Keys for the Kia

It was the evening of December 27th.  My brother and his wife had arrived from Toronto. Mark, me and the kids had driven from Burlington. Mary, Ben and Isaac had come from Ottawa.  My father and his wife were there too.  We all converged on my mother's house for a Christmas feast.

Kids tore open presents. Babies chewed on ribbon. Too much turkey was ingested.  And the apple pie was accompanied by heavenly hash ice cream. We chatted into the evening - the kids were put to sleep. It snowed and snowed and snowed.

Sometime after 8, the lights flickered. They flickered again. Then...they went out. Everyone sat for a moment. Mary said, "Oh, that's bad." I was silently thankful the kids were all in bed. We began to wander around, trying to remember where we'd put the flashlights and candles.  We'd brought Cole's flash light and someone had been playing with it near the tree.  Ma had one of those flashlights powered by motion, that you need to shake and it shines for about ten seconds.  So we rooted around in the dark and finally found the stash of candles and a box of matches.  The room began to glow and warm.

At nine, my brother-in-law turned to Mary and said, "We'd better head over to your dad's house. It's nine." Then he said he'd load up the car. The night morphed into a winter wonderland - snow on all the branches and roads. Ben began to rummage through the bags, "I just need to find the keys."

The non-chalant search picked up in energy and urgency as the minutes ticked by. It was additionally difficult because there were no lights. We systematically felt around in the couch, in the closet, in coat pockets. Ben remembered going right to the enormous back yard with the dog to play and romp and build snowmen after their long journey.  He also mentioned his coat pockets were prone to letting things out. We looked out the window at the half foot of fluffy white snow and wondered if it was possible the keys could be buried somewhere in its midst.

Ben and I put on snow gear and went out to retrace his steps.  There were a lot of steps. He'd played everywhere with Frisbee. The back yard is about six hundred feet deep and a hundred feet wide. We looked and looked but found no keys.

Ben and Mary decided to borrow our car and take Isaac and their pup to my dad's and to resume the search in the morning in daylight.  But the upwards slope of the driveway proved icy. Ben and I had to push while Jay drove and it took several attempts to get our van onto the main road.

In the morning, my dad had a brilliant idea. He drove Ben out to the country to a man who rented metal detectors.  We tied a bag to the end and Ben went out, feeling hopeful, to comb the yard.  He swooped and sweeped through the snow methodically for over two hours.  Then he came in for lunch to warm up with a bowl of turkey soup, coffee and some chocolates.

Then they called the Kia dealership and inquired about towing the car and getting a new set of keys made.

Just as they were packing Isaac up to take him to my dad's for nap, my brother went out to the back yard one last time. He swept the centre, the area where the most romping and playing occurred, not with the metal detector, but with a hockey stick. He was out for just a few minutes.
And he found those wonderful keys!

Secret Country Drive - Part 2

I was so proud when I got home with the antique mantle clock I'd bought Mark. I got the kids into the house and then carefully lowered the clock, still wrapped in plastic, into a giant gift bag and padded the sides with newspaper. I put it down in my study. I knew that there was a possibility that the chime was set and it would ring, but I had all day to hear it and to figure out how to disarm it before Mark got home that night.  All day, I heard nothing.

Mark returned home and I felt smug with my secret. Even when asked what he did that day, Cole didn't spill the beans.  And I hadn't heard the a peep or a chime out of the clock all day.

Mark and I watched tv and chatted all evening.  Then I went downstairs to my study to check on things and in the silence of the night I heard "tick ... tick ... tick ...."
Ah man! Somehow the pendulum must not have stopped completely when I'd transported it home.

I shut my office door and took all the newspaper out of the gift bag.  Then I carefully lifted the clock out of the bag, using my feet to pin the gift bag to the ground as I lifted. The clock ticked happily away, content that it was doing what it was made to do - keep time.

