So knock on wood, or my desk, which I guess resembles wood - our little man Tasman is now sleeping at least 10 hours in a row. We are just on the cusp of it being two weeks since a really horrible night with the Tasmaniac, so while I fear I am jinxing it by writing about it, I must confess our lives have become so much better in such a short period of time.

No longer do I feel the volcanic rush of rage at my wife for squeezing the toothpaste in the middle, thereby creating a toothpaste barbell, instead of simple squeezing from the bottom up - allowing for easy ooze.

No longer does my wife contemplate husbandcide because of the red cap to the jar of the peanut butter is inches askew and smothered in golden peanutty goodness.

No longer does my blood boil at the 13 word coffee adjectives used by the praying mantis looking woman in the line in front of me at Starbucks.

No longer does my wife curse like a horny sailor when the BMW sneaks behind the minivan to cut in and gain the one car advantage on our snail-like route home.

To summarize - the uninterrupted sleep is blissful. The cloud of angst and anger has lifted from our little house, replaced by rays of giddiness, all because one little boy, with a smile that wavers between I love you and I am driving you crazy on purpose, has finally decided that his crib and his two soft, stinky blankets ain't that bad after all.

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I was lucky enough to take the last three months of parental leave (in Canada, we are allotted 50 weeks of parental leave) to spend with Hudson in the summer of 2003. We went for picnics in the park, we giggled at birds and squirrels, and even managed to compute the value of Pi to 981 digits - good times. It was basically the kick start to my love affair with parenting, and it allowed Hudson's roots to entangle my heart that will never ever be snipped.

Alas, this luxury did not occur with Tasman. In fact, both Stephanie and I quickly had to return to work after he was born as our year long adventure in Australasia had drained many a penny from our bank account and bills they were a climbin'. So Tasman was basically ripped off when it comes to quality parent time - we hated it, but choices were made, cards were dealt, beds were made and we had to sleep in them.

This past weekend, a long one in my province (thank you Liberal government!), Steph had the opportunity to take Hudson up north to go skiing. He had skied for the first time around Christmas and very much took to it, so this was something we are trying to encourage as brevity is not Hudson's strong suit. As Steph is a much better skier (and much better looking), it was decided she would go, and I would stay home with Tasman.

Well what a weekend! It's not like we rushed out and ran with the bulls or fought crime as some sort of father/baby superhero combination (Headline: Clad in diapers and wielding only soothers, another bank robbery was foiled by The Incredible Baldies!), but we did connect in a way that only concentrated time together provides, and I loved it.

We went for walks and ate messy bagels, both of us being giggled at by the teenage girls sitting across from of us because of the globs of cream cheese on our cheeks. We took all the pillows in our living room and put them on floor, lolling about, stopping only to identify our eyes, ears mouth and nose. We cuddled on the couch and watched Jeopardy (he won) and eventually we fell asleep in whatever piece of furniture we could find comfort in. It was wonderful.

Yesterday was a difficult day - both leaving in the morning and yearning to see Tasman as the end of the work day approached. I spend a good deal of time with Hudson. He is at an age where he looks to me for fun and answers to his five year old curiosity. I appease him and enjoy the interaction so much that I sometimes forget about Tasman and his very basic, but equally entertaining needs. This past weekend brought me so much closer to my little boy and I regret that I did not request this type of alone time up until this point.

But I know I have the rest of my life to make it up to him.

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I kissed my wife for the first time on July 10, 1997.

It was a secret kiss, between two houses, a party going on in one, her friends searching inside and outside, not knowing we were engaging in a moment of clandestine lip lock, thus beginning the most important relationship in my life.

I knew immediately that I was going to marry Stephanie. She had a smile that made my heart wince. She also got my sometimes overwhelmingly goofy sense of humour. She was involved in a complicated relationship that quickly dissolved once she realized that I was not going to give up my pursuit of her and also when her then boyfriend found a somewhat spicy note in her purse. Sometimes romance is a little bit naughty.

