Fodder for the wedding speech

Many, many years from now, Owen will bring a girlfriend over for dinner. It will provide a great opportunity to reminisce about that phase he went through when he was three years old.

That phase when he kept trying to pee in weird places.

In recent days, Owen has attempted — sometimes successfully — to piddle in the following places:

• Into the bathtub, while standing on its ledge
• Into the overturned lid of a sandbox, which was filled with, as he called it, "icy water."
• Into the coffee table (it has a lid; but Sue caught it in time)
• From the kitchen, through the open door into the backyard
• On a brochure promoting Thomas the Tank Engine (this was on the floor next to his potty and may not have been the intended target, but rather collateral damage)
• Into a wine glass. (I caught him sitting on the couch, glass held over his private bits. I think in this instance he was thinking of using the stemware rather than the toilet in an effort to avoid missing a crucial part of Mighty Machines. Future visitors can rest assured that the glass, which was not actually peed in, has been sterilized nevertheless.)

Are all toddlers this crazy?

Fatty

Parents are instinctively proud of their children, but when babies are newborn it's hard to find reasons to beam.

Of course, baby is cute. But then again, all babies are sort of cute and sort of weird-looking. Part baby, part alien. You can never really be sure if your opinion is biased, and the adulation of friends and relatives is also a little suspect. After all, who hasn't told someone else their baby is cute while thinking the thing looks more like a raisin than a child?

Anyway, all this is to say there is one area where new parents can have their child's performance — and by extension their ability as parents — validated.

At the doctor's office.

Wee babies need frequent checkups. The first thing they do at the doctor's office is strip the kid down and measure his/her weight and height. Then they tell you whether this is a "good" weight for the age. If it is, you can rest assured that baby has been properly fed, which is about the only real requirement of parents in the early going. If the weight is low, let the fretting begin! Should we wake the baby more often for feeds? Am I producing enough milk? Should I be supplementing?

It's enough to freak out most new parents. Sue deals with the potential for this anxiety by ensuring the baby is weighed with a heavy diaper. Padding the scales, if you will.

Abby went to the doctor's today. 10.5 pounds. A veritable porker.

High fives all around.

Overcome by sleep

Owen is potty-trained, but wears a diaper at night. Last night, he hollered at Sue from his room to let her know that he had done his business, as they say. By the time she put Abby down (she was mid-feed) and made it upstairs, well, the photo says it all.

At least he was in a good position for a diaper change.

Small talk

When co-workers know you have a newborn at home, discussion of your sleeping patterns becomes fair game.

It's an unusual situation, as you'd never otherwise talk about such things.

"Hey, how's it going."
"Good. How'd you sleep last night?"
"Did you just ask me how I slept?"
(Uncomfortable pause) "So, how about those Leafs?"

But with the baby, asking about sleep is as natural as commenting on the weather. So far, my response is always entirely positive. Abby has been, on the whole, a great sleeper. Interestingly, having another baby around the house has reminded me of some of the experiences with Owen at this age.

Owen was also a good sleeper. By the time he was a few weeks old, he was up only once or twice at night, and only for quick feeds. But for those first weeks, he was unpredictable. I remember bringing him downstairs at night when he wasn't showing any interest in going back to sleep, and we would hang out on the couch and watch TV. He would usually drift off, and I'd go back upstairs and attempt to gingerly put him back in his bassinet. Then would come the hardest part — lying down in bed, and hoping not to hear any sounds of stirring. You're entirely ready to sleep, he's been silent for a full minute, and then:

Rustle, rustle.
Grunt.
Sniffle.
Rustle. Rustle.
Squeak.

At this point I'd get up and scoop him up again, as the squeak was the prelude to a full-on cry. Then it was back downstairs.

This actually didn't happen much, and I had almost entirely forgotten doing it, but the other night I put Abby down, and as I lay in bed hoping she would remain asleep, the memories of doing just that with Owen came back.

Abby stayed down on the first try. Owen's going to be so mad when he's old enough to read this.

