The Axis of Festive Evil... or, How Chocolate Has Ruined our Holidays

Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny. Old Witch. Once such beloved friends, sparking glorious imaginative flights of fancy, giving life to the otherwise mundane and filling my childhood with much-needed joy.

And now these former beloved friends... these stalwart allies and trusted chums... these absolute utter bastards... have turned on me.

I first became aware of their corruptive influences during Pre-Schooler N's first Christmas in our own home (the previous one being at Professor D's parents). Oh, I had such high hopes, such excitement at sharing my most beloved of holidays with my son. I shopped. I decorated. I shopped again. I baked. I decorated again. Until our home looked as though tiny wizened elves had snuck in during the night and jerked off all over the walls with Yuletide glee.

(Not My Actual House)

At last count, there were 36 miniature Santa Clauses gracing our home throughout December, along with 29 snowmen and a healthy smattering of reindeer and other woodland creatures.  I knew that our son -- then Toddler N -- would love this explosion of colour and texture, and glean as much innocent enjoyment from the holiday as I always have.

Goddamn was I wrong.

Oh it wasn't that he didn't love the whole thing.  He adored it. He loved it so much that he spent every damn moment racing around, destroying my careful preparations and generally making that once-precious week between Christmas and New Years an exhausting marathon of Don't Touch That!!! and Oh My God The Tree!!!

(Not My Actual Christmas Tree)

Okay so in hindsight it was ridiculous to expect much self-restraint from a two-year-old. But the worst wasn't even the physical destruction he wreaked on our home. It was the advent of Whining.

Now every parent knows that Whining is the auditory equivalent of water boarding, destined to reduce even the most patient and compassionate of us to a snarling, intolerant dictators of Stalinesque proportions. And there's something about a bunch of Christmas presents, Easter chocolate or, god help us, Hallowe'en candy that catapults it into overtime.

This past Christmas was slightly better, with Pre-Schooler N finally able to understand that there is a beginning and (mercifully) an end to gift-opening, though the onslaught of goodies proved an ongoing supply of fuel to the whining engine. Still, it gave me hope for the future.

(Definitely not my living room. Nice mirror though)

Which, naturally, was then smashed all to shit with Easter last weekend, with the fresh hell that itty bitty chocolate eggs and brightly coloured jellybeans bring into our well-ordered lives. I guess it's like childbirth, where some latent bit of the human brain blocks out the memory of past horrors, allowing the massive denial centre to kick into Hallmark-generated overdrive.

How else could I forget that any stash of chocolate (a very rare treat) known to my kid will mean that he whines frequently and volubly until said morsel has been deposited into his keening mouth. Unfortunately for him, I'm also bloody stubborn, which means I won't give in to whining, which means the whole thing goes on until the carefully-meted-out chocolate supply has finally dried up.

(And not my actual child)

I know this is the right way to do things. I know it's good that his main treats are a baked good, or some lovely fresh fruit, or a nice flavoured applesauce. And I know that giving in to whining now would prove a disastrous down-payment on a child who is spoiled and completely lacking in self-discipline.

My conscious, reasonable brain (shivering and cowering from shell-shock somewhere behind the amygdala) knows that these days of structure and rhythm will contribute to a well-balanced kid with a sense of how to behave. And I know that these holidays will soon be a lot more manageable as Pre-Schooler N gets more under his belt. They may never be Hallmark, but I do sincerely believe they will be more harmonious.

But in the meantime, if I see that fucking bunny or a fat guy in a red suit, all bets are off.

The Only Gays In The Village

Okay, so we're not actually the only gays in the village. There are at least two other gay couples I know of in our wee hamlet. They keep a fairly low profile, but they are visible and known of in the community. But we are certainly the only gay parents here, and it's already making for some interesting interactions.



The village is quite small... really just one main street, with a convenience store (they call them depanneurs here) and a grocery shop. There are also, mystifyingly, four antique boutiques within spitting distance of each other. Far more important than, say, a drugstore or a doctor, but quite handy for any davenport-related emergencies that arrive in any well-appointed home.

There seem to be three prevalent theories buzzing about when it comes to our household configuration. The first is clearly that Professor D has hooked up with some gigantic, ungainly red-haired amazon, eliciting sighs of heartfelt sympathy and admiration that he's chosen such an unfortunate creature. Now, I say that as someone with a relatively healthy ego: I'm quite happy with how I look, but also quite aware that I would make one seriously ugly woman.

