capacity. When he has to go, he has to go. Now, I do not have a girl bladder. I mean, I do, but it's not a wussy girl bladder. I can hold it. I'm an expert holder. Traveling with Brad, on the other hand, is a nightmare. I can't tell you how many cumulative hours I've spent pulled over on the side of the road, waiting for him to pee into ditches. Or how many times we've been on hikes and the poor unsuspecting dogs have unwittingly raced past Brad en flow and received golden showers. Not intentional showers, mind you, but our dogs can be particularly unaware of their surroundings and are rather stupid.

And when Brad consumes any amount of caffeine, his response is immediate.

So, this morning, Brad was bursting, but he didn't want to creep upstairs to the bathroom and risk waking Beastly. So, while I was out of the kitchen, he PEED INTO AN EMPTY ORANGE JUICE CARTON. Now, if I had been in the room, I probably would've prevented him from doing this, but I wasn't. And if I had come into the room shortly thereafter, I probably would have (quietly) shrieked some admonishment (something to the effect of: ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!?), and then requested that he pour the contents of the juice container into a remote corner of the garden. But, again, I wasn't.

And so Brad set the (rather full) carton down, with every intention (I'm sure) of taking it up to the toilet once Innis awoke. He thought he was being helpful, because now Innis could sleep longer. He figured he'd take care of it before any of us realized there was a container of human urine on the kitchen floor.

But then he forgot.

So fast forward to later this afternoon:

Brad: Did you empty this orange juice carton?

Me: What? Why would I do that? What was in it?

Brad: I peed in it.

Me: ... ?

Brad: I didn't want to wake the baby.

Me: Are you serious?

Brad: Yeah, and now it's gone.

Me: What do you mean, GONE?

Brad: I PEED in this carton, and now it's EMPTY.

Me: (spinning around to look at Scarlet with horror) Do you think she ... drank it?

Brad: (laughing) I don't know! I don't know!

Me: OR ...

Brad: Or what?

Me: Was Innis in here? Was he ... playing in it? Do you think he tipped it over?!?!

Brad: I don't think so ... but if he did, where'd it go?

Me: Like, OTHER THAN ALL OVER OUR INFANT SON, you mean?

Thus, we did some sleuthing. And it turns out that because our house runs downhill, so do all liquids spilled therein. So we were able to track down the pee (it wasn't that far away), but even so, there was decidedly less to mop up than what Brad claimed he originally deposited into the container earlier this morning.

So. Since Innis's clothes were dry, and Scarlet's personal habits are revolting, we're going with the hypothesis that she drank Brad's pee out of the container while we were out of the room, and because she's ridiculously clumsy, knocked the container over when she jerked her snout out of the carton.

Bypassing, of course, the FULL DOG BOWL OF CLEAN, SPARKLING WATER RESTING SIX FEET TO HER LEFT.

But I mean, really. What is there to expect from a dog whose owner pees in random containers and leaves them lying around the house? Nothing less than this, it seems.

Yup, I Think He's My Son

This is me when I was three and a half:

And Innis:

I've sorted out a bunch of Brad's baby pictures as well, so I'll scan those soon and we can do even more comparison! This is fun!

Sixteen Months

A couple days ago, Innis threw his arms down on the seat of a chair, looked straight up at me, and said:

"HI!"

And I was all, "WHOA," and also: "DID YOU -- HEY! -- DID YOU GUYS HEAR THAT???"

But I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, since only minutes earlier he'd been tapping the lenses of my glasses and saying "eye! eye! eye!" and then had proceeded to do the same to Nancy's cat Chloe, though admittedly she wasn't wearing spectacles, which Innis took into account by only poking her in the retina a little bit.

And even though it was TOTALLY obvious that he was saying a WORD, with association --A WORD, PEOPLE -- I was still all, "um, I don't know. Are you sure that wasn't just a lucky grunt?"

Which takes me back to when Innis was a real baby, like, maybe only a few months old, and we went for his checkup and the nurse was like, "does he know his name?" and I was all, "um, probably not," and then she said "Innis!" and he swung his head around towards her like his neck was made of rubber. Like immediately, as in, "FINALLY SOMEONE IS ENGAGING ME IN CONVERSATION."

