All righty then. After yesterday’s entry, both boys awoke with a flourish of phlegm. Nasty coughing put a quick end to preschool plans, so we set ourselves up for another day in the house.

But, I kept my word and I shaved and showered before Neomom headed off to work. And I will admit it feels good. I even got to test out the nose hair trimmer on my new beard and moustache trimmer. Wooohooo! Nothing like a well-shorn nose.

By 9 a.m., I had the boys fed, the kitchen cleaned and a load in the laundry. Own the job, own the job.

So . . . what now? I’ve always wanted to try out a bread recipe I got from another stay-at-home dad I met on the dadstayshome.com web site. Other dads on the site have tried out the recipe and many swear by it. Last week I bought all the ingredients and yesterday, I figured, what the heck! We’re stuck inside all day, might as well make the house smell nice.

(You can find the original recipe on my buddy’s blog site at http://sahd57plymouth.blogspot.com/2009_01_01_archive.html)

With Sonwun and Sontoo deeply engrossed in Blue’s Clues, I knew the time was right. I pulled out the recipe and started my new career as a baker.

Following instructions, I grabbed a big honkin’ bowl (that’s actually exactly what the recipe said) and I added three cups whole wheat flour, three cups all purpose flour, quarter cup of oil, two tablespoons brown sugar, two-thirds tablespoon salt and one and a quarter tablespoons of yeast. And then I mixed it all up.

I then added two cups of warm (not hot) water and began kneading. I tried mixing it with a wooden spoon at first. Dumb idea. So I set the spoon aside and dug in with both hands. And it was about at this time, with my hands covered in a sticky not-yet-dough concoction, that Sonwun called from the upstairs bathroom, “Daddy, I’m done pooping.”

This is my cue to go and assist with the “paperwork,” portion of the event.

**SIGH**

And so I washed my hands, headed upstairs, took care of business, washed my hands, washed my hands, washed my hands and returned to kneading. The recipe called for 5 minutes of merciless kneading. (I also had to add about a quarter cup more warm water – the amount of water is to be determined by the consistency of the dough. I am a rookie, so I just guessed.) I did my best to show no mercy and then, as instructed, I plopped the dough on the counter, cleaned the big honkin’ bowl, dried it, sprayed it down with cooking spray and then replopped the dough into said bowl. I covered it with a dish towel with the understanding that, in three hours, it would double in size.

Must resist the urge to peak. Must resist the urge to peak.

Did not peak. Dough did the rising thing. As instructed, I punched it down and divided it between my two smaller bread pans. Is it pans? Well, the loaf-shaped metal things, whatever they are. Oh, and don’t forget to spray down the pans, or grease them, whatever works for you, before plopping the bread in.

Then I left it alone again for an hour and then fired it in the preheated, 375-degree oven for half an hour.

And oh . . . the smell. Even if it didn’t work, the smell made all the effort thus far worthwhile. YUM!

But it did work. It was proudly served with my meatloaf (will post that recipe another time), potatoes, corn and peas. Great supper. I can’t wait to try the bread toasted this morning at breakfast. It is delicious, if I do say so myself.

Anyway, Day 2 of beating the blahs begins. A challenge, once again, as Sontoo had me up at 2 a.m. with a nose full of snot and an attitude a mile wide. But at least he went back to sleep, as did I.

Happy Wednesday!

Well, happy Tuesday. At least it better be, dammit.

I haven’t been writing much of late, and it’s irritating me. To be honest, a lot of things are irritating me these days. I don’t know if it’s pre-winter blues, the move to Thompson, or what. But I’ve gotta shake it, cause I don’t like the feeling.

So what to do? I am searching my scrambled brain for the things that make me happy. Things that give me a boost, a lift. Right now, a trip to a tropical location is out, so we’ll put that one on the back burner.

So far, I’ve rearranged the master bedroom. Neomom, who’s finding herself in a similar state of mind, has rearranged the boys’ bedrooms. I’ve also taken on the long overdue task of hanging pictures around the house of family, friends, good times. If my family can’t be here in person, at least I can see them in the photos, smiling at my brother’s wedding, in my other brother’s back yard, at my wedding. These thing are all good for the soul.

An artist friend of mine uses a quote on her web site “Science will dictate the future, Art will gladden its soul.”

