Woody and Elfis

 As I said earlier, our Elf gets his own post.

Three years ago an elf came to our house to watch over Rhylan and Cooper and report their behavior and attitudes to Santa.

 Well, this year I need say our ELVES. Yes, our faithful shelf elf Woody brought along a friend to help keep watch. His first night here, we didn't settle on a name. He was called Chuckles, Elfie, Elvis, and Elfis. His second day brought instruction to name him and he became Elfis. Now every time I see him all I can think of is "Blue Christmas".

 Now every time I wake up in the morning I get that panicked "Oh shit, did I move the elves"? Though, after 3 years it's becoming more of a habit to move them. Like Pavlov's dogs (and a good hubby) I've been trained (mostly).

Sometimes, they bring stuff back from Santa. Like letters. Or Christmas tree ornaments. Or a nice and naughty list (which only the elves have control over). Or, like a few mornings ago, pajamas to wear for their yearly Christmas picture (that'll be tomorrow's post). Things they were going to get anyway, merely made magical since they were delivered by their elf.

Of course, our elves are creative and enjoy a good Christmas prank now and then (this lands them on their own naughty list). It's fun to see Elf on the Shelf spoofs and all the fun others have with their elves. 

Some people think it's creepy. We think its entertaining to see our kids excitement and enjoy the "magic" of the elves because there will come a day when there is no more magic. Awe, who am I kidding... they'll believe in the magic forever because they know the consequences for not believing (like me)!

All Aboard!

If you are familiar with "The Polar Express" this post will make sense. If you're not familiar with it, stop. Go to your nearest bookstore, download it for your reader, anything. Get familiar with it. It's my favorite Christmas story.

Anyway, I taught 4th grade for 6 years and everytime around this year I would read  this story to them. Inevitably,  I  would get asked "Is Santa real"? I would usually pose the question back to them. But there were always some who couldn't hear that bell ring any longer.  Though it saddened me greatly, I knew better than to try to convince them otherwise. That would be my cue to explain my meaning of the Jolly Old Elf.

To me, Santa is the magic of Christmas. He's the giving, the excitement, the joy and happiness, the anticipation and the wonder. Giving gifts shows we care and want someone, other than ourselves, to be happy. That inherently makes us happy,  too. Ever see a kid, young or old, on Christmas morning? Exactly.  I'm like my two kids, giddy, overflowing with excitement, barely able to contain it all. That is the work of Santa. He is the colorful lights, the wrapping paper patiently waiting  to be shredded, the joy of the Christmas tree and all the decorations that go with it. Santa is the magic.

My kids know (or at least believe) that once you no longer believe in Santa, you no longer get any presents.  I'm pretty sure that's a risk they'll never be willing to take. Heck, I'm still waiting for my train to take me to the North Pole so Santa can give me the first gift of Christmas so I can ask for one of his reindeer's bells. Yes, the bell still rings for me. If it doesn't ring for you, find a kid and you'll be garunteed to hear that bell soon enough.

May Santa bring you good health and good cheer this holiday season.

Blueberries for Christmas

I wrapped some Christmas presents this evening. And I got to thinking how the season took hold of me a little earlier than usual. Our red and green Christmas count down chain began at 42 sleeps. It went up one side of the door frame, across, and down the other side. Now it is simply the length of the door. Christmas morn draws near. Icicle lights hang from the front eave. Santa and the snowman adorn the front doorstep. Colorful lights twinkle in the window. However, all this pales in comparison to the tree that blocks the TV from 2 viewing spots. Raised by me, ornamented by the kids, it stands honorably, proudly, patiently waiting for the Eve of the Jolly Ol' Elf. That evening, we opened the bag which contained all of our sentimental ornaments: Christmas turtles and frogs, the homemade ones and the school-made ones, the baby's first Christmases, even the one that glows in the dark. We opened that bag and let the kids hang them all while we fielded the questions of the stories behind each one. Yes, there are some branches that have 4 ornaments. Of course, there are vast empty spaces where there are no ornaments. But each ornament was hung with care and excitement and that makes the tree magically perfect. If we're good, Santa will hopefully leave us toys under this magical tree

However, if we're bad, he'll bring us coal. But how do you explain that Santa will bring coal to bad boys and girls to 3 year old who thinks coal is fun? The original conversation went something like this:

Me: What do you want Santa to bring you?
3 year old: A cement truck!

Me: What's he going to bring you if you're bad?
3 year old: I dunno.

Me : Coal.
3 year old: What's coal?

