This morning when my eyes popped open, I first thought it was 5 a.m. because it was pitch dark in the bedroom. So for a few minutes while I had an internal debate with myself if I should or shouldn't go to the washroom, I tried to squint at the clock on the cable converter box to see what time it was. No deal. Couldn't see clearly. So I unbundled myself from my warm cocoon and headed to the washroom. While on my way to the washroom, I glanced at the cable box. The time of 6:23 glowed back at me.
What?!? 6:23 a.m. You have to be kidding me. It is too dark out to be 6:23 in the morning.
Damn you daylight savings time.
I hate, hate, hate switching to daylight savings time and giving up an hour. It takes me about a week to get my body adjusted to the new time change. I seem to have no problem to switching back to standard time. Perhaps it is due to the fact we gain an hour.
The switch over to daylight savings time got off to a very rocky start. Surprise, surprise, darling daughter decided she didn't want to go to sleep on Saturday night. She got to bed late and she got up early. Trying to juggling a much needed morning nap with the usual afternoon nap was difficult in lieu of the time change. So while we tried to ensure that we nipped the overtired factor in the butt, both dear husband and I tried to get our bearings. As the afternoon wore on, I kept on glancing at the clocks to see what time it was. When 7 p.m. rolled around, I started to feel exhausted. And it was no wonder as darling daughter did get up for an hour between the hours of 5 and 6 a.m. (or was that 4 and 5 a.m. on the old time)? When 10 p.m. rolled around, I was ready to hit the hay.
While it may be nice to see the daylight hours extended past 6 p.m., I'm not looking forward to waking up in complete darkness for the next month. Until my body adjusts and I wake up to sunlight, pass the Tylenol because this springing ahead business gives me a headache.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Distraction no longer an option
Dear husband and I are in a real pickle.
Darling daughter has decided the kitchen is her absolutely favourite spot in the whole house. Wonderful. And write that sarcastically as we don't have an open concept house and unless you are sitting on the kitchen floor, as I am doing right at the moment, the kitchen isn't all that tolerable as there is no place to sit.
Darling daughter is fascinated with playing with the fridge magnets, opening up the Tupperware drawer, and picking up dirt off the floor. Distracting her is no longer an option. We've been trying all week, but she literally cries until you open up the baby gate to let her into the kitchen. Once the gate is open, she is all smiles and full of good cheer. All she wants to do is play in the kitchen and sit on the nearby stairs.
So dear husband and I are all out of ideas. We don't like to see our toddler so miserable. Toys in the living room have no allure anymore. Neither does climbing on the furniture. I guess we will be making a trip to Ikea in the very near future to buy a cheap table and chair set because it looks like we will be spending a bit of time in the kitchen.
Darling daughter has decided the kitchen is her absolutely favourite spot in the whole house. Wonderful. And write that sarcastically as we don't have an open concept house and unless you are sitting on the kitchen floor, as I am doing right at the moment, the kitchen isn't all that tolerable as there is no place to sit.
Darling daughter is fascinated with playing with the fridge magnets, opening up the Tupperware drawer, and picking up dirt off the floor. Distracting her is no longer an option. We've been trying all week, but she literally cries until you open up the baby gate to let her into the kitchen. Once the gate is open, she is all smiles and full of good cheer. All she wants to do is play in the kitchen and sit on the nearby stairs.
So dear husband and I are all out of ideas. We don't like to see our toddler so miserable. Toys in the living room have no allure anymore. Neither does climbing on the furniture. I guess we will be making a trip to Ikea in the very near future to buy a cheap table and chair set because it looks like we will be spending a bit of time in the kitchen.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Silence is golden
As the old saying goes, silence is golden.
I'm nearing the end of hour two of darling daughter's nap time. Lately, she has been having some great naps, which frees up time for me. In the last two hours, I've cleaned up our daily lunch mess, did laundry, watched The View, continued magic looping (a knitting technique) the sleeves of a hoodie that I'm making darling daughter and surfed the Internet. And now I'm a bit bored. I'm just waiting for her to wake up so we can head outside for a walk.
But maybe, just maybe, I should just enjoy the last remaining minutes of the silence rather than twiddling my thumbs, waiting for her to wake up. Because, as they say, silence is golden.