I like that thought. And, as such, I visit her blog site every morning and, you know what? It’s true. She paints and posts a new work of art (almost) every day. This was my plan for this blog, (daily posts) but I have not kept up with Kim. You can check out her work, by the way, at http://www.eatdrinkpaint.blogspot.com/. She’s currently running a contest and giving away one of her paintings each week. You just send an email telling her which one you like each week and your name goes in a weekly draw. If your name is chose, you win your painting. I encourage you to check it out.

In any case, back to fighting the blahs. We’ve got two more rooms in the house that need some serious rearrangement, and I’m going to be tackling those in the coming weeks. The rec room needs a couch, some photos . . . we basically need to make it ours. Right now, it’s just kind of a kids playroom with a treadmill stuck in the corner. I need to make it a warm, comfy place where I want to hang out.

The living room, as well, seems a tad sterile and uninviting. There’s something about hardwood and white walls that’s just not cozy.

So that’s step one – changing my environment to better suit me.

For step two, I think I’ve gotta take a page from Mr. Mom, the 80s movie starring Michael Keaton and Teri Garr. As much as some of my stay-at-home dad colleagues hate the title, and as much as it was “just a comedy” there is some truth to it.

At the turning point of the film, Keaton decides he’s gotta get back in the game, mentally. He’s gotta get up each day, shave, shower and own the role and title of Mr. Mom.

I admit I’m not shaving daily and kind of look like an unmade bed most days. And, I suppose, if you look that way, you’re more likely to feel that way.

And finally, step three. I need to find something, (and time for something) in addition to writing, to do. I need a hobby— maybe get back into my photography and attempt to take, and post, a photo a day to go with the blog.

So there you go. My three-step plan to get my head together. Today will, admittedly, be a rough one to start with, as Sontoo got me up at 3 a.m. and I have not been back to sleep. But that’s life, it’s my life and I’ve just gotta own it. I have so much to be thankful for. Time to concentrate on the good stuff.

Happy Tuesday!

So it’s official. Sonwun has entered the system. He is now colouring inside the lines . . . or at least he’s making the attempt. Or is he?

Throughout his art career, he has never been one to follow in the footsteps of others. He’s a trailblazer. He makes his own lines and then promptly colours through them. He cuts paper with scissors not, as society demands, to create realistic representations. No, he cuts with wild abandon and then, and only then, decides what he has created.

“The Beaver”

But it all seems to be changing. Yesterday, he came home with three objets d’art. The first two made my heart stop. The most horrifying piece was “The Beaver.” With construction paper as the mileu, Sonwun had correctly assembled, and glued, the pre-cut pieces. The eyes, the ears, the nose and the teeth were all present, relatively symmetrical and, worst of all, there was not an abundance of glue. It was clear that another hand was at work in this piece. My faith was mildly restored, however, when I noted Sonwun had chosen two different eye colours for his beaver. The artist was alive, but clearly on life support!

“Color these things that are purple”

The second work “Color (WHY ARE WE USING AMERICAN SPELLING?????) these things that are purple,” opened a window to the mind-controlling, art-killing techniques of preschool. It was clear that Sonwun had been asked to monochromatically decorate five objects; grapes, a flower, a skirt, a dinosaur and, I’m gonna say a plum.

And it was clear that he’d been pressured to stay within the lines. Sure, there were some feeble efforts at self-expression as he snuck outside the societal norms with his purple crayon, but it was clear that he was losing the battle. And to make matters worse, there was a “Making Progress” sticker at the top. A reward, if you will, for following suit, for falling in line, for taking orders and executing them to meet another person’s world view.

“Teddy Bear”

But the final and most telling work, “Teddy Bear,” renewed my hope and my faith that Sonwun had not entirely caved. To the uneducated critic, it looks like a standard preschool teddy bear art project. The bear, again assembled from pre-cut construction paper shapes, is mounted on a brown paper plate. Almost all of the elements are in their anatomically correct locations. But I see the subtleties, the rebellion and the free spirit that marked Sonwun’s earlier works in dot-to-dotism and scribblism. The artist is alive!!

Now some might dismiss the fact that the bear has 12 eyes as mere motor skill issues, poor marker control. But they would be wrong. I know that Sonwun is crying out through his art. He’s saying that he’s watching. He’s aware of all that is going on around him. He knows what they’re trying to do and, in his own subtle way, making them believe they’re succeeding.

