Of Course It's Personal

I often hear people talk about the 'Terrible Two's" and I'm not sure why. Kids at the age of two are easy. They're cute. They're talking all the time and their personalities are coming to the fore. Any trouble you have with a two year old stems from their emotional development. They don't know why they are angry, they're just angry. That kind of thing. Three year olds on the other hand. Well, they make it personal.They know full well that buttons are made to be pushed.

Bo is now 3 years and 5 months old and hitting stride as a sh** disturber. If Josh is crying, Bo is involved. If William is crying, Bo is involved. Even if Bo is crying it is highly probable that he was the only person involved. Intellectually, we get it. He's sandwiched between his brothers. He's trying to establish his place in the family and in his world. Unfortunately, most days I'm too tired to step back and think things through from his perspective. My first impulse after he's lit the powder keg that is our home is to stick him in the freezer for 10 minutes, pour a glass of wine and re-group. Still, we manage to survive each day and every night he manages to save his butt by yelling after us from his bed as we limp downstairs after story time  ..."Goodnight Daddy. I'll love you in the morning and in the afternoon."

It's because he means it that we cut him some slack.

On the rare occasion his 'true' self shows through and he makes us laugh. The other day he walked into the kitchen saying 'Ho Ho Ho....here's a candy cane'.

Thwap!

'THWAP!'

Hahahahahaaaaaa......

'THWAP!'
'THWAP!'

Heheheheheeeeeeeee.....

I sat in my office upstairs and listened to these sounds as they jumped from the boys' washroom two doors down, where Josh and Bo were having a bath.

'THWAP!' 'THWAP!' 'THWAP!'

HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAAAA

My curiosity finally got the better of me and I went to investigate. Bo was situated at one end of the tub. Joshua at the other. They were holding little rubber balls, each about the size of a plum, and looking at me with blank faces. They didn't know that I didn't know what the heck they were doing. So they were waiting for my reaction. There was no evidence of wrong doing. I left.

 'THWAP!' (giggle)

I quickly poked my head back in. The game, if I can call it that, was in full swing. The objective, it appeared, was to see how close you could gun one of those balls at the other person's head without actually hitting it. The sound was the rubber balls smacking off the wall behind the target.

There was really very little I could, or wanted to, do. Some lessons need to be learned the hard way. I returned to my office. While Bo is bigger, my money was on Josh. He is strong and throws equally well with either arm. When I left he was throwing balls one after the other, from different sides.

It did not take long before I was proven wrong though. Bo connected first....and that was the end of bath time.

The Farming of Trees

'Tis true. People do this. They farm trees.

Today we put on our snowpants, boots and tuques, loaded the baby-blue minivan and headed South West. 40 minutes, one nap and a few 'how much longer' groans from the back row and we were there. Ian's Tree Farm. Found at the corner of Cemetary Side Road and Richmond.

It was sunny, there was a big ass reindeer and the boys got to run around outside with sticks. Pretty much Nirvana. After strolling along Candy Cane Lane for over two hours, doing the hay maze twice and rolling around in the hay barn (don't laugh...Jesus did it), Jill decided to take the boys on the wagon ride (okay, the hay ride) while I grabbed a tree and strapped it to the van. 

A tree farm forces you to think about trees. Needle retention, colour and cost per foot are variables that must be weighed. Ian's offered Scotch Pine, Norway Spruce, White Spruce and White Pine at the lower end of the price scale. Colorado Blue Spruce and Fraser Fir were at the high end. Prices varied depending upon whether or not you wanted under 6 feet or between 6 and 8 feet. Smackdab in the middle sat the Balsam Fir. Most middle aged men would require 2 hours with pen and paper and a glass of milk to figure out which tree was best for them. But I wasn't messing around. I was on the clock. That hay ride wasn't going to last forever. I walked with an 8' Balsam Fir and was damn proud of it. Smart looking tree that Balsam.

Now here's a difference between men and women. A woman......a Barrahaven living, Costco shopping, Caravan driving mother of two, will sniff a tree and try to convince her husband that she can tell the difference between a Balsam Fir and Fraser Fir. She'll do it with a straight face too, all the while trying to  make him appear the idiot.

As I was tying the tree to our van I had to listen to the couple parked behind me....

Her: we got a deal
Him: what do you mean? We paid the asking price. $53 for a six foot Balsam
Her: that's not a Balsam, that's a Fraser. Smell it
Him: it was in the row marked 'Balsam'. The guy who works at the farm said it was a Balsam. They charged us for a Balsam
Her: no way. We got a deal. That's a Fraser. Smell it..... Smell it!

There were probably 10 guys in the parking lot when this was going on. We were all separated by minivans and in the process of strapping trees to them...and yet...we all managed to exchange a look at that precise moment.

We decorated our bad boy this evening. It's 8:30 p.m. I'm fried and going to bed.

To be, or not to be....

William is presently taking skating and swimming lessons. He'll soon be back in ski lessons. However, he has also been taking a drama class at the Ottawa School of Speech and Drama. There are seventeen kids in his class. He is one of five boys and seems to enjoy himself a good deal, though he makes a point of telling us the exact opposite.

Today they wrapped up the semester by putting on a slightly modified performance of Rumpelstiltskin. He had two lines and played the role of a farmer. In typical William fashion he saw little need to practice his lines over the course of the week and uttered them only once before we left the house for the twenty minute play.

As expected, 95% of the kids didn't know what they were supposed to say or spoke too softly for anyone to hear. Jill and I can already see the politics at play as the two primary male roles were granted to boys we found lacking. One kept falling down and the other whispered all of his lines. I have no doubt that the man who stood beside me, barefoot, had fathered one of them. Perhaps both.

Pettiness aside, I enjoyed the little show and smiled from beginning to end. William has only recently turned five, but when it comes to this sort of thing Jill and I have absolutely no concerns about his confidence or his ability to deliver. For the time being anyway, words are his forte. As he sat waiting for his few seconds of floor time to come along he repeatedly turned to me, winked and gave me a thumbs up sign. He was either confident or found the kid who kept falling down highly amusing. The Farmer character was introduced, he leapt up, strode over to the Jester and, like Olivier in his prime,  nailed his lines cleanly and clearly. I must remember to bring roses next time.

"Next time" will have to be the spring though. With skiing, skating and swimming continuing after Christmas the little lad will need time to just play outside.

Apologies for the quality of the photos. I had to rely on my phone's camera.

What's Mine Is Mine

What's mine is mine. What's yours is mine.

My name is Joshua. You live in my house. This is how I roll.

I don't care if anyone has a problem with that. Sweetness or violence will see me through.

If I can't go over it, I will go through it. If I can't go through it. I will, in time, break it.

My name is Joshua. What's mine is mine. What's yours is mine.

This is my house. Deal with it.

Smile.