I'm nearing the end of hour two of darling daughter's nap time. Lately, she has been having some great naps, which frees up time for me. In the last two hours, I've cleaned up our daily lunch mess, did laundry, watched The View, continued magic looping (a knitting technique) the sleeves of a hoodie that I'm making darling daughter and surfed the Internet. And now I'm a bit bored. I'm just waiting for her to wake up so we can head outside for a walk.
But maybe, just maybe, I should just enjoy the last remaining minutes of the silence rather than twiddling my thumbs, waiting for her to wake up. Because, as they say, silence is golden.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The fallout of dealing with sabotage
I hate being sabotaged by dear husband.
I truly know he doesn't mean it, but man, it sucks when he does it.
For the last two days, dear husband has been working from home. In darling daughter's mind, it is the weekend. But it clearly isn't as he has his office door closed, listening in on an conference call as he participates in a training session. Unless it is a statutory holiday, I don't like dear husband being home from Monday to Friday, between the hours of 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. He disrupts our flow of energy as well as our routine.
Since darling daughter is only 19 months, she doesn't understand why her father can't play with her. Darling daughter's new favourite activity is to sit on the bottom of the steps leading upstairs. But the way our house is laid out, it is hard to police her unless you are standing right there, watching her so she doesn't decide to climb upstairs. I try to distract her from stairs sitting with other activities, because quite frankly, I can't stand in one spot all day, watching her sit on the stairs. And if I let her, she'd sit on the stairs all day.
When dear husband came down for lunch today, what does he do? He allows her to sit on the stairs. He encourages it by rearranging the baby gates in the house to prevent her from bolting upstairs. Great, I think to myself. When he goes upstairs, shuts the door to the office and taps back into his conference call, I've got the task of explaining to a 19-month old why she can't sit on the stairs. And guess what? She doesn't like hearing the word no all that much.
Me: You know what? You are sabotaging me. You are a saboteur.
Dear husband: Sorry, but you know how she can press my buttons. I can't say no.
Me: You are worse than a house of cards on a windy day. You collapse too quickly. Stop sabotaging me.
Luckily for me, nap time starts at 12:30 p.m. I had dear husband rearrange the baby gates in hopes darling daughter doesn't get it in her head this afternoon that she needs to sit on the stairs. And if that fails, we'll be going on a long, extended walk this afternoon.
Ah, dealing with the fallout of sabotage isn't all that fun. But at least I will get some exercise out of it.
I truly know he doesn't mean it, but man, it sucks when he does it.
For the last two days, dear husband has been working from home. In darling daughter's mind, it is the weekend. But it clearly isn't as he has his office door closed, listening in on an conference call as he participates in a training session. Unless it is a statutory holiday, I don't like dear husband being home from Monday to Friday, between the hours of 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. He disrupts our flow of energy as well as our routine.
Since darling daughter is only 19 months, she doesn't understand why her father can't play with her. Darling daughter's new favourite activity is to sit on the bottom of the steps leading upstairs. But the way our house is laid out, it is hard to police her unless you are standing right there, watching her so she doesn't decide to climb upstairs. I try to distract her from stairs sitting with other activities, because quite frankly, I can't stand in one spot all day, watching her sit on the stairs. And if I let her, she'd sit on the stairs all day.
When dear husband came down for lunch today, what does he do? He allows her to sit on the stairs. He encourages it by rearranging the baby gates in the house to prevent her from bolting upstairs. Great, I think to myself. When he goes upstairs, shuts the door to the office and taps back into his conference call, I've got the task of explaining to a 19-month old why she can't sit on the stairs. And guess what? She doesn't like hearing the word no all that much.
Me: You know what? You are sabotaging me. You are a saboteur.
Dear husband: Sorry, but you know how she can press my buttons. I can't say no.
Me: You are worse than a house of cards on a windy day. You collapse too quickly. Stop sabotaging me.
Luckily for me, nap time starts at 12:30 p.m. I had dear husband rearrange the baby gates in hopes darling daughter doesn't get it in her head this afternoon that she needs to sit on the stairs. And if that fails, we'll be going on a long, extended walk this afternoon.
Ah, dealing with the fallout of sabotage isn't all that fun. But at least I will get some exercise out of it.