And my first thought was, "I am a terribly unobservant mother," closely followed by "MAH SON IS A GEEEENIUS!!!"

So in light of this, I would like to officially inform you of the fact that Innis said real words this month, that made sense and had contextual appropriateness, and for which all consonants and vowels were present, accounted for, and articulated. None of this "boohh" for book, and "baahh" for bath nonsense. REAL WORDS. WITH SOUNDS.

He's also been forming sentences out of baby babble lately. These sentences have  inflection, and emphasis. My favourite Innis sentence so far has been "berdyberdyberdyber," usually communicated as he grumbles from one end of the living room to the other, preoccupied with solving world hunger, effecting world peace ... or trying to pry crackers out of his Ikea veggie basket.

He's also said "no" a couple times lately (great), and he's become a practiced head shaker. Like, really emphatic head shakes, right from one shoulder to the other.

But, of all things (and this is really unfamiliar ground here), Innis hasn't been as easy to feed this month. I think this is because he's nearly 100% transitioned into adult food (cut into baby sized portions of course), and he's suddenly become reluctant to keep certain textures in his mouth, and seems a little less willing to take my word for how delicious things are now that he's a little more discerning. Rather than use his tastebuds, Innis likes to test food by seeing how far he can launch morsels of it across the kitchen. Pretty far, as it turns out. He's also experimenting with whether or not he can sustain himself on clementines. This isn't working out so well.

AND, he's not sleeping through the night anymore, but I knew this would happen as soon as I mentioned his improved sleeping habits on here a little while ago. It's parent karma, and it will bite your ass.

It was but a brief gift, those few unbroken nights of sleep, but now we're back to trudging into his room to offer back rubs and lullabies two or three times a night.

But on the other hand, what's sleep deprivation compared to baby kisses?

Pucker up!

So Maybe We'll Miss This Part Just A Little Bit

Because really, where else can you wear a raccoon hat completely over your eyes and still look totally awesome?

Innis In The Kitchen

The other day we were feeling a little housebound, and had exhausted the fun factor of most of Innis's toys.

An activity! I thought. We need to do a really messy and creative activity!

So, we started to make cookies:

But then Innis got a really important phone call:

And had to rush off mid-recipe:

Because he's a busy kid with people to see and things to do. He can't just sit around making cookies all day long, you know.

Waking Up Behind Bars Is Sorely Underrated

Last night, the duration and quality of my sleep was in direct correlation to the amount of room in which my toes could freely wriggle before jamming up against hard, wooden slats.

As in: very little.

Because Brad is sick. And when Brad is sick, the whole world has a tendency to slowly implode in on itself, folding in like a cake removed too early from the oven. All hot and sticky, and runny, and, well, just plain gross (sorry, honey).

We thought it was food poisoning, and then we figured it was probably a virus, but when he stopped puking in hour four, we went back to our original diagnosis after speaking to a telehealth nurse. It may have been the sausage he ate earlier that day, or the chicken wings (yeah, no surprise here) he ate later on in the afternoon. In a way, it's sort of like the ghosts of the dead animals he ingested were coming back to haunt him because his small "v" vegetarianism has so badly lapsed since we've been home. Or that's what the scientists are saying, anyway.

But if it was food poisoning, then wouldn't other people be sick, too? And they weren't, so this further confused the matter.

However, despite the mystery of the illness, and while Brad heroically submitted to death throes, I fetched water and kept him company until about four in the morning. As we'd already decided it would be best if I didn't sleep in our bedroom without wearing a hazmat suit, I'd already set up a hasty bed on the floor in Innis's room, and this I did for two reasons: first, just in case Innis also got sick, I wanted to be on hand quickly and coherently, and secondly, I didn't really want to contract and then suffer through whatever it was that Brad was dying from. Because, like, that would suck.

