Learning to Read

Devlin's reading skills have taken off since he entered grade one.  His biggest challenge is that he is incredibly lazy at times, and refuses to try to sound out the big words. Sometimes he give up too easily. So our task is keeping up his confidence level while challenging his reading skills. From purchasing easy to read books to reading a variety of storybooks every evening, from encouraging him to read the billboard ads to practising his spelling - it's a constant learning environment we are trying to provide.
He impressed his aunts over Christmas by reading several Dr. Seuss books to them. He impressed himself by reading some of the books Santa placed in his stocking. He even read a short story to his baby sister Aisling and baby cousin Mia.
And he's constantly trying to sound out words, no matter where we are. Usually we encourage this enthusiastically, even pointing out words for him to try. He hasn't learning about initials though. So there we were at the busy rest stop on the highway, waiting in line to order our meal. "Kuhfuhk. What's that?" he asked loudly.
We were waiting in line at KFC.

Parenting and @$%#**!

I'll be the first to admit that I have a trucker's mouth. Or at least I used to. Then I had kids.  The transformation to my colourful vocabulary didn't occur overnight. At first, I didn't give much thought to my habit of using swear words. The curses came naturally when the baby's diaper leaked, or when he vomited, projectile fashion, into my shirt. Nothing else seemed to express our frustrations so concisely than a short expletive when the baby woke up, again, within mere minutes of falling asleep. Sometimes, the words simply belied our own helplessness as parents. There was the time when Devlin was running a high fever, and all the parenting books indicated a rectal temperature was the most accurate. I don't know how many times we tried to hold the squalling, squirming baby still, while attempting to insert, most delicately, a lubricated thermometer, and try to obtain an accurate reading, all the while wondering if we were inserting it too deeply or not enough.
Then baby grew. Swear words were easy to mutter as we ran into more obstacles of parenting. Another bowl of oatmeal goes flying. The garbage bin gets overturned again by curious hands.  The computer gets turned off by a wayward kick by a tiny foot while you were in the middle of a transaction. The newly replaced toilet paper roll is unfurled ceremoniously by a giggling toddler.
Then came potty training. All hell broke loose with our language. Just when we thought we had turned a corner with the toileting issue, Devlin decided to regress. He began to poop in his underwear. For no reason. He knew how to use the toilet. Had no problems peeing in the toilet. In fact, he had been pooping in the potty. Overnight, he began to poop in the undies.  (I've never figured out why, but I now realize it's a commonality amongst all of my offspring.) It was gross. It was disgusting. I was at home with two kids, and at my wit's end. None of the parenting books or toilet training guides mentioned this type of regression. The pediatrician's advice was to take it easy as it would go away, but the regression could last up to a year. Up to a year!!!???
Reverting to using pull-ups made matters worse as he decided to pee in the diaper-like training pants. We decided to suck it up and soldier on with the underwear. It was a dirty event. Each day, my frustrations grew. The swear words flowed freely. Until the day I realized that kids are indeed sponges and they do mimic the adults. One afternoon, my son informed he had pooped. In his underwear. As I pulled down his pants and underwear gingerly, I said "Ahh, Devlin" in a despairing tone of voice. He responded, "Yeah, I know, F---!"
Well, that stopped me cold, and I swore that I would clean up my language. That incident, and the one time he actually used that word in front of my mother was enough of a warning to me. We have tried to clean up our language. The last thing I want or need is a conference with the teachers about my kid's inappropriate language. It's hard especially since my line of work inspires such creative terminology. The challenge for me is to leave the cursing at the workplace. For Daddy, the task is to drive without mentioning all the d@!% morons and idiots on the road.
But there are some situations where a good expletive provides the perfect relief to one's frustrations. I've tried to substitute the really bad swear words for some milder, not r-rated ones. Unfortunately, I am using the Lord's name in vain way too much. Funny how the kids will repeat the r-rated words and their lesser counterparts but not the religious ones.
Then there was the evening where Aisling was finding every excuse in the book to delay bed time. More milk. Need to pee. One more story. Need to find her baby [doll].
"Aisling, the baby is downstairs. I am not going to get it."
"I neeeed my baby to sleep. I can't sleep. Get it for me. I can't go by myself. Come with me," she whined.
Knowing when I was defeated, I muttered crossly, "Let's go. Let's go and get your bloody baby and then you better get to sleep."
We went down to the living room, and searched for her doll. Then I heard the triumphant cry, "Here it is. I got my bloody baby!"

Santa the Enforcer

So there's been some talk as to inappropriate-ness of using Santa Claus as a disciplinary method, or more accurately, as a bribe to obtain good behaviour from the mischievous elves in our homes. Parenting experts are shaking their heads as the scads of parents out there who are threatening the naughty list and lumps of coal. Children should not need such threats, real or imaginary, to behave and toe the line. If parents are resorting to calling Santa and telling him to cancel the stocking stuffers, then the parents have been neglectful parents from the start. As babes in the crib, we should have laid down the law and commanded respect and obedience from these critters long ago. Even Supernanny Jo would agree that having an imaginary enforcer, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny who may withhold treats, is a big no-no in her books. Why are the children more willing to behave for someone other than their parents? Because the parents have lost complete control over their kids.
Well...correct or not in the world of parenting experts, having Santa as an enforcer works. After all, "he knows when you've been bad or good". After viewing several holiday movies, my kids are convinced there does exist a naughty list and a nice list.  They've also learned that Santa will visit their home, but that doesn't mean all the stockings will get filled. Nothing gets Ceilidh to finish her meal faster than a call to the North Pole. The threat of lumps of coal and an empty tree will guarantee a stop to the tattling, pinching, and pushing. (Although the whining is still a problem.) I'm not above bribing my kids to coerce some cooperation from them.
Hey, if it worked for our parents, why shouldn't it work for us?
And on that note, a Merry Christmas to all!