Monday, March 8, 2010
The dreaded witching hour
Wikipedia describes the term witching hour as the following: "In European folklore, the witching hour is the time when supernatural creatures such as witches, demons and ghosts are thought to be at their most powerful, and black magic at its most effective. This hour is typically midnight, and the term may now be used to refer to midnight, or any late hour, even without having the associated superstitious beliefs."
In my house, witching hour starts shortly at about 3 p.m., and usually ends when dear husband walks through the door two hours later. Witching hour usually coincides with typically hyper toddler behaviour that may include the following: banging and throwing toys, screaming and giggling loudly, getting into general mischief, tears and crying, and making high demands that can't be met. And there is usually a temper tantrum or two.
Now, let me stress the following: I'm not calling my toddler a witch. She is the most sweetest, kindest and charming little girl in the world. But in my experiencing, witching hour is that strange, two hour window when my toddler, who has usually recharged from her nap, is raring to go, while I'd like to curl on the couch and have a quick cat nap. And usually at this point I'm counting down the minutes to 5 p.m.
Dear husband rarely experiences the witching hour phenomenon. But he did on Saturday. After a run, I was so tired that I had a three hour nap. When I came come down, he was trying to figure out what was wrong with our crying, upset and unco-operative toddler who was refusing all his efforts in trying to comfort her.
Dear husband: What is wrong with her?
Me: (Glancing at the clock). It's 4 p.m. It's witching hour.
Dear husband: Witching hour? What is that?
Me: This is witching hour. (Pointing to our crying toddler). You usually the one who ends witching hours, but since this is Saturday and you aren't working, witching hour will likely go into bedtime.
And it did.
Today, witching hour is going okay. Darling daughter has had her moments. But I'm still counting down to 5 p.m. It is always nice to have an extra set of hands to help with darling daughter . . . as well as a well needed break.
In my house, witching hour starts shortly at about 3 p.m., and usually ends when dear husband walks through the door two hours later. Witching hour usually coincides with typically hyper toddler behaviour that may include the following: banging and throwing toys, screaming and giggling loudly, getting into general mischief, tears and crying, and making high demands that can't be met. And there is usually a temper tantrum or two.
Now, let me stress the following: I'm not calling my toddler a witch. She is the most sweetest, kindest and charming little girl in the world. But in my experiencing, witching hour is that strange, two hour window when my toddler, who has usually recharged from her nap, is raring to go, while I'd like to curl on the couch and have a quick cat nap. And usually at this point I'm counting down the minutes to 5 p.m.
Dear husband rarely experiences the witching hour phenomenon. But he did on Saturday. After a run, I was so tired that I had a three hour nap. When I came come down, he was trying to figure out what was wrong with our crying, upset and unco-operative toddler who was refusing all his efforts in trying to comfort her.
Dear husband: What is wrong with her?
Me: (Glancing at the clock). It's 4 p.m. It's witching hour.
Dear husband: Witching hour? What is that?
Me: This is witching hour. (Pointing to our crying toddler). You usually the one who ends witching hours, but since this is Saturday and you aren't working, witching hour will likely go into bedtime.
And it did.
Today, witching hour is going okay. Darling daughter has had her moments. But I'm still counting down to 5 p.m. It is always nice to have an extra set of hands to help with darling daughter . . . as well as a well needed break.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Official occupation: Wonder Woman
Sometimes I forget what the "real world" is like. It has been almost been two years since I gave up my job to go on maternity leave and never return to the working world. I forgot that one measuring sticks society uses to evaluate one as a person is their occupation.
Let me explain. Yesterday I went to the bank to make a hurried retirement savings plan contribution as it was the absolute last deadline to do so. While doing the paperwork, the investment advisor asked me what my occupation was. With darling daughter in the stroller next to me, it wasn't all that hard for him to guess. "I'm a stay at home mom," I said.
"Okay," he said, typing in information into the computer. "Homemaker."
Homemaker? I'm a homemaker? This was news to me. I wanted to tell him the following: "Mister, you really should come over and take a peek at my home. I'm no homemaker. Homemaker would imply that I maintain and upkeep my home. I just don't have the time. I've got great intentions, but sometimes it doesn't work out. I've got toys strewn across my living room and downstairs playroom. I've got laundry piling up in the bedrooms. I've got dust bunnies reproducing underneath my beds and every crook and cranny in my house. At lunch time, for whatever inexplicable reason, it looks like an bomb went off in the kitchen because dirty dishes litter my counters and there are food stains all over the floor. And please don't look inside the microwave. It is just nasty. I try to do housework, but it is just too darn hard with a crying toddler hanging off my leg. Some days, I consider a successful day when I'm able to wash, dry and fold one load of laundry."