Me: It's what Nova Scotia burns to make electricity. Do you want that?

3 year old: Yeah!

Me: Never mind. He won't bring coal. He'll bring you blueberries. Do you want blueberries?

3 year old: No. Blueberries are gross.

So now Santa bring blueberries to our house if you're bad. His older brother is okay with that because he likes blueberries. 

This is also our 4th year with that ever careful watcher, Woody, the elf on the shelf, and in the tree, in the fridge, in the freezer, in the china dishes and in the curtains, and into mischief. This year, he brought along a friend... Elfis. But that's a whole other post because I have to go see if they've moved to new spots yet!

I hope you find this holiday season as merry as I do this year!

The March of Time

 

Nothing conveys how fast time actually passes
like watching your kids grow.
~Me 

 People who haven't seen our wildlings for a time always comment on how big/old they are getting. While I haven't actually noticed or thought about it, they have. Once upon a time Rhy was just a baby. That was over 7 years ago! And Coop is now 3!  The door frame has charted their growth for 3 years now. A distinct visualization of growth spurts and the continuous march of time. 

Once upon a time, Rhy went to playgroup on Thursday mornings. Now, he's in second grade and mastering school and the art of arguing with his parents. Coop, used to be the baby of playgroup. Now he's the big kid there. Being 3, he's simply mastering the temper tantrum and the art of throwing it. Soon enough (but not nearly soon enough) he'll be four and eventually (hopefully) grow out of this phase and into another. 

 Growth charts on the door frame, report cards from school, shoes too small, pants not long enough, and shirts too tight are constant reminders of the slow march of time.

Oh, another constant reminder? The Christmas countdown chain getting smaller every morning. HO HO HO! 

How I Dad

They say being a parent is the hardest job you'll ever have. It's 24 hours a day, 7 days a week all year every year. There's no instruction manual. The training is done on the job. I now consider myself an expert. But only because I have 1) a degree in early childhood education and 2) 2 kids of my own. Therefore, I'm only an expert for a couple more years, then I'll be swimming in uncharted waters. But here's what I've learned so far...

1) Make ordinary things, extraordinary -like pancakes. Kids love silly shaped pancakes. We have pancake molds but they're a pain in the arse because they're small and the batter is forever sticking to them - even when I use a whole can of NON-STICK cooking spray on them. Stick men, snow men, superman symbol and various letters are equally amusing. I've recently learned how to make a design within a normal, round pancake. Simply make the design on your heated surface, let it brown for a few seconds then cover it with a normally rounded pancake. The kids think it's magic. Significant others will be equally amused.

2) Imagination is amazing. Whether you're playing a game, writing a story, reading a story, or just being goofy imagination goes a long, long way. What if that chutes and ladders game was for real?! How much work would that be to land on square 28 and have to climb nearly to top. How much fun would it be to land on #87 and get to slide all the way down? Something like that new water slide "verrückt"? We roll a mixed up Rubix Cube across the floor and get the letter "G" which means we have to hop on one foot 4 times. Completely made up. Completely fun.

3) Outside is endless. Year round. Mud pies, bugs, worms, puddles, tree climbing, water hose, trampoline, bike rides, swimming, running, running, and running while screaming all summer long. Snowmen and snowwomen and and snowfamilies, snow angels, snowball fights, igloos, zigzag paths shoveled to the bus stop, sledding in the winter. Outside is where the active games get played. Refer back to number 2. Kick a ball, run to that tree and back before I go get that kicked ball and beat you back to where you started. That game's called Oreo*. I don't know why. Hit a ball I throw to you, then dribble a soccer ball to a wall, kick the ball off the wall and return before I get back with the ball you hit. That one's called Fubar*. Mostly because we heard that word in a movie and while we were allowed to say "fubar" we weren't allowed to say what it meant. (I'm 37 now. I can say it now. Just not to my kids) (or anyone elses kids for that matter). (Oreo and Fubar were games a friend and I made up when we were kids. They will be taught to my own kids). One day we even had a sock and shoe fight when we were locked out of the house after school. I had a stick and I used it pick up their socks and shoes and launched them at the kids. There's also gardening digging for worms.

4) Teamwork. There's nothing I can do that we can do better.

5) Lastly, be perfect in your imperfections. I only have the slightest clue what I'm doing. I mostly make it up as I go along. Parenting is part trial and error, part what your parents did with you, and part experiment. Take potty training, for example. Figuring out what will motivate them to use the toilet instead of their underwear (or the floor or the door) is tricky. Chocolate is good. But some prefer gummies. Others prefer non-food items like stickers. And sometimes you just need to shout "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL " like a spanish futbol announcer. Or you just need to wait until they're fully ready. You can lead a toddler to the toilet but you can't make them pee in it.