Theory two is the most amusing of all, in that it acknowledges my correct gender, but assumes there must be a little woman lurking at home while her shockingly effeminate but progressive man does the grocery shopping, mail-retrieval, child-pick-upping-from-daycare and all the other household duties usually foisted upon the fairer sex. Given that Pre-Schooler N is of mixed ethnic heritage (largely First Nations), I sometimes imagine that they see my 'wife' as some housebound individual of indeterminate background, hiding away from the scary white folk.

The third is, well, not a theory at all: two gay men, living in the house on the hill, with an inexplicably tinted child. When this truth is revealed to the uninitiated, as it was with our kindly neighbour when she dropped by with a welcoming loaf of bread, the reactions are varied indeed.

Neighbour M showed up, a year after we moved in, offering apologies for her tardiness in welcoming us to the neighbourhood.  "Oh, I spoke with your wife on the phone a few months ago. I volunteer at the library, and reminded her that she'd purchased something at our auction."

Now, given that I get ma'am'd on a fairly regular basis by people who only see long red hair and a pale face, I am quite careful not to cause embarrassment. I smile, laugh a little, and let them know that it's completely fine... that lots of people just see the hair or hear my swishy voice and leap to the gender-appropriate conclusion. I have to admit that I do enjoy the ensuing blushes, the abject horror that they've (gasp!) impugned a man with any degree of femininity.

Not so Neighbour M.

I gently corrected her, saying it was me that she had spoken with, and that, due to my voice these things happened occasionally and were absolutely no big deal.

"Oh no, I'm certain it was your wife."

Um. Okay. So we move to the next echelon of potential humiliation, as I explain I have no wife. That my PARTNER and I live here, and that HE and his family are from the area. I watch confusion collide with horrible certitude in a kinetic explosion of facial muscles that is almost alarming.

"But... I'm sure I saw a child...."

So here is where I leap out of the closet in all my glory, dragging Professor D and Pre-Schooler N with me as I lay out our lives for this complete stranger. I explain that our son is adopted, and that we all live together in the house, and that we're so glad because the village is such a warm and welcoming place.

Neighbour M is clearly conflicted. She's been edging towards the edge of the steps since the beginning of my forced revelation, and teeters there a moment before making her final retreat. She sputters a few half-hearted farewells as she beats a hasty retreat to her car, which she has driven approximately 600 metres in order to deliver what is admittedly a freakin' heavy loaf of bread, and mercifully departs.

This whole exchange would be quite funny, if it weren't for my compulsion to explain the intimate details of my life - of OUR lives - to a complete and total stranger. Why do I care that she understand our particular family formation? Why did I need to use the word 'adopted' when elucidating our son's presence in our family? Why did I feel I should explain these deeply personal facts as though I was apologizing for causing her confusion?

Being a person who has lived with Full Disclosure Syndrome most of my life (it's totally a thing), I guess I don't like leaving question marks when it comes to people trying to figure me out. I mean, people have been trying to figure us queer folk out for centuries, so I'm certainly not a special case.

Maybe it's because we spend so much of our younger years hiding, deflecting notice and examination in case our friends and family discern our true nature while we're still in a state of abject vulnerability -- both materially and emotionally. It's imprinted into our basic impulse to survive in a hostile environment.  So when we finally exit the orientiational closet (which was admittedly, in my case, one of those glass-fronted walk-in jobs that EVERYONE could see into), we go overboard in declaring ourselves to the questioning.

But surely, after all these years of honestly not caring if someone has issues with my sexuality... surely I don't need to take so many steps backwards in facing the world with the family I've created. My son deserves that. He deserves me to be as proud and unyielding in my role of gay parent as I am of being a gay man.

For fuck's sake. Who knew there were so many damn closets that I'd have to climb out of in this world?

We All Pee In The Same Lake

When I was a kid, camp sounded like such a carefree, fun summer experience, with kids swimming and canoeing and learning a craft they could one day improve in a progressive prison environment (hey, those wallets ain't gonna make themselves).

So it seemed like a no-brainer to enroll Pre-Schooler N in the summer camp program that his cousins attend every year. It's quite the bucolic place, with stretches of gentle beach, treed play areas and adorable Cape Cod meeting house that looks straight out of a 1970s Kristy McNicoll movie. It's carefree, it's tons of fun...

And it's three thousand dollars.

Oh, and that's just the initiation fee. You can add another 1500 bucks or so on top of that - annually - for the privilege of peeing in the wealthy end of the lake two months out of the year.

Now to be fair, this club has been around for a long time, and has a good reputation for teaching kids how to swim, paddle a canoe and get their tennis duds whiter-than-white. But for a place that insists all small kids be accompanied by its parents or babysitter (at an additional charge, natch) it seems like a pretty hefty price tag for what is essentially a hut on a bunch of sand.

