Big Red
Cole and I were at Joseph Brant hospital around one in the morning early Monday. We were in the waiting room - an oddly familiar place now. And a gentleman came in with his daughter. While he was standing near Cole and I, waiting for his daughter to finish in the washroom, he looked at Cole and turned to me and said, "A touch of red, eh?"
I get this A LOT! Just earlier that day, at the Walk-In Clinic, a pharmacist had commented on Cole's hair, calling him BIG RED. So to the man at emerg's comment, I smiled knowingly, already anticipating what he'd ask next. It always came next. Where does he get it? Must be from your husband? Has he got Scottish in him?
So without missing a beat, I said to the man, "We don't know where he gets it." I was grinning dumbly, rather proud of myself for anticipating his unspoken thoughts.
But the man was silent in thought for a serious moment, then he said soberly, "How long's he had it?"
I looked at my son. Had what? Hair?
"Uh......" I looked at the man's concern, then back at my son, whom I now realized had a bit of a rash on his face (probably from the fever and the vomitting).
The man shrugged and before turning away offered, "...maybe allergies?"
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
SHAPES
Cole’s Great Nana and Great Papa bought Cole a shape puzzle for Christmas. It has many shapes and a little sensor so that as you are putting the shape into its correct spot, a little robotic voice says the name of the shape you’ve just placed. Clever, eh?
So we were trying it out.
“Circle” it was saying. “Square” as we placed the square into its spot.
Then suddenly, it said “oval”. But I wasn’t placing the oval. I had the oval in my hand! How did it know I was going to put the oval in its spot BEFORE I had? We continued placing shapes and then suddenly the puzzle was saying “Octagon” when we were placing a pentagon in its spot.
And I realized something. The sensors in the puzzle were so sensitive that even if my finger was touching the sensor (instead of the puzzle piece) it would say the shape’s name. I touched the spot for the trapezoid and sure enough, “Trapezoid” the robotic voice said with certainty.
A few days later, no one was home but me. I had set the puzzle in a box on the lower shelf of the table in our living room. And suddenly, a voice startled me. “TRIANGLE!”
I jumped.
I looked around.
Then I looked down. The puzzle was there by my feet.
Probably, I figured, my toe had touched the sensor of the triangle spot.
What a sensitive little toy, I marveled.
That night, around nine o’clock, I was turning out lights and about to head off to bed.
I flicked the switch for the living room.
And in the eery quiet of the dark room I heard the unmistakable, well-intentioned and now familiar voice declare, “ OCTAGON.”
And off I went to bed.
Cole’s Great Nana and Great Papa bought Cole a shape puzzle for Christmas. It has many shapes and a little sensor so that as you are putting the shape into its correct spot, a little robotic voice says the name of the shape you’ve just placed. Clever, eh?
So we were trying it out.
“Circle” it was saying. “Square” as we placed the square into its spot.
Then suddenly, it said “oval”. But I wasn’t placing the oval. I had the oval in my hand! How did it know I was going to put the oval in its spot BEFORE I had? We continued placing shapes and then suddenly the puzzle was saying “Octagon” when we were placing a pentagon in its spot.
And I realized something. The sensors in the puzzle were so sensitive that even if my finger was touching the sensor (instead of the puzzle piece) it would say the shape’s name. I touched the spot for the trapezoid and sure enough, “Trapezoid” the robotic voice said with certainty.
A few days later, no one was home but me. I had set the puzzle in a box on the lower shelf of the table in our living room. And suddenly, a voice startled me. “TRIANGLE!”
I jumped.
I looked around.
Then I looked down. The puzzle was there by my feet.
Probably, I figured, my toe had touched the sensor of the triangle spot.
What a sensitive little toy, I marveled.
That night, around nine o’clock, I was turning out lights and about to head off to bed.
I flicked the switch for the living room.
And in the eery quiet of the dark room I heard the unmistakable, well-intentioned and now familiar voice declare, “ OCTAGON.”
And off I went to bed.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
A veritable monkey
Cole enjoying the dog book Aunt Mary and Uncle Ben bought him
Three generations of Peron boys - the day after Ukrainian Christmas
Cole and Mom set out for our first tobogganing outting
Fun on the toboggan hill
Winter frolick
Awwwww, so cute. None of us suspected Cole was about to go Volcanic all over Grandpa and his pajamas.