We have grown up together - from vodka swilling bar hoppers to dog owners to home owners to baby havers to worldwide travelers to the comfortable Sunday afternoon friends and lovers we have turned out to be.

Parenting has been both the ultimate blessing and largest challenge in our life together. We don't agree on all parental strategy, and make the mistake of disagreeing in front of the two boys sometimes. We recognize we are not perfect - spending too much money on ourselves and scrambling to make the important ends meet. We don't get enough sleep and that occasionally will be the underlying hum to our arguments. It's tough sometimes, it really is.

But there are moments, when we are together with our two stunning children, where I feel so complete, so in love with her as a woman, her as a mother, that I have to hold my heart to ensure it will not jump out of my chest and kiss me on the cheek.

Falling in love is easy - staying in love with that same person is much more difficult. The roller coaster of love is work. But, deep down, I cannot imagine my life without her. She is my best friend, a wonderful mother to our children, a great person with a big heart and a fantastic lover - I lucked out.

Although I can't believe I forgot to kiss her goodbye this morning.

I'll make up for it tonight.

Happy Valentines Day!

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This will actually be a great companion piece to my fellow two boy parent Linda, who wrote of the amicability between her sons earlier today.

My two boys are four years apart less a couple of weeks. When Tasman waterfalled into the world 18 months ago, Hudson's reaction was pretty typical. Wow he is so small, he would say bug eyed, and then skip off to build a zoo with his Lego set.

As time grooved on, Tasman became more interesting to Hud, usually the contents of his diaper, but also when watching him go from wide eyed immobile bag of potatoes to slithering bag of potatoes to two step fall cry Tasman to the present monster Taszilla who roars while running room to room pulling random stuff off counters (eggs, oranges, knives, computers..whatever).

Now they are friends, but also brothers, which means occasionally Tasman will get annoyed with Hudson and whack him with a plastic shark, or a television remote control. Hud reacts usually in one or two ways - complete waterworks, because he has obviously got his pain tolerance from his father, or a harder than he should return shove - completing the waterwork circle as Tasman yelps out for his B! (blanket) and a hug from a parent.

While not an advocate of violence in the least bit, I monitor this interaction closely. I never had a brother so I am not sure when I should step in and resolve these miniature (both figurative and literal) conflicts. I always tell Tasman not to hit his brother, but totally understand that Hud can be annoying with his smothery toy snatching ha ha I am bigger than you attitude. I also remind Hud often that he is the bigger boy, and cannot treat Tasman like a physical equal - and must be careful to not lash out in anger - because, as Hudson has reminded me in the past, Tasman is just a baby, and does not know any better.

Growing up watching brothers interact, my friends etc..I was sometimes envious of bond but also aware of the viciousness two brothers can sometimes have towards one another. The fights on couches I witnessed while watching Happy Days were so brutal but also a bit comical as resolution was always quick to follow.

I love having two boys - but sometimes recognize being a witness to their relationship can be just as important as parenting it.

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It is coming up to the two year anniversary of Steph and I and Hudson's (and Tasman in utero) return from our year long adventure in Australasia.

To recap, we quite simply up and left. I quit my job of ten years, my wife quit her job of two, we sold our house, weaned our stuff down to a storable level, grabbed our two and three quarter year old and made a run for the southern hemisphere. We did it for many reasons, the main one being we felt, as new parents, we were simply missing the growth of our child. His care situation was perfect, a shared nanny with a great couple, at our house, but we still longed late at night for more time with Hudson. He was at that magical age of true discovery, where the words finally caught up to the comprehension, and we wanted to see the world through his sky blue fantastical eyes.

It was interesting to listen to the mixed reaction of our friends and family to our plans. From light bulb late at night, to leaving on a jet plane was about five months, so we had a significant amount of time to listen to the naysayers tut tut our tearing of the rug of responsibility, as well as feel the warmth of the blanket of support from the people who were totally behind what we were doing.

