We had invited my parents over for dinner last night, and Mike and I were in the kitchen prepping an easy Tex-Mex dinner while the boys were watching TV. Suddenly, Christopher came running into the kitchen, and he was extremely excited:
C: "Did you know that the most expensive hotel in the world is in Saudi Arabia?"
Me: "Oh, really? I thought it was in Dubai."
C: "Yes, that's right."
Me: (??!) "It's the one that looks like a sail, right?"
C: "Yep. It's a seven star hotel!"
Me: "Wow."
C: "And when you go, they give you your own butler!"
Me: "That's great, Christopher."
C: "Yes, and if you go out shopping and you have too many shopping bags, your butler will take them to the hotel for you. Then he'll come back and get you when you're done with the rest of your shopping!"
Me: "Excellent."
C: "It costs 3,000 dollars a night."
Mike (loudly, because he's now setting the table in the dining room): "That's a lot of money. For that amount of money, you could buy a PlayStation, an XBOX 360, a Wii and 20 games."
Benjamin (yelling from the living room, having heard only the last part of the conversation): "I want a Wii and 20 games."
Christopher walks back into the living room to Benjamin.
B (still yelling): "I want a Wii and 20 games!"
C (clearly exasperated with everyone for missing the point): "But Benjamin! You could have a servant."
8 Nov 2007
6 Nov 2007
It MOCKS me
You know the word verification thingy all you 'portant bloggers have activated? It. Hates. Me. And the feeling is mutual. Here's how our relationship works:
I punch in my supportive/cheerful/sympathetic/sarcastic comment and press 'Send'.
Immediately little miss Word Verification answers back, quite snippily, with intimidating red letters:
Enter the letters as they are shown in the image.
She even uses a bossy little Warning triangle! Sort of like a veiled threat. Only not veiled. More like an in-your-face 'be afraid...be veeeeeeery afraid' threat. A 'you-are-going-to-lose-your-entire-comment-if-you-don't-do-as-I-say' dare.
Fine. So I look at the stupid letters. But they're in a cursive I have never, ever seen before, unless it's the type that my oldest son tries to pass off as cursive (meaning little miss Word Verification is not just rude but also a lazy bum). I can't tell for sure what's a 'v' and what's a 'w'. Lazy, mean bum.
I punch in the letters while muttering 'what a pain in the butt' under my breath.
Press 'Send'.
What?!
She's back. And this time, I swear the message is bigger, bolder and redder:
Enter the letters as they are shown in the image.
The triangle is larger, too, and more ominous. Like the exclamation mark is ready to jump out of the screen and in my face.
She's got new letters up there now. Fewer this time, and slightly easier to read. It's like she's mocking me. She's clearly thinking I'm so stupid, I need the idiot version. She's trying to make it easy for hopeless little me. The nerve! I'll show her!
Punch, punch, punch... 'Send'
Wait...wait...what?!
Third attempt Word Verification reads as follows: BENDOVR
Sorry.No.Comment.For.You.
I punch in my supportive/cheerful/sympathetic/sarcastic comment and press 'Send'.
Immediately little miss Word Verification answers back, quite snippily, with intimidating red letters:
Enter the letters as they are shown in the image.
She even uses a bossy little Warning triangle! Sort of like a veiled threat. Only not veiled. More like an in-your-face 'be afraid...be veeeeeeery afraid' threat. A 'you-are-going-to-lose-your-entire-comment-if-you-don't-do-as-I-say' dare.
Fine. So I look at the stupid letters. But they're in a cursive I have never, ever seen before, unless it's the type that my oldest son tries to pass off as cursive (meaning little miss Word Verification is not just rude but also a lazy bum). I can't tell for sure what's a 'v' and what's a 'w'. Lazy, mean bum.
I punch in the letters while muttering 'what a pain in the butt' under my breath.
Press 'Send'.
What?!
She's back. And this time, I swear the message is bigger, bolder and redder:
Enter the letters as they are shown in the image.
The triangle is larger, too, and more ominous. Like the exclamation mark is ready to jump out of the screen and in my face.
