Local weather conditions conspire to deprive us of diapers

We use cloth diapers.  Dirty diapers are washed in our washing machine and then hung out to air-dry.  Diapers are typically dry within 24 hours of hanging and thus we are rarely caught without any clean dry diapers.

We've been low on clean cloth diapers for a few days now.  For normal people this is not a problem; you just wash your diapers and then shove them in the drier.  But Greta and I are freaks, you see. We use our drier only under extreme duress.

At the beginning, we had some breathing room.  The weather forecast was not favourable.  (See graphic below.)  Given our tendency to procrastinate and our desire not to have Max-reachable racks full of damp diapers decorating our living room for days on end we chose to put off diaper laundry and wait for a sunnier, drier day to dry our diapers.

This picture has dominated frequent weather forecasts.
Source: Environment Canada

Boy, were we had.  The sun came out during those first days despite the forecast for constant rain.  Alas, we were unprepared and could not exploit the sunshine to dry diapers.

Now, we're desperate.  We washed the diapers a couple days ago.  But the forecasters' predictions were actually correct for those days and we've had nothing but rain.  The drying diapers are still damp.

In our desperation we've found several diapers we never knew we had.  We've managed to survive by combining these emergency reserve diapers with liberal (and risky) use of children's underwear.  Next I plan to use teatowels with safety pins.  Then perhaps paper towels and scotch tape.  Once those things run out.... (sigh) I guess we'll use the bloody drier.

bummee, bunn, up-pee, and bike

Max is picking up new words at an incredible rate.  Some examples:

• up-pee.  Means, "up, please."  Said while grappling an adult's calf with head bent way back to look up at his audience, sometimes in a whiny tone.  It took us a while to get him to say "up" when he wants to be picked up.  But the "please" part came out of nowhere -- a pleasant surprise.
• bike.  Means, "bike."  Max loves to play with bikes.  If someone's riding, he pushes along.  If the bike's lying on its side, he'll spin the wheels.  In all cases he repeats "bike" with great enthusiasm.
• bummee.  Means, "bummer!"  He learned this one today after just one repetition.  He overheard me say, "bummer" to myself and thought it was hilarious.  He laughs out loud and repeats several times whenever I say it.
• bunn.  Means, "button."  Max does not distinguish between buttons sewed onto clothing and belly buttons.  He loves belly buttons, though.  He likes to lift up people's shirts and jam his finger into their belly buttons.

Max is now at that stage of development that drives neuroscientists crazy.  How do kids this age pick up language so quickly?  Why can't adults do it that quickly?  For that matter, how do our brains allow us to learn any language at all?

Max makes bread - sort of

Max and I had an exciting afternoon cooking bread together.  Cooking with Max is one of those adventures that seems like a great idea until you actually attempt it.  He loves the whole process, but seems to feel his role is to grab everything he can get his hands on and throw it on the floor.  That said, he often makes a good helper (by which I mean he doesn't hinder the process too much) if his job is to put the lid on and off a pot repeatedly.  He also really loves to stir things in bowls, which works really well when making bread.  Usually letting him stir things is a little dangerous because he tends to pick up some batter on his wooden spoon and, you guessed it, throw it on the floor, but bread dough is so thick that it tends to stay in the bowl even when you sick Max on it.  Since the bread dough was so stubborn, Max took up his third role whilst helping cook: eating.  He usually tries to grab whatever ingredient you are currently working with (butter, eggs, sugar exc.) and put it in his mouth.  Raw bread dough was no exception.

Max, unable to throw bread dough on the floor.
Notice he looks depressed.

As I watched Max bring the dough to his mouth I was reminded of the time my sister's son asked to drink some beer.  He was perhaps 2 and a half and was begging for some "pop".

Son: My want pop!

Sister:  That's not pop.  Its beer.  It makes you woozy in the head.

I think he might have been laughing at me
in this picture....

Son: My want woozy in the head!