And then there’s the ears. I note that only one has the requisite pink piece of construction paper glued in the middle. Again, the uneducated critic would say “poor glue technique . . . we’ll work on that.”

But I know what’s really being said here. Sonwun is saying that, yes, I’m hearing you. But I’m not listening. I am aware of what you want from this piece, but you need to know that I will do it my way.

And finally, the most telling element in this objet d’art. The reverse paw. Once again, the uneducated will tell you that it was merely an oversight. The artist didn’t recognize that the end with the little thumb needed to go on the outside, not on the shoulder. See? He got it “right” on the other side. It’s just a technical glitch.

What the critic fails to note, and this is critical, is that Sonwun chose the left arm to invert. The little paw is not, as most would observe, glued to the shoulder. The tiny paw is actually covering the teddy bear’s heart. It is Sonwun’s final volley in the war to maintain his artistic freedom.

He’s saying, you may force me to use your pre-cut, pre-concieved tools for my art, but you will never destroy my artist’s heart. Your attempts to alter my path with peer pressure and “Making Progress” stickers has failed. My body may be here in your classroom of conformity, but my spirit is free.

Sonwun: 1
The System: 0

I almost put Crisco on Sontoo’s little bottom. So desperate was I to put an end to one of the most nasty cases of diaper rash I have ever encountered.

It was going to be that or Bag Balm, a cow udder treatment that was recommended on one of the sites I searched for solutions.

This all began Sunday, a long-overdue date night, for Neomom and I. We had it all planned out and had even hired a babysitter in this new city; a daunting task. But we have not been out together, alone, for so long. We were looking forward to a nice dinner, followed by drinks at a local sports bar. No, it’s not the perfect evening out, but it’s the best Thompson has to offer. And it isn’t about where. It’s about with whom.

So Neomom spoke to a few colleagues and found one had a 15-year-old daughter who did the babysitting thing. We called, she was free Sunday night and the plan was coming together.

Until Sunday morning.

Sonwun fired the first volley at our plans. His tummy troubles took the northern route. He opened with an early-morning regurgitative redecoration of his pajamas, my pants, the couch and the floor. That was soon followed by a fever and our Sunday night plans were fading fast.

Sontoo put the final nail in our date-night coffin, but his tummy troubles took the southern route. Solid poop became a thing of the past and the poor little guy’s bottom took the brunt of it. His tushy turned bright red and then developed open wounds as the liquid waste burned at his bottom. We tried to keep up with the changes, but any amount of time in a dirty diaper was too much.

As time on the change table became a painful, screaming battle, I was desperate for a solution. While Neomom pulled out the baby books, I hit the internet. And yes, among the proposed solutions, was Crisco (not the oil, the lard), Bag Balm and a combination of vaseline and Mylanta heartburn medication. The theory for the latter, of course, being that it would combat the acid in his poop and, hopefully, turn that little bottom back to it’s normal colour.

As I read story after story of diaper-rash-related diarrhea (I used to read novels . . . sigh) it occurred to me that one of the common themes was coverage, sealant; keeping the nasties away from that precious posterior. The other most common theme was that, no matter what you tried, the problem wouldn’t be entirely solved until the tummy troubles disappeared.

So, after considering Crisco and Bag Balm for a few minutes, I decided it was just best to use the available weapons, Desitin and Vaseline, and just bomb the hell out of the war zone with each diaper change. At the same time, I attacked on the northern front, offering foods I hoped would tighten things up; cheese, oatmeal, bread and less fruit for a little while.

This morning, it seems the tide has turned. Sonwun’s fever is gone and Sontoo’s little bottom is showing tremendous improvement. Yes, we lost the date-night battle, but we are winning the diaper rash war. And in the end (haha) that’s what really counts.

So, not a great day at playgroup Friday.

Sonwun and Sontoo were both in a high-maintenance mode, I was dog tired and, well, someone cancelled it without telling me.

In spite of the fact that it was cancelled, I showed up on time, set up the gym mats, took out the toys, slides and cars and sat down with my coffee. And again, in spite of the fact that it was cancelled, about a dozen other parents showed up with their kids. So it wasn’t a complete waste of time.

That being said, let’s talk about breast feeding, shall we? I know, I know, touchy subject. What do you, a lowly man, have to offer on this subject, hmmmmm?