She's got new letters up there now. Fewer this time, and slightly easier to read. It's like she's mocking me. She's clearly thinking I'm so stupid, I need the idiot version. She's trying to make it easy for hopeless little me. The nerve! I'll show her!
Punch, punch, punch... 'Send'
Wait...wait...what?!
Third attempt Word Verification reads as follows: BENDOVR
Sorry.No.Comment.For.You.
Homework At Our House
I'm sitting in our dining room watching, out of the corner of my eye, as Christopher prepares to do homework. He has just come home from a friend's house, it's 4:30 pm, and the sun is already setting. I've suggested he do his homework at the kitchen table, because the light is better there.
As I write this, I've counted him going back and forth from the kitchen to his school bag in the hallway 3 times. Each time carrying a single item from his bag. First his math book. Then his notebook. And finally, his pencil case.
There is no way a girl could've been this distracted, is there? She would have been able to get all three things out of her bag at once, surely? Or better yet, moved the school bag into the kitchen? Heck, most boys may even have thought of this. But not my Christopher. He's too busy chatting to anyone who'll listen to concentrate on what he should be doing.
[One hour later...]
Christopher continues to do his homework. He finished his math pretty quickly. Math is easy for that child, but he still manages to make it look horrendously complicated by being so. darn. messy.
He is now reading about Northern Norway. I understand that this is difficult for him, seeing as it is in Norwegian and all. But he has come into the dining room twice in the last 5 minutes with sentences starting like this: "You know, when we were in Hawaii last year..."
"Stop right there, Christopher! Unless Hawaii has suddenly become part of Northern Norway, you need to go back to your work." I say with as much firmness as my voice can muster (and believe you me, that's quite a lot).
He's clearly taken aback, because 2 minutes later I hear: "Are we having pizza toni..."
"Christopher! Nose. In. Book."
30 seconds later, realizing he's getting nowhere with me, he attempts this one on Mike: "Do you remember in Planet Earth, when the baby whale drank 3000 liters of milk a day?"
Mike acknowledges the question, says he can't deny that this is an interesting fact, but shouldn't Christopher be doing something else right now?
Why yes, he should. Northern Norway. Keywords in notebook. Now.
Please tell me it isn't just him?
*******************************************************
Rewind 4 hours, to when Benjamin came home from school happy as could be. Rosy cheeks from the crisp air, jacket unzipped, just to drive his mother batty. He bounced joyfully into the house and declared to no one in particular, "I don't want to do homework the very minute I walk in the door." (Never mind that he'd already played for 2 hours in the after school programme at school). I told him if he wanted to play outside for a while, he could do so while it was still light, but that as soon as he came inside, it would be homework time. No playing inside before homework was done.
Wouldn't you know that he proceeded to stay outside for an hour? Using his scooter, he went around and around and around the block. Aimlessly and without any purpose, other than avoiding homework.
*******************************************************
So I guess it isn't just Christopher after all...argh!
As I write this, I've counted him going back and forth from the kitchen to his school bag in the hallway 3 times. Each time carrying a single item from his bag. First his math book. Then his notebook. And finally, his pencil case.
There is no way a girl could've been this distracted, is there? She would have been able to get all three things out of her bag at once, surely? Or better yet, moved the school bag into the kitchen? Heck, most boys may even have thought of this. But not my Christopher. He's too busy chatting to anyone who'll listen to concentrate on what he should be doing.
[One hour later...]
Christopher continues to do his homework. He finished his math pretty quickly. Math is easy for that child, but he still manages to make it look horrendously complicated by being so. darn. messy.
He is now reading about Northern Norway. I understand that this is difficult for him, seeing as it is in Norwegian and all. But he has come into the dining room twice in the last 5 minutes with sentences starting like this: "You know, when we were in Hawaii last year..."
"Stop right there, Christopher! Unless Hawaii has suddenly become part of Northern Norway, you need to go back to your work." I say with as much firmness as my voice can muster (and believe you me, that's quite a lot).