In hindsight what I should have told him to put down as my official occupation is Wonder Woman. "I think Wonder Woman is a better term that describes my occupation for the following reasons: Have you ever cared for a toddler on a couple hours of sleep? It's tough work. But what is tougher is negotiating with a toddler, especially one who is overtired. It is difficult and challenging, and there are times you want to give in to their demands, but you have to remain strong. Nap time negotiations are the hardest. When they sense weakness, they'll pounce and quickly use it to their advantage. And how about dealing with a picky toddler, the type who isn't happy with the food being presented to her so she dumps it all over the floor? And all you want to do is cry because all your hard work is at your feet on the same floor you just washed an hour ago. Yep, it is hard to remain calm, but you must. Like I said earlier, they can sense weakness easily. . . . And have you ever competed in the car seat Olympics? Bundling up said toddler in a snow suit, hauling them out to the car, getting them in and buckled into the car seat, driving to destination, arriving to destination, extracting them from the car seat and into a stroller? Do that three times a day and there is no need to go to the gym. . ."
Later that evening, I told my friend that the bank has classed my official occupation as homemaker. We both had a quiet chuckle. But I'm more inclined to say that I'm a Wonder Woman. Regardless if you stay at home, work from home or work out of the home, all mothers are Wonder Women. Because as I'm quickly discovering, the hardest job there is is being a mother.
Let me explain. Yesterday I went to the bank to make a hurried retirement savings plan contribution as it was the absolute last deadline to do so. While doing the paperwork, the investment advisor asked me what my occupation was. With darling daughter in the stroller next to me, it wasn't all that hard for him to guess. "I'm a stay at home mom," I said.
"Okay," he said, typing in information into the computer. "Homemaker."
Homemaker? I'm a homemaker? This was news to me. I wanted to tell him the following: "Mister, you really should come over and take a peek at my home. I'm no homemaker. Homemaker would imply that I maintain and upkeep my home. I just don't have the time. I've got great intentions, but sometimes it doesn't work out. I've got toys strewn across my living room and downstairs playroom. I've got laundry piling up in the bedrooms. I've got dust bunnies reproducing underneath my beds and every crook and cranny in my house. At lunch time, for whatever inexplicable reason, it looks like an bomb went off in the kitchen because dirty dishes litter my counters and there are food stains all over the floor. And please don't look inside the microwave. It is just nasty. I try to do housework, but it is just too darn hard with a crying toddler hanging off my leg. Some days, I consider a successful day when I'm able to wash, dry and fold one load of laundry."
In hindsight what I should have told him to put down as my official occupation is Wonder Woman. "I think Wonder Woman is a better term that describes my occupation for the following reasons: Have you ever cared for a toddler on a couple hours of sleep? It's tough work. But what is tougher is negotiating with a toddler, especially one who is overtired. It is difficult and challenging, and there are times you want to give in to their demands, but you have to remain strong. Nap time negotiations are the hardest. When they sense weakness, they'll pounce and quickly use it to their advantage. And how about dealing with a picky toddler, the type who isn't happy with the food being presented to her so she dumps it all over the floor? And all you want to do is cry because all your hard work is at your feet on the same floor you just washed an hour ago. Yep, it is hard to remain calm, but you must. Like I said earlier, they can sense weakness easily. . . . And have you ever competed in the car seat Olympics? Bundling up said toddler in a snow suit, hauling them out to the car, getting them in and buckled into the car seat, driving to destination, arriving to destination, extracting them from the car seat and into a stroller? Do that three times a day and there is no need to go to the gym. . ."
Later that evening, I told my friend that the bank has classed my official occupation as homemaker. We both had a quiet chuckle. But I'm more inclined to say that I'm a Wonder Woman. Regardless if you stay at home, work from home or work out of the home, all mothers are Wonder Women. Because as I'm quickly discovering, the hardest job there is is being a mother.