(By the way, have I shown you this before? I mostly mean the part at the end -- mutated virus, indeed)

So when Brad sort of stabilized, I snuck away into the baby den of sweet smells and health and prepared to stretch out on the slab of concrete floor passing for carpet around here (I mean, I get it, nubbly carpet looks nice, but, c'mon. It makes for a terrible mattress). However, as I entered the room, guess who I found wide awake, chirping and cooing and generally being delicious and squishable?

So, instead of hanging over the edge of the crib to rub his back and sing him back to sleep (it doesn't matter what part of your body takes the pressure on the crib rail -- stomach, ribcage, cheekbone -- you cannot do this for long periods of time, especially at four in the morning), I decided I'd crawl into Innis's crib with him, just for a minute, just until he fell asleep.

But then he fell asleep, and I decided I would cuddle him just a little more before climbing out to hunker down on the space I'd laughingly considered potentially comfortable (given the viral threat in the other room) only moments before.

And after a few minutes, I decided it was awfully snuggly in that crib, so I pulled in my own duvet and made a perfect little feather nest for us both. Because, you know, I didn't want to wake him up by crawling out now that he was sleeping so peacefully.

And then --

Well, then it was morning, and my back muscles were spasming from the question mark I'd contorted myself into for three hours, and I'd lost the feeling in my toes because at some point I'd jammed my feet through the crib slats and there they'd stuck, blocking off whatever important veins that were supposed to be carrying blood and oxygen to my piggly wigglies.

But, like magic, all thoughts of physical discomfort flitted away because just then, the pink-cheeked cherub sleeping next to me woke up with a sleepy smile.

And I'm realizing more and more that these are the moments I'm going to have to hold only as memories soon. I can't be snuggling in with Innis for much longer, or vice versa, which actually makes me pretty sad. Today we went for a public swim at the pool, and for twenty minutes he wrapped his arms and legs around me and tucked his head under my chin while we bobbed and dipped and swirled. At one point, I thought he'd fallen asleep, but no, he was just enjoying being held, and safe, and warm.

Thus, two conclusions: I am a serious Sucky McSucky Suck (excuse me while I gush all over you), and two: I would really like to have another baby so I can have all these moments over again one more time.

P.S. Brad is better today, though he probably won't be 100% until tomorrow. So far, Innis and I are symptom free, but I'll knock on wood for that -- but not on the wood of Innis's crib, because Sucky McSucky Suck or not, tonight I need a real sleep in a real bed, even if it means bunking up with the embodiment of the Bubonic Plague formerly known as Brad -- although if it's any consolation, he's the cutest Bubonic Plague sufferer I know. If there was a competition for Most Handsome Black Plague Disease Carrier, Brad would win hands down. If there -- ok, enough. I can't think of any more words. Because I'm exhausted. And because there's a king-sized European top mattress with two (yup, TWO!) feather duvets and a comforter waiting for me a brief staircase away ...

Point In Favour: Cayman Islands

At least in the Cayman Islands, Rex won't have to huddle around warm air vents like some kind of goddamn hobo:

Puppies In Love

Ok, so they're not puppies anymore, and they also share a mother.

BUT THEY ARE STILL SO CUTE:

Mr. Empathy

A little while ago, Robert, Brad, and I took Innis over to the sledding hill just by our house so he could watch the kids zoom down the slopes while we played fetch with Badger.

We thought he'd be excited, and interested, and amused to see the kids fly down the hills, but after he saw the first one take a (safely padded) tumble, he was, uh, horrified:

The same thing happened a little while ago when he saw a clip of some babies falling off (low-to-the-ground-and-relatively-safe) things on America's Funniest Home Videos. Burst into tears, and wanted nothing to do with it.

And, I gotta say, I love his love.

Cayman Islands: Decision Time

We are ... maybe going.

(probably)

(and maybe we'll know for sure next week)

If anything, the last few weeks have been about patience, and forbearance, and the ability to adopt the properties of rubber -- as in, we've bounced back and forth on this decision so many times, it's a wonder we're still able to stand upright.

And to tell you the truth, this process keeps going and going and ... going.