A number of people, including members of our family tried to convince us that Hudson would never remember anything we did anyway, so saying we were doing it for him was a wash. Well Hudson, without an ounce of provocation, still brings up the time Mark, the Fijian tour guide held him as he scaled a rock face to get to a secret waterfall, or fart town, the sulfuric smelling Rotorua in the heart of the North Island of New Zealand or even the 11 minute snorkeling of the Great Barrier Reef in his tiny blue wetsuit. So he does remember some things, but admittedly, these will eventually pass. It will get lost in the cloud of memory, mix in with the kindergarten friends and the new cottage experiences, creating the foggy tapestry we all have trouble remembering as time snakes by.

But what I know he does not remember, but he does still feel is that sense of connection that only a significant amount of time together can provide. Steph and I were with him for almost one year, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Every day he woke up to both his parents not hustling off to work, not checking their Blackberries at the breakfast table, not missing the swim lessons because of a client function, regretfully things that occasionally happen now.

We know it would be almost impossible to do that type of trip again without some windfall. We took a huge financial hit and will be digging out for a couple more years yet. But we never look back at that time with regret, to us there was no better time to do it, and the impulsive nature of the whole adventure is part of the memory.

And what a memory it is.

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Tasman just turned 18 months and I don't know if I just didn't realize it was happening, but it seems he just went insane all at once. The once sessile little boy with a goofy grin and buckets of mouth slobber constantly spilling from his mouth has now become this weird Godzilla like creature, running through the house with his hands over his head, grabbing everything in sight, climbing on chairs and tables, and growling and grunting like he wants to take over the world.

On Sunday, my wife Stephanie went to Yoga class and in two hours, Tasman managed to pull a dozen eggs down from the counter onto his head (nothing beats the smell of yolk head), climbed onto of the dining room table to bomb Wii controllers down at our dog Alice, ate gritty snow from the tires of his stroller, and finally, bashed his much older brother in the head with a glass scorpion. Hudson now has a little bit of fear in his eyes when it comes to his brother. Heck, I have a little fear when it comes to him too.

When Hudson was of similar age, he was very la la la, soft in his expressions, gentle in his motions, offering us toys to peruse with him, clapping his hands in delight at the building of a tower. Not Tasman, it's snatch this, throw that, kick this, smash that, all with a grin that would make Jack Nicholson proud. We have done nothing to encourage this type of behaviour. Maybe it's his lack of sleep I go on about incessantly. As if sleep deprivation somehow has turned our little baby boy into a smaller version of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, with the jungle being our living room.

Oh crud - gotta go - here he comes now!

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In the giant vortex of parenting, curbing bad, or swear words does not rank high on the list of importance to me. Now this does not mean Hud enters a restaurant and sailors and salesman storm out offended by his tirade of curses. Nor does it mean he is freely allowed to drop f-bombs at dinner. What it does mean is that I recognize I cannot control what Hud and his gang of skittery boys giggle about in their playground circles.

My strategy is to occasionally ask Hud what bad words he has heard so far. He does so, reluctantly, as he is a really sweet boy, and he must think uttering anything worse than "dummy" or "idiot" would tarnish his angelic image in my eyes, and in the eyes of other parental figures he interacts with on a day-to-day basis.

So far 'hell' is the only word that he knows that I would generally disapprove him using in his kindergarten class. Particularly when answering a question from his teacher - him flustered, looking at a long word, saying out loud "how the hell am I supposed to read that?" is not a phone call I really want to take. Hudson knows this word exists, he also knows this word does not exist for him to use.

I have accidentally released a couple of doozies in front of both of my boys. Once in the car, I let loose a string of profanity that would make my father blush, and he was in the Navy. It was only after I relaxed did I remember that Hudson was sitting in the back seat fiddling with a Bionocle, singing to a Fergie song. I did not point out the bad words specifically, I just told him that Dad was very mad at the truck driver who almost ran him off the road. He simply shrugged and moved back into his land of robotic make believe.

