Fresh Meat

I'm the fucking king of the jungle, so damn right I'm gonna eat your kid. Honestly, I don't know what's so shocking about this. You came onto my turf, sweet little munchkin in tow, let her waddle right up to the glass… ugh, the fucking glass. You think I'd wise up to that by now. Every time – every time – I have a clear shot at one of those little lambs, that glass, that… fucking glass…

I digress. King of the jungle, king of the goddamn jungle. I'm The King. Badass.

So. Don't get shocked with me, lady. Yes, I made a move for your kid. Practically telegraphed it, slinking down flat as a mat. Flicking my tail, plotting my trajectory, doing the math. It would've been painless, I assure you. And if you're like the other idiot animals around here, you'd just have another one next year anyway. Maybe don't bring that one into the goddamn lion enclosure.

She walked right up to me. Right up to me, understand? You people don't teach your kids anything. I'm lying here, watching your idiot cohorts take my picture, flashes bouncing off the glass… and that's another thing, you're never going to get a decent shot in here with the flash on. You do know that glass reflects light, right? But I digress… again.

I sized up your kid. I admit it. Like taking candy from a baby, except replace candy with baby, and swap baby for… um… Hmm. Lost my train of thought.

Whatever. You made it too easy, is what I'm saying. I know they toss us slabs of meat every day, but that's not sporting. Instinct took over. I saw red – and pink, and two bright blue unsuspecting eyes – and I pounced. And I had her, I fucking had her. Bam! Paws hit the glass. That goddamned glass.

Only then did you swipe her away, save the day. Like you're the king of the jungle. Well, you're not. You people just know a thing or two about glass. That's the only reason you're out there, and I'm in here.

The Bench On Wolseley

IMG_0013.JPG – October 13, 2013 – 3:03 PM

I liked to think of this place as our not-so-secret secret spot during Scout's first summer, when she'd be ornery or nap-striking. Just the two of us. I'd place her in her stroller for a lap of "The Loop" – the popular jogger/walker circuit comprised of Wolseley Avenue and Wellington Crescent, crossing the river at Omands Creek and Maryland Street.

We'd head west, not talking, all business. Typically, a handful of blocks in the stroller with the hood up would be enough to lull her; The Loop is a snore-inducing 45-minute tramp, so I'd expect about a half-hour of real sleep. But there were occasions when I'd sense fairly quick that it simply wasn't going to happen – and we'd stop at this bench. 

I'd extract her from the seat, plomp her in my lap and watch a small part of the world go by. I'd point out joggers, dogs, Dickie-Dee ice-cream carts if we were lucky. On hot weekend afternoons it felt like we were the last two people in the city. Omega Man and Omega Baby.

This photo was taken by Kerry on the last really pleasant day of 2013. Thanksgiving weekend; I'm peppered with stubble, wearing a hat bought in Chicago and my favourite 13-year-old shirt that refuses to die. The most brutal winter in a century settled in a few weeks later.

A Night In The Life

12:21 AM: She's been sleeping for four hours, then a ten-minute midnight howl for Mommy. And finished. Attagirl. She's back to sleep.

Out with the gang. Won the 50/50!

Going out two nights in a row. Not sure if I'm feeling young or too old.

1:54 AM: One-off sob for Mommy. Shuffling. Whimpers.

Took hubby out for an early birthday supper tonight. I am stuffed. Prime rib, to die for. Love my handsome man.

Sunset. On the beach.

2:08 AM: Wails for Mommy.

Great night out, so much fun!

If you haven't taken a night to Festival, get on it while the temps are moderate. So much magic and music and Caribou.

2:33 AM: Wails for Mommy.

Where am I? #‎adventure #‎kayak

2:50 AM: Wails for Mommy. I head in, soothe. I put her down, make her angrier than before.

Five weeks until Maui! #aloha #haleakala

3:06 AM: Lengthy series of screams for Mommy. Handful of whimpers for Daddy. One cry for Big Bird.