I opened up the back panel and stilled the pendulum with my hand.  Then I gently lowered the clock back into the bag and replaced the newspaper.  I lifted the gift bag onto my desk, tried to get the folded scotch tape to re-stick to the gift bag and then I went to sit on the bed.  I decided to wait a few minutes before going back upstairs, just to be sure.  I snuggled in and lost myself in a book I was in the middle of.

Then all of a sudden "GONG!".  It was a definite chime of one metal hammer tapping once against a hollow metal bell of some sort.  A foreshadowing or quarter-hour rehearsal of the entire meloday this grandfather was promised to play on the hour. My breath caught in my chest and I glanced up at the ceiling, wondering if Mark was still watching t.v. above me.  How loud was the volume? Did I hear snoring?

Then the more important questions came: I stopped that pendulum!  How was it chiming?  I hadn't had time to google how to turn off the chiming mechanism and I certainly couldn't do it now without drawing attention to myself.  I guessed that as I'd lifted the gift bag onto the desk, the pendulum had regained its momentum again.  It reminded me of an old, retired pianist whose fingers never quite cease to play, even unconsconsciously on his bony lap when the music has long ago quieted.

This time, I took all the newspaper out of the gift bag and removed the back panel, all while the clock was still on the desk. I held the pendulum for a moment or two and even thought for a second about stuffing the thing with tissue, then thought better of it in case the antique-ness was somehow damaged.  I replaced the panel carefully and re-closed the gift bag again.  Then I listened.  No tick-ticking.

I went back to the bed. No tick-tick.

I picked up my book.  No tick-tick.  I was hardly breathing, I was listening so intently for the clock to suddenly spring back to life. It was haunting and mysterious. I imagined who else's mantle this persistent old thing had furnished. All night I expected it to re-start its tick-ticking.  But it didn't make another sound. Not a tick. Not a chime.

Secret Country Drive - Part 1

For Christmas, Mark asked for a "nice mantle clock". He likes unique things - not the kind of mass, produced crap you buy at Walmart.  He also loves to watch Antiques Roadshow, so I thought I'd try to get him an antique mantle clock.

I perused kijiji and ebay and found a chiming mantle clock, in mint condition, for sale at a reasonable price in Cambridge. I corresponded with the seller and she was willing to come down a bit in price, so I decided to pack up my kids on the first Friday of December and drive out to the country to see the clock.

We set off at 8:30 in the morning and it was a chilly, wet morning.  Then the fat raindrops began to made dull thuds on the wild shield and suddenly I noticed white accumulation on the lawns and trees all around. I was already nervous about Cole telling his father what we were up to so I was glad for the distraction. "Look Buddy!  It's snowing! We drove out here to see snow!"

He looked at me speculatively from under his toque.

Then we saw some horses and a whole field of cows.  "Look! Cows, we came out here to see cows and horses!  Isn't that neat?"

"I want to go home," he complained.

We drove for nearly an hour and finally, came to a horse ranch with the address I'd scrawled on a piece of note paper.  We pulled up the long, windy gravel drive, through a forest of trees, and up to an old brick century home.  There was a paddock with two black horses with snouts to the frosty grass and then, as I got out of the car, I noticed a third tall sleek horse standing in the front lawn, just a few metres from us.  He stopped to look at us as I took Cole out of the car. 

"Look Cole, a horse!"

"What he eating, Mommy?"

"Grass. Isn't that neat? We came all this way to see these horses!"

Cole's eyes were finally lit up with excitement.  He pointed one mittened hand towards the horse, but clung close to my leg as I unpacked the diaper bag and Amelia from the car. Then we all clambered up the big stone steps to the front door.

The lady who answered the door was so friendly.  She showed me the clock and the key and we tinkered with the dials and wound it to ensure it worked. She knew one of the dials wound the chimes and that there was a way to turn them off but she'd forgotten how.  She suggested I google it. Then her husband wrapped the clock carefully in a white plastic bag and hockey tape while I escorted Cole upstairs to the washroom. 

