We had a great time last night. Olan was the cutest little red rooster you've ever seen! He actually seemed to sort of grasp the point of trick or treating too. We took him to three houses and then went back to Mom and Dad's. As soon as I set him down at the end of the driveway, off he headed to the house across the street that we hadn't visited. When people answered the door he held is pail out, ready to receice. It was hilarious.
If any of you have seen the setup my parents have at Halloween you'll know how awesome it is. We have a bonfire, a monster, mulled wine, scotch and very a very scary soundtrack of screams and other chilling noises. Well wasn't Olan just trying to groove out to the "music". There would be a series of screams from the CD and he would bop his head and do a little boogey move.
I was trying to teach him to say "cockadoodledoo" earlier in the day but all he could manage was "cock". I quickly changed tactics and it became all about saying boo. A one year old running around saying cock just isn't going to win him much candy :) And candy he got! Adam and I are more than happy to eat it all for him. Luckily there were some houses that were expecting babies, so he got to keep some raisins, dried fruit and playdoh.
The end of the driveway revelling got a bit out of hand as is the custom, Olan was safely in bed by that point. Maybe he'll be ready for that part next year. :)
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Happy Birthday Uncle G!
Hope that you're having a great day and it's not too overshadowed by Isabelle's first conscious halloween ;)
I'm posting this now because in all the insanity of Olan's first conscious halloween I'm anticipating completely spacing calling you and singing my heart out.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Edit note: Holy spectacular errors! My mother pointed out that I spelled something wrong and I went it and "corrected" without thinking. That'll teach me. Glad to know that so many people are making sure that my grammar/spelling skills are up to par.
I'm posting this now because in all the insanity of Olan's first conscious halloween I'm anticipating completely spacing calling you and singing my heart out.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Edit note: Holy spectacular errors! My mother pointed out that I spelled something wrong and I went it and "corrected" without thinking. That'll teach me. Glad to know that so many people are making sure that my grammar/spelling skills are up to par.
Today's Globe Essay
I love this.
fact&arguments
Didn't we almost have it all?
While we may not have everything we once thought was our destiny, we have found another kind of perfect
EMILY MARROCCO
October 30, 2007
As young women wasting away hours at the campus pub, watching boys and cocktails come and go with alarming frequency, we talked of our plans to grow up and have it all.
In our dreams of glamorous jobs and power suits, we somehow seemed to be taller and skinnier, with better haircuts and perfect makeup, even though we were pretty sure we had stopped growing by age 25 and already started going grey.
We imagined strutting to the gym every day after work in tiny tank tops to tune up our movie-role-ready bodies, even though we could never seem to get there with only 12 hours of classes a week and already looked a little squishy in boxers and baggie T-shirts.
In our dreams of marriage, we had wed men fit for the 50-most-beautiful-people list, with high-powered jobs, friends in high places, biting wit and big brains - men who also met us at home at 5 p.m., cooked gourmet suppers and never yearned for golf getaways. We didn't notice that our then-boyfriends seemed pained to fit time with us in between the classes they were barely passing and yet another guys' night out.
But our dreams of children were perhaps the most sensational, as we all imagined the dozens of babies we could conceive and give birth to without effort or consequence: scores of beautiful, smiling accessories perched on our hips as we continued with our lives.
Fast forward 10 years as we all meet for play dates, comparing stretch marks, swapping viruses and trying not to spill the third coffee of the morning on someone else's kid (even though there's one we're all gunning for). Fast forward to talks about who's back from mat leave, how many days she's working, who's got the kids and, of course, how it's all working out.
And somewhere in the fragments that must count as conversation, as we peel toddlers off each other and extol the virtues of sharing the dump truck, we reconsider what it means to truly have it all.
Our returns to work were met with skepticism from all angles: from the old boys at the office who still aren't convinced they should have ever started hiring girls; from the stay-at-home moms who clearly don't believe that 10 hours a day of daycare is an important introduction to anything; and, of course, from our toddlers, who look at us like we have got to be kidding when we walk out after breakfast happily announcing that we'll be home in time for dinner.
Our returns to work have thrilled only the newly hired childless superkids, who bomb around the office sending e-mails at 11 p.m. just because they can. We were not met with any red carpets when we finally came back after being away for 365 days. There was no talk of promotion, only whispers wondering when we might be plotting to do this again. There were no congratulations for showing up having managed to take a shower, or for finding the way to the correct desk on five broken hours of sleep for the fifth night in a row.
There were no points awarded for managing to serve a dinner that did not start in a frozen state, for putting on an animated story time or for squeezing in an evening trip to the park that included a marathon round of hide-and-seek.
The criteria on our performance reviews were not reworked to include "fairly coherent" as an acceptable standard of anything.
We cannot believe that we forgot to include "ability and willingness to change nighttime diapers" as a must-have quality in a husband, one that should have ranked well ahead of "ability to move hips while dancing."
And while going to the gym is mostly a fantasy, we hope to get fit by some kind of osmosis if we just buy a lot of Lululemon wear in which to collapse on the couch.