Monday, March 1, 2010
We're loud, we're proud and we're Canadian!
Today, it is hard not to be proud to be Canadian.
The Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic Games are over. Vancouver is cleaning up from its 17 days of being in the world spotlight, athletes are heading home and eastern Canadians are sighing a weary breath of relief that the late nights of being glued to the television have finally come to an end.
While Canada didn't Own The Podium in every sense of the word, it did set an Olympic record medal haul of 14 gold medals, beating the old record of the 13. That record certainly makes up for Canada never winning a gold medal on home soil. And winning a total of 26 medals is not to shabby at all.
In these last 17 days, we have seen Frederic Bilodeau cheer in the stands for his brother Alex when he won Canada's first gold medal in men's moguls. We've seen figure skater Joannie Rochette, heartbroken from her mother's sudden death, continue with her Olympic dream and go on to win a bronze medal. The women's bobsleigh teams didn't fail to disappoint as they both won gold and silver in the two-person event. We've seen the men's speed skaters bounce back from disappointment, winning gold in both the relay and team pursuit events. (And who can forget that crazy finish in the men's 500-metre finals where Charles Hamelin captured gold and teammate Francois-Louis Tremblay snagged bronze. As one of my friends said on facebook, it almost looked like Hamelin did a pirouette over the finish line). And of course both the women's and men's hockey teams were able to deliver gold on home turf.
While I didn't think anything could top the inflatable beavers and flying moose from last night's closing ceremonies, this morning, the ladies of The View paid homage to Canada by walking out to the table to O Canada. Regardless of where our national anthem is played, even if it is on a talk show, it is hard not to feel proud.
A Canadian friend of mine, who lives out of the country, asked me to send her the front page of the newspaper. There was so much Olympic coverage in both the Citizen and Sun today that I couldn't help ripping out every page and stuffing it into an envelope. Hey, I'm a proud Canadian. I like to spread the patriotism around.
It is bittersweet to see the Olympics come to an end. I feel a tad lost today as I surf through the channels, expecting to hear Jamie Campbell or Rod Black's voice in the background while athletes race on the ice or fly in the air.
It's back to regular scheduled programming. Thanks for the memories Vancouver. They will last a lifetime.
The Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic Games are over. Vancouver is cleaning up from its 17 days of being in the world spotlight, athletes are heading home and eastern Canadians are sighing a weary breath of relief that the late nights of being glued to the television have finally come to an end.
While Canada didn't Own The Podium in every sense of the word, it did set an Olympic record medal haul of 14 gold medals, beating the old record of the 13. That record certainly makes up for Canada never winning a gold medal on home soil. And winning a total of 26 medals is not to shabby at all.
In these last 17 days, we have seen Frederic Bilodeau cheer in the stands for his brother Alex when he won Canada's first gold medal in men's moguls. We've seen figure skater Joannie Rochette, heartbroken from her mother's sudden death, continue with her Olympic dream and go on to win a bronze medal. The women's bobsleigh teams didn't fail to disappoint as they both won gold and silver in the two-person event. We've seen the men's speed skaters bounce back from disappointment, winning gold in both the relay and team pursuit events. (And who can forget that crazy finish in the men's 500-metre finals where Charles Hamelin captured gold and teammate Francois-Louis Tremblay snagged bronze. As one of my friends said on facebook, it almost looked like Hamelin did a pirouette over the finish line). And of course both the women's and men's hockey teams were able to deliver gold on home turf.
While I didn't think anything could top the inflatable beavers and flying moose from last night's closing ceremonies, this morning, the ladies of The View paid homage to Canada by walking out to the table to O Canada. Regardless of where our national anthem is played, even if it is on a talk show, it is hard not to feel proud.
A Canadian friend of mine, who lives out of the country, asked me to send her the front page of the newspaper. There was so much Olympic coverage in both the Citizen and Sun today that I couldn't help ripping out every page and stuffing it into an envelope. Hey, I'm a proud Canadian. I like to spread the patriotism around.
It is bittersweet to see the Olympics come to an end. I feel a tad lost today as I surf through the channels, expecting to hear Jamie Campbell or Rod Black's voice in the background while athletes race on the ice or fly in the air.
It's back to regular scheduled programming. Thanks for the memories Vancouver. They will last a lifetime.
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