As we were coming out of the washroom, the lady asked us to come into her son's room.  She had pulled a big bag out from under his bed.  It was filled with Hot Wheels cars.  She asked if Cole would like one.  At first he said, "No thank you.  But Thank you for offering."

Then she pointed out that there was a backhoe.  And a forklift.  A crane. A cement mixer! Cole began to squeal with delight.  "Thank you. Thank you!" he cried.

So as we got into the car, when I asked him if he wanted to go see the horses, he declined instantly, too engrossed in his new construction vehicles. And I knew I was home-free.  If his daddy asked him what he did today, he wouldn't even remember me buying the clock.  He'd think I'd handed over that wad of twenty dollar bills for this handful of treasures he held in his hands the whole way home.

More Christmas-ness

Christmas Morning 2011

Head in the Trees

I've been watching Men in Trees religiously for the past month or so. The last time I was so engrossed in a fantasy world, I was devouring the Twilight series. But this time, it's all about New York women meeting Alaskan men and romancing it up Elmo-style.

So what is it that's so addictive about daytime television? It's not that I'm in love with Jack (as strong and husky-voiced as he is). I think it's that I'm in love with the idea of Jack. The way he's always appearing out of nowhere to rescue Marin, the damsel in distress, be it from an arctic cyclone, a pack of wild wolves, a bear or from the sting of some poisonous plant she's mistaken for wild garlic. And it's that fantastical romance and passion that ensues without all the complications of real life. Who wouldn't want to immerse themselves in that for an hour?

Then I found myself obsessing during all hours of the day and night over Jack and Marin and whether Jack would ever figure out that Lynn wasn't for him, whether he'd take a job on the Bering Sea, and whether they'd ever figure out they were meant for each other. And I wondered what was it that was so dreamy about Jack? Why was he such a good catch for Marin? Why was I rooting for him?

Then one night, as I sat in bed next to my own real-life Jack, I realized that even if the t.v.-land Marin and Jack do find their way into each other's arms (and beds) and he sweeps her off her feet and maybe he even proposes and they live happily ever after...what then? Would that make a good t.v. show?

And I realize that even though the wild emotions of the first romantic gestures of a relationship are dizzying and fun, the living happiliy ever after is a lot more hard work than the good folks on Men in Trees let on.  And although Jack is burly and cute, I can't help but wonder if he can whip up a sausage and butternut squash lasagne like my man. Does he take the initiative and offer to change the seventeenth shitty diaper of the day just to give Marin a break? I know he'd step in front of a speeding bullet to protect her, but if there was only one cup of coffee left in the house, would he give it to her? Because when t.v. land romance ends and real married life begins, those are the types of questions that matter. And the more and more I thought about it, the more I realized that my real-life Jack is way better than anything that t.v. land Alaska has to offer.

"walkin'" Amelia

Sibs

Memories Through Candy Cane Coloured Glasses

When I think back on the merriest Christmas memories of my childhood, I think of baking candy cane cookies with my mom. 

I can see my mother whipping the butter and sugar in a big plastic green bowl.  I can see her kneading in the red food colouring so half the batter was pink.  I remember us helping her roll out the cookie dough into long snake-like pieces, then cutting them so they formed small pairs of pink and white squares and then rolling each of these into a long thin candy cane, then folding the end over carefully and laying them flat on a cookie sheet.  I think we must have quadrupled the recipe because I imagine us doing this all afternoon, filling the whole house with the sugary aroma of the holidays.

Naturally, now that Cole is three, and since he loves baking, I envisioned that this Christmas would be the year that he and I could share some of our own lovely, sugar-laced moments of candy cane cookie making.  It doesn't hurt that cookie dough is an awful lot like play dough and he could play with play dough for hours and hours on end.

So while Mark was out at Costco, and Amelia was bustling around the living room making motorboat noises with her lips and leaving puddles of drool in her wake, I began to whip up a batch of cookie dough. 

Cole suddenly ran into the kitchen and then I heard the scraping sound of a kitchen chair being pushed along the tile up to the sink.  Then he was rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands.  How independent! I thought.  Oh, this was going to be a good year for cookie making.