He's clearly taken aback, because 2 minutes later I hear: "Are we having pizza toni..."
"Christopher! Nose. In. Book."
30 seconds later, realizing he's getting nowhere with me, he attempts this one on Mike: "Do you remember in Planet Earth, when the baby whale drank 3000 liters of milk a day?"
Mike acknowledges the question, says he can't deny that this is an interesting fact, but shouldn't Christopher be doing something else right now?
Why yes, he should. Northern Norway. Keywords in notebook. Now.
Please tell me it isn't just him?
*******************************************************
Rewind 4 hours, to when Benjamin came home from school happy as could be. Rosy cheeks from the crisp air, jacket unzipped, just to drive his mother batty. He bounced joyfully into the house and declared to no one in particular, "I don't want to do homework the very minute I walk in the door." (Never mind that he'd already played for 2 hours in the after school programme at school). I told him if he wanted to play outside for a while, he could do so while it was still light, but that as soon as he came inside, it would be homework time. No playing inside before homework was done.
Wouldn't you know that he proceeded to stay outside for an hour? Using his scooter, he went around and around and around the block. Aimlessly and without any purpose, other than avoiding homework.
*******************************************************
So I guess it isn't just Christopher after all...argh!
5 Nov 2007
The Bachelor - Part II
So maybe I knew that posting those pictures wasn't the nice thing to do. That they would be a little, teeny, tiny bit humiliating for the Norwegian Bachelor. I couldn't resist - I couldn't get over how different the two guys were.
It was meant as a simple spoof - but your comments made me think. And so, having started down this road, I might as well go all the way, even though I'm not sure where I'm going. Especially since I don't even watch Bachelor, and only stumbled across the Norwegian version on Saturday evening, bored and waiting for the boys to return home from a soccer match.
Many of us agree that while Mr. Norway is far from the ultimate in male hotness, he seems less plastic than Mr. USA, who also does not seem to have much of a following in the blogosphere.
But shall we take a look at the ladies?
Norway
USA
Isn't it amazing how these two shows, based on the exact same premise, are worlds apart in their final presentation? The oh-so-smooth American package vs. the stark realism of the Norwegian show.
The Norwegian production may look less polished and more rough around the edges partly as a matter of cost. Little Norway, with its 4 million people, can not justify a lavish budget for a show that maybe pulls in a couple of hundred thousand people an episode. Meanwhile, according to my best friend Google, more than 10 million people watched the last episode of the Bachelor in North America. That kind of ad revenue can pay for a rose or two.
Accepting that there's money to spend, I still wonder why the American show has such a sky high polish factor and is filled with perfect human specimens, beautifully airbrushed with blindingly white teeth, who so do not resemble any of the people in my neighbourhood?
The 25 Bachelor girls look like they just stepped off the runway. They are all gorgeous. Are we really supposed to be believe that they are unable to find a date on their own, and that they're so desperate they're willing to slug it out over a single guy they don't even know? On national TV?
I think not.
I can only see one reason for these girls to be doing this in the first place -because it is filmed for everyone to see. This is a stepping stone, a way to gain exposure, perhaps to promote a modelling or fledgling...ehem...acting career. Finding love is the farthest thing from their minds. Which is why the name reality show is so hilarious. Can we get any less real here, people?
This is escapism in its purest form. A prime time soap opera with all fluff and chocolate, no substance. A beautifully designed world, full of beautiful people doing beautiful things, in the hopes of winning a beautiful price. Enjoy it, if you like, for what it is. Don't try to look for anything real, beyond the name of the designer dresses.
Which makes me wonder what exactly it is that Norwegian viewers are escaping to? A world of average-looking, middle-aged, slightly overweight women - who have all been around the block - competing for the affections of a middle-aged, chubby, dishevelled man with a fairly grumpy demeanour.
There is an element of grittiness here that gives the illusion that the programme is showing it like it really is. Except we are still watching a group of women being scrutinized, evaluated and picked off one by one by a single man. Ouch!