Brunchasaurus Rex! *rawr with flying toast crumbs*

3:23 AM: Can't take it. I head in, soothe. I put her down, make her angrier than before. We read stories. She's awake; this is nonsense. Put her down to wild shrieks of protest. I'm not coming in this room again. Unsure if I say this out loud. I go upstairs, check Facebook. I put in earplugs, read my book.

Productive Saturday. Two sketches, one illustration and another logo concept.

A lovely day for working in the woods. Feels much warmer when burning stumps and bucking deadfall.

4:06 AM: I come to bed, nailing a creak in the floor. A cry, from her room.

4:10 AM: Everyone's asleep.

Temp at start of ball hockey this morn: -31 C. Temp at end: -27 C. No wind. Wasn't cold at all. It's sunny and beautiful today. Go outside!

9:45 AM: Off to the Children's Museum.

Eye Of The Hurricane

My skin is thickening, but it's not quite there yet. I hope one day it's as leathery and armour-plated as possible, come the eventuality my daughter will have enough blind rage to call me the worst parent ever and/or that she hates me. 

Presently, she does not hate me. She doesn't know how, and I give her few opportunities to learn. But this week just concluding has been as trying as it gets, as – combined with a bout of fever – she sensed her time with the people she knows and trusts at daycare was coming to a close. Her fear and dread of the unknown, of the next stage in her life, arrived in the form of fits and tantrums, of tears, snot, shrieks and wee-hours wails for mommy. And also a resolute disinterest, bordering on disdain, towards myself.

There were moments during the week where I couldn't blame her. I chauffeured her to the lion's den each morning, reducing her to tears while peeling off her coat and dropping her to the floor to face the day, then making a hasty exit. Our regular back-and-forth chatter in the car was all but reduced to a muted HI DIGGER as we passed a grader or front-end loader. She'd cry when I offered her drive-home grapes. Sob when I couldn't pass her to mommy quick enough. And then scream about her injustices to poor mommy's face until bedtime.

This evening though, a reprieve. On the cusp of her second birthday, the fog lifted and she's once again hugging-slash-acknowledging me. We brought home her Valentine's Day swag ("I MADE THAT"), her infant room portrait and daycare belongings to prep for the new space next week. She tucked her photo under a tea towel and said GOO-NIGHT SCOUT I LOVE YOU TOO MUCH. She jumped on the couch. Even if it's an eye-of-the-hurricane scenario, right now we'll take it.

ZOOMBUM!

ZOOMBUM [zoom-BUHM] – 1. interjection: an exclamation of joy, thrill, etc. 2. verb: to go, to move fast. 3. noun: playground slide (archaic).

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Scout sometimes lets loose two equally intriguing and relatively long-lasting catch-phrases – BUCKAWUZZIE [pr. buh-kuh-WUH-zee] and ZOOMBUM – the latter being, personally, my favourite word in the world. Whereas BUCKAWUZZIE can be described as entirely abstract with, to this day, no known etymological background, ZOOMBUM at least has traceable origins. A friend had a similarly-aged daughter who referred to playground slides as whee-bums, and it may have resulted from using and modifying this term during Scout's introduction to slides – which now rate high among her favourite things in the world.

Initially, ZOOMBUM was used as a physical description of a slide, but as time passed the term also became a declaration that a slide attempt was commencing (i.e., READY SET ZOOMBUM). Zoom to present day, and the word has pretty much lost its connection to slides and has integrated itself into Scout's lexicon, associated with speed in any form. Examples include backing the car into the alley, navigating the icy ruts in the alley, and scooting around on one's bare bum in the bathtub.

I have also likely prolonged Scout's usage of the word by using it so often myself, in hopes she will repeat it back to me. It doesn't always succeed, and I now dread the oncoming day when she learns to roll her eyes and tell me I'm being lame.

Big Girl

DADDIE BIG BOY?