I pulled out his chair, the one with the cushion on the seat, so he could climb up.  And I had just added a cup of flour and I had to nip into the kitchen to get some salt and I said to him, "I know you want to help, but PLEASE don't touch the spoon yet." And as I turned to the kitchen, I knew in the back of my mind that the wooden spoon was resting under a pile of fluffy flour, poised and ready like a loaded cannon, and beckoning all the while to an impulsive preschooler's hands.

Then POOF and, "uh oh.... Mom.... I made a mess."

I turned and there was a thin film of flour dust on the table, on the chair and on the floor.  Cole began immediately to trace shapes in the flour on the table.

"Good thing we washed our hands, eh?" I said, then I added, "Please don't mix the flour until I add the salt...."

I turned again and another POOF!

I took over, moving the bowl from him.  "I WANT TO HELP!" he pleaded.

"Oh yes, you can help.  As soon as I get this mixed together..." 

I kept creaming the ingredients together and all of a sudden Cole held up his hand, his pinky dipped with yellow creamy goo.

"What's this yellow stuff?" he asked.

"Butter," I said, wiping his hand.

I began mixing again.....

"Oh oh!" he held up the same hand, the same pinky gooey with yellow again.

"Cole, be careful please...."

I wiped his pinky clean again and then watched as he grinned and, when he thought I wasn't watching, dipped his hand in the batter to coat his finger a third time.

I sighed deeply and kept adding flour to the mixture.  Then I took off my wedding rings and began to knead the dough by hand.  I remember my mother doing this.  I tried to let Cole do a bit but when his hands became coated, he began to shake them all around and dough got on the ground, it became embedded in the fabric of our socks, it got stuck on the knees of his pants and on the cushion of his chair.  It mingled with the already present flour and cheerios on the floor. It was a crazy, crazy mess.

Then Amelia began to fuss. I put her in her high chair where she watched us for a short time, then proceeded to have a guargantuan poop.  All hands had to be cleaned of cookie dough and we all had to trek upstairs for a short diaper-changing intermission.

Back down to the dining room table we went and this time with red food colouring. Now our hands were red and the pink cookie dough was flying off Cole's fingers and landing in the fruit bowl, on Amelia's tray, in our hair, on the floor, everywhere!

I rolled the dough into balls and then tried to get Cole to help with rolling it into long logs.  He didn't have enough gentle energy.  The moment his itchy little fingers got the soft dough beneath them, they urgently squeezed the life out of it.

I was perspiring mildly by this point and my pulse rate was definitely up.  I kept trying to amuse Amelia by shaking the Cheerios box over her tray and letting a few drop out to stall her.

I gave Cole the bread knife and asked him to cut the snake but before I could guide his hand to making one centimetre cuts, he was chopping like an automatic rifle,  making indents every two millimetres and unable to stop until he'd slaughtered the whole snake.

I carefully peeled the knife from his hands and set it down on the kitchen counter. Realizing he couldn't roll out the snakes without pulverizing them, I rolled out the dough and then handed them to him to bend into candy cane shapes.  He pulled each one into two pieces and set them delicately on the cookie sheet.  He rolled the third one into a big pink and white ball. I wondered if perhaps this year we should call them Candy Cane Bits. 

Then, by the grace of God, Mark's car pulled in the driveway.  And he took Cole and distracted him with unloading yogurt from the grocery bags and I could sit quietly, by myself, and finish rolling out my candy cane cookies.

When the third and last tray went into the oven, I was completely out of steam.  I wondered if baking with my kids would always leave me feeling this way.  I thought back to those heart-warming memories I had of baking with my mother and wondered if she had hung up a tea towel wearily after we'd gone to sleep and breathed a sigh of relief too.

Kitchen Floor

Tuesdays and Thursdays, Cole goes to daycare. And although I'm not a neat person by any stretch of the imagination, sometimes the chaos of my house catches up to me and a Tuesday or Thursday seems like a perfect opportunity to play catch-up on housework.