I also question what's in it for the Norwegian women participating on the show? They are in a different age bracket than the American Bachelor girls. These women are mature - in their 40s. Surely, this can't be much of a stepping stone for them. Could it be that they are really looking for love? Wouldn't that be awful? I honestly can't imagine anything sadder.
So, although I initially thought the other way around, I'm now thinking that the Norwegian version might be worse, precisely because it looks more real. At least the American show is so over the top, you can almost feel the participants laughing with you at themselves.
From a feminist point of view, I do worry about the subliminal messages (actually, subliminal is the wrong word - I mean blatantly obvious messages) in shows such as the Bachelor. But the truth is, I can choose not to watch, and as long as there is a market for this type of thing, I suppose I'm fine with it. There are worse things to watch on TV. Except maybe for pubescent girls...
It was meant as a simple spoof - but your comments made me think. And so, having started down this road, I might as well go all the way, even though I'm not sure where I'm going. Especially since I don't even watch Bachelor, and only stumbled across the Norwegian version on Saturday evening, bored and waiting for the boys to return home from a soccer match.
Many of us agree that while Mr. Norway is far from the ultimate in male hotness, he seems less plastic than Mr. USA, who also does not seem to have much of a following in the blogosphere.
But shall we take a look at the ladies?
Norway
USA
Isn't it amazing how these two shows, based on the exact same premise, are worlds apart in their final presentation? The oh-so-smooth American package vs. the stark realism of the Norwegian show.
The Norwegian production may look less polished and more rough around the edges partly as a matter of cost. Little Norway, with its 4 million people, can not justify a lavish budget for a show that maybe pulls in a couple of hundred thousand people an episode. Meanwhile, according to my best friend Google, more than 10 million people watched the last episode of the Bachelor in North America. That kind of ad revenue can pay for a rose or two.
Accepting that there's money to spend, I still wonder why the American show has such a sky high polish factor and is filled with perfect human specimens, beautifully airbrushed with blindingly white teeth, who so do not resemble any of the people in my neighbourhood?
The 25 Bachelor girls look like they just stepped off the runway. They are all gorgeous. Are we really supposed to be believe that they are unable to find a date on their own, and that they're so desperate they're willing to slug it out over a single guy they don't even know? On national TV?
I think not.
I can only see one reason for these girls to be doing this in the first place -because it is filmed for everyone to see. This is a stepping stone, a way to gain exposure, perhaps to promote a modelling or fledgling...ehem...acting career. Finding love is the farthest thing from their minds. Which is why the name reality show is so hilarious. Can we get any less real here, people?
This is escapism in its purest form. A prime time soap opera with all fluff and chocolate, no substance. A beautifully designed world, full of beautiful people doing beautiful things, in the hopes of winning a beautiful price. Enjoy it, if you like, for what it is. Don't try to look for anything real, beyond the name of the designer dresses.
Which makes me wonder what exactly it is that Norwegian viewers are escaping to? A world of average-looking, middle-aged, slightly overweight women - who have all been around the block - competing for the affections of a middle-aged, chubby, dishevelled man with a fairly grumpy demeanour.
There is an element of grittiness here that gives the illusion that the programme is showing it like it really is. Except we are still watching a group of women being scrutinized, evaluated and picked off one by one by a single man. Ouch!
I also question what's in it for the Norwegian women participating on the show? They are in a different age bracket than the American Bachelor girls. These women are mature - in their 40s. Surely, this can't be much of a stepping stone for them. Could it be that they are really looking for love? Wouldn't that be awful? I honestly can't imagine anything sadder.
So, although I initially thought the other way around, I'm now thinking that the Norwegian version might be worse, precisely because it looks more real. At least the American show is so over the top, you can almost feel the participants laughing with you at themselves.
From a feminist point of view, I do worry about the subliminal messages (actually, subliminal is the wrong word - I mean blatantly obvious messages) in shows such as the Bachelor. But the truth is, I can choose not to watch, and as long as there is a market for this type of thing, I suppose I'm fine with it. There are worse things to watch on TV. Except maybe for pubescent girls...