However, one by one, the issues that potentially stood in our way of actually deciding whether or not we could go were gradually resolved. Like, we figured out the pets could come, and we'd be able to rent a house within our budget that would house everyone, and I could leave Canada and return without losing my permanent residency because we found out it's all ok because I'm accompanying my Canadian spouse out of the country, and that Brad's considered 100% recovered from the brain stuff from last year so he could actually qualify for Cayman Islands health care.

And with all that bureaucratic confusion swept aside, we were finally left with the decision of whether or not we wanted to go.

And holy crap, that was hard.

I heard a comedian once say that comparing apples to oranges makes no sense, and instead, if you're going to use that saying, it's better to compare things that are totally opposite from one another, like, say, apples and poverty. And that's what I've felt like we've been trying to do over the last month or so. How do you compare your bank account with the love you have for family? Or personal integrity with how much you missed your home when you lived away from it the last time? Or professional growth and steady employment with the joy you have when watching your son's grandparents fawn all over his adorable little self on a daily basis? Financial stability and improved future security with the ability to pop by for visits with friends and family?

How do you objectively compare two unknown paths?

We're still waiting for the return of all Brad's health test results, which we'll then forward to his employer, and then we'll have to wait for them to confirm that Brad's eligible for health care coverage.

But if he's good to go, we're, uh, going to go.

That still feels weird to say. And I'll admit, we're not 100% happy with it.

You're all going to come visit, right?

OK.

*brushes tears from eyes, adjusts funny bone*

But on a more practical side, THIS is what really concerns me:

Or, more precisely, THIS:

Because, ok, hear me out, what if the Cayman Islands falls into the Cayman Trench? Just like, slides in or whatever? I don't know, I've never lived on an island. Is that something to be afraid of? Because that thing is DEEP. And there are definitely sharks in that water, ready to eat us. See their ominous fins? Just biding their time, waiting for the perfect time to strike, like just after the whole island falls into the ocean.

What?

Still Sucked Into the Vortex

Sorry, guys. I know. I KNOW. But soon, soon we will know where we're going -- or not going -- in the near future. Cayman Islands, Canada. One of the two.

It seems like every time we think we've made our decision, something pops up -- a new piece of information -- that changes our minds, or puts a seemingly insurmountable obstacle in our path. But then, somehow, that obstacle is cleared, but only to make way for an EVEN BIGGER one, and so on and so forth, until our brains have been mashed into paste and our nerves are jangling like a junior high school Christmas hand bell ensemble (have you seen New Girl?).

But, by 11am-ish tomorrow morning, we should know for sure what we're doing.

So, sorry for being a silent recluse. SOON IT WILL ALL BE OVER.

Here's a picture:

Miss And Mister Cranky Pants

This Christmas, Rebecca and I thought it would be HILARIOUS if Hazel and Innis had matching cranky pants to wear on Christmas day. So I made them and the result WAS hilarious, indeed! (it's almost like we're psychic or something!)

I'd originally planned to get a side by side picture of both baby butts, you know, like, near the Christmas tree or something, but horrific events involving the hot glass front of the gas fireplace at Brad's parents' house and Innis's precious little baby fingers prevented this from happening (don't worry, he's fine now, but just maybe a little more respectful of things that are "HAWH!" as a result).

THUS, separate photographic evidence of said cranky pants will have to suffice:

So, Hazel's version had eyelashes, and an accurate number of teeth (sixteen! Hazel has sixteen baby teeth!):

While Innis's pants had nine teeth (just like in real life: four top, four bottom, and an errant molar), as well as some seriously cranky eyebrows:

But I guess we'll have to weave some drawstrings through the holes I intentionally left in the bottoms of the waistbands after all, because otherwise we'll end up with saggy pants rather than those of the cranky variety. Although, Hazel's already shown that the name "cranky pants" has no real power:

Because clearly these pants make babies VERY VERY HAPPY.

(and see? I wasn't kidding about those teeth. SIXTEEN!)

New Year, New Pretty Things

Here are some new pieces I've just posted in my etsy shop!

Fair Warning

If you listen, these will probably be stuck in your head FOREVER. On the up side, that may not be such a bad thing since they are ridiculously good:

 

 

Happy 2012

May your new year be filled with love, beauty, warmth, happiness, and many, many games of fetch.