Buckeck

The Best Part

Yesterday, I took The Squidd to the Canterbury Museum and he loved it!


Despite all the dinosaurs, giant bugs, and machinery covering nearly ever inch of this place, The Squidd was most entertained by three steps and a ramp leading to the bathroom.

Outside the museum are the lovely Christchurch Botanic Gardens. Called the Garden City, Christchurch takes special pride in showcasing the skills and dedication of its armada of landscapers. Took The Squidd out into the gardens post museum visit. Pose with mom or dad next to the flowers for a charming, pastoral shot? Hell no.



But pose on my own in the middle of the gravel walkway? You bet.

Needless to say, the kid has an obsession with gravel and sand and rocks of all sorts. Sound like anyone else you know?

A Wink and a Smile

I hate to bore folks with cutesy baby stories if they're not into that sort of thing, but tonight will just have to be a rare exception.

Let me set the stage: The Squidd was up early today and, therefore, napped earlier than normal. This early nap, in turn, meant that by the time he was tired again, it was much too late for a second nap yet much too early for bedtime. So he had to power through until a reasonable bedtime hour.

Fast-forward to 7:45pm. We've managed to keep The Squidd entertained and mostly out of the death spiral of crabbiness by having him help us make pizza (oh yes), feeding him dinner, watching snippets of crap TV, and going for a walk around the neighborhood. As we roll into our driveway at the end of the walk, Rocky says to me that he thinks we should skip The Squidd's bath due to imminent meltdown. I enumerate The Squidd's bodily functions from earlier in the day and recommend that we stick to routine and give the bath. Plus it will further entertain The Squidd and get us closer to his regular bedtime (and, thus, back onto his sleeping schedule--hopefully).

Being the good hubby that he is, Rocky capitulates, and we go forward with the bath.

The Squidd is now clean, and I'm telling him that I'm going to lift him out of the tub on the count of three. (I have convinced myself into thinking this helps to prevent meltdowns when he has to exit the tub, but I may have deluded myself.)

One.

Two.

Thr . . . oh crap. Literally. Just as I'm saying "three," he poos in the dregs of the bathwater. And lest I get too graphic, let me just say that it wasn't a little pellet either. (Our household is at the tail end of a stomach bug, if that tells you anything.)

So we heist The Squidd out of the tub, trying not to touch his lower half. We do a half-assed job of rinsing out the bottom of the tub, and then re-wash The Squidd from the waist down while he stands in the dubiously rinsed-out tub. OK, he's pretty clean. Good enough.

Rocky lifts The Squidd back out of the tub, dries him off, and is preparing to exit the bathroom, when his son--the apple of his eye--lets loose with a stream of pee, drenching Rocky's arm, and his own legs yet again. I'm laughing now but trying not to let The Squidd see that I'm laughing because This Is Not Funny, Young Man.

We repeat the stand-up washing procedure again and then race to The Squidd's bedroom to get the diaper on. I lay The Squidd down on his changing table--remember, he's nunga punga still beneath his bath towel. I lift up his legs to slide the diaper beneath when, suddenly, his little sphincter starts winking at me. Oh no, oh no!!@# Hurry!! And as I'm moving in with the diaper, the little shit pees again. Then laughs. To me it sounds a bit maniacal, like this is payback of some sort, but maybe it's just a bit hysterical because he's exhausted and on the edge. (The former makes the better story, don't you think?) Rapidly, I use the clean diaper as a shield, only removing it when I feel certain he's done peeing. Think again. The kid keeps laughing and firing off stealth pees every time I uncover him to wipe up the mess and get him locked and loaded in a clean nappy. This continues for about 5 minutes. After each interval, I try to wipe him clean with the diaper wipes, only to get another look at the "winking eye" before he goes fountain-style again. Oh, please no. I think at some point Rocky and I forgot to hide our laughter because toward the end, I think The Squidd thought it was some fun game. Great. Perfect. And by the way, how big is this kid's bladder anyway? Seriously.

Finally, 40 minutes after the bath that was meant to last 10 minutes, tops, our boy was in a clean, DRY diaper and pjs and ready for bed. In retrospect, we should've gone with Rocky's plan of no bath. (Think I'll ever win the bath-no bath debate again?)

Parenthood. There's no adventure quite like it.

And just for fun, here's a recent picture of the little booger. More soon, I promise.

The Long and Short of It

Here's a quick snapshot I took of the 'hood just a few minutes ago, as it was nearing 9:pm. As you can see, it's still quite light out. In fact, it almost felt like full daylight, even though the sun was actually nearly set. And twilight currently lasts until close to 9:45.

Being a native of the northern hemisphere (and especially the more northern latitudes of the northern hemisphere), it's a surreal experience to witness the days lengthening and warming as December progresses. After our year of no summer, these long days of balmy weather have been a joy and a treat. Typically, I'm not one for hot weather and endless sunny days, but this year I'm especially thankful for their arrival and particularly aware of their place in the annual cycle of things. Life seems to slow down in the summer and it becomes more easygoing. People seem more prone to linger: on porches, patios, friends' backyards, cafes. I sense a greater willingness to take the day as it comes. It feels to me like a collective unclenching; we're no longer holding ourselves taut with cold, limbs and spirits loosening with the warmth.