4 Nov 2007
Weekend Wanderings
Saturday morning, having fought and won the dreaded Battle of the Shower* against the boys, we made our way to Oslo for a change of scenery. After parking our little Golf near Aker Brygge, we grabbed our coats and walked up towards Karl Johan Gate. It was a chilly morning, but we didn't feel cold thanks to the sunshine and brisk walking.
Karl Johan (so named after King Karl Johan) is the main thoroughfare in Oslo, connecting the Central Railway Station in one end with the Royal Palace in the other, passing Stortinget (Parliament) and the National Theatre on the way. The lower part of the street is a cobble stoned pedestrian only walkway, and this is where you'll find all the upmarket boutiques that Oslo has to offer. The upper part of the street is a wide boulevard with a park and the National Theatre on one side, the University of Oslo's Faculty of Law on the other, and, at the very end, the Royal Palace.
During the summer, Karl Johan is bustling with people shopping or enjoying a drink or meal at one of the numerous cafes and restaurants lining either side. In the wintertime, the park between the National Theatre and Stortinget is turned into a skating rink, to the amusement of children young and old. The street is truly the heart of the capital, and it is my favourite place to visit in Oslo.
Our boys are particularly fond of playing in the Royal Gardens, but this time around, we decided to walk down towards the Central Railway Station. The street artists scattered along the way provided the necessary amusement to keep the boys going, despite my occasional pit stops into various clothing stores.
Next to the railway station are a couple of newer shopping centres, where we managed to pick up a new pair of indoor running shoes for Christopher. I was shocked to find that he now has bigger feet than me. My feet are on the small side, but having your child outgrow you in anything is nevertheless a milestone. And yet another sign that they are growing up much too quickly.
After a gourmet lunch at McDonald's for our nugget-deprived boys, we leisurely strolled back to the car along the Oslo fjord, passing the infamous City Hall on our way.
As we left Oslo, we happened to see the Color Line cruise ship that we are scheduled to go to Kiel on in a fortnight. The boys were extremely impressed with the sheer size of the ship, and are now looking forward to our mini-getaway.
Sunday morning was yet another crisp but beautifully sunny day, allowing us to meet up with my sister and her boys for a good 7 km trek on forest trails. Christopher has been a good walker for some time, but I am noticing a big change in Benjamin, who now keeps up with his brother and cousins, and does not complain when walking for several hours. I'd forgotten just how pleasant these walks can be without continuous whining and whinging about feeling tired, having sore feet, being cold, hungry or thirsty.
Today's walk took us from Landfalltjernen to Tverken cottage, where we stopped and purchased freshly made waffles from the city-run cottage. And truly, there's nothing like eating waffles and drinking home-made hot chocolate on a lovely fall day.
Compared to last weekend, when I was ready to give my boys away for free, getting out and moving around did wonders for us this weekend. I am still noticing signs of teenageritis in Christopher, but I'm happy to report that the fresh air improved his symptoms somewhat.
I'll sign off with this final piece of happy news. Remember my plans to sneak off with this Object of Absolute Cuteness?
Well, as luck would have it, I no longer need to: Ann and Per have graciously asked Mike and I to be Godparents for baby nephew Emil. We are both honoured and extremely excited! I also believe this grants me rights to access at all times, which will come in handy whenever my children are acting, you know, like 7 and 10 year olds.
*To be addressed at a later date, as I currently do not have the energy required to describe - in sufficient and necessary detail - the amount of persuasion, coaxing, threatening and bribing required to get my children to SHOWER.
3 Nov 2007
1 Nov 2007
Dear Christopher,
My blue-eyed, golden-haired boy. My first baby. How can you be possibly be 10 already? Almost 11?
Last I looked, you were such a teeny, tiny little thing, on that day, your birthday, when you decided to come out and meet the world - three weeks early. I suppose you just couldn't wait anymore, and had to come out and see for yourself what the world was like.
