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.

What's the Point in Confidentiality if you call ME by his birthname?

Fourteen months after placement, nine months after signing final paperwork, five months after the adoption order was granted, three months after receiving his new birth certificate, and two months after his first passport was issued, we finally have Little Man registered under our MSP, with his Care Card in his new name.

Evidently, some government programs take a little longer to navigate than others.

In the interim, we smiled and nodded when every health care professional referred to our son by his birth name, or called me by his birth last name when addressing me. In fact, our pediatrician's office STILL calls me Mrs. Birthname!

This is a real conversation between myself and some government drone:

Drone: "Good morning Mrs. Birthname, I just listened to the voicemail regarding your son's Care Card number."

Me: "Actually, my last name is Reid. Thank you for calling me back. You see, our son's adoption was recently completed, and when we applied for his Care Card to be reissued under his new name, we specifically requested that he be permitted to keep his original Care Card number. The Care Card arrive in his new name, but he has a new number as well. We'd like it changed back please."

Drone: "Oh, well for privacy reasons, Mrs. Birthname, we had to change it. We cannot release his original name or Care Card number to you."

I paused.

"Well it's a little late for that -- you just called me by his birth name." I waited. I heard a little gasp from the Drone.

"Oh, well I'm very sorry, Ma'am.... but I can't just change it back."

"Why does it matter? I already knew his birthname. It's printed on his old Care Card that I'm holding right here. His old number is ____ and his birth name is ____. Can we have his old number reinstated please?"

The Drone was getting frustrated "Can you hold please, Mrs. Birthname?

After listening to an eternity of Rod Stewart and Phil Collins hold music, the Drone came back on. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Birthname. You'll have to appeal to the privacy commissioner to have the Care Card number changed. Have a good day."

And then he hung up.

What? Pardon me? This is so exasperating!! All I wanted was continuity in our son's medical history. It's bad enough we don't have access to his birth family history, now they are driving a wedge between his medical life before and after adoption finalization.

When I show up for a medical appointment, I have to present his new Care Card and his old Care Card, so that the receptionist (whose day is already busy enough without this crazy circumstance) can find his chart since the only thing in common between pre-and-post adoption is his birth date.

Nuts to privacy and confidentiality. Especially if you're going to call me Mrs. Birthname!!

I Dropped the Cake

I can't believe it.

I dropped the cake.

I spent ten minutes going over cake sizes, cake flavours, cake colours, potential allergens, vegan options (sorry guys, we went with the dairy after all) and most importantly, how to maximize the amount of chocolate that went into the cake for our summer picnic.

I ordered the cake one week prior to the picnic, so that each of the coloured flowers I requested (which were supposed to complement our new corporate logo) would precisely match our promotional material.

I admit it, I went a little overboard.

Unfortunately, so did the cake.

I can't win. I really can't. I protected that cake all the way from the bakery back to my suburban home, and to the outermost reaches of the lower mainland. Over multiple bridges and tunnels, through summer sunshine and the lunging attacks of my toddling child.

When we got to the park, I purposefully loaded the cake last on my second trip of goodies, even though that meant an extra trip across a bee-infested grass field between the car and the picnic tables.

I didn't think the cake would go anywhere. But then I went over a sizable hole in the lawn. And the cake went overboard.

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" I screamed in horror. "The caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake!"

I landed with a less-than-dainty thud. Fortunately, it stayed safely inside the box and was therefore still good to eat. UNFORTUNATELY, the box was now upside down, the flowers were destroyed, and the icing looked like it had been attacked by a pack of ravenous supermodels who had just been fired after a bikini photo shoot.

Everyone says don't cry over spilled milk, but I honestly felt like bawling over smooshed cake. Little Man cheered me up, of course "Mmmm. Cake! Yooks good, Momma!"

We had an awesome picnic anyways.... 27 people attended, tons of kids, and some great interest from both experienced and prospective adoptive parents. We had a wonderful afternoon, and no one seemed to notice the smooshed cake....

Thank you to everyone who came out this weekend! I hope you enjoyed yourselves and made some connections in your local community. And even though the cake fell flat on its face, I think we landed on our feet.