Daddy's Little Sook

sook¹

so͞ok,sək/

noun

noun: sook; plural noun: sooks

1. a female crab.
   
   

This is how I would define sook before meeting my Canadian wife. The opposite of a sook is a jimmy. However, sook has an entirely different meaning now and my wife has 3 of them.

We have 2 kids and both of them are sooks. Needy, attention craving,  dote over me kind of kids. Pet me! Pet me! Play with me!  Lately, the second born has been a sook for me. Wants me. Wants only me. As if he had OCD, only I can perform his requested task. God hath no furry as an OCD toddler*.

Now this is all fine and dandy. I feel privileged, honored even. I get the rambunctious kitchen dances. I get to play airplane. I get extra hugs and kisses. I get cozy book time at bedtime. I get sleepy snuggles after it's lights out. I get extra laughs from tickles. I also get the joys of bath time and the warm, towel wrapped cuddles afterward.

However, it's not all fun and games and snuggles for the big sook. When he spills he wants me to clean him up. When he drops his milk or his fork (while he's buckled into his seat at the dinner table) he wants me to pick it up. When his cup is empty it is I who must fill it. When it's 3 am (or any hour of the night when normal people are sleeping) he wants me to come lay with him. When it's time to go it must be me who dresses him, puts his coat and boots and hat and mittens on him. All trivial tasks, course. Except for the dreaded diaper change! When shits himself it's me he wants.** Its vile enough to make me gag. It often stinks up no less than 2 rooms. If it were any more repugnant the paint would melt off the walls. Any more disgusting and I'd sell it to the military to replace gas bombs.

To those who have babies or had babies, you know what I speak of. To those who are going to have babies, consider yourself properly warned.


*He does not actually have OCD. He has a case of the twos. (Symptoms also resembles the threes)
** In my own defense, it's not as bad as I've made it out to be. He does let mom help, too (just not as often).

Motivation

I started writing this post earlier this week and it started getting long. I looked at from afar and thought "if someone else posted this to read I wouldn't read it because it's too long" so I scrapped it. I was attempting to compared how running (which I love doing) is like being a dad (which I love being). I had 5 reasons listed with explanations to boot.

It was too much. Fun to write, tedious to read. However, I realized something as I was laying with Coop in bed tonight watching him silently drift off to sleep thinking about the run I wasn't going to do tonight. Those 5 lengthy (yet true) reasons running and daddy-ing are alike can be boiled down, concentrated and simplified to just one.

MOTIVATION

Sometimes I can't wait to get out for my run: time to myself, being healthy, endorphins. Sometimes I can't wait to be with my kids: take them to the library, go geocaching, build snowman or igloo or play with toys in the basement. Sometimes I'd be just as happy to have my shoes bronzed and never go again. I'd regret that though, because that feeling only last a day or two. Sometimes I just want my kids bronzed to go quietly entertain themselves, leave me alone so I can do something mundane like today's crossword puzzle or read my book or watch last night's Tonight Show, or eat in peace without being summoned a hundred times. And like the lack of motivation to run, the lack of motivation to be a dad only lasts a couple days hours, max.

My usual runs are 8 miles and take me about an hour. Sometimes I'll do a 10k as fast as I can. I was down to 44:03 the last time I did that. When I'm motivated I can watch my times drop over a period of a few weeks.

When I'm being a dad things seem to go much smoother. The kids don't bicker and argue over who's looking at who. Coop learns to read while Rhy learns to comprehend. There's less sitting and more doing. Today they asked to go to the "parking lot". There, Rhy can ride his scooter and Coop can ride his tricycle without getting squished by a car (ironic, eh?). I didn't want to go. But I knew if we didn't, we'd be back inside watching tv or eating or annoying mom each other. So we went. And while they rode I threw snowballs at them. They laughed when I missed (which was most of the time). I'd laugh if I actually got them. We had fun. Running is like that. Most times when I'm not MOTIVATED to go I'll lace up and go anyway because I know after the first 2-3 miles I'll be feeling good and after the 6th I'll be great. 

But sometimes I just need a vacation; a place to hide to eat my ice cream without sharing and a few days to give my tired shoes a rest. 



Lastly, this was a song for Nanny Sharon, but I give it to you... enjoy! http://youtu.be/i0yF_ycK-sY