But somewhere in the midst of clearly not having anything close to the everything we once thought was our destiny, we agree that we have found a different kind of perfect - in the belly laughs, munchkin voices, toothless grins and big, drooling kisses that just seem to keep on coming, even on the days we know that we are so not pulling this off.
And as we wipe the Zincofax cream off the BlackBerrys and load the minivans we swore we'd never buy, on some level we all agree: For now, at least, perhaps having all that matters is the same as being all that matters to a little tiny someone else.
Emily Marrocco lives in Toronto.
fact&arguments
Didn't we almost have it all?
While we may not have everything we once thought was our destiny, we have found another kind of perfect
EMILY MARROCCO
October 30, 2007
As young women wasting away hours at the campus pub, watching boys and cocktails come and go with alarming frequency, we talked of our plans to grow up and have it all.
In our dreams of glamorous jobs and power suits, we somehow seemed to be taller and skinnier, with better haircuts and perfect makeup, even though we were pretty sure we had stopped growing by age 25 and already started going grey.
We imagined strutting to the gym every day after work in tiny tank tops to tune up our movie-role-ready bodies, even though we could never seem to get there with only 12 hours of classes a week and already looked a little squishy in boxers and baggie T-shirts.
In our dreams of marriage, we had wed men fit for the 50-most-beautiful-people list, with high-powered jobs, friends in high places, biting wit and big brains - men who also met us at home at 5 p.m., cooked gourmet suppers and never yearned for golf getaways. We didn't notice that our then-boyfriends seemed pained to fit time with us in between the classes they were barely passing and yet another guys' night out.
But our dreams of children were perhaps the most sensational, as we all imagined the dozens of babies we could conceive and give birth to without effort or consequence: scores of beautiful, smiling accessories perched on our hips as we continued with our lives.
Fast forward 10 years as we all meet for play dates, comparing stretch marks, swapping viruses and trying not to spill the third coffee of the morning on someone else's kid (even though there's one we're all gunning for). Fast forward to talks about who's back from mat leave, how many days she's working, who's got the kids and, of course, how it's all working out.
And somewhere in the fragments that must count as conversation, as we peel toddlers off each other and extol the virtues of sharing the dump truck, we reconsider what it means to truly have it all.
Our returns to work were met with skepticism from all angles: from the old boys at the office who still aren't convinced they should have ever started hiring girls; from the stay-at-home moms who clearly don't believe that 10 hours a day of daycare is an important introduction to anything; and, of course, from our toddlers, who look at us like we have got to be kidding when we walk out after breakfast happily announcing that we'll be home in time for dinner.
Our returns to work have thrilled only the newly hired childless superkids, who bomb around the office sending e-mails at 11 p.m. just because they can. We were not met with any red carpets when we finally came back after being away for 365 days. There was no talk of promotion, only whispers wondering when we might be plotting to do this again. There were no congratulations for showing up having managed to take a shower, or for finding the way to the correct desk on five broken hours of sleep for the fifth night in a row.
There were no points awarded for managing to serve a dinner that did not start in a frozen state, for putting on an animated story time or for squeezing in an evening trip to the park that included a marathon round of hide-and-seek.
The criteria on our performance reviews were not reworked to include "fairly coherent" as an acceptable standard of anything.
We cannot believe that we forgot to include "ability and willingness to change nighttime diapers" as a must-have quality in a husband, one that should have ranked well ahead of "ability to move hips while dancing."
And while going to the gym is mostly a fantasy, we hope to get fit by some kind of osmosis if we just buy a lot of Lululemon wear in which to collapse on the couch.
But somewhere in the midst of clearly not having anything close to the everything we once thought was our destiny, we agree that we have found a different kind of perfect - in the belly laughs, munchkin voices, toothless grins and big, drooling kisses that just seem to keep on coming, even on the days we know that we are so not pulling this off.
And as we wipe the Zincofax cream off the BlackBerrys and load the minivans we swore we'd never buy, on some level we all agree: For now, at least, perhaps having all that matters is the same as being all that matters to a little tiny someone else.
Emily Marrocco lives in Toronto.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Our gentle giant
You know why I didn't post anything on the weekend? Because Adam was away at a work retreat and he took the camera. And there went my blogging! We had a great weekend though, trip to the market, shopping (for consumables and wearables) and on Sunday we took a trip to the valley to visit Kayla. We had a great lunch in Wolfville and after dropping Kayla back we went back to mom and dad's for another great meal. When Adam arrived Dad and I were out on the front deck with Olan. When he heard his dad calling him from the bottom of the driveway he started RUNNING (holding my hand) down to meet him. His other hand was pointing at Adam and he called "Da! Da! Da!". He was so excited and so, so sweet.
So today, Olan had his 12 month appointment. After charming everyone in the doctor's office, he was weighed and measured, poked and prodded and used as a pincushion. His stats are 98% for height and 53% for weight. A little string bean indeed :) According to our doctor he's "tall, veeeeery tall". He was unfazed by it all and enjoyed the stickers and new trucks they had in the waiting room.
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