You were in such a hurry, you even made labour seem easy. Just the night before, I had been warned about 20 hour marathon deliveries, and how firstborns often took longer. But you had other plans, and 3.5 hours after we had arrived at the hospital, fully expecting to be sent home again, there you were!
It was a beautiful January day, and through the hospital window, I saw sunshine and glittering snow. You fit perfectly in my arms, with your oh-so-little hands and those scrawny legs. You opened your eyes almost immediately, and looked into mine. So seriously. Curiously. Perhaps you were wondering if I was really ready for this. And, you know, on that day I thought I was. Everything felt right.
But only three weeks later, after sleepless nights and countless tears shed over your inability to gain weight, nothing felt right anymore, and we had to bring you back to the hospital for surgery. Pyloric stenosis was the official diagnosis, but as one doctor explained, you were slowly starving while any food you tried to eat was projectile vomited across the room, splattered all over furniture and walls.
We were so anxious, worried, and traumatized, and though the surgery was over quickly, it took us months to recover. Every meal was torturous. It didn't help that you continued to throw up. Your gulping was probably within the range of what is considered normal for babies, but for us, any spit up had to be analyzed, measured and agonized over. Discussions would ensue over what constituted 'projectile'.
You continued to grow, however, and although you were never a chubby baby, you became happy, responsive and smiley. Finally, we were able to pack our bags and return to Costa Rica, our home at the time. I had made the decision not to give birth to you in Costa Rica, and in hindsight, I am so glad I didn't. I don't know how I would have been able to handle the subsequent medical problems in a country so different from my own. I was barely able to keep it together in Norway.
For the first few months of your life, your pappa was your primary caregiver. We were in the midst of transitioning to Canada, and I was working hard at establishing my online company. But the truth is, although busy, I was also still filled with fear. I was afraid that you would start losing weight again, or perhaps stop eating altogether. I dealt with my concerns by running away from them. I let pappa feed you for the most part, and I never asked him if you had thrown up.
I didn't realize what I was doing at the time, but I see it now. I wish I could say I was braver, Christopher, for you! You deserved better.
Fortunately, pappa did an amazing job. I remember seeing you in your baby bjorn looking on intently as he was moving around in the kitchen sterilizing bottles. All the while carrying on a continuous conversation with you. That picture of pure contentment is frozen in my mind.
Our move to Canada brought more stability to our family life, as pappa went back to do his Ph.D., and I continued working. We were able to find a fantastic day care centre, with wonderful ladies who loved and nurtured you from the beginning. In fact, you had them so wrapped around your finger, one even offered to pick you up on her way to daycare every day, and drop you off in the afternoon. Occasionally, I think Lisa imagined you as her own.
Ten years later, and you still haven't filled out - you often seem impossibly skinny to me, but they say you are following your own trajectory on the chart. I try not to worry too much about that, and for the most part it works.
What I do worry about is the speed with which you seem to be growing up. I wonder if I am appreciating you enough, and if I am 'in the moment' with you.
You have always been a chatterbox, the one who never grew out of the 'why' stage. An answer inevitably leads to another question. You have questions about everything, and they can go on, and on, and on. Somewhere along the way, I had to tune you out in order to get things done.
But there are times when I wonder if I remembered to tune you back in again. If you think about it, Christopher, would you say that I am really there for you?
Or am I still running away when things get a little difficult?
Because truthfully, apart from a little attention, you don't ask for much from anyone. You love watching Animal Planet and National Geographic, and if someone would only sit and watch with you, nothing could be better. Too often, things gets in the way, the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking. But these 10 years have gone by so quickly, and I must find time to sit and enjoy. With you. Before it's too late.
Christopher, I hope you know that your birth, almost 11 years ago, was the best thing that had ever happened to me! And if anyone asks me today, I can honestly say that you and your brother are my perfect children. But your mother, well, I'm still a work in progress. Bear with me, and please don't grow up while I'm getting there!
Love,
Mamma
Last I looked, you were such a teeny, tiny little thing, on that day, your birthday, when you decided to come out and meet the world - three weeks early. I suppose you just couldn't wait anymore, and had to come out and see for yourself what the world was like.