Only the creme-de-la-creme attend this camp -- mostly Americans who spend their summers on Canadian soil, easily quadrupling the town's normal population for a couple months out of the year. They're generally easy to spot: trendy SUVs, unbleached hemp mesh bags filled with local produce, and tennis whites worn for any activity that doesn't actually involve sweat, rackets or little yellow balls.

Ok, so now I'm sounding like a reverse snob. But I question why a camp that offers pretty basic activities needs to charge such an exorbitant entrance fee. The fact they require references from existing members only amplifies my suspicion that the fees have more to do with keeping the wrong sort of people out than fostering a sense of community for the village's kids.

Luckily there's another camp nearby, with perfectly reasonable membership fees and nice facilities. It's sad that Pre-Schooler N won't be joining his beloved First-Cousin A for summer frivolities, but the idea that the rich kids should be cloistered from their unwashed middle or lower class brethren is downright repellent. God forbid a touch of K-Mart should sneak into their Prada world.

   

As Pre-Schooler N grows up, I can't help but wonder how we'll explain the disparity between the majority of our neighbour's kids and the wealthy few who segregate themselves behind walls of money and reputation. I realize that's going to be a recurring theme in school and life beyond academia, but it's still tricky to strategize and articulate these sorts of material realities without saying things like "the rich folks don't like to mix with everyone else."

When the reality, sadly, is probably just that.

"I Drank the Windex" -- And Other Sentences I Wish I Could Un-Hear

Ok, so it wasn't actually Windex. It was a sip or two of children's bubble-making liquid (what the hell do you call that stuff, anyway?) that just smelled like Windex, which Pre-Schooler N and his trusty younger sidekick First-Cousin A somehow got into. Still, it did freak me out a bit.

I mean, I've smelled some funky toddler and kid breath over the last three years (hot tip of the day: never drink warm milk if you're lookin' to get lucky), but this was certainly the most alarming. Nothing like taking a whiff and instantly thinking I could give my windows that streak-free shine they deserve with a few squeezes of my child's belly and some well aimed effluvium.

But once I thought about it rationally, I realized it would probably not be Procter and Gamble's best interests to distribute a child's play product that was actually made of a poisonous substance.

Right?

There would be less worry if this had been something I had purchased myself, but the beverage in question came courtesy of an article found in the playroom at the home of Pre-Schooler N's grandparents. This is the house that all of us in the second generation cheerfully refer to as the Death Trap.

Designed and built in the 1960s, this massive structure is quite a testimony to the architecture of the ugliest decade imaginable (followed closely of course by its successor the 70s). It's all chunky shapes and angles, clad in barn board and possessed of the most challenging design elements I have ever seen presented to its determined owners when they purchased it in the late nineties.

(Not the actual house. Or family. I have that apron though)

God it was hideous. The kitchen was that special snot-green Formica so beloved by my parents' generation, while the stairs and mezzanine featured a complete lack of railings and other elements designed to keep klutzes like myself from toppling into blessed eternity. It is to Granny and Grandad's absolute credit as both preservationists and visionaries that the house became the magnificent specimen it is today: a blend of modernity and period elements that is harmonious within both its own walls and the landscape on which it rests.

But it's still a freakin' death trap.

(Also not the actual house. Or shower curtain.)

I first became aware of this lurking danger during then-Toddler N's inaugural Christmas with Professor D's family. At that point we were still just fostering the wee one, so the consequences of what occurred were doubly concerning. The manse really is huge, so it needs a serious heating system to keep it toasty during the Quebec winter months (there are about ten of them every year). Unfortunately, the radiators for said system are at least six feet in length, crafted from heat-conductive steel grills and set flush into the floor boards. This of course means that anyone accidentally stepping on these hot irons of torture in socked feet are in for, at the very least, a very sharp burn. God forbid your feet are bare.

Toddler N had recently learned to walk, and was barreling around his soon-to-be-grandparents' house with terrifying abandon, while his middle-aged soon-to-be-parents trailed clumsily after him. We were in a permanent state of exhaustion back then, having had to hit the ground running with an active toddler at an age that usually dictates buying flashy cars and dating people half your age in order to escape the reality of encroaching decay and doom.

So it's of no surprise that the boy ended up falling over one of the floor vents, badly burning his hand and resulting in several nights of painful wailing and angry tears. Oh, and the kid was pissed off too. He learned, of course, and now knows to keep his distance from these ancient horrors. But today's imbibing of a noxious substance certainly fit in with the reality that not every space we encounter is going to be safe for our kid.