So, Amelia by my side, I decided to mop my kitchen floor.  Except that I have yet to find a mop I like.  So I do what my mother used to do.  I get a bowl of cleaning solution and I crouch down with a sponge in hand and I scoot square by square across the kitchen floor, methodically scrubbing and scouring.  This sounds like a tedious and difficult job, doesn't it? Well, I guess that's why I do it so infrequently.

I took all the chairs out of the kitchen, and put the exersaucer in the living room.  I put Amelia in the living room.  I took a big bowl from the cupboard and filled it with the all-natural thyme-and-oregano cleaning detergent and added some warm water.  I did a quick once over with the broom. Amelia crawled into the room and tried to eat the pile of crumbs.  I put her back in the living room.

I got a fresh sponge with a heavy-duty scouring pad on the opposite side and I set to work. My system is to move the bowl systematically as an indicator of which row of tiles I've already cleaned.  As the glass bowl slides along the tiles, it makes a special kind of clanging sound.  Amelia found this very intruging.  She came in to investigate and began to follow the bowl.  So I had to slowly rotate the bowl around myself to keep it away from her.  Then she lost interest and decided to play with the electrical power bar. 

I tried to put her in the exersaucer.  She protested.  I set her on the floor again and gave her my car keys.  She played happily as I scoured the baseboards and wondered what this caked-on brown stuff was.  I found gobs of black food colouring (remnants of Cole's fire truck birthday cake)  and lots of red lentils (Cole's indoor "sand" box). Then the clunking of the keys stopped and I turned and Amelia was at the power bar again.  I moved her and gave her the keys back.  The clanging continued so I thought we were good until I realized she'd brought the keys to the power bar this time.

I moved her again.  Then she came over to investigate the bowl of detergent again. And on and on went the dance. I moved Amelia; then I scrubbed; then I moved Amelia; then I scrubbed.  I was finally nearing the last part of my scouring and I paused from my work as I noticed a peculiar pause in activity. 

Amelia was sitting in the middle of my pristine floor, smiling giddily through a soother, a pool of curdled spit up encircled her bum like a halo.

Chipmunk

In the living room, ten minutes after lunch, Amelia is in front of the book case eating something.  I leap from my chair.

"Oh my god, Amelia! What are you eating? What did you just put in your mouth?!"

Oh nothing, Mom. Just the food I'm storing in the folds of my neck.

License Plate Renewal

It's two months before your birthday, you're still deep in your year-younger mind-set, not even thinking about the celebrations and then you open the mail box one day and there is your license plate renewal form.  If you're anything like us, you set it aside.  You put it in the long-term to-do pile and then promptly let it slip your mind.

This year, my husband did just that.  And then his birthday came and went and then all of a sudden, we found ourselves with only a day left in the month and he woke up one morning and exclaimed, "I didn't renew my license plate!"

In a panic, we dug through all the papers on the kitchen table, on the filing cabinet in the study, and in the mail slot above the key rack. And we all breathed a sigh of relief as he kissed me good-bye and said, "I may be a bit late tonight - I'll take care of this after work."

Then he glanced down at it as he was heading out the door and stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh my god! I need an emissions test!"

"I'll take care of it!" I reassured him and he was on his way. 

I began phoning every mechanic in town long before any had opened their doors for business.  And when I finally did start to get through to a sleepy but present receptionist, they all informed me that they were booking for a week from today.  I realized I didn't sound desperate enough and so I picked it up a notch.  Then finally, the good man at Master Mechanics said he could squeeze Mark in at 3:00.  I said, "He can't be there til 3:15".  The guy sighed and said, "Look, I'll book him for 3:00 and if he's ten minutes late, I'll still look at it."

I phoned Mark at work and he said he'd get there.

When he walked in the door that evening, he breathed a sigh of relief.  All taken care of.

"Did you put the other sticker on your ownership?"

"Yup."

"And you put the sticker on your license plate?"