"That's right. Daddy's a big boy. I'm a man."

MOMMIE BIG BOY?

"No, Mommy's a big girl. And Scout is a big girl, too. Scout, are you a big girl?"

Pause. NO.

There's a lot to be read into how our daughter responds to this frequently-asked question, as we drill the concept of becoming and being a big girl. In one week she will be two years old, and deemed ready to leave the infant room at her daycare to fend with the general population of a preschool room. She has visited this room plenty over the course of the winter with her infant-room caregivers, but not until this past week has she been led to the new space and left solo in attempts to intermingle with the older kids, new digs and different staff. The transition, I am told, has been slow. The tone in which I am told lead me to believe she is adapting warily and not without struggle. There have been tears.

A year ago, our family faced a much rougher scenario. Kerry, returning to work after lengthy maternity and parental leaves. Scout wading into daycare for the first time. The three of us, out of home over a month for extended renovations. A winter that would not die. Scout's initial fresh-meat weeks at daycare were riddled with illness. But then, like now, we knew it to only be a matter of time for her to gain trust and routine in the new, next stage of her life.

Scout is a big girl and she knows it, despite the occasional protest over the label. She puts items on the table if we ask her to put something on the table. She may or may not put away toys at the end of the evening. During her first weeks at daycare she was the only crawler; now she's the infant room's elder stateswoman. Approaching two years of age is the clinical, statistical, most obvious sign that she's ready for the move up. She simply has to be.

I'm told that while spending time in the preschool space, she is perhaps lonely. She misses her mate Walter, they say. The new room has more kids. Bigger kids. Different staff. Less structure. It's precisely like that flailing leap from elementary school to junior high, but with each kid advancing at their own set time. I relished that move to high school; many of my friends joined me, and I had allies in the older grades through my brother and sister.

She will adapt. I'm not concerned about this. But there are moments I stop and consider that my daughter's world is constructed primarily of three working parts (and the people who operate them): the house, the car and the infant room. Remove one of these pillars and I then understand her current shift in attitude. It's stressful. Hopefully within a couple of weeks she'll be entrenched in the new space. 

It has a water table after all. And Walter will still come by for visits.

Walter Did It

I arrive at daycare after work. Everything seems normal, but I am about to discover that I'm wrong. Dead wrong.

I see Scout playing in the back of the infant room with Walter, often the only other kid who's there this late in the day. Scout sees me, and races into my arms. Such a happy cat. Nothing in the world is amiss. Her caregiver hands me a slip of paper, and a pen.

"There's been an incident," she says slowly and quietly.

Confused. I glance at my daughter, double-checking. She's moving. Breathing. She inhales and exhales. Like any honest parent, my next instinct is Scout, what the hell did you do. She is not yet even two years old, so I do not say this out loud.

The paper lays bare a clinical retelling of the incident. That another child took his/her teeth and sunk them into Scout's upper arm, that the act itself was not seen but the fallout was loud and immediate. No blood or punctures, but there were tears, and an application of the proper salve. No names. I look at her arm and there it is: a perfect little horseshoe of teeth marks. The caregiver sees the wheels creaking in my head, and offers instruction. Sign the form.

Heading home, everything seems normal. "Scout, what did you do today?"

WALTY.

"Walter? You played with Walter?"

YEAH.

I cut to the chase. "Scout, did someone bite you?"

YEAH. OWWIEEEE.

"Who bit you?"

BITE. OWWIEEEE.

I begin naming names. "Walter?"

WALTY.

"Walter bit you?"

WALTY.

"Walter did it?"

WALTY DID IT.

At home, Scout dishes to Kerry. WALTY DID IT. Neither of us can believe what we're hearing; Scout and Walter have been daycare mates for almost a year, and are as good a pair of friends as children this young have a concept of. Walter, always smiling, always helpful, passing me Scout's diaper bag as I nudge her boots on. Walter's a biter. He bites little kids.