I think once you point out a word is bad, it becomes more attractive to the mischievousness of a five-and-half year old. He is currently immersed in the land of pee and poo and bum and dink, laughing so hard when he says these silly words, still smiling sheepishly when we let him know that potty talk is not the way we talk around these parts. But secretly these words are harmless to me, and as long as he knows the difference between giggling about them in the bath, and screaming them at the top of his lungs at Easter dinner, he still remains angelic in my eyes.

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Television was and still is a huge part of my life.

When I say huge, I most certainly do not mean mystery meat tinfoil dinners on top of butterfly painted metal trays as the four of us sit down and watch our shows. What I do mean is that when the kids are down, and life is quiet for a brief spell, I do not dive into a mountain of paperwork, or wrap my myself around the mysterious mathematical conundrum that is Sudoku, or even what I should be doing, writing posts for this site (oops, sorry boss), I sit down and get comfortable with my old friend television.

I watch few drama, fewer sitcoms, mostly flip through drivel and then hate myself for it later. Not really, guilty pleasures are acceptable to me - if it creeps into the creepy world of obsession, that is when stock must be taken.

So the question remains, how does this translate into parenting, or more importantly, good parenting?

Hudson is at the age where he likes television. Luckily he is not as mesmerized as some, and thankfully is quickly moving away from the fork-in-the-eye annoyance of some of the pre-school shows that are out there (think bald four year old who whines). He likes a few of the Japanamation shows, which are a bit weird and a lot fantastical, so I let them slide. He loves the movies he should love, and will occasionally sit for a couple of minutes watching my beloved Raptors, even more so since we went to the game.

So besides the Pixar movies, I find it a bit challenging to find things that we can both watch. The shows and movies I want to watch are a bit too rich for my five year old, even the superhero stuff I justify crosses violence lines. The shows he wants to watch almost induce seizures with the flashing colours and zig zag effects, never mind the disjointed dialog and rabbits with supernatural powers.

Before the rain of judgment comes crashing down, please understand that I am talking about 30-45 minutes a night that Hud and I get to share television time. It comes after homework, after bath time, after drawing, after creative building of creatures or buildings with toys. We sit, cuddled with pongy duvets and try to find the mix that will keep us both interested until story time.

Luckily, this past Christmas, my wife stuffed in my stocking the remarkable BBC produced Planet Earth DVD series. This stunning project, first aired in 2006 in the UK and was subsequently aired on CBC and the Discovery Channel in North America. It takes you around the world, from deserts, to oceans, to jungles, to plains, and in full high definition shows you nature footage that quite simply will blow your mind.

I love it. Hud loves it. Even Tasman will stop in mid squeal to be hypnotized by a great white shark leaping out of the ocean to harness a seal in slow motion. It gives me shivers writing about it.

So - nature shows win. We are halfway through the collection and both of us can't wait for the next screening.

Guilty pleasure indeed.

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Well, we have finally hit it. The wall. We are spent, dazed, wrong shoes on wrong feet, yogurt in our hair (or on our balding head), trying to get ready for work after once again trying in desperation to get Tasman, our 18 month old beautiful boy, back to sleep.

We thought we had it there for a while, he was sleeping to 6am which was such a blessing after months and months of waking up at 5am or 4am for the day. But recently, in the last month, he has gotten even worse. Waking up at 11pm and staying awake for two or three hours at a time. All my wife and I can do is to alternate who manages this incessant slumber interruption, but because our house is small, the person allotted the sleep, still hears the fussiness or occasionally wailing that occurs trying to get him back to sleep.

