I’m nearing the end of my second week of not going to work. Some people refer to that as a “vacation”, but I have some thoughts on that subject that I’ll save for later this week. All in all, it’s been a pretty busy time, with lots of time spent in the car traveling to exotic locales. To summarize, we:

- visited with Grandpa, Grandma, Lindsay, Riannon, and Meillyn in Ancaster

- attended my nephew Ian’s first birthday party in Kitchener

- watched a big boat travel excrutiatingly slowly through the Welland canal

- spent some time in Niagara-on-the-Lake and decided it would be a great place to live someday (which I consider some undefined future point, and which B considers tomorrow)

- enjoyed quick but meaningful visits with Evan, Ed, Cristina (x2), Patrick, Mark, and Miss

- took the GO train to Toronto and rode the subway

- checked out the dinosaurs and mummies at the ROM

- hiked to Webster’s and Tew’s falls

- went bowling, where I again failed to break 200, causing me to question the value of the 10 years of Saturday mornings I spent at the bowling alley in my youth

- picked fresh vegetables in Gerry and Claudette’s awesome garden

Rather than bore you with the details (if you’re not already there yet), here are a few pictures from the past couple of weeks.

My nephew Ian at his first birthday party. Just looking at this picture makes me start thinking that having a third boy wouldn’t be the end of the world.

A going all medieval at the ROM.

K playing with his Cars toy at his Cars table.

A is the picture of concentration as he tries to master the drum part to Weezer’s Buddy Holly.

]]> http://dearlove.ca/2008/08/20/back-to-our-regularly-scheduled-programming-2/feed/ 0 The Dearlove http://dearlove.ca/2008/08/03/this-is-why-we-dont-have-nice-things/ http://dearlove.ca/2008/08/03/this-is-why-we-dont-have-nice-things/#comments Sun, 03 Aug 2008 22:36:15 +0000 The Dearlove http://dearlovequartet.wordpress.com/?p=336 Continue reading →]]> B and I came home from our date night to find our remote control wasn’t working.  The power button was lit up, but it refused to do anything.  I tried a few different things to fix it, but nothing worked.  The cause of this sudden malfunction was a seemingly unsolvable mystery.

I spent about an hour this afternoon setting up the fancy new universal remote control – installing the software, checking for updates, entering the make and model of our modest collection of home entertainment devices, etc.  Towards the end of the tedious process, I mentioned to the boys that we’d have to be careful not to drop this remote as it could break.  This comment resulted in an interesting conversation…

A: “Yeah, I dropped the other remote lots of times.”

Me:  “Really?  When?

A:  “Last night, when Grandma was here”

Me:  “Why did you do that?”

A:  “Well, I wanted to see where the batteries go.  When I dropped it before the batteries came out, so I kept dropping it until they came out again.

Me:  “Wow, how many times did you drop it?”

A:  “I don’t know.  A lot of times, I guess.  They just wouldn’t come out, so I kept dropping it on the floor.”

I was more amused than angry.  I could just picture him dropping the remote over and over again until finally the battery cover popped off – kind of like a Herring Gull dropping a clam on the rocks in an attempt to smash the shell and get to the juicy flesh inside.

I can’t wait until he tries the same trick with my laptop…

His afternoon teacher sent home a nice yearbook with pictures taken throughout the year. The last section also had individual profiles of each student. Along with their name and age, each picture had a caption that reads “When I Grow Up”. The answers are pretty typical for 5-year olds – a lot of police officers, firemen, and race car drivers.

B and I were a little stunned and amused at A’s caption, though, which read:

“When I grow up, I want to be a security guard / metal scanner at the airport”.

This came as a complete surprise to us. He talks about being a pilot, a Jedi, an explorer, but we had no idea he was considering a career with the Canada Air Transport Safety Authority. It’s nice to know that he values keeping the airlines safe from nail clippers and shampoo bottles above all else.

We wanted to find out more about his thoughts on this job, so we conducted a little interview.

So there you have it – either an airport security screener or a pilot. Given the poor business outlook for airlines, he’ll probably have to reconsider his options at some point.  Perhaps he’ll be influenced by his classmate Scott, who said “When I grow up, I want to work for the Government of Canada”. Poor kid…

A’s actual birthday was yesterday, so we let him pick the restaurant for his birthday dinner. Among all the great options in this city, he was fixated on one – East Side Marios (hereinafter referred to as “ESM”).