The next morning I joke with daycare staff about their no-names policy, explaining to them how Scout outed her assailant. "Walter? No. It wasn't him. Walter's such a good boy. No, it's one of the newer children; we always have to keep an eye on this one."

Scout, you lied to me.

That evening, I ask her again. "Scout, who bit you yesterday?"

BITE. OWWIEEEE.

"Who bit you?"

CALEB DID IT.

What The Cat Saw

I often see these two, passing by the window of the bookstore – the dad and the little girl. On their way to the bakery on Saturday mornings for a morning glory muffin. Sometimes just the dad, racing to meet his carpoolies. When he's not in a rush he taps the glass, and I let out a majestic yawn. He likes that. The kid loves it. She'll squeal, or hide her face in her dad's chest. I can hear her through the glass. Kitty, she'd exclaim back in the day, but lately she says Hi, Dos. She knows my name. Her dad must have taught her that trick. Once they came through the door and she touched my nose. I wasn't so keen on that.

Friday evening they stop by, and I hop from the counter by the cash register and meet them at the window. Looks like a pleasant night out there, really too warm for this time of year. The dad's wearing a different jacket, a nice one, and a black flat cap. Not his usual grubby toque and parka combo. The little girl has her pink winter coat on, speckled with tiny white hearts. Her hat with the chinstrap. A neck-warmer.

Something's a little off with her tonight – I don't think either of them realize it. I squeeze through the tchotchkes and get right up to the glass and blink. I could let out a majestic yawn, bare my fangs, but she might get too excited for her own good. Dad's trying to get a rise out of her. He points at me. He grabs her arm and waves it. Hi, Dos, he says, hoping she'll do the same. But her eyes glaze. She tucks into his neck.

He should get her home. I think he's enjoying the hug, or what he thinks is a hug. He gives her a little boost, securing her in the crook of his arm. She looks at me. Poor thing, I think. She lets loose a torrent of barf, down the front of her coat. Beige stuff. Looks like muffins and apple pie filling. Dad's eyes balloon, but neither of them make a sound. It keeps coming, and coming. On both their coats now, and their pants. They should get moving. It's a block or so to their house, but dad's feet won't work. My stars, it isn't stopping. Someone passes by. They face me to hide the spectacle. Dad looks around. Looks like he has his wits back. About time. They bolt, and veer sharply into the back lane.

In Deep

Scout and I arrived home from daycare in record time yesterday. There was still a scrap of daylight left (huzzah for mid-January), and the air was warm, hovering about zero. Sliding the key into the front door, I asked Scout – perched in my free arm – if she'd rather stay outside, figuring she'd opt instead for CRACKERS or GO-PISH or BABIES (i.e., YouTube clips, don't ask).

She said YEAH. I asked again: You want to stay outside? YEAH.

I plop her on our sidewalk, anticipating the inevitable request to be lifted back UP-UP (she's not been the biggest fan of walking in the snow thus far this winter). It doesn't happen, and she ambles down to the public sidewalk, and looks back at me watching.

O COMING, DADDIE?

I ask if she wants to visit Dos, the neighbourhood bookstore cat.

NO.

Do you want to go see the neighbour's snowman?

NO.

She picks up some snow in her knitted mittens and tosses it towards me. I jump in feigned fear. Giggle giggle giggle. This is repeated five or six or a few dozen times. It's the most fun I've witnessed her having in this, her first real winter so far. She kicks at the deep snow, wanting to venture in. HOPE? HOPE, DADDIE.

(Hope=help.)

I grasp her curled-up hand, and lead her so far as I can without filling my shoes with snow. She shows no hesitancy. I'm beaming. O COMING, DADDIE?

She was hesitant to take her first steps in life, waiting until she had full confidence that her feet would work for her. Then, once mobile, she did not enjoy taking that act from smooth surfaces to grass, or snow. She's yet to find a relaxed state in the pool, curling like a bug over floating like a starfish. A thought would sometimes bubble up inside me, that she was watching me closer than I imagined, that she was absorbing my own habit of reticence.

