Coffee: My One True Love.

I was born with a rare, socially damaging condition. I believe the technical name for the disease is WhiteLieusInterruptus. You see, there is no filter between my brain's reaction centre and my rubber face. If I think something's gross, a horrified sneer will appear across my nose and upturned lip before I can will myself to say "Oh, yes, please, a cup of monkey-brain soup would be just delightful."


If I like you, you'll know. If you bore me, I'll yawn. If you offer me something offensive, like steamed Brussel sprouts or monkey brains, you'll know I'm offended before I can form a verbal response.


So if you'd asked me ten years ago if I loved coffee, you would have witnessed 'the sneer'. I was a different person then. I took four classes per semester at university. I rode the bus for an hour and a half each day and had trained myself to wake up just before my stop. (Unfortunately, I never learned the fine art of drooling on myself instead of others, but that's a story for another blog on another day.)



I went to bed when I wanted, rolled into class when I felt like it, and only saw four a.m. bedtimes or wake up calls when I'd forgotten to start finish a term paper that was due the next day.


Then I grew up, got married, and duty called. My love affair with coffee began somewhere between my alarm clock going off at 3:15am and my 4:30am start time at my airport job.



I really liked my time there. No, I'm not claiming that I loved the early mornings, or that I basked in the glow of the lost luggage department where I spent so many hours. But I met my true love at the airport. And its name was coffee.



I can't say that I'm a mindless follower of any particular chain. Tim Horton’s and Starbucks both have multiple outlets at the Vancouver International Airport. But I have to admit my love affair began with Starbucks. They made me fall in love with the brew. They created my dependency. I hold them entirely responsible.



I blame Starbucks, you see, because they put up shop about one hundred yards from our airport check in counter. If you stood very still and closed your eyes, you could hear the hiss of the espresso machine rise over the hum of the bustling airport.



I tried to resist, but more often than not the 3:15am wake up calls would get the best of me, and I'd need that little jolt of caffeine to keep me conscious on many a morning.



It didn't help when we bought our first apartment. Although we were on the fourth floor, Starbucks had set up shop on the ground level. There was just no escaping it. Every time I walked out the front door of our building, there it was. The white and green sign, that Siren on their logo. Calling me. Beckoning. Come. Drink the coffee. You can't live without me.



And they were right. I tried, you know. When my husband and I toyed with the idea of becoming parents biologically, I tried to kick the caffeine habit. I still remember the day I gave up the black beans of addiction: December 19, 2006. I'd gone to a particularly wild boring holiday party the night before, and found I had no appetite for coffee the next morning.


Since we were hoping to get pregnant, I knew that drinking caffeine was not the best for our potential babies. So I gave it up cold turkey.


It was an ugly experience. I had headaches for weeks. I was moody. Depressed. I had vivid nightmares about the Starbucks mermaid holding me underwater in a sea of caffeine beverages, daring me to inhale. "You know you can't live without us, mere mortal! Breathe! Inhale the cappuccino, or you will be cast into the sea! Latte up!"
 I lasted about a year, and then relapsed. Or should I say resigned myself. I'm no quitter, darn it! I've re-embraced my addiction. Now I have one cup in the mornings (which is really equivalent to six or seven cups, because my husband, our house's brew master, likes his coffee thicker than his oatmeal.)

I really love my coffee, and on days when we're out of beans or out of cream, I find my heart grows a little heavier until I get my fix. Either that, or maybe my respiratory rate is just

settling back into its natural, coffee-free rhythm!

Certifiably Insane: Can I Get an Upgrade on My Rubber Room?

A few weeks back, I mentioned my upcoming trip to Disneyland with my pint sized powerhouse. I called myself crazy for thinking of it, demented for attempting it, and completely delusional for thinking it might be fun. I also commended my deranged self for attempting the trip all on my own.


Then the plans changed ever-so-slightly.


My husband surprised me. He wanted to come after all. (By surprised I mean FLOORED; I've been nagging -- oops, I mean respectfully requesting that he get his passport done for five years now! FIVE! I've been through a whole passport since I started asking him!) Not only did he want to come, but he also wanted to bring some family with him.


Um, excuse me, which family? (The suggestion of "some family" is always followed up by "be more specific!!!" He's one of five kids, I'm one of twelve, so you can imagine...)

"My little brothers," he replied. It really was a very sweet gesture. Kevin's the oldest of five, and his family never quite made it to Disneyland. So he's taking his youngest two brothers along on the trip he hadn't gotten the chance to take himself.

So we're off. My 29 year old husband, my 27 year old self, our 22 month old lap infant, our 20 year old and 14 year old brothers. Hey. Wait a minute! I'm outnumbered four to one! Our hotel room had BETTER have two bathrooms......

I'm actually really looking forward to it. Getting to be a kid again (not that I behave like an adult any more often than is absolutely required.) But it'll be nice to just be there, in the magic of Disney, with three kids who will be seeing it with fresh pairs of eyes.

The 14 year old is kind of caught up in adolescence. He's trying hard to be cool, and is constantly debating (in the healthy sense of the word) and practicing a bit of defiance (as is expected of kids his age!). But he will always play with our son, and throw a ball around with him, and be there for him. They really love each other, and I think it's great that he's coming along.

The 20 year old will be in his glory. He still watches the occasional cartoon, and he loves being around little ones. He has Down Syndrome, and hasn't lost that childhood innocence in a lot of ways. I'm looking forward to seeing how much he enjoys the trip.