First and foremost, I’m in favour. I think it’s the best and most healthy way for a newborn to eat. There, that should keep the good La Leche League folks from picketing my home.

Second, I’m all in favour of doing it where and when it must be done. It is nothing more than nature at work. That should keep the femi-nazis at bay for at least a few minutes.

Third, I’m also in favour of a little discretion and a little awareness of your surroundings. As wonderful and natural a process as this may be, in mixed company with total strangers it can be, well, awkward. Argue that one if you like.

Back to playgroup. In an effort to keep it as safe and as fun as possible, the babies and toddlers get their own little area, on gym mats, with age-appropriate toys. The older kids, the preschoolers, pretty much get the run of the rest of the place. Around the edge of the gym are chairs, where parents generally sit, have coffee and chat. Occasionally, they’ll join their young ones on the baby mat for a little playtime, or to settle a toy dispute.

Friday, for whatever reason, most of the moms decided to set up camp on the baby and toddler mat instead of in the chairs. And yes, the need to feed arose and, rather than find a less congested environment, mom just let nature take its course right there on the baby and toddler play mats, amidst the toys, the children and the other parents.

Now we have a bit of a problem.

I attend this Parents ‘n’ Tots group for the same reason as the moms. Give the kids a chance to meet friends and play, get out of the house and enjoy some adult conversation. I’m not there to look at boobs. But more importantly, as one of the only men there, I certainly do NOT want to be perceived as someone who wants to look at boobs.

And ladies, I really should point out that, as a mature male, who has two breast fed children, this does not do anything for me. At 16, maybe it would have, I don’t remember. But I do remember that, at 16, oxygen was a turn-on so it’s entirely possible.

When you are taking care of your baby in the chairs provided along the wall of the gym, I will not approach you. I will not sit down and strike up a conversation. That, too, would be awkward, inappropriate and more than a little creepy.

But when you are breast feeding in an area that was set up for my son to play, odds are pretty good I’m going to have to be there some of the time. He’s only 18 months old and needs a little help now and again, especially Friday when he was in high-maintenance mode. It is not my fault that he chose to sit beside you, but you are sitting in his area beside one of his favourite toys. Your area, my area, is the chairs. You and I can stay well away from each other in those chairs. It’s a big gym.

This way, we not only avoid awkwardness, but I avoid dirty looks from some of the other moms sitting there on the play mat. Everybody wins.

It’s a brave new world ladies. Stay-at-home dads are here. We don’t like to be excluded from Parents and Kids groups, because we too are parents and it’s not about us, it’s about the kids. We are not there to invade your space or to leer. We’re fathers and most of us are more than familiar with breast feeding.

And ma’am, if you’re fine with whipping ‘em out in a very public, confined space, fine. So am I. Some of your friends, however, are not. It was clear some of them didn’t like my proximity to this very natural event. But that was your choice. Not mine.

So until we stay-at-home dads are fully accepted in groups like Parents ‘n’ Tots, (or in society in general for that matter) let’s work together to avoid this situation. You and I may be cool with this, but others, obviously, are not. And it is me, not you, that, in the eyes of some, comes out looking slimy. And I really don’t like that.

So please. Take a chair. Get the job done and then join your friends back on the mat if you so desire. I’m not asking you to leave the room and I’m not asking you to use a bottle. It would be more than inappropriate for me to do so. As I said earlier, I think you have chosen the best feeding option for your baby. All I’m asking is for a little space to enjoy playgroup with my boys without looking like someone who goes out of his way to sit beside a breast-feeding mother.

I am not that guy.

So let’s talk snacks.

Are they necessary? How often? Must I lug something from each of the four food groups with me every time I leave the house? Can the boys not survive an hour or two without eating?

I’m asking these questions for two reasons:
1. Sonwun is required to bring a snack to preschool. He’s there from 1 to 3:15. He wouldn’t get a snack in that time period in my house. He just ate his freakin’ lunch. Why does he need to eat at preschool? I’m not paying you to monitor him at feeding time.
2. Playgroup runs from 9:30 to 11. So many of the moms bring snacks. Some of them highjack the little picnic tables and lay out a freakin’ buffet. Seriously, six different bowls of food. Again, the kids just had breakfast. (Or maybe the didn’t and you just choose to feed them breakfast at playgroup). But for the rest of you, why do we need to feed them every half hour?