Recently, Steph had the full meltdown. She works for a magazine that is very much seasonal and this time of year she is simply swamped with stress due unrealistic deadlines even in the best of times. Running on three hours sleep a night makes you think you are insane, your brain all gooey and foggy, fingers and eyes puffy, wandering around like you lost your keys even though they are in your hand. She spoke in squealy tones, like a boy going through puberty, explaining how she can't do it anymore. Fruitless words we both know as an option not to do it does not exist.

We have tried all the tactics that worked with Hudson. The Ferber, the family bed and of course the anythingtogetbacktosleep strategy that involves everything from warm milk to karaoke style lullabies to hour long rock a byes. Sometimes we just sit and stare at the bottle of Gravol - but we have yet to cave to any unnecessary medicines.

So good readers of ParentDish - I implore you - tell me things I know, tell me things I do not know about how to help an 18 month old wonderfully happy boy to get more than 5 hours sleep at a time.

I am on my knees.

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I have mentioned in previous posts that I very much enjoy sports. I played team sports in my youth, I play pick up basketball once a week, and very much follow sports, basketball in particular, with a feverish passion. Having two little boys watching my every move means they obviously get the gist of my liking of sports.

Tasman, while only 17 months (so close to a year and half, thereby ridding my monthly age description - soon it will be...he is about a year and half), seems to have taken a stronger interest in balls than Hudson did. He kicks them, throws them, and actually is a bit obsessed by them, grabbing them and screaming "BALL!!" bugging out his eyes like he just struck gold. Give him a ball for each hand and I fear his head my simply pop off his neck in excitement.

Hudson...well not so much. He of the "Dad, sports is stupid " quote a couple of months ago still prefers other activities - more fantastical games of pirates or robots, or robot pirates. I love him for this, but when the opportunity came to go see my favourite team, The Toronto Raptors, play a game against Lebron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers, at the Air Canada Centre last Sunday, it was something I was obviously not going to pass up.

We took the bus. We took a subway, sitting at the front of the train to watch the darkness of the tunnel surround us. We bought popcorn and cotton candy. We split a Diet Coke. We peed in the urinal beside one another, crowds of beer-filled patrons waiting for us to zip up. We watched the game, or at least I watched the game. Hud watched everything else, the mascot, the little girl dancers (I may have glanced at the big girl dancers). He soaked in every morsel of visual entertainment a large sporting complex can offer. He watched the big screen above the court. He noticed the advertisements plastered everywhere (goooo team branding!), and of course by the mid third quarter he asked when the game was going to be over. Soon, I yelled over the very loud hip hop music, very soon.

Disappointed? Of course not. He can, and will do things he enjoys - I am not the forceful sports father.

But get this, at dinner on Monday night, a full 24 hours after the experience, Hudson began talking about the game. Not the event, but the game itself. How his favourite team is the Raptors (it does help that they are cool looking dinosaurs) and his favourite player is Chris Bosh. He also mentioned that King James - that's Lebron James mom he explained - was very good and helped the Cavaliers win, especially near the end of the game.

His words, not mine.

I beamed - sliding the mac and cheese into my mouth.

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I grew with video games. I was born in 1969, so I was just after the pong craze, when the original Atari first entered the home video game market. I also went to arcades, which housed both nerds and drug users, with the occasionally nerdy drug user making strange noises mastering Asteroids or Tempest or other simple addictions.

My friends and I played Intellivision baseball until we could no longer look at each other without seeing the ridiculously basic baseball player outlines in each others eyes. My best friend's father, bless his OCD soul, was the master of Space Armada, although Andrew, my friend, secretly could beat him. I stuck to sports games mostly - and then driving games as I did not get my license until I was 30 and this was the only way I could maneuver a vehicle.

From Sega Genesis to Super Nintendo - even into our 20's we managed a very unhealthy obsession with all things video game. We did not go to arcades anymore, a little weird at 25, and they slowly gave way to the home video market anyway. Not unlike the evolution and eventual disappearance of porn theaters, allowing people to only feel shame and embarrassment and of course excitement in the privacy of their own home.