"It's raining, Melissa. I'll do it tomorrow," I'm sure he was feeling a bit impatient with my third degree.  So I let it go.

The next day, as Mark was driving home from work on the QEW, he found himself in stop-and-go traffic next to a police cruiser. All while still moving, the police officer rolled down his window and called, "Your license plates have expired!" (This was the first of December).

Mark grabbed through the papers in the middle console and, with a shaky hand, held up his sticker, "I got it.  It was raining....."

The police officer nodded and then just before pulling away added, "It's a $5000 fine, eh?"

Mark nodded and thanked his heavenly stars.

It's all about the Game

Cole loves to play Bouncy Ball.  He takes a very bouncy ball and throws it with all his might against his closed bedroom door. It ricochets off and bounces back and hits the bed or the wall or the bedside table or himself in the face.  It's loads of fun.

Today, after the ball had rebounded and hit the bed frame several times in a row, Cole looked at it contemplatively and said to me with a very serious frown, "I think we should move the bed so it's easier to play Bouncy Ball." I was surprised at this suggestion.  It seemed like a lot of trouble for such a short game.  It didn't seem like the easiest way to improve our Bouncy Ball experience.  But one look at Cole's face and I knew he was dead serious.

"Where would we put your bed?" I asked.

He thought only for a moment, "In you and Daddy's room."

"I don't know if there is room for your bed in our room," I said, knowing full well that that was not the number one reason why this would be a bad arrangement.

Cole ran out of the room and returned in a few seconds, "Yup.  There's room!"

A Terrible Incident about a Poop in the Night Time

It was a terrible incident about a poop in the night time.  Okay, it didn't happen at night at all.  More like quarter to nine in the morning.  But the severity of the situation didn't seem aptly reflected in a title like "A poop incident this morning".

It started off as a diaper change like any other diaper change.  Amelia got fussy and the smell emanating from her back-side gave her away.  I laid her on the change table and she shreiked and arched her back and tried to roll off several times. I unzipped her pajamas and unbuttoned her onesie and then slowly opened up her diaper, revealing a pasty, sticky, smeared-everywhere kind of mess.  It stank something awful and it still had bits of undigested carrot, leading me to wonder if she was even getting any nutritional value out of these vegetables that were turning up whole out the other end.

Like the pro and veteran-mother that I am, I hid my disgust and went straight to work. I had already removed four wipes from the "box" of wipes but I could tell right away, they weren't going to be any match for this kind of a mess. I did what I could, then while I held her ankles expertly with one hand, I reached the fingers of my left hand for more wipes and I accidentally pinched more than one wipe and tried to pull them out of that tiny slit in the packaging. (If you're a mother or father of a baby, you know this moment).  The too-thick mound of moist towelettes got lodged in the slot.  Okay, no problem.  I pushed it back in and attempted to only pinch one wipe.

Amelia arched at that moment and grunted and tried to get out of my vice-like grip.

I held firm and tried again to take out the wipes.  I couldn't just get one.  So I tried to just take the big wad that I had between my fingers and really force it out of the opening.  Sometimes you get four and they resist, but it is possible to get them all out. But this time, they were stuck fast.

Amelia gave one more shreik and arched hard enough that one of her feet was freed.  She kicked it hard and one of her heels landed smack in the middle of the poop. I quickly grabbed her by the ankle once again to immobilize her and looked around frantically for something to use to wipe her.  I looked again at the box of wipes, and in desperation, I leaned down and closed my sharp canines around the wad of wipes and really yanked.

I succeeded in tearing a small piece of tissue out in my mouth and leaving a hole in probably four layers of wipes.

I opened the dry sink frantically and underneath I saw a sample package of wipes that had been there for about three years.  I took it out and ripped off the sticky seal. They were dry but I was far beyond being choosy. I yanked out a wipe and instinctively grabbed both Amelia's ankles again in order to wipe her soiled bottom only then did I remember the shit on her foot (and now on my hand).