I hate ESM. I’m generally not that fond of chain family restaurants, and ESM is easily the worst. We rarely eat there, and when we do, I feel sad about spending $50 on crappy food instead of going to an independently-run place that actually puts a bit of effort into its offerings.

So, I tried in vain to convince A that we’d have a much better meal at another restaurant. “Let’s check out the new Works around the corner. They have elk burgers!” “Wouldn’t you like to go to the New Mee Fung for some nice Vietnamese spring rolls?” Alas, all he wanted to do was have dinner at ESM and spin the birthday wheel to win a prize. Sigh.

ESM failed to live up to my already low expectations. The service was poorly coordinated, the meal I ordered wasn’t available, the pasta I ended up getting was mushy and bland, the salad was drowning in dressing…it was depressing. And for the pièce de resistance, the wheel of fortune that A had talked about for three days no longer existed. I thought the poor kid was going to have a major meltdown, but he was assuaged by the box of cheap birthday trinkets they brought over instead.

Still, that was the only downside to an otherwise spectacular weekend. We had a nice visit with Kyle, Sue, and my nine-month-old nephew Ian, went to soccer practice and swimming lessons, took A to a play date with his friend Dexter, and played some road hockey over at the park. It was the very picture of middle-class domestic bliss.

For some reason, the thought of having nine kids under the age of five in our home for two hours has my stomach in knots. We’re doing our best to plan interesting activities for them, but I have this feeling that after five minutes, one of the boys’ friends will say “This sucks. Where’s your Xbox?” and it will go downhill from there.

Back in my day, nearly all birthday parties were at someone’s home. I do remember being invited to Michael Jackson’s birthday party at a Burger King when I was around seven or eight [Ed. note: for clarity, it was not MJ, the alleged pedophile / entertainer]. As I recall, it took place in a dark storage room in the basement. A fun mirror leaned in one corner, obscuring a few crates of condiments. Burgers were eaten, presents were unwrapped, and we went home.

These days, birthday parties are a major growth industry. Movie theatres, museums, indoor playgrounds, and even Loblaws will gladly host your kid’s party, complete with pizza, cake, and loot bags. Mommy and Daddy need only fork over a couple of hundred dollars in exchange for two hours of peace of mind and the undying love of a grateful child. According to this news story, some parents are spending thousands of dollars on custom birthday parties. For a three-year-old. [Ed. note: Idiots.]

With less than 48 hours to go until the big event, I know I should just relax a bit. We’ve got a cool party theme, games and activities have been organized, and there will be lots of juice, cake and ice cream on hand. At the first sign of a bored kid we’ll fill’em up with sugar and bring out the water balloons. What could possibly go wrong? [Ed. note: Lots. Kids could escape and wander into neighbourhood swamp, boys could find loaded handgun in bedside table, etc.]

I don’t think I’ve written anything too embarrassing about the boys, but perhaps they won’t be too excited 10 or 15 years down the road when a potential girlfriend Googles them and reads about their adventures in toilet training.  It’s a problem that people of my generation didn’t have, although we did have to worry about baby pictures of us in the bathtub cropping up during family slide shows. 

Personally, it seemed like an equity issue.  I have taken pains not to include my first name anywhere on this site to make it a bit more difficult for some people to find me through search engines.  I think it’s only fair that I offer my family members the same courtesy.

In case it’s not obvious, my wife is B, my older son is A, and my youngest son is K.  I tried to come up with other names, but nothing really resonated with me.  I could have used Number 1 and Number 2 to refer to the boys, but it seemed a little juvenile / scatalogical (“Man, number 2 was a real pain in the ass this morning”).

I’ve also started going back through the archives to change the names to initials, which is a fairly significant undertaking.  I imagine it will take a few months, or even years, to completely eradicate their names from Google searches, but at least it’s a start. 

Three years ago our trio became a quartet as K made an early arrival. He began stirring at midnight on May 7, 2005, burst onto the scene at 4:00 am, and was packed up and ready to leave the hospital by 8:00 am. Clearly this was a boy of action.

Like many pre-schoolers, K has been struggling with the word “three” – it comes out more like “free”. It’s been very cute over the past week watching him practice making the “th” sound. He sticks his tongue out in an exaggerated manner and slowly drags it across his top front teeth, which usually results in a fair amount of airborne particulate.

For me, this birthday is accompanied by a bit of melancholy. The last few years seem to have flown by, and suddenly I’m no longer the father of two cute little toddlers. Although we haven’t closed the door on having a third child, I think it’s pretty unlikely. While this means I may never have to change another diaper or get up for a 4:00 am feeding, it also means I won’t get to enjoy the indescribable feeling of a baby sleeping on my chest or burying his head in my shoulder.

