Seasons Of Change.

Peonies from the garden

Adjusting to the seasons here in Canada is not unlike adjusting to the birth of our new baby--sometimes it's simply pleasant, others it's darn right difficult. Coming from a place that had only one meteorological state of being--70 degrees and sunny--means that any season experienced here is more than we are used to. Throw in a super long, white and frigid winter, a delayed, humid and rainy spring and a super late summer (that of which from what I understand does not begin until July) and you throw us into a virtual seasonal tailspin.

We survived the heaps of snow, but I am not promising that we'll make it through the blooms of spring. Dean and I slather our peeling and chaffed noses in moisturizing cream nightly--seasonal allergies are driving us battier than our two and a half year old throwing himself on the ground in a fit of simultaneous devastation and rage for the fiftieth time of the hour. Trust me, I am talking real batty.

The question is, we survived winter with one child . . . will we survive the remainder of spring with two? While both spring and a new baby bring with them sweet and delicate little treats for the senses to indulge, it's the uncontrollable variables--like the pollen count and a toddler named big brother--that lead me to doubt my, our, ability to cope sanely.

What will the flowers of spring look like come summertime? Probably a lot like Dean and I will--withered, frail and a wee crispy around the edges. But, only time will tell. Only time will tell.

The Love Of Two = 3

We went on our second "date" in almost nine months and it was like he didn't even notice we had left.

The first time we snuck out of the front door without stroller, sling and a bulky bag containing exactly one of everything Noah Finn owns was on Father's Day--for barely an hour. We cycled to the nearby pizza joint for a few custom slices and ate like a pack of wild, mad dogs were threatening to steal our grub. Several calls later, we returned home with a bad case indigestion and a longing need to hold our little machine-o-drool.

This time was different. Honestly, we never would have done it in the first place. We're not great about asking for help--or even taking it if it's offered. But friends and neighbors of ours offered--well told us--two weeks ago that we were going out without Noah. Sure, we said, sure . . . and thanked them with a smile.

But, five offers later--them pressing us to name a day and time--we finally gave in. They were asking us, we weren't asking them. How often does that happen if you don't have family living closer than a thousand miles away? Not often, we figured.

The day was sunny and cool. The coolest day in a sweaty string of smoggy, smokey, sweltering ones. Noah was down for his second nap and we were freshly groomed. So, we went.

We cycled to a local brunch spot and leisurely dined on veggie omlettes, ahi wraps and freshly squeezed carrot juice. We chatted, we kissed, we smiled, we gazed, we sipped, we shared, we laughed. We remembered. Dean and Joni. We remembered.

Afterward, we ventured to the best self-serve frozen yogurt bar this side of Hollywood Boulevard. And as we stood with cups full in hand, we pondered a spot in which to enjoy our creamy treats.

Discussed with barely more than a look, we leisurely cycled home with melting yogurt in basket to our little Noah. And despite the fact that he seemed completely unphased by the nearly two-hour absence of the two beings that have seen to his every last whim and whimper for for the last almost nine months of his very short little life, we were tickled to tears to share our love and our yogurt with him.

T.G.D.H.

Thank Goodness Daddy's Home!

You Know You're A Tired Daddy When . . .

. . . you accidentally leave the baggie of frozen prune cubes in the cupboard.

Because Noah was up nursing much of the night, Dean got up with Noah when he woke for the day at 6:30 a.m. to let me sleep in.

Later on in the morning when both of them were napping, I opened the cabinet and reached for a coffee mug. And, to my surprise what did I see? Noah's bag of prune cubes thawed and in a heap of mushy mess.

Poor, poor, sleepy Daddy. Breakfast time must have been rough going.

You Know You're A New Daddy When . . .

• your ipod playlist includes Baby Einstein animal friends playtime classics
• your jogging buddy gets to sleep while you do all of the work
• you're shocked to find yourself discussing sleep strategies with other men
  
• you can't remember the days when your wife's breast were something other than baby feed bags
• you get downgraded to the old station wagon for your daily commute while the wife and carseat crooner get the newer ride
• women swarm to you like bees to honey (even if it's only because you're holding a baby)
• you read more baby gadget instruction manuals than books these days
• you find yourself showing cell phone pictures of junior to everyone you meet
  
• you discover that that lump under your pillow is a dirty breast pad
  
• your tallying the days since you last had sex like ticks on the wall of a jail cell
• sleep is something you used to remember doing
• you swear that you always have unfastened snaps on baby's onesie because they make them with "extra" snaps
• you can change a diaper one-handed, in the dark, with one eye closed faster than a speeding bullet
• you find yourself hiding the postpartum granny panties while folding laundry in hopes that they'll forever disappear

And, lastly, you know your a new daddy when . . . you wouldn't trade any of the above for anything else in the whole wide world (okay, maybe except for the granny panties part).

Viewer Discretion Advised.

Since we've brought Noah Finn home from the hospital there have been many times when we've laughed ourselves to tears, but yesterday marked the first time that we've laughed ourselves into hilarium--literally nearly wetting our pants.

It all occurred yesterday evening when I was on the phone with my parents. While talking with my dad, I heard Dean let out a shrieking cry from the direction of our bedroom. With my dad still on the line, I rushed down the hall and this is what I saw . . . Dean standing beside the changing table without a shirt on and wearing a look of sheer panic while simultaneously crying and laughing hysterically, a naked Noah Finn flailing on the changing table screaming bloody murder, poop splattered in drips across the changing pad cover and an even larger stream of the oozy brown stuff dripping down the wall behind the changing table forming pools on the top of the floorboards before flowing onto the wood floors below.

Chaos--a runny, smelly poo festering chaos and it was wreaking havoc all over our bedroom--our sanctuary, our retreat, our cozy, calm bedroom.

Dean blabbered an explanation while gasping for air in between bellowing laughs--he had apparently unwisely decided to pick up Noah Finn, who was screaming sans diaper, to comfort and soothe his weary cries. However, on his way up to daddy's cozy shoulder, in mid air, Noah simultaneously shot a stream of pee out the front--landing on daddy's shirt--and a stream of poop out the back--spraying on the changing pad cover and wall.

We caught our breath and the roaring laughter lowered to a giggle. And, as we dressed Noah and removed all evidence of Noah's free form wall art--with the sound of Miles, our cat, howling into the toilet bowl echoing in the background and dried poo on our hands--we thought to ourselves, this is our life now.

And we wouldn't give up a single stream of dried spit up on our fourth shirt of the day for anything in the whole wide world.

P.S. New pictures in our Flickr album!