my tragic right hip

Busting out bad joints all over the place

August 12th, 2011

Notes From A House Frau: The Summer Edition IV

Today was not a day. Just like the box is Not a Box. Today was a marathon. And now, at the end of it, because of all the medication, I can’t have a drink. So, even before breakfast the RRBB had almost killed himself.

I jest.

One would imagine he’s simply taking an interest in his father’s Bocce set — but if we look closely at the hazards around him: dirty laundry in the pail, bleach, vinegar, lye, booze bottles, and all kinds of other household cleaning products, I am surprised no one came to collect this baby and call me unfit this morning.

He woke up at 530 AM. This picture was taken at around 7 AM. We hadn’t even gone back to sleep at this point — luckily, the RRBB takes awesome naps in the AM.

Not so much today. Lots of bawling. He slept for an hour and a bit. We got back up at 955 AM.

Then, it’s time to walk. The best thing I ever did? Haul his gigantic stroller up here from the city. Why? Freedom. Freedom that doesn’t involve fossil fuels, that is. We walked down the cottage road and stopped at the dam. I felt a little like the late Michael Jackson trying to balance the baby (and not toss him overboard) and take a photo at the same time but we managed.

The weather was amazing today. Bright, sunny, and totally clear. Strange that two days ago we were bundled up in sweats to take the same walk. The dam hasn’t changed the entire time I’ve been alive — no, wait, it has — there’s less water in the river and they’ve chained off the top so you can’t walk on it any more, but, really, it’s the same.

The toads, however, have gone missing. When I was a kid, around this time in August, the roads would be littered, LITTERED, with baby toads. Little brown hopping things going who the flapjack knows where and I adored them. Now, no toads. I saw one big toad on the road on the way back from Marmora the other day and it honestly made me cry. That is how much I miss the toads. Or maybe my childhood. Or maybe I am simply hoping that nothing up here ever changes because it’s truly the only home I still have (next to my beautiful house in Toronto but I am waxing historical here people).

Annnywaay. The marathon continues. We walked for over an hour and a half, up and down cottage roads, up and down cottage hills. Up and down a rocky path just so I could show the baby more of the river. Because, he’ll TOTALLY remember.

Then we had a snack. We needed it. The walk back was excruciating. I was melting and the baby fell asleep. He never falls asleep at this time. What does this mean? The whole flapjacking day’s schedule is gone bonkers. He won’t nap this afternoon and this nap will be of the cat variety — short, achingly short.

No rest for the wicked.

We get back to the cottage only for me to discover via online banking that I have backdated the cheque the RRHB needs to cash out to pay the roofers. For some reason, I have been dating every single cheque I write, even to Revenue Canada, as if it were still 2010. Isn’t it?

I know, I know.

So. In the car we go, bottle to tide him over because we’re totally going over lunch, and we drive, very fast (shhhh) to Norwood where there is a Royal Bank. And the slowest person in the WORLD is ahead of me at the bank machine. Of course she is, and then, when she turns around and sees the baby she coos. Of course she does. You can’t be made at someone who coos at your baby.

Yes, yes, you can.

Then, the baby falls asleep AGAIN in the car three minutes from home.

So, we are awake from 130 PM until he collapsed in bed at 630 PM. During which time he may or may not have been stung by what looked like either a flying ant or a bee.

Awesome.

He screamed. But when I inspected him from top to tail, I couldn’t find the bite. It was only after we went in the lake that I saw a little something on his hand but it disappeared in minutes. Thankfully, I think he has my tolerance for bites — I am not allergic to mosquitoes or bees or poison ivy for that matter. Sure, I’ve got Wegener’s but hell the mosquitoes don’t leave a mark.

This was not the bug that bit my son. This was just a cool bug we saw on the dam. Well, I saw on the dam. I think it’s a grasshopper but I am not sure. I don’t really know bugs.

Finally, after doing a pile of dishes because it’s not like I can leave them when I use the sink as his bathtub, we calmly (ha!) enjoy a bottle outside before dinner and bath and stories and bed.

Read: the bottle drops a half-dozen times, the baby squirms all over the place, and when he finishes all he wants to do is sit in his stroller and chew on the ties that usually hold him in.

Fine.

Then, as the water is flowing into the sink for his bath, he decides to dive in head first.

Of course he does.

Only it’s not a tub, it’s a sink so I grab him tightly before he has the chance to brain himself on the faucet. He spends the entire bath trying to climb into the other tub and fish around the drain — because it’s full of awesomely clean foodstuff, you know.

We read many stories about birds: Are You My Mother?, Grumpy Bird (his favourite; before I even had it down on the bed he had opened the first page; he adores turning pages these days) and In My Tree.

At least we got through one day without me turning around and he’s got my dirty, filthy, 10-year-old Vans flip-flops in his mouth. We need to take our successes when we can.

Leave a Reply

about me

Girl with titanium hip will rock. Girl with titanium hip will write. Girl with titanium hip will read. Girl with titanium hip will battle crazy-ass disease called Wegener's Granulomatosis. Now stuff that in your spelling bee!

my virtual self

Email:
deanna [dot] mcfadden [at] gmail [dot] com
Facebook
Twitter
LinkedIn

classic starts by me

Friends & Foibles

and the simple things

archives

recent comments