It's official

The following appears in the National Post of March 11, 2006:

STINSON, Abigail Rachael Leigh

Sue and Scott Stinson are pleased to announce the arrival of wee Abby Stinson to the family. Abigail Rachael Leigh, as she will only be called when in serious trouble, was born Feb. 21, 2006, at the reasonable hour of 1:28 p.m., weighing 8 pounds, 7 ounces, after a blissfully brief labour. Abby is reluctantly welcomed into the family by big brother Owen, age 3. Less reserved in their joy are aunt Sheri Stinson, aunt Tara Barry and uncle Bill, grandparents Lee and Jan Stinson, grandparents Michael Barry and Mary Lawrence, and even great-grandparents John and Marion Curran. Also welcoming Abby are stepuncles Doug, Ian and Phil Richmond and stepaunts Donna, Lida and Hayley. Looking down from above, all smiles, are Nicola and Alf Richmond. Sue and Scott express their sincere gratitude to Dr. Christyne Peters, Dr. Renee Chouinard and the rest of the great staff at Markham-Stouffville Hospital, particularly nurse Sherisse and anesthesiologist Dr. Cooper, who said we wouldn't remember his name.

You're a big help

I've written mostly about the new baby thus far, but it should be noted that she really isn't doing much of anything yet. On the whole, Owen is far more entertaining.

The other day I was putting together a new stroller, which left a large cardboard box in our front hall. I asked Owen to help toss some of the plastic wrap and loose cardboard pieces in the box. He did. A few minutes later I realized he was finding other items in the playroom, declaring them "garbage," and tossing them in the box.

"Owen, are you sure want to throw out those toys?"

"These are old toys," he says, firing another of his cherished Thomas trains in the box.

"OK, so when you're done I'll take the box to the garbage dump."

"No no," he says, with a note of alarm. "The garbage has to stay here."

Ah. Of course.

An olive branch

So, Owen is slowly coming around to accepting the reality of his new family structure. He hasn't done anything as dramatic as, say, touch his sister (let alone hold her), but we're getting there.

Example A) Abby cries, and Owen goes and finds her a soother. He puts it in her hand, which is about as helpful as dropping it down her pants, but still.

Example B) Abby cries, and Owen leans over her and says, "it's OK, Abby." In international politics, this would be called an attempt to "normalize relations."

Example C) It's storytime for the boy, and Sue points out that Abby needs to be fed. She says she can read Owen his bedtime stories after the feeding, or he can bring his books to our bed, and she can read while feeding. He opts for the latter option, which is significant because Owen has turned up his nose at the whole notion of breastfeeding. Sue would get fewer dirty looks trying it in the middle of a church service than she does at home these days.

Anyway, Sue called me at work to note this latest breakthrough. She asked Owen if he wanted to say goodnight to Daddy.

"Goodnight Daddy," he says, though he is distracted because he is plotting to bring more "stuff," which is to say stuffed animals, onto the bed prior to the book reading.

"I love you," I say.

"Oh," Owen says, and I can hear him getting down from the bed. Then he comes back on the phone. "I love you too, Daddy."

Waste management

The day after Abby came home from the hospital, we had a call from a York Region Health nurse. She expressed concern that the baby had not pooped in more than a day. We were less concerned, as Abby had pooped like a goose for the first 24 hours, and seemed to be quite reasonably unable to produce any more until Sue's milk was in fully.

Still, when a nurse tells you to worry, you worry a little. Sue fed Abby every two hours for the rest of that day, and we gave her a little formula (as advised) that evening.

So, of course, Abby has pooped so much in the days since that one might believe Sue produces not breast milk but prune juice.

I'm thinking of collecting a day's worth of diapers and dropping them off at York Region Health.

A boy scorned

Owen's reaction to the presence of his baby sister has not changed greatly in the 10 days since she was born. He started with indifference, and now I think he's all the way up to ambivalence.

His views on Sue have been more pointed: "Mom, I don't like you anymore."

Pressed to explain such statements, Owen is reluctant to outright blame Abby. He says Mommy is "being mean to him," but won't elaborate. One assumes "being mean" translates to "not paying enough attention."

Still, he's more friendly to his mother when I'm not around. He'll speak to her directly, as opposed to using me as an envoy to negotiate favourable lunch terms. And he will remain in the room when Sue's feeding the baby.

So that's a step up.