In any case, tonight will be a low key event with a small family dinner of K’s favourite foods (no fruit, vegetables, or meat allowed). I’m sure he’ll freak out when he sees the tricycle we bought him, and the chocolate cake and ice cream should give him enough energy for a couple dozen laps around the block.

Coming up later this month: A turns five, and I get a sports car in a futile attempt to retain my youthful appearance.

A couple of days ago, I thought I’d do a quick estimate of how much we’ve spent on child care over the past few years. After scribbling some notes on a scrap of paper, I arrived at the figure of $53,000 spent to date. I did a bit more scribbling, and pegged future daycare spending at an additional $33,000, for a grand total of $86,000.

I’m not complaining…much. We have been fortunate to get spaces at great daycares for the boys, with terrific caregivers and nice facilities. Over the past three years we’ve gotten used to the monthly payments, and I try not to think about it too much. No good can come from thinking of all the other things you could do with $86,000…

Consider the other big financial investment that many parents make for their kids – university. Financial institutions and the government try to put the fear of God into you that if you don’t start putting money in an RESP when your child is still in diapers, you won’t be able to afford a quality education. You’re given 18 years of interest and government grants to build up a nest egg that will see your son or daughter through a few years of school.

Compare this to daycare, which is comparable to the cost of tuition and other fees. Many parents have spent whatever savings they have on a down payment for a home, and then you usually take a pay cut while you’re at home during your child’s first year. So, you’re broke and stressed worrying about getting a space for your child, and then when one finally opens up, you get to scrape together $1,100 a month for the privilege.

Given that the Conservatives’ national daycare program consists of giving parents $100 a month ($60 after taxes) to offset the cost, I think we need to come up with a different strategy. I propose stealing a page from the RESP model and taking advantage of the miracle of compound interest.

Under my new RDSP (Registered Daycare Savings Plan), children would begin contributing monthly payments at the age of 12. Weekly allowances, money from paper routes and snow shoveling, and cash gifts from grandparents would be funneled into a tax-sheltered fund that would grow over time. Kids will watch in wonder as their meagre savings grow year after year, and they’ll delight in learning about Canada’s tax system.

Of course, 12 is only a suggestion based on national statistics. If your child looks like the mischievous type who may engage in risky behaviour down the road, you may want to consider opening an RDSP as soon as possible.

Adulthood – it’s closer than you think.

Every morning between 06:30 and 06:45, I awaken to the pitter patter of footsteps coming toward the bed.  This is followed by K’s sweet voice saying, “Daddy, I have to go poop”.  I generally roll over and respond with “You know what to do”.

The next couple of minutes are spent listening to him struggle to get his pants and night-time underwear off – it’s basically the same as hitting the snooze button.  The silence is sometimes broken by a running commentary, like, “Oh, that’s a stinky one”.

Eventually I hear, “Dad, I’m finished”, which means sleep time is effectively over.  I have no choice but to roll out of bed and begin my day by wiping the bum of a 2-year old boy.  On the plus side, it also means that my day can only get better.  Usually…

In the morning, A attends Junior Kindergarten. Donna, his teacher, has nothing but great things to say about him. At our last parent / teacher meeting, she was literally beaming as she told us what a pleasure he is – smart, polite, inquisitive. She mentioned that she’d heard from other students that A has timeouts in the afternoon, but she found that hard to believe because he’s such an angel.

In the afternoon, A goes to a daycare program at the Fieldhouse, which is on the school grounds. In recent months, Jillian, his other teacher, has been greeting us with tales of A’s poor behaviour. He doesn’t listen, acts silly, splashes water on kids, even uses a plastic shovel as a weapon from time to time.

This week we started an afternoon sticker chart to track his progress. A sticker means he did well during an activity, a frown face means a timeout. The early results aren’t promising. On Monday, he had four timeouts, Tuesday he had three, and yesterday he had a remarkable five timeouts. If the trend continues, he’ll be dragged off in handcuffs by the end of the week.

A just seems very headstrong these days. He knows what he wants to do, and doesn’t much care what other people say about it. Everything is a negotiation, whether it be what’s for breakfast, what clothes he’s going to wear, or when bedtime starts. Failure to comply with his demands results in a grating whine that quickly raises the tension level in the house.

At this rate, A appears destined for a future as a lawyer, singer, or conductor. I can only hope that our early interventions will steer him away from the dark side.