And that's how it should be, I suppose. Despite my continued state of appalled bemusement regarding the seemingly endless stretches of red-hot floor vents, I admire the fact that Professor D's parents are adamant their home be a space that reflects their own lifestyle and design aesthetic. Sure, I'm terrified that the now-Preschooler N will destroy one of their priceless pieces of art, littered casually around the house, but I figure if they're not going to sweat it, then neither am I. They raised a bunch of kids, and take pretty much everything in unruffled stride.

So I resolve to as well. I tasted the bubble-liquid stuff and it was just awful... bitter and burning. Which tells me that Pre-Schooler N and First-Cousin A probably had only the tiniest sip. At four hours and counting, I still haven't lost my eyesight or puked out significant lengths of my lower intestine, so it's assuredly fine.

Kind of a shame about that child-powered window washer though. I mean, the little darlings always have something disgusting dripping from every damn orifice. It'd be nice to put some of it use once in awhile....

Does This Child Make Me Look Fat?

Being a person of ridiculous height and substantial proportions, I am becoming acutely aware of how huge bloody (that doesn't count as a swear word does it? Oh fuck it probably does) massive I look next to my 3 year old. Over the years I've become quite deft at minimizing the size difference between myself and others. When having photos taken with shorter, tinier people, or trying to blend in at social gatherings: I sit, I crouch, I slouch and attempt to expel all the oxygen in my body in order to shave a few inches off my outline. Not so easy when trying to nab a photo with a healthy bouncy boy.

So I'm trying to resign myself to appearing positively ginormous in the pictures and videos we take as we archive these years of our family's life. After all, it's next-to-impossible to get a half-decent picture of all of us together, so if that means I'm towering over Pre-Schooler N, and the perennially-svelte Professor D, then so be it.

It's an entirely different matter trying to explain the difference in our sizes to said child. "Here Papa, come into my little house that I made," should have been the first clue that my dignity was due for a further pummeling. Oh, it's not that I mind being able to fit only my head and torso into the blanket tent he made under his baby blue breakfast table (under $100 from Ikea!).  It was the mortification at getting stuck under the damn thing -- and the resultant eschewing of my erstwhile vow not to swear around the son in question.

Oh the indignity. But there's something about parenthood that seems to eradicate personal pride when it comes to our adult bodies. Maybe it's because we've spent so much time scraping poop out of the kid's arse, or trying to explain in hushed tones precisely why it's ill-advised to expose our private parts to the other shoppers at Loblaws. Kids have such an innate insouciance around  nudity and bodily functions... I guess it just rubs off on us at some point.  Along with the rest of their goopy, snotty and otherwise unmentionable excreta.

Nowhere else has this been more evident than Pre-Schooler N's own observations of my middle-aged body. Stretch marks seem a particular fascination for him, much to my chagrin. Being an exceptionally pale person, the stretch marks I gained while reaching 6'4 in height (not to mention a few dalliances with obesity) are of the vivid scarlet variety, even now that my weight's reached a pretty stable and manageable plateau. If observed by the casual onlooker, I would generally deflect notice by stating that I had been a chorus member in one of the earlier productions of Miss Saigon, and stood a little too close to the helicopter's blades as it descended onstage.

Now I'm at an utter loss how to explain them. My son was at first a little alarmed, asking with great concern about my"boo-boos". Now he simply amuses himself by tracing them until I giggle like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Charming. But aside from the puncturing of my carefully-crafted body ego, I'm realizing that this new sloughing of unnecessary dignity is actually a great gift.

I don't fret anymore about swimming in public. I don't worry so much when some snap-happy reveler whips out their iPhone to catalogue every second of life (for godsake people, put the cameras down and LIVE a little). And I now look at my body with a little more kindness and affection than I did before my son looked at me one night and told me I was pretty like a princess.

Yes, I know, I'm mildly appalled, not to mention mystified how and where he got that sort of idea of princesses being pretty, and that we should value people on their looks or royal pedigree. But I can't lie. Somewhere deep inside me, there's a voice saying loud and clear:

"Squee! I'm a pretty princess!!!"

A Childhood Re-lived. But This Time With Credit Cards!

Remember when you first found that perfect pair of jeans? The ones that sucked in your tummy, rounded your ass and made your legs look like shiny blue pipe-cleaners? Oh the rapture... the sense of satisfaction... followed immediately, of course, by the impulse to buy 45 pairs of them, in every shade available, before they disappeared from the shops forever. God forbid we should ever lose, rip, wear out (or grow out of) our favourite, perfect jeans.

And thus are shopping obsessions born. We scan every store we pass, our eyes sweeping over the racks with a practiced ease born of equal parts desperation and thrill of the hunt. If spotted, all other tasks are abandoned while we descend like manic, denim Valkyries, snatching up our prey and winging back to the Frozen Yoghurt stand with the grace and speed of a deadly hawk.