I did eventually get her clean. I wiped all her nooks and crannies and put on a fresh, clean diaper. Then I gave myself a good scrub down. Motherhood isn't glorious. And some days it's messier than others.  But in those moments of supreme messiness, it's good to know you're not alone.

Snow pants

Yesterday, I sent Cole to daycare with no snow pants.  The transition from fall to winter has always given me difficulty in the sending-clothes-to-daycare department.  As a grown-up, I wear snow pants when there is snow.  In daycare land, however, you wear snowpants when it's cold or wet.  For the record, I had stored some splash pants in Cole's cubby, but apparently that wasn't good enough.  So my ignorance of appropriate winter wear caused a lot of drama.  Because he didn't have snow pants, he wasn't allowed to go on the slide.  When he came in the door at the end of the day, he smiled at me and said, "Mama, you forgot to give me snow pants!" and then he added, "All the other kids had snow pants." I felt terrible.

This morning, I decided to bundle the kids up and take them out for a run.  The temperature is definitely above zero, but in a fast moving stroller, the wind can give quite a chill, I imagine.  And in keeping with my lesson learned last night, I resolved to dress the children warmly.  Amelia was easy enough.  Insert soother. Lie on snow suit.  Zip up snow suit. Place in exersaucer.

Then came Cole.  "Cole, here are your winter clothes.  We're going for a run and then after the run you can watch some t.v."

"I don't WANT to go for a RUN!'

"That's not up for debate.  We're going for a run.  Put on your snow pants please."

"I don't LIKE my snow pants!"

"Put on your snow pants and you can have a cookie when you're all dressed and in the stroller."

"NO, I don't LIKE my snow pants!"

I got out a gingerbread cookie. He began to cry.

"That's 1........"

He began to kick his feet and scream.

"That's 2....."

"NO! NO! NO! I don't want to put on my snow pants!"

"That's 3.... okay, I guess I'm going to eat your cookie."

He began to really shreik.

"Okay, you have a choice to wear your scarf or not....."

"I don't want to put on snow pants!"

I turned away, needing a bit of a breather.  I took Amelia out to the front porch and put her in the double stroller and buckled her in.  Now I had to leave the front door open so I could keep an eye on her. Never mind the warm air escaping out into the vast winter expanse, all of the neighbours could now see me losing this snow suit battle.

"Fine, you stay here.  I'm going for a run, Cole." I tried hard to sound calm.

Then he began to cry, "Mama! Mama!"

So I picked him up under one arm and picked up all of the clothes in my other (this reminds me of a Robert Munsch book) and there was a great crying cafuffle (thankfully his crying not mine) as I tried to force his board-straight legs into the snow pants.  He was having none of it.

"Okay.  No winter clothes? Fine." (Real life consequences?) I lifted him up and set him in the stroller.  His boots and coat and mitts and hat and snow pants lay in surrender there in the doorway as the cool winter air negotiated with his common sense.

I went and sat on the bottom stair and took deep breaths. Cole was still screaming.  The neighbours were undoubtedly watching and tsk-tsking. I counted to ten very, very slowly.

Finally (after no more than a minute), Cole's cries turned into, "I'm cold! I'm cold!"

So I scooped him back up and with a "Well, why do you THINK I wanted you to have snow pants on!!!" I quickly put on his winter clothes. He was still screaming, "I don't want to go for a run!" and I was considering whether all this drama was really worth it for a half hour run, when I tried one last time, "Would you like a cookie now? You have to stop crying first." Immediate silence.

I used the old Starbucks napkin in the stroller's cup holder to wipe his tears and gave him a cookie.  He chatted happily for the entire run. 

And when we arrived back home, and undressed out of our winter clothes I said to Cole, "See how cozy warm you were?  That's why you need to wear snow pants when Mom says it's cold out."

And he smiled his charming grin and hugged me and sighed, "Aaaaaaaah. I DO like my snow pants, Mom. I just was tricking you!"

End note: Can you count home many discipline strategies I tried without success?