Grandpa "Ruff Ruff" and Cole read a bedtime book
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Painting - Back in the Saddle
For Christmas, my husband bought me a session of painting lessons. This is such a special idea because it's "Me" time, where I don't have to focus on sleep training or teething or consistency of fecal waste or frequency of bodily eliminations or developmental milestones or rashes of various sorts and locations. And there used to be a time in my life where I considered myself to be quite an amateur artist. I drew a lot when I was a kid. I was really good, actually. Not to toot my own horn, but people offered to pay for my work.
I was so excited to attend my first art class last Monday night. I thought about it all day. I knew it would be a small group, and I knew there'd probably be folks who had been doing the class longer than me, but I was fairly certain that the teacher would, within the span of the two hours during the evening, realize fairly quickly how brightly my talents shine. She'd recognize in me the artistic genius that, although out of practice, still lingers beneath my deceivingly average exterior.
I had carefully packed my artistic tools into a re-usable shopping bag. I was so proud that I'd had some good paint brushes and a canvas and I hadn't had to purchase ALL new materials as a consequence. Again, this demonstrated my artistic background, however distant.
I entered the classroom and one lady was laying out her paints. She was obviously a veteran to the class. I asked how long she'd been taking classes here. She said, "Oh, only 3 years."
I sat down. But humans are creatures of habit. As each new artist arrived, I got bumped out of their "regular" spot. And then an older lady named Jane came in with a big canvas of the most gorgeous painted landscape I'd seen in a long time. It was probably Northern Ontario, I decided. She began to chat and I overheard her say she'd painted for five hours the day before. FIVE HOURS! What dedication. Okay, maybe, just maybe I wasn't going to be the MOST talented and dedicated student that Mrs. Ng would have. Maybe I wasn't going to be instantly promoted to gold status. But I was still fairly certain that the teacher would be blown away by my ability.
Then in walked Mrs. Ng. She caught a glimps of Jane's painting, walked over to the canvas, examined it for a minute from a distance, squinting her eyes. And then she said very bluntly, pointing at the tree Jane had worked on the night before, "I don't like this." She paused, then added, "You need to do over."
And that is the moment when I realized,
I was the lady without a "regular" spot at the painting tables.
I was the lady with a canvas yet to touch paint.
I was the lady who thought Jane's tree was perfect.
It was the moment when, with a nearly audible click, I was slotted into my rightful place in the painting hierarchy of the Monday night art class.
For Christmas, my husband bought me a session of painting lessons. This is such a special idea because it's "Me" time, where I don't have to focus on sleep training or teething or consistency of fecal waste or frequency of bodily eliminations or developmental milestones or rashes of various sorts and locations. And there used to be a time in my life where I considered myself to be quite an amateur artist. I drew a lot when I was a kid. I was really good, actually. Not to toot my own horn, but people offered to pay for my work.
I was so excited to attend my first art class last Monday night. I thought about it all day. I knew it would be a small group, and I knew there'd probably be folks who had been doing the class longer than me, but I was fairly certain that the teacher would, within the span of the two hours during the evening, realize fairly quickly how brightly my talents shine. She'd recognize in me the artistic genius that, although out of practice, still lingers beneath my deceivingly average exterior.
I had carefully packed my artistic tools into a re-usable shopping bag. I was so proud that I'd had some good paint brushes and a canvas and I hadn't had to purchase ALL new materials as a consequence. Again, this demonstrated my artistic background, however distant.
I entered the classroom and one lady was laying out her paints. She was obviously a veteran to the class. I asked how long she'd been taking classes here. She said, "Oh, only 3 years."
I sat down. But humans are creatures of habit. As each new artist arrived, I got bumped out of their "regular" spot. And then an older lady named Jane came in with a big canvas of the most gorgeous painted landscape I'd seen in a long time. It was probably Northern Ontario, I decided. She began to chat and I overheard her say she'd painted for five hours the day before. FIVE HOURS! What dedication. Okay, maybe, just maybe I wasn't going to be the MOST talented and dedicated student that Mrs. Ng would have. Maybe I wasn't going to be instantly promoted to gold status. But I was still fairly certain that the teacher would be blown away by my ability.