She tramps through the fresh snow, coating her brown cords. She's so happy. Squealing. Her woolen mittens are a patchwork of crusted ice. I know it's seeped through by now. Scout, let's go inside and get some proper mittens on.

NOOOOOO.

Do you want a cracker and some milk?

YEAH.

It's dark now. OK. Let's go inside. We'll come outside tomorrow.

YEAH.

The Word

We are raising a child who loves books. It's so rewarding, to see her interest in the library, in bedtime readings, the written word in general. Here are five stories I like to parade out at naptime or bedtime:

5. Bus Stops (Taro Gomi, 1988)

This book tracks a bus around a vaguely San Francisco-esque city, letting riders off at various stops. Nothing fancypants. But it teaches Scout to learn how a bus functions – useful for the fantastic years to come when it becomes her only post-apocalyptic option to avoid the C.H.U.D.s and get to the nearest hover-mall.

4. Lost And Found (Oliver Jeffers, 2005)

"Once there was a boy, and one day he found a penguin at his door." Thus begins a fantastical tale that will forever lend Scout the impression that penguins are mute, idiot navigators and she's free to push off to sea in a rickety rowboat every time there's some minor penguin-related incident on the home front. Scout's interest in this book got a second wind when I started calling the boy Avery, her cousin whose name she loves to sing-song.

3. The Golden Egg Book (Margaret Wise Brown, 1947)

A rabbit stumbles upon an abandoned egg, kicks it around, throws rocks at it and rolls it down a hill – but fails to destroy the life inside. Eventually it grows tired of trying, falls asleep and accidentally incubates it, giving birth to a vengeful duckling who turns the tables on its dozing tormentor. But because ducklings are also suckers, it imprints on the bunny and they become friends. By changing every second adjective to 'sleepy', it gets Scout in a snoozy way right quick.

2. This Is Not My Hat (Jon Klassen, 2012)

A simple story, in which a pipsqueak minnow pilfers a bowler hat from a slumbering fishy behemoth and tries to justify its decision-making to the reader while on the lam. It's fun to know the thieving snot gets his just desserts off-page – though not likely in as bloody a fashion as the shifty-eyed bunny who dares poke the bear in its companion piece, I Want My Hat Back. Both books feature fabulous life lessons. Don't take what's not yours. Pick on someone your own size. If you're a crab, don't be a snitching rat. I like to read this book in the voice of a snooty Victorian-era aristocrat.

1. Where The Wild Things Are (Maurice Sendak, 1963)

I will never tire of this book. It's wonderful. I started Scout on it while she was really young, unsure of what effect the presence of so many monsters in her head just before bedtime might have. But she's been cool with it. There's a spread in which brave Max instructs the Wild Things to BE STILL, knocking them to their butts in fear – and Scout leans in on these pages and shouts BOO (translation: "Yeah, you bunch of clowns, be still"). She also used to like how Max would chase his dog down the stairs with a fork, but lately not so much.

Bimbo Nebo

The 15-minute drive to and from daycare is where Scout and I often get some serious talking done. She'll plead for me to recite an animated Sesame Street clip in which a gorilla with a penchant for the letter G looks for a job at an employment agency. And I comply, repeatedly. I plead to her to keep her boots and socks on; she refuses, daily. I ask about her day. We scour the streets for buses and 'diggers' (any type of construction equipment). This week's conversation revolves around who can shout HELLO the loudest – easier done in winter with the windows rolled up.

Scout hit me with a knuckleball yesterday that took the duration of our commute home to untangle. At a red light, while glancing up at an idling bus beside us, she spoke thusly: BEE EMBO NEBO. 

A second time. And again. Once more, this time a questioning tone. She's burning a hole in the back of the headrest. I need to say something. Seconds tick by. I try my best. I turn it back on her: "Nebo?" Smooth one, Dad.