Oh, and as a side note to the buffet . . . Would you people please not leave the food out the entire time. You and your kids walk away, giving any child the chance to sneak up and help themselves. And yes, I realize you don’t mind, but I DO. I don’t know you, I don’t know your kids. But I do know that communal food bowls are the perfect place to share whatever disease, virus or plague that is going around. So knock it off. You want to feed your little butterball, do it. But recognize there are other little people in the freakin’ room and keep it to yourselves.

And a special note to the mom who brought sugar-coated Timbits as a snack for her child and left them out for all. When my 18-month-old tries to help himself, don’t encourage him. I don’t want him to have that. Especially the one that already had a fucking bite out of it. Keep your crap for your own kids. That’s your decision. What my son puts in his mouth is, generally, my decision.

Now I will admit up front that I’m still relatively new at the parent gig. But I want my boys to eat a good healthy breakfast, lunch and dinner. Filling their little bellies every hour during the day with crackers, or cheese or fruit or whatever happens to be lying around at Playgroup, tends to make them a little less enthusiastic about cleaning their plates at meal time. And I don’t need that.

By nature I’m an observer. Can’t help it. I think that’s why I fell in love with photography. And I can’t help but notice that some people think that whenever a child makes a negative noise of any kind, it’s a cry for food. And, based on my admittedly limited experience, IT’S NOT! A hug, a diaper change, a little attention is often all that is required. Yeah, I know, it’s easier just to shove a Timbit in the kids’ mouth and continue your conversation with the woman beside you, but I just don’t think that’s a good idea.

In this age where we, apparently, are all consumed with the childhood obesity “crisis,” maybe it’s time to take a look at the out-of-control snacking. Are we teaching the kids that food is comfort, food is love, food is the answer to every question?

Are you unhappy little one? Here, have a cookie. Here, have a poptart. It will make you fell better. I don’t think that’s a great message to impart on a little sponge-of-a-mind.

And, you know, to each their own, I guess. But when a snack is “mandatory” equipment for preschool, I have to question it. Granted, at least they insist the snack is approved by Canada’s Guide to Healthy Eating. But maybe there should be a Guide to Healthy Eating Habits and Attitudes to go with it. Every childhood problem is not solved with a snack – even if that snack meets with the approval of the Canadian government.

And every child does not need food between 1 and 3:15 each day. I recognize that there are some children who don’t get a healthy snack at home and the most nutritious thing they eat is the little snack at preschool. But does that mean we must make them all sit down together and eat something? No peer pressure here. I mean, what if I choose to send Sonwun to preschool without a government-approved snack? Will he have to sit aside, by himself, while the others graze? I must assume so.

I repeat two things I’ve said in previous posts.
1. I need to know why. Why is the snack mandatory at preschool? My kid can go two hours without eating. Is that really an issue for so many others? If so, we have other issues we need to deal with.
2. I don’t want to be “one of those parents” that makes life miserable for those charged with my sons’ care, but see #1. I need answers. These boys are my most prized possessions and I’m interested in everything they do, say and eat.

And if that makes me a pain in the ass, so be it.

Now, all that being said. If my kid needs a snack, he’ll get one. Sonwun is almost four. He can ask for a snack if he’s hungry. If the request immediately follows lunch, I know he’s not really hungry but is looking for attention. If he asks in a whiny voice, it usually means he’s looking for attention. If he asks 10 minutes before supper, it ain’t happening. He gets what he needs based on my experience, the things I’ve read and the time of day. He doesn’t always get what he wants.

Sontoo is just learning to speak, but I am intimately familiar with the noises he makes. I know there is one for sleep, one for attention, one for food, about six for “my brother’s teasing me” and, when a diaper change is in order, he has already started climbing the stairs toward his bedroom to let me know. If I don’t catch him in time, I’ll find him sitting on the change table. He’s quite a climber. And when it comes to snacks, he too gets what he needs based on my experience, the things I’ve read and the time of day. He doesn’t always get what he wants.

Rant over. Have a great Thursday. I must go prepare Sonwun’s snack for preschool. And remember, Kiddies Northern Preschool is a “Nut Aware” environment. Who comes up with these names? Bah, that’s a rant for another day.