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You know what they say……..

Asked, on several occasions to please put some clothes on this morning, Thomas replies “you know what they say mum, less getting dressed more Lego”.

Who, pray tell, says that? Other four year olds no doubt.



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Awkward things, small packages

While out for a walk this morning, we walked past a very, well, tiny man. A little person I think is the term. Thomas, like all 4 year olds, awkwardly yelled out about it and the lovely man just smiled at us. Once past him, Thomas said “Mum? That reminds me that dad and I saw the tiniest woman ever at the mall the other day. I mean, she wasn’t the size of a bug or anything. She was the size of a pigeon.”


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Close, but no cigarette

While working on his Lego robots, one piece was not working exactly how Thomas had envisioned it working, so, with a heavy sigh he took it apart and said “Oh well, thanks for the cardboard.”

Me: The cardboard?
Thomas: Mum, thats just a saying you say when you have to start something again from the beginning. Thanks for the cardboard.
Me: Do you mean back to the drawing board?
Thomas: Oh. Yeah. That one maybe.



Resolutions, and politics

I am not, as a rule, a maker of resolutions. I prefer to set the bar incredibly low for myself so that I can pat myself on the back when I exceed my (terribly low) expectations. This year though, I have resolved to blog at least twice a month (see? low).

For my first one, a story about Thomas and his obsession with Mayors and, specifically, the mayor of Toronto.

I can’t exactly remember how he even knew anything about mayors but a few weeks ago, we were listening to the radio and the story mentioned Parliament Hill. Thomas asked what that was and I explained that it was where the government meets to make decisions about things. Naturally, he then needed to know what the government was. Instead of being honest, I told him that they were the people trusted to make decisions about the country, to which he replied,

“Oh, so like a bunch of mayors?”
“Yeah, like a bunch of mayors!” I replied, pretty impressed at his thinking.
“So, like, Rob Ford and stuff?” he asked.
(insert massive sigh here)

How to explain the crack smoking, racist, lying, train wreck of a mayor, that is Rob Ford, to a (not quite) 4 year old?? Given that all CBC ever talked about for a good three weeks was Rob Ford and his shenanigans, it shouldnt come as a huge surprise that Thomas picked up on it, but MAN is this a tricky one to explain without a lot of questions. He is OBSESSED with Rob Ford. He mentions him at least twice a day. It doesn’t help that there’s a picture of him on the cover of our local paper that we see a hundred times a day. We’ve sort of summed it up that he’s not a very nice guy because he lies and is dishonest and that seemed to quell the tide of questioning for a while until, we hoped, he moved on to something easier like, say, the Middle East, or debt ceilings or something.

Around christmas, Thomas came into the kitchen with a guilty little look all over his face and said,

“Mum. I sneaked a look at number 21 on my advent. I put it back though.”

Given that I would never have known that he’d done it, I was pretty impressed that he told me and told him that it wasn’t good to have done it but that I was very happy he told me and that it showed he was growing up to be an honest person and that was very important and blah, blah, blah. His response…

“I know, cuz if I didn’t tell you, I would be EXACTLY like Rob Ford, right mum?”

“Weeeeellllllll, not exaaaaaaaactly, like him. But I don’t doubt that Rob Ford sneaks ahead on his advent calendar son.”

There. Politics. Taught to a three year old. Done.

An honest little face if ever I saw one. With his campaign manager at his side

An honest little face if ever I saw one. With his campaign manager at his side


A mother’s……uh……love? Or something.

While I’m in that mopey “my child is growing up too fast” mood, I was thinking about all the milestones that we celebrate for our kids, and how we celebrate them. Video of first smiles, broadcast on facebook to be viewed by friends, family, and that weird guy that worked in your office four jobs ago. Endless pictures of the first birthday with cake all over the face. The dance parties after a successful first potty encounter. I thought too about how many people buy the book Oh! The Place You’ll Go when our kids start school, or graduate from kindergarten or high school or university. So too, do many people buy their son’s the book I Love You Forever by Robert Munsch. Errrrrrrrr, ummmmmmm. Make no mistake, I’m on board with the message: I really, like, REALLY, love my kid. How I plan on showing him that I love him as he grows up though? I will NOT be taking notes from Mr. Munsch.