My Aunt Betty was the undisputed champion of the shop-hunt. That woman would stalk the shelves with an icy calm that would put any cheetah to shame, mercilessly discarding lesser items until she caught sight of that perfect victim -- generally something that had been marked down from several hundred dollars to a buck fifty, hidden behind the Mama Cass swimwear line by some ruthless cashier wanting to keep the good stuff for themselves. "Oh they all do it," Betty would cheerfully crow, as she thrust the treasured prize in front of the sullen clerk. "These sales people are all crooks."

As much as I loved my aunt, and miss her dearly, I lay the blame for my skewed shopping ethic at her feet. Sure there are advantages to gradually accumulating Christmas and birthday gifts throughout the year, rather than saving it up for one big expensive glut a few days before the blessed event. But every shopping excursion feels like a damn divine mission, with Betty's voice urging me on from beyond the grave:  "Buy two of them! If you love it now, you'll miss it later when it's worn out!" Or: "You'll need eight stocking stuffers that aren't too strongly scented, because they'll ruin the orange at the bottom." And of course: "That mega box of Saran Wrap will pay for itself in the thirty years it will take you to use it up."  And so on.

It's not like I'm a hoarder, or a shopoholic. I spend within my means, and don't return from every trip with a boat load of crap. I buy selectively, and not all that often. But the hunt is always on my mind. And the impulse has only gotten stronger with the arrival of a son in my life.

Now there's a whole new world of stuff to keep an eye out for, clothes being the dominant of these, as children grow about three feet a month. And toys. Oh god, the toys. The amount of time I spend on Ebay, searching for the (now vintage) toys I grew up with is downright exhausting. The bonus is that they're hard to find in good condition, and usually dirt cheap -- generally because most of them are covered with the filth of three decades or more. But those Fisher Price school toys from the 1970s are just so much nicer, so much less shittily-made than the current iterations that it's irresistible.

 

This may make it sound like my son has a ton of toys, but he doesn't really. Sure he's got bucket full of Thomas trains, and a bunch of tracks for them to ride on, and a whole whack of puzzles, but the rest of his booty is relatively small compared to what I've seen at other kids' houses. I'm always on the look out, though.

But the greatest hunt of all has to be the search for the Emergency Replacement Didi. Didi is one of the most important members of our household. Always cheerful, always comforting, never without a smile on her uplifting little face, Didi has truly made all our lives better. God help us if this stalwart companion and confidente were ever to go missing.

Didi was the first stuffed toy Pre-Schooler N ever expressed an interest in. Originally purchased on a whim by Professor D for my birthday, Didi was, for several years, a casual occupant of my bed until spied by the then-20-month-old Toddler N.

It was love at first sight. Since 'ladybug' was a little beyond his vocabulary at the time, this adorable little friend became 'didibuh', or, 'Didi' for short.

Two years later, the love affair has only deepened. Tantrums are gotten over quickly with Didi's help, and bedtimes are eased by a nice private chat betwixt the two after parental goodnights have transpired and the adults have left the room. Naturally, I live in terror that anything should ever happen to this fabric covered friend. Yikes.

Alarmingly, it turns out that the shop from which Professor D first procured Didi no longer carries them, and she is impossible to purchase over the Internet from retail outlets. There is an importer/wholesaler, but I would have to be a registered business and buy a case of the little darlings (and yes, I did try, but they won't sell to individuals).

It was a flower shop at Montreal's Trudeau Airport that finally eased my impending sense of doom. I was zipping by, late as usual for my bi-weekly flight to Toronto, when a flash of red, white and black caught my eye and stopped me in my tracks. No, it couldn't be. But yes, it was! There, on a shelf, tucked behind a neon plastic orchid and pink teddy bear with "Have a Sunshine Day" emblazoned across his fluffy chest, was a smiling (if a little dusty) Didi.

Flight be damned, I dropped my suitcase and practically leapt over the confused cashier as I retrieved my prize. And as my hand closed over the soft, squishy, plush body, I heard that familiar whisper in my ear... a voice from long ago, so dearly missed, and so eternally practical:

"Buy two."

And so I did. Hell, I would have bought more if they'd had them, just to be on the safe side. Yes, my beloved Aunt Betty may be responsible for this everlasting wariness and hunter's instinct, never letting me rest even a decade after her passing. But now I know that, come rips, tears, vomit, nocturnal urine incidents, inadvertent trips out the car window and general fabric wear and decay, there will always be a Didi in our lives.

Now if I could only find a back-up Scooby Doo racing van with detachable hood...