If you thought I was crazy to be taking on Disneyland alone with my toddler, you must be sure of it now that I'm taking it on with four boys. Check me into my rubber room and strap on the straight jacket. Just don't forget my mouse ears!

Watch out, Disney. Here we come!

Puppy Love

We had a dog not too long ago. A beautiful schnauzer mix named Maggie that we adopted through a rescue organization in the Fraser Valley.  She was with us for only a week, but Maggie was without questions the best dog I've had the pleasure of knowing.

Unfortunately, Maggie's time in our family was all-too short; the American veterinarians who gave her a clean bill of health before her trip to Canada had grossly misjudged her age. They also failed to diagnose the cancer that was about to claim her life. She was in our family for just one week, but she made a big impact during her brief stay!

Little Man has always been a dog lover. On our walks together, he stops to say hi to every dog he sees. Usually it's the standard "Hi, Doggy!" complete with frantic, double armed wave and giggles galore. Lately he's been more specific: "Hi, yiddle (little) doggy!" "Hi big doggy!" "Hi black doggy!" "Hi silly doggy!" -- the latter used to describe any dog wearing a coat, sporting a fluffy tail, or whose facial features amuse our easily-delighted son.

Last week our friend adopted a 14 week old boxer. He also owns a three year old Chihuahua, whom we occasionally dog-sit for in our home. Little Man adores "Sancho" the tiny chihuahua, and was delighted when we told him we were going to meet the "new doggy" that lived with Sancho. So off we went to Sancho's house to meet the new puppy.

First off, the dog was adorable. Now, most puppies are cute, but there's something about the wrinkly forehead of a boxer, and the silly way they paw everything to death that really pulls at my heartstrings. I contemplated how I would escape the yard with my son AND the dog without the owner noticing, but realized quickly that our two bedroom apartment is no place to hide a dog that will quickly grow to be 60 or 70 pounds.

Little Man was rightfully confused. He's met plenty of puppies on our walks, but always from the safety and security of his stroller. He'd run around with enough adult dogs in parks or at friends houses to know that dogs are usually friendly, love to lick you, and sometimes bark "but that's OKAY!"

But a leashless puppy on level ground with our toddler? That was new territory. Little Mans' favourite game is "Chase me" so that's exactly what the puppy did. He chased our delighted son around and around and around and around the backyard until they both fell flat on their face from exhaustion.

Then the licking began. Little Man was flat on his back, and the puppy wasted no time: it was a full-on lick attack. His shoes. His hands. His ears, eyes, nose, mouth (yuck!!). Everywhere. All you could see was puppy and squirming toddler underneath.

He's such a polite boy. "No!!! No thanks!! No thank you puppy! Lick all done!!" When the visit finally ended, and I got my boy home, bathed, and tucked in bed, I asked him if he liked the new puppy: "No thank you, momma!" was his quick reply. "No licky puppy. I allllllllll done!"

Now I don't feel so bad about Maggie's untimely demise. Our boy knows what he wants, and it isn't puppy love.

He Grows, You Know

I got my son dressed this morning; size two t-shirt, size 24 months shortalls, size 2-3 years socks and size 7 spiderman (pardon me, "sider-wan") shoes for his big feet. We topped it off with one toddler sized Canucks ball cap to cover his chaotic curls.

I kissed his still-chubby baby cheeks and said "Look at you, what a big boy!" to which he promptly clapped his hands and replied. "I big boy! I poo in the toi-let!" (well, yes, that would be right, if you actually were toilet trained.)

I smiled back at the toothy-grinned toddler, who was so proud of his imaginary milestone. He scampered off singing about bodily functions to the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star".

He's getting bigger, and I hate it. We're booking our flights to Disneyland next month (oh miracle of miracles, my husband actually agreed to join us!) and Little Man likes to tell everyone "I go Dinney-land". They all share in his joy, but no one can believe he's under two.

"Oh, too bad you didn't go last year, he could have sat on your lap." (Um, he's not 2 til the winter.)

"Oh, three is the perfect age for Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck! (Um, he's still one, thank you very much!)

"Oh, what fun! I went Disneyland as a pre-schooler, too. " (Um, he is NOT a pre-schooler! No, no, no!)

For the last time, he's a toddler, and just barely! He's not even two! He still drinks from a bottle. He still needs his snuggles. He still wears footed pajamas. He's not toilet trained. He only has twelve teeth. Sometimes Sesame Street is "too scary" and -- thank GOD -- he still has an afternoon nap.

He is not about to go off to school.

He does not get his own seat on the airplane.

He just barely reached the height requiring his car seat to be forward-facing.

He's still being followed by the infant development program at our local child centre.

At day care, he occupies an "infant" spot. We shop in the infant section of baby Gap (and I try my darnedest not to wander over to the Toddler Size, even though there are plenty of clothes that fit him in both sections...)

"He grows, you know." My husband reminded me the other day. I was trying to stuff our baby's bum into a too-small pair of swimming diapers. The size said "up to 30 pounds" and his little cheeks were escaping from the sides of the diaper. "It can't leak if there's no room for air or water to sneak in!" I argued.

"But he can't breathe if the diaper is a tourniquet." Fine. One point for daddy. Our son gets the next size in swim diapers.

But he's still a todder, darnit! I'm not ready for him to grow up so quickly. I'll keep enjoying the snuggling, bottle-drinking, airplane-seat sharing Little Man for as long as I can.