Christmas Lights!

It's a magical time of the year, and our kids love the various Christmas decorations and lights adorning our neighbourhood. They're also badgering their father to put up more than our usual string of multi-coloured lights so we've paid a visit to Canadian Tire to purchase lawn ornaments.
Last night, we were travelling to the movie theater. As we passed by the various dazzling displays, Aisling excitedly pointed and shouted "Decor-a-tion! Look! Decor-a-tion!" Every house and store we passed, she would comment "Decor-a-tion!"
Eventually, there were fewer Christmas displays to gawk at as we drove down a major road. All of a sudden, there was a shout from the back row. "Look! More decor-a-tion! Pretty!" Aisling exclaimed.
It was a fire truck with all of its lights aglow and flashing.

From 2 to 12 in the blink of an eye!

For weeks now, Aisling has been singing the Barney song - I love you, You love me. She only knows those words and she sings them over and over again. With an earnest smile, she will approach you and ask if you want to hear her song. Before you can even answer, she'll break out into her song. Sometimes, she'll even dance along, swaying from side-to-side as she waves her arms in the air. In fact, she gave an impromptu performance in the locker room last week at swimming lessons.
Yesterday, she asked me if I wanted to hear her sing. I accepted, while silently cursing the purple dinosaur. But instead of "I love you, you love me" that I was expecting, I was treated to "All the single ladies"! Well, it sounded more like "all the sinnel ladies". There was an accompanying dance too.
In the blink of an eye, we've gone from Barney the Purple Dinosaur to Beyonce!

My personal trainers

Everyone knows that exercise is beneficial to your health, both physical and mental. The lists of the beneficial aspects grows daily with some new research or study being released almost every day. I'm not immune to those reports. I work out. Not because I have a weight problem (at least I don't think I do). I exercise five to six times a week because it's good for my sanity. Sure there are associated health benefits, like a stronger immune system and lower blood pressure. Mostly I exercise because I like food, I like to cook and I love to eat. I also have poor self-control when it comes to denying myself certain foods. So I eat, and then I work it off.
However, since I've had kids, I've another reason to exercise. Not to get my pre-kids figure back, because that's a hopeless cause. No, I exercise because it's usually my only alone time that I get on a regular basis.
How do I manage that? By waking up early and donning my sweats before the slumbering monsters start stirring. Although, my children seem to have taken on the roles of being my personal trainers.
There was a time when I was a member of a gym. I would pack my gear, and travel to a gym to work up a sweat. Once Devlin arrived on the scene, the thought of arranging for child care and driving to gym to workout, while trying to schedule the said workout between nursings was too much to consider. So we cancelled our gym memberships and invested in some equipment for our home. (Which now acts as a laundry rack.) I also purchased several work out tapes that I did use. While I jumped around and attempted the intricate footwork, Devlin would be propped up against a cushion, giggling away at my antics. When he got older and developed more neck control, he was popped into the jogging stroller for sessions of rollerblading and runs around the neighbourhood which he enjoyed even more. Sometimes, he even fell asleep.
Then Ceilidh came along. Trying to manage workouts was bit more difficult. I joined the community centre which provided babysitting at a nominal fee. That lasted all of one month. Ceilidh cried too much for the centre's volunteer babysitting staff. At least the weather was warmer so I resumed running and training for the races. Or I bundled Ceilidh into a snowsuit and ran with the jogging stroller while Devlin was at daycare. My spouse and I even signed up for boot camp sessions that were being held down the street.
After Aisling's arrival, I became even more motivated to exercise. The sanity thing, the time away from the kids and the combined factors of age and three pregnancies provided great impetus to getting out of bed, even after a night of much interrupted sleep. I head out the door for a run or to the basement and my library of workout dvds. Most of the time, I rely on my own will power to dig deep and push through the overwhelming desire to crawl back into bed. On other occasions, I have my "personal trainers". There's nothing like a bit of encouragement or critique to get one to run faster or squat lower. I'm not talking about seeing my monkeys at the finish line, clapping and cheering "Go Mommy!". My personal trainers are more sadistic.
During a charity 5k run, I heard a lot of "Go faster!" from the depths of the double jogging stroller that I was pushing. Whenever I head into the basement, Aisling immediately bring over my hand weights and yoga mat. When Devlin was mastering the art of riding a two-wheeler, he would suggest that I run next to him, so that he could "Mommy with her exercising". Which is slightly better than him suggesting that I could work out at the gym next to the gymnastics centre. But the best is from my daughter Ceilidh. While I was doing a series of squat jumps, she was sitting on a chair, wrapped up in warm snuggly blankets. Then she asked, "How come your bum shakes when you jump?"

Devlin's Christmas Wish List

All he wants for Christmas is his two front teeth!