Then in walked Mrs. Ng. She caught a glimps of Jane's painting, walked over to the canvas, examined it for a minute from a distance, squinting her eyes. And then she said very bluntly, pointing at the tree Jane had worked on the night before, "I don't like this." She paused, then added, "You need to do over."
And that is the moment when I realized,
I was the lady without a "regular" spot at the painting tables.
I was the lady with a canvas yet to touch paint.
I was the lady who thought Jane's tree was perfect.
It was the moment when, with a nearly audible click, I was slotted into my rightful place in the painting hierarchy of the Monday night art class.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Quilting - Back in the Saddle
I had big plans for quilting over the Christmas break. I was going to do three quilts. It turns out, I only had time to buy fabric and cut the pieces for one quilt. It's going to be a pinwheel quilt. That means triangles are sewn together with rectangles to form a pinwheel pattern.
I cut all the pieces and arranged them on the floor of my study. Then I carefully laid them in piles and when I finally had some free time, I carefully set out to sew them together. There were 32 pairs of triangles and rectangles in all. And for each set, I had to flip the triangle over before sewing it to the rectangle. I know it doesn't sound like a lot of extra work, but it's one more step and one more thing to think about while I was working.
Then I laid the pairs out on the dining room table in preparation for the next step - cutting off excess fabric and ironing them.
They sat on the dining room table staring at me for three days. On the third day, I picked up a piece - a triangle sewn to a rectangle - the triangle I had been careful to flip over before sewing it to the rectangle - and realized....
....that they were sewn together backwards.
All 32 of them.
Motto: Every mediocre quilter ought to invest in a good stitch-ripper.
I had big plans for quilting over the Christmas break. I was going to do three quilts. It turns out, I only had time to buy fabric and cut the pieces for one quilt. It's going to be a pinwheel quilt. That means triangles are sewn together with rectangles to form a pinwheel pattern.
I cut all the pieces and arranged them on the floor of my study. Then I carefully laid them in piles and when I finally had some free time, I carefully set out to sew them together. There were 32 pairs of triangles and rectangles in all. And for each set, I had to flip the triangle over before sewing it to the rectangle. I know it doesn't sound like a lot of extra work, but it's one more step and one more thing to think about while I was working.
Then I laid the pairs out on the dining room table in preparation for the next step - cutting off excess fabric and ironing them.
They sat on the dining room table staring at me for three days. On the third day, I picked up a piece - a triangle sewn to a rectangle - the triangle I had been careful to flip over before sewing it to the rectangle - and realized....
....that they were sewn together backwards.
All 32 of them.
Motto: Every mediocre quilter ought to invest in a good stitch-ripper.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Our Little Retriever
Cole is nearly 14 months old. And it appears he understands English. Even though his vocabulary consists of only "Mama", "Dada", "Uppy", "Woo-woo" and "Uh-Oh!", it seems he comprehends more than we'd been giving him credit for. That seems a completely expected developmental progression, but for a first-time parent of a baby who, for the past year has seemed a lot like an observer (read: nursing, crying, pooping lump), it's a terrificly shocking discovery.
Everyone with toddlers knows they love to take their socks off. Cole is no exception. Although, I guess he got distracted halfway through because he spent the entire afternoon running around with one navy blue sock on his right foot and a bare left foot. And socks are always appearing in one place or another, in this room or that room, but never in the room where you need them. Like there's a gray sock in the kitchen and an orange striped sock that's been in the living room for ages and you never remember it's there until you're up in the bedroom, staring into the top drawer of your kid's dresser at the lonely orange striped sock mate and then it's two baby-gates away and too much work to retrieve. In the morning, you'll forget where you saw it.
So as we were preparing to go out for the afternoon to run some errands, I looked in despair at my son's bare left foot and my heart just fell at the prospect of rooting through the house trying to find the other navy blue sock. OR, I could lug him up the stairs and get a brand new set of socks. A waste. That's why we're doing so much laundry! I was standing at the kitchen sink finishing up some dishes and feeling somewhat adventurous, so I said to him, "Cole, go find your other sock."