NEBO. BEE EMBO NEBO. She begins to repeat it, in a sing-songy way. BEE EM BEE O! BIMBO NEEEBO!

Traffic is molasses on Portage; I'm aching to get home. She's rolling over the line like it's gospel. It strikes me, with moments left before reaching the house. Bingo Was His Name-O. I sing the line to her.

YEAH, she says. AGAIN.

Three Little Words

My daughter Scout is achingly close to telling me she loves me. I was fooled yesterday into believing she had spoken the words, while I clutched both her and a teddy bear and reading books before a nap. But it was there, in my mind, for a fraction of a moment: I LOVE YEW DADDIE. She said it. I heard it. It came out of nowhere. I had not mentioned first that I loved her. I was reading one of her stories (The Big Brag, the third of three tales in the classic Seuss opus Yertle the Turtle and Other Stories; she refers to it as BEARBUNNYBEARBUNNY, spoken in a pleading, read-this-or-I-freak tone).

But instant replay does not lie – she was talking to the bear. Like this: I LOVE YEW TEDDY. Nuts. 

But, because I often toss into our book-reading repertoire a hand-me-down tome called I Love My Mommy Because, she can now profess a love for Mommy – even if she is simply quoting a book (and so far, not to her face). She quotes a lot of books these days, and YouTube clips. Rote memorization. It's scary. She quotes her book Dude: Fun With Dude and Betty (HI DUDE WASSUP, DUDE WAY COOL GUY). She interjects her practicing of ABCs with random blurts of COOKIEMONSTER, like this Sesame Street snippet with Kermit the Frog and a girl named Joey. She quotes Cookie Monster (UMNUMNUM). She can sing JINGABELLS or OH BABY COLD OUSSIDE.

It's the beginning of that tantalizing and dangerous period in a family-with-a-toddler. It is fun to hear her beg for a HIGH FIVE, or echo a coaxed BUMMA DUDE. It will not be as fun to listen to her first GADAMMIT, or worse.

Well, it might be fun. The first time.

283: Me Me Me Me Me

I've done it again. Neglected the blog. No big deal, right? Everyone's neglecting their blogs. They're not cool anymore; too much work to write all that stuff. It's far easier to retweet or share someone else's efforts. In my case, I've neglected the blog, in addition to my Flickr page, any illustration and virtually all freelancing. 

The reason behind this is obvious: I'm a dad now. 

I devote my outside-the-office waking hours to Scout, and to her entertainment. It's by no means a complaint, and it certainly wasn't unexpected. The past year has been a lot of fun – a lot. Helping out with Scout's playtime. Her jumping up, and down. Standing. Shaking things. Squealing. Most recently, chasing and sussing out ticklish spots. So much fun, that I've neglected the blog, my Flickr page, illustration and virtually all freelancing. Gone parentin', as they say.

Kerry and I chuckle at the nasty habit we've developed, after Scout has been put to bed for the night. We scroll through photos and videos of her on our computer – so, even after ten months the concept of "Me Time" is still in the early stages of development. Beyond cleaning up Scout's daily wake of scattered shakables and toppled block towers, and zoning on Netflix and various social media turdholes, I typically don't accomplish a great deal on any given evening. I go to bed earlier, too. And for the most part, that's all OK.

But it increasingly feels like it's not. I'm fairly certain I've lost all momentum and ability I'd gathered over the lifespan of this blog to draw – I'm almost too scared to find out. I have been maintaining my dignity, creativity-wise, with our camera; since Scout entered the scene, I've taken over 5,000 photos – roughly 90 per cent or more of which, no fooling, have been of her. As a quality nit-picker, I've saved only about a tenth of them, sometimes erasing snot from her nose or goobers in the corner of her eye. The ab-fab standouts from this ongoing campaign currently grace a pair of über-fancypants 12x12 Blurb books (and a third, in time for her birthday a month from now). 

