Child('s) play

I have a confession to make: I don't like playing with my kid. There. I said it. (Does that make me a terrible stay-at-home-mom?)

There are a couple of reasons I don't like playing with my kid. First, kid games are kinda boring. I totally appreciate observing my child learn and discover, and I'm happy to learn with them. But take the simplest concept (say, falling down in a funny way, or doing somersaults), and repeat x 1000 times = ugh! Enough already!

But more than that: my kid is a bitch. He doesn't always play nice. He's kinda bossy. I usually get bitched at for doing it wrong (even when I'm imitating him exactly; other times, I can't understand wtf he wants me to do). Or heaven forbid, I try to bow out due to fatigue (usually mental), or the baby is screaming. Like today, we were playing -- apparently -- belly flop. And throwing myself horizontally into the air and landing spread-eagled on the futon mattress on the floor was painful, especially as I was still in my pj's (ie: no bra, still lactating). So I fell knees first, instead of full lay-out. Cue TimmyTantrum™.

Fun.

Luckily, Tim has an accomplice on the horizon.

Miss Ruby cannot keep her eyes off her brother. Better still if he's moving. She's DYING to play those boring, physical games. I can't quite tell yet whether she'll be the type to happily take his shit, or definitely take no shit... But I'm confident it will be one or the other.

Then all I'll have to worry about is keeping them in peanut butter and jelly sammiches.

Babylove

As much as I am excited to discover the girl and woman that she will soon become, I would also love to keep Ruby just as she is, tiny and sweet.

Obstetrics lesson

Tim: "Why is Lilly picking up Coco from school?"
Me: "Because MamaCé had to go to deliver a baby."
Tim: "Why does she have to deliver a baby?"
Me: "Because she is a midwife."
Tim: "Well, is she going to deliver the baby in a mailbox?"
Me: "...[LOL]..."

Neurology lesson

(While cuddling up after a nasty tantrum caused by the sadness of Dad going to work.)

Tim: "You're getting on my nerves."
Me: "You mean, I'm bugging you?"
Tim: "No, you're getting on my happy nerves."

Sigh.

Growing up

Ben just came up with his laundry and needed to "have it done" asap, because he had no pants left. I suggested h throw it in himself -- something he hasn't done here before. I sent Tim in to supervise.

Tim showed Ben where the soap was, how to put it in the machine, then turned the washer on for Ben.

I've been saying lately that sometime it feels like I'm living with two 3-year olds. Today, I guess it was more like two 12-year olds. :-)

Holiday pot pourri

I have been trying to steer away from calling Ruby "Rube" as a short form or nickname. It's just a little obvious and not particularly becoming. I have been trying to get "Ru-bijou" (or Ruby-jou, if you like) to stick. That's cute right, a sweet little pun en français? Instead, we've started calling her Ruby-dooby-doo... Which is kind of cute, but not exactly a short form. Guess what the short form of Ruby-dooby-doo is?

Meet my daughter, Doob:

Happy news: little Doobie is a good sleeper... by my (admittedly quite low) standards. She's recently been insisting that her bedtime is 8 pm, and I put her down in her crib. Her crib. (All right, it's a playpen, and it's in our room, but it's the concept that counts.) She then typically proceeds to sleep for 4 to 6 hours. Combine that with Tim's new 8 pm bedtime (it used be 9, back when he napped during the day), and voila! We have an hour or two of FREE TIME in the evening.

Last time I had a kid, that didn't happen for well over a year.

We actually went out last night to a party for a few hours, without the baby. Granted, it was next door, and Baba could have just called us to pop home if she woke up. But she didn't, and we drank beer and stayed out too late. Yay Dooby-doo!

Appropos of nothing, tonight Ken asked Tim: "What is your favourite thing to do?" Tim answered, without missing a beat: "I like to hug, and to go to the green tennis court." Well, of course.

And some Christmas clementine fun:

The Littlest Poobender

She looks so innocent. And yet beneath that sweet exterior lies a powerful being, capable of feats that leave her mortal parents shaking their heads in wonder.

The story goes like this: it was supper time, and I was holding sweet Ruby against me, her chin on my shoulder. She was sleepy, yet restless. I was struggling to eat a greasy chicken leg with one hand (and that is not the messy part of this tale). Suddenly vibrations below alerted me to the potential of a geyser about to be unleashed... A shake and shudder, and it passed. And then I felt some moisture as a loonie-sized schmear of poo appeared through the little one's leggings. I rushed upstairs and mangaged to control the damage - just a little spot on the leggings, none on her dress. Diaper changed, I returned to my chicken.

It was not to be. There on my chair and pooled beneath the table: the liquid golden poo of a breastfed baby! Further investigation revealed that there was also babycrap on MY ass. What the... ??

How Miss Ruby managed to get poo all over the floor and on my butt, but barely any on herself or my arms or shirt shall forever remain a mystery. However, I have my own hunch... She's a Poobender!

Looks like Tim called it, way back when...