He looked up at me, eyes wide with wonder. Then he toddled off (as toddlers do) into the living room. A minute later, he returned to my side clutching the other dark blue sock. I was dumbstruck. But I had no doubt that this was no coincidence.
This evening, my husband was getting ready to go out for the evening and neither of us could locate his car keys. Sadly, we both knew that Cole had been the last one seen with them. But we'd been busy running around preparing supper and neither of us could remember where he'd last been seen with them. So we got down on our knees and looked under couches. Mark checked in the bedroom and in his office. I turned to Cole, who was watching in wonder, and I said, "Cole, can you help us find Daddy's keys?" He just stared at us while we overturned cushion after cushion. Then, after a minute or two, I looked up and he was running off to the kitchen. Mark was downstairs and sometimes Cole thinks he can call him from the back stairs, so I figured he was there by the baby gate. But when I went into the kitchen, I didn't seem him by the baby gate. I didn't see him at all. "Mark, where's Cole?!" Mark came into the kitchen. We both turned at a movement in the corner. Cole was hunkered down under a kitchen chair and immediately I remembered this was the last place I'd seen him playing with the keys. He held them up with a questioning look and walked over to his dad.
Seeing is believing.
That's our little retriever.
Now if we can only get him to retrieve himself a bottle at 5 a.m., we'll be set!
Cole is nearly 14 months old. And it appears he understands English. Even though his vocabulary consists of only "Mama", "Dada", "Uppy", "Woo-woo" and "Uh-Oh!", it seems he comprehends more than we'd been giving him credit for. That seems a completely expected developmental progression, but for a first-time parent of a baby who, for the past year has seemed a lot like an observer (read: nursing, crying, pooping lump), it's a terrificly shocking discovery.
Everyone with toddlers knows they love to take their socks off. Cole is no exception. Although, I guess he got distracted halfway through because he spent the entire afternoon running around with one navy blue sock on his right foot and a bare left foot. And socks are always appearing in one place or another, in this room or that room, but never in the room where you need them. Like there's a gray sock in the kitchen and an orange striped sock that's been in the living room for ages and you never remember it's there until you're up in the bedroom, staring into the top drawer of your kid's dresser at the lonely orange striped sock mate and then it's two baby-gates away and too much work to retrieve. In the morning, you'll forget where you saw it.
So as we were preparing to go out for the afternoon to run some errands, I looked in despair at my son's bare left foot and my heart just fell at the prospect of rooting through the house trying to find the other navy blue sock. OR, I could lug him up the stairs and get a brand new set of socks. A waste. That's why we're doing so much laundry! I was standing at the kitchen sink finishing up some dishes and feeling somewhat adventurous, so I said to him, "Cole, go find your other sock."
He looked up at me, eyes wide with wonder. Then he toddled off (as toddlers do) into the living room. A minute later, he returned to my side clutching the other dark blue sock. I was dumbstruck. But I had no doubt that this was no coincidence.
This evening, my husband was getting ready to go out for the evening and neither of us could locate his car keys. Sadly, we both knew that Cole had been the last one seen with them. But we'd been busy running around preparing supper and neither of us could remember where he'd last been seen with them. So we got down on our knees and looked under couches. Mark checked in the bedroom and in his office. I turned to Cole, who was watching in wonder, and I said, "Cole, can you help us find Daddy's keys?" He just stared at us while we overturned cushion after cushion. Then, after a minute or two, I looked up and he was running off to the kitchen. Mark was downstairs and sometimes Cole thinks he can call him from the back stairs, so I figured he was there by the baby gate. But when I went into the kitchen, I didn't seem him by the baby gate. I didn't see him at all. "Mark, where's Cole?!" Mark came into the kitchen. We both turned at a movement in the corner. Cole was hunkered down under a kitchen chair and immediately I remembered this was the last place I'd seen him playing with the keys. He held them up with a questioning look and walked over to his dad.
Seeing is believing.
That's our little retriever.
Now if we can only get him to retrieve himself a bottle at 5 a.m., we'll be set!
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