It starts out innocent enough. Sure, I’ve gazed lovingly at him as a baby, comme ca……


I may have sneaked in to look at him while he was in his crib. You know, those early days when you’re terrified that they aren’t breathing, so you stare at their chests for 12 straight minutes just to make sure…..


I’ll admit, I’ve peeked around his door to make sure he was sleeping and hadn’t kicked off his covers. I don’t really recall having crawled around his door though……


Now here’s where things really start to go pear shaped for these two. At this point, the mother turns a weird corner from loving parent to, well, stalker. The son grows up, moves away into his own house, which for him is clearly not far enough away from his crazy mother who STRAPS A LADDER TO HER CAR AND DRIVES OVER TO HIS HOUSE TO CLIMB THROUGH HIS WINDOW!!! Whoa! Hold up lady, I think this might be illegal.


Once through the window, this happens…….


Where is this guys wife/husband? Oh, right, all his girl/boyfriends ran screaming from the relationship in the early days when they met Mrs. Bates there. Good lord woman, you’ll break your back, he’s like six foot four! Put that grown man down! Climb back out the window and go immediately back to the asylum from which you escaped! Look, even that cat is trying to escape the madness.

As with most things in life, as we age we start noticing all of our parents traits in ourselves and this poor man is no exception. By the end of this sordid tale, this has happened…….


This poor man, destined to live a life alone forever terrified by his mothers love. Thomas, I love ya kid. I may call more often than you’d like, I may try way too hard to get you to come home for the holidays, but, I will make you this solemn promise: I will never, ever, drive to your house in the dark of night and break in through your bedroom window (I’ll come in quietly through the front door using the key that I had secretly cut when you weren’t looking). xo


We had a little son, thought we’d call him Sonny

Andrew got a new phone yesterday and as he was transferring photos from his old phone to the new one, he came across all his old photos of Thomas when he was a baby. As we looked through them, all these memories, things I’d totally forgotten about, came flooding back. It’s crazy, he’s only 3 1/2 but it seems like a lifetime ago since he was a baby. There’s all these little things you forget about, like how he used to call dogs “bah” and whenever he would see one he’d point and squeal “oh no! Bah!” Or how he used to hold this old, beat up Garfield doll to the window and just talk and talk to it in his mysterious little per-verbal language as he watched for Andrew to come up the street at our first little house. I remember people saying, when he was a baby, “remember all this, because it goes so fast.” I always thought they were talking about when he was a grown man, and me an old lady, but I realize they mean now, all the little moments in these first few years that just fly by. I regret the time that I spent wishing away the sleepless nights, or how much anxiety I had about nursing properly, that got in the way of my enjoying every single second of him being so little. I always think about when I was a kid and how, at some point, I called my mum “mummy” for the last time and neither of us would have known that I wouldn’t say it again. It gives me a heavy heart. Andrew pointed out that Thomas hasn’t asked for a “carry cuddle” for a while – its his way of getting in a sneaky carry while he gives you a big hug and rests his head on your shoulder. We had a particularly long and cuddly one a few weeks ago while walking home from the market – if that’s the lat one, it sure was a good one to end on.

Don’t get me wrong, I love that he’s growing up and becoming such an incredible little guy, but, (insert sigh here), I wish he’d slow down just a little.

This makes me think of that Paul Simon song,

had a lot of fun, had a lot of money
Had a little son, we thought we’d call him Sonny
Sonny gets married and moves away
Sonny has a baby and bills to pay
Sonny gets sunnier day by day, by day, by day





Dress for dinner

At approximately 6pm, every evening, if you happened to be in the vicinity of our home, you may be privy to the following battle conversation:

Me: Thomas! Can you pleased wash your hands and get dressed for dinner*

*we are not a family from the Victorian era that requires its members to put on their finest clothes before coming to the table. We simply ask that you wear clothes. Or at best, underpants.

Thomas: (insert whiny voice here) Why do I have to put my clothes on? Can I just eat like this (pointing to a 100% naked body)?

Me: no. You HAVE to wear clothes to eat dinner. I feel like this is a conversation that we can’t keep having. You just have to, ok?

Thomas: but whyyyyyyyyyyyy?

Me: clothes. Stat.

Stomping away and then returning with a telltale giggle heard all the way down the hall…..

Thomas: I did it mum. I put underpants on.