Greta:  Let him drink it.  It will taste terrible and he will never want it again.

Sister (to son):  OK, you can have some beer, but it doesn't taste good.

My sisters son eagerly grabbed the beer, took a big gulp and then spit it out all over the table.  "My NO LIKE that pop!"  he declared.

And so, I figured, let Max eat the raw bread dough.  It will taste terrible and he will learn not to eat raw baking.  I bet you can guess how this ends.  Max LOVES raw bread dough.  He ate the whole fist full declaring "mmmmmm" the whole time.  The lesson in this experience is that I will not be letting him try beer

Max can barely contain all the bread dough
in his mouth.  Despite appearances he
is not about to hurl.
.

Another late night with Max

It's 3:51am right now.  Max has had a really rough go of it tonight.  Greta and I are being especially diligent in our attempts to keep Max trained to sleep by himself in his own bedroom.  But it does raise a tough dilemma every now and then.

For instance, tonight he woke up screaming.  Bad dream?  Teething?  Let him cry a bit more and see if he goes back to sleep.  Still crying.  Hmm.  Okay, I'll drag my tired old butt out of bed, pop his soother back into his mouth, and shush him back to sleep.  Done.  Now I can go back to sleep.  Ten minutes later: more screaming.  Bad dream?  Teething?  Or just trying to get us to pick him up?  Let him cry a little more and see if he goes back to sleep.  Still crying.  Hmm.  Okay, I'll drag my tired old butt out of bed again, pop his soother back into his mouth, and shush him back to sleep.  Done.

Well, now I'm wide awake.  There's a good chance he'll wake up crying again, so I sit upstairs reading a work-related paper waiting for him to scream.  There it is, right on cue.  This is pretty abnormal -- he must be teething again.  I need to give him acetaminophen for the pain.  That's a delicate operation that cannot be done without picking him up.  (Believe me, we've tried.)

Woe is me.  Despite our tough stance against picking up crying babies in the dead of night, I am now forced against my will to undertake the onerous task of picking up my crying baby in the dead of night and snuggling up with him in the glider chair for some quiet time while we wait for the painkillers kick in.  I may stroke his hair while he falls back asleep in my arms.  But that doesn't mean I'm enjoying it.

Thankfully, Max sleeps through the night more often than not these days.  But every so often we get a night like this and it reminds us of what life was like when Max was younger.  (4am -- the water softener just kicked in.)  Sue and Jeff undoubtedly get "nights like this" almost every night with baby Anne.  Hang in there, guys.  It gets much better.

These late-night forced cuddle-fests often lead me to reflect upon how busy our life has become and how often we think of everything we do -- taking care of Max, walking the dogs, maintaining the house, earning a living -- as just a torrent of fires that need putting out.  It's easy to forget that most of these tasks are quite enjoyable.  Indeed, most of these tasks are what makes life worth living.  If only we could turn down the volume a bit.  Perhaps then we'd take the time to enjoy putting out these fires and maybe write more blog entries.

In order to adhere to the no-pictureless-posts policy of this blog, I've included below a new picture of Max, Viola, and Merlin all crammed into the ding, taken on Teela's second stop at our house, this time on her way back home to Bloomington.

Yep, three's definitely a crowd.

It's now 4:18.  Max just started crying again.  Maybe I'll let him cry a bit more and see if he goes back to sleep.

Two babies in a ding

Teela, Merlin, and Viola stopped by our house for a couple nights -- a rest stop on the way to Ottawa to visit Gramma and Grampa James.

Max kept calling Viola by the name "Anne" and we kept correcting him.  He eventually called her "Vai" a couple times.  Perhaps he now understands that Anne is not another word for "baby".

As usual, we barely got our act together to take only a handful of pictures.  Max introduced Viola to his rope swing, which he calls "ding".  Pretty cute.

"This is my ding.  It's MY ding, but you can use it with me for a bit."