So there's that, and I enjoy it very much. You can see the results peppered throughout this post. That's not going to change anytime soon; I recently picked up a cheap fast-50 lens to help with portraits, and to combat the dim winter light in our house. But an additional aim for this year – beyond teaching, guarding, enjoying and otherwise sustaining my daughter's well-being – will likely be in conquering my Me Time.

What Am I Doing?

When Scout is ornery, I sometimes consider things I no longer do since she arrived. Outside of a single, late-night rerun of 30 Rock, I haven't watched television in two months. I just finished reading a book – David Sedaris' Let's Explore Diabetes With Owls – for the first time since she was born. I rarely ride my bike, except to reach my carpool. I've seen one movie in the theatre, a Stars-and-Strollers matinée screening of Mud (a very fine film), in which I rocked Scout in her car-seat with my foot. I missed the Fringe Festival. I missed spring break-up on the lake. I stopped freelancing. I've been out with Kerry, away from Scout, on only two occasions since February: once to walk to the end of the pier and back at the lake on Canada Day weekend, once for a one-hour dinner at a restaurant near our house. I don't draw, don't eat cereal and – evidently – no longer blog. 

So, what do I do?

I hold Scout in the kitchen and let her grasp at the photo of her smiling cousin on the fridge. I om-nom-nom her belly, and she squeals and pulls my hair. I carry her in the Ergo on evening walks in the neighbourhood, patting her bum and cradling her head even though she can support it now with ease. I sit on the floor and watch her jolly-jump at eye level – a lot. I carry her to the porch and let her swat at the wind chimes, and then to the backyard to pull a leaf from our maple tree. I show her the chimney swifts that chatter at dusk. I tell her squirrels are monkeys, in hopes that one day she'll think there are monkeys in the city. I gnash my teeth as she learns to put herself to sleep, screaming in her crib at bedtime. I take her picture, though more and more I opt for direct observation. I look at her hands. I look at the chub on her arms. I look at the back of her head where hair is filling back in. When she smiles wide, I look at her two teeth. 

I hoist her high in the air. When she giggles, I repeat what makes her giggle until she yawns with boredom.

281: Aboo

Scout broke our brains today. It's not been the best spring outside this year, and I think she senses it – especially after we'd made all manner of wild promises and vivid descriptions of this thing called summer. Tonight she finally called bullshit and let us have it – and with cold, wind and rain hemming us in from outside, we had no choice but to cower in the attic on our Pilates ball as she howled.

It's my duty to get Scout to sleep for the night; it's the closest thing I have to a magic touch. First Kerry induces her into a 'milk coma', then I wrap Scout in her pod (a nice way to describe what is essentially a straight-jacket). Tonight the coma did not happen, and I set to the laborious procedure from scratch, of getting her from crankypants to conked. She wailed, flailed, and then – as if declaring truce – she halted her fit, gazed at me and mewed aboo. She relaxed, and was out cold a few minutes later.

Scout's aboo is among her cutest accomplishments in life. It happens every now and then, often while being held. I immortalized it in ink, in this doodle I created for Kerry's Mothers Day card – the only bout of drawing I've managed in the 105 days since she's arrived on the scene.

279: Six (Week) Pack

Scout is six weeks old – zeroing in on seven as I type – and I feel we're only just beginning to learn each other. I know a handful of her likes: bouncing on the pilates ball; being carried up and down, and up and down, staircases; the boob; our stained glass window. But by and large, she is wildly unpredictable. She sleeps sound, unless she doesn't sleep sound. Feeds well, unless she doesn't. She's a baby (though she already owns more pairs of shoes than her daddy). She's immensely kissable, holdable, ticklable and omnomnom-able.

And as expected, Scout has been a blessing for my tired and underused (of late) camera. So in honour of her six-week milestone, I present a sextet of photos that haven't yet seen the light of day elsewhere. View larger.

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Bonus! Watch in shock, as Kerry gets beaten up by a flyweight.