You were in such a hurry, you even made labour seem easy. Just the night before, I had been warned about 20 hour marathon deliveries, and how firstborns often took longer. But you had other plans, and 3.5 hours after we had arrived at the hospital, fully expecting to be sent home again, there you were!
It was a beautiful January day, and through the hospital window, I saw sunshine and glittering snow. You fit perfectly in my arms, with your oh-so-little hands and those scrawny legs. You opened your eyes almost immediately, and looked into mine. So seriously. Curiously. Perhaps you were wondering if I was really ready for this. And, you know, on that day I thought I was. Everything felt right.
But only three weeks later, after sleepless nights and countless tears shed over your inability to gain weight, nothing felt right anymore, and we had to bring you back to the hospital for surgery. Pyloric stenosis was the official diagnosis, but as one doctor explained, you were slowly starving while any food you tried to eat was projectile vomited across the room, splattered all over furniture and walls.
We were so anxious, worried, and traumatized, and though the surgery was over quickly, it took us months to recover. Every meal was torturous. It didn't help that you continued to throw up. Your gulping was probably within the range of what is considered normal for babies, but for us, any spit up had to be analyzed, measured and agonized over. Discussions would ensue over what constituted 'projectile'.
You continued to grow, however, and although you were never a chubby baby, you became happy, responsive and smiley. Finally, we were able to pack our bags and return to Costa Rica, our home at the time. I had made the decision not to give birth to you in Costa Rica, and in hindsight, I am so glad I didn't. I don't know how I would have been able to handle the subsequent medical problems in a country so different from my own. I was barely able to keep it together in Norway.
For the first few months of your life, your pappa was your primary caregiver. We were in the midst of transitioning to Canada, and I was working hard at establishing my online company. But the truth is, although busy, I was also still filled with fear. I was afraid that you would start losing weight again, or perhaps stop eating altogether. I dealt with my concerns by running away from them. I let pappa feed you for the most part, and I never asked him if you had thrown up.
I didn't realize what I was doing at the time, but I see it now. I wish I could say I was braver, Christopher, for you! You deserved better.
Fortunately, pappa did an amazing job. I remember seeing you in your baby bjorn looking on intently as he was moving around in the kitchen sterilizing bottles. All the while carrying on a continuous conversation with you. That picture of pure contentment is frozen in my mind.
Our move to Canada brought more stability to our family life, as pappa went back to do his Ph.D., and I continued working. We were able to find a fantastic day care centre, with wonderful ladies who loved and nurtured you from the beginning. In fact, you had them so wrapped around your finger, one even offered to pick you up on her way to daycare every day, and drop you off in the afternoon. Occasionally, I think Lisa imagined you as her own.
Ten years later, and you still haven't filled out - you often seem impossibly skinny to me, but they say you are following your own trajectory on the chart. I try not to worry too much about that, and for the most part it works.
What I do worry about is the speed with which you seem to be growing up. I wonder if I am appreciating you enough, and if I am 'in the moment' with you.
You have always been a chatterbox, the one who never grew out of the 'why' stage. An answer inevitably leads to another question. You have questions about everything, and they can go on, and on, and on. Somewhere along the way, I had to tune you out in order to get things done.
But there are times when I wonder if I remembered to tune you back in again. If you think about it, Christopher, would you say that I am really there for you?
Or am I still running away when things get a little difficult?
Because truthfully, apart from a little attention, you don't ask for much from anyone. You love watching Animal Planet and National Geographic, and if someone would only sit and watch with you, nothing could be better. Too often, things gets in the way, the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking. But these 10 years have gone by so quickly, and I must find time to sit and enjoy. With you. Before it's too late.
Christopher, I hope you know that your birth, almost 11 years ago, was the best thing that had ever happened to me! And if anyone asks me today, I can honestly say that you and your brother are my perfect children. But your mother, well, I'm still a work in progress. Bear with me, and please don't grow up while I'm getting there!
Love,
Mamma
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