At our house, we start the day (early per The Squidd's rules) in shorts, sandals, and maybe a sweatshirt. Our free-time itinerary now includes things like farmers' markets, the beach, the kiddie pools at the botanic garden, blowing bubbles on the patio, etc.


Really, it feels like any other lovely, mild summer (I don't mean the sticky, smelly nastiness of the U.S. East Coast) except it started in November. We even spent Thanksgiving checking out the beautiful West Coast of NZ's South Island. Thanksgiving dinner was a meal shared with new friends on the patio of a field station.






But no matter how delighted I am with the novelty of eating cherries in December and improving my tan as January approaches, I can't help but feel that these summer days have robbed me of something dear. Let me explain:

I love the winter holidays (except here, they're the summer holidays, and by holidays I mean the actual days of celebration vs. the generic term for a vacation or day off, but that's another story). Or more accurately, I love the holidays in the winter. I love the changing colors of the leaves and the gusty, cool weather that accompanies Thanksgiving. I love how even though we typically sit down to Thanksgiving dinner on the earlier side, the darkness catches up with us, so by the time dessert is served, the dark outside just heightens the coziness of being inside surrounded by good food and good company. I love the flavors of fall that are part of the traditional meal: pumpkins and squashes, sage, cranberries, apples, potatoes, mushrooms, chestnuts, French's fried onions . . .

And Christmas. I love Christmas. Always have. I love bundling up in hats and scarves to do the holiday shopping. I love the snow and was especially enamored of the way snow melts to form real icicles on lights hung outdoors in New England. I love the lights in the trees, around windows, and draped from rooftops, twinkling in the early darkness. (I'm the girl who steadfastly cuts her tree the day after Thanksgiving and has it lit and decorated by the end of Black Friday--check out our tree from last year.)


But here, in the southern hemisphere, Thanksgiving time brings budding flowers, springtime allergies, and the first of the asparagus, strawberries, and peas. No winter-woolen bundling is needed for Christmas shopping, it being summer and all. Stockings hung above roaring hearth fires seem plain ridiculous when it's mid-70s outside. And no one hangs twinkle lights anywhere. I've decided it's because daylight lingers so long that it just doesn't seem worth the effort. Or maybe it's because all the trees have all their leaves so it's a pain in the ass to put the lights on. But whatever. No lights. Boo. On top of that, unlike U.S. retailers, retailers here seem to have retained a semblance of self-control and have only just now started putting up their modest holiday decorations. Maybe a tree. Maybe a few ornaments hung in a shop window. The rational part of me can appreciate the restrained aspect of Christmas in NZ, telling myself that perhaps the holiday is celebrated here in a more personal and sincere way. Unfortunately, the visceral part of me wants the full-blown deal. I crave seeing Christmas decorations dripping from every street corner and window, store front and homestead. I miss the 4:pm twilight so I can peer into neighborhood windows and see Christmas trees lit in all their glory. But what parent of a toddler has time (or energy) to spy on their neighbors after 10:pm, when it's summertime full dark?

These longer days have thrown me so off kilter that it actually doesn't feel as if Christmas is coming. I don't feel the urge to bake holiday cookies or undertake any holiday crafts. No sipping of hot cocoa. No glitter and sparkle of holiday parties and friends coming in from the cold dark for cocktails and sinfully decadent desserts. Instead, I want to eat salad and sip lemonade. Nap in the hammock. And take my book and kite, sand pail and towel, and bundle The Squidd off to the local beach for an afternoon of frolicking in the waves.

So my resolution this year--an early New Year's resolution, if you will--is to find a way to make new holiday traditions that embrace the culture of our new home. Who knows? In the years to come, maybe fresh Strawberry Rhubarb Pie will replace our Apple Cranberry Pie at Thanksgiving and Christmas will conjure thoughts of grilling and camping . . .

And if next year it looks like Santa threw up Christmas on my house, you'll understand why.

Modern Innovation in New Zealand: The Beer Hose

Last week we made a trip over to Westport (located on the west coast of the South Island).

One of the highlights of the trip besides the beautiful weather and scenery was West Coast Brewing (also home of Good Bastards beer). You literally walk into the center of the brewery (pipes, forklift and all) and start drinking beer.

Rather than pimp up their brewery/beer with things like atmosphere, bottles, bottle caps, labels and packaging, you essentially help yourself to one of the beer hoses (seriously there were several hoses attached to a tap connected to its Mother beer) and fill up whatever container you brought in with you.

Price of a two liter plastic bottle?
10 cents
Cost of two liters of beer?
$12
The experience of drinking beer from a hose?
Priceless

(AND for the record...they have hands down the best pale ale I have ever tasted.)

Required

I just finished a two day outdoor first aid training workshop.

Turns out that first aid training is required for most employees in New Zealand.

This has to be the safest country to either choke or have a heart attack.

The Unendearing

Where did The Squidd learn to say "NO! No! NOOO!" with a Kiwi accent?

Believe it or not, but the word "no" is the least of our worries. The word "mine" has recently entered his vocabulary. According to him, nothing belongs to us anymore. It's all his.