278: Belly, Up

A Photoshop experiment resulting from a series of belly-shots taken of Kerry during her pregnancy, beginning at week 16 in September and continuing through to the bitter/sweet end. Photographed entirely in our living room using natural light (sometimes scarce in the dead of winter), with the exception of week 32, which was taken in Fernie. Shots from week 33 were accidentally deleted.

Use the scroll-bar at the base of the image to view the whole series.

Scout Sparrow Wolfe

I head back to work tomorrow, and I am collecting myself – and some thoughts. I've had two wonderful, trying, quiet, raucous, soothing and brain-breaking weeks at home with Kerry and my daughter Scout. My daughter Scout. Mine. Ours.

Scout arrived to the world with swiftness and surprise, on February 16 at 9:56 p.m. (only six hours previous we were going about a very normal Saturday, checking thrift stores for baby goods and mulling our choices of boys' names), born so quick the doctor-on-call raced up the stairwell, rather than risk the elevator, to arrive in time to collect her.

Her name: Scout Sparrow. Scout, after the inimitable and pugnacious protagonist Jean-Louise "Scout" Finch from Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird (and not, as the hospital night nurse wondered, Demi Moore's daughter). A literary reference, for Kerry, and a sharp, strong name for a girl we wish nothing more than to grow up and model after young Jean-Louise. Smart, curious, and brave.

Sparrow, my contribution – put a bird on it. The name selected chiefly for the very aesthetics of the word itself, but also after the large family of songbirds of the family Emberizidae – small, sweet-singing, but not-too-showy, denizens of almost every habitat in the world. (Deviating from birding purists, I also consider the common house sparrow who, while a pest species and not a true sparrow, is one of few species who cheerfully throw their sound into even the deepest urban landscape. And also smart, curious and brave.)

Scout, so far, has blue eyes. This may change, though there is a healthy streak of blue running through the eyes of both our families. She was born 19 inches long and six pounds, 11 ounces (3,055 grams), and following discharge from the hospital regained her birth weight with a quickness. In her two weeks she has found her lungs like a boss, showcases the startle reflex of an alley-cat, and developed the ability to stare inquisitively – and directly through me – as we lay side-by-side on the bed during morning bouts of playtime.

I hum a lot to her, since I don't know the lyrics of many songs. I do sing though, but startled myself today realizing the songs I sing are quite dark. The Beatles' Maxwell's Silver Hammer (triple murder) and Rocky Raccoon (gun violence), Josh Ritter's Folk Bloodbath (murder) and David Bowie's Space Oddity (floating in a tin can). I'll need to keep tabs on that. The other day we watched Raising Arizona together – her first movie. Trying hard to give to her an appreciation of the finer things in life.

Scout is a Pisces Aquarius, born in the Year of the Snake. I haven't looked into what this means. She shares a birthday with Ice-T, actor Pete Postlethwaite, author Richard Ford and dear leader Kim Jong Il.

277: Girl, Scout

Scout Sparrow Wolfe. Born Saturday February 16, 2013 at 9:56 in the evening.

There are no words. Yet.

275: It's Oh So Quiet

The new year is here. Our year. The Big Year. This is how we rang it in (above), far away, deep in snowy mountains with family, while also quietly celebrating our own fifth wedding anniversary. Snowshoeing about the puff and fluff in the woodsy park down the way from our rented chalet, it was hard not to make calm-before-the-storm analogies with our impending kiddo set to arrive in the picture. 

But the snow, it just made the place so absolutely silent. I'd never heard anything quite like the nothing-at-all heard during our multitude of breaks took while tromping in the forest. Breaks, not from pregnancy-induced exhaustion – not in the least – but from the need to halt and take it in, again and again. And again, I'm not gonna fall prey to any taunts of enjoy it while you still can, because I also plan on fully enjoying our upcoming hullabaloo every bit as much as a walk – or snowshoe – in the woods.