Eventually the gaming came to a halt. Alcohol became more fun and gaming and boozing really don't mix that well.

Well, enter the Wii. Santa was nice enough to drop one down our chimney this year. Hudson is just about on the edge of gaming, playing online simple games on sites like Nickelodeon or Treehouse TV, so after selling our soul to the devil, we were able to find one for Hud to enjoy. When he noticed the Wii all set up, glowing blue on our TV, he freaked out for a bit, but it did not snatch his attention like the other, more tactile Santa gifts that he opened.

Of course that all changed once he started playing. He has found three or four basic games that he can do, do very well, and now of course wants to play them all the time. I also have found a renewed interest in video games - much to the chagrin of my wife. But it is something that Hud and I can do together, and, something Hudson can earnestly beat me at. Besides, Steph and I have recently taken a like to Guitar Hero III. But that it is a post all on its own. And probably on a different site anyway.

We monitor the usage - just like we do with the television. An hour a day seems about right. He splits the hour usually. We set the stove timer so he knows exactly when the time he has allotted is up. The beep goes, the controller goes away. So far so good.

No exceptions....well that is a bit of a fib. The hour doesn't count when I am playing with him does it?

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I am a product of a divorce. My parents split and my Dad left to live in a condo when I was 8 (I think). I remember him telling me in a white Datsun that he was not going to live with us anymore. What I also remember is my mother trying to keep the tradition of eating together very much alive - even with the fourth seat at our Formica kitchen table very much empty.

I am very pro-family dinner, seeing it as a way to connect to all members of my family for at least 30 minutes a day. Even Tasman, who is challenging at 17 months with the toss fling chomp spit ritual he has got going on at the moment. We contemplated having him eat prior to our sitting down, pushing our standard 6:30pm dinner time to 7pm, with Hudson sated by television and an apple for the additional 30 minutes. Thankfully we decided against it. I love seeing him eat and enjoy the tactile goodness that is smeared sweet potatoes. I also think him seeing all of us at the table, managing our utensils, laughing at silly jokes, tsk tsking any reference to flatulence and simply enjoying each other company is a lovely way for a toddler to graduate to boy.

We also think badgering Hudson about his daily activities at dinner will both offer insight into how our nanny is handling the child rearing by proxy and to make sure we are involved in what goes on at his school. We ask pointed questions like if any bullies are starting their bully career or if his teacher is sipping stinky liquids from flasks. That kind of thing.

The time is spent laughing and loving, from hot dogs to homemade Indian, and I look forward to it every night.

I do also remember some TV dinner moments from my youth - so I know it happened, and do not harbour any resentment to my wonderful mother. She was brilliant in her single motherdom.

How serious do you take family dinners?

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Being an ex-smoker, portly and a bit deviant, I have been through countless countdowns to midnight on December 31st with a list of resolutions firmly planted in my brain - or even one year written out in long hand and attached by magnet to my fridge. This will be the year I would think - where it would all come together - and I will take control of my life the way I have always wanted. Washboard stomach, pink lungs, overflowing with integrity, I would walk the walk as my resolution list was talk the talking.

Le sigh. Of course I have failed every year, the secret four pounds of chicken wings in February, the just one cigarette at the wedding in April, the corner cutting in June. It has always proved to be disappointing and really draining on my soul. This year, a friend asked if I had any resolutions. I replied no, but I do want to be happier, and because things are more readable in lists, I decided to pick five ways I can be a happier person in 2008.

Let me preface this by saying I am not unhappy, I just think I can be a little happier, and while a broad goal, even the slightest increase is still a victory.

These are not in any order.

1. Be more patient. For many reasons in 2007 my fuse shortened - more stress at work, two kids instead of one, not lying on a beach in New Zealand all day, spending more than we earn - this all added up to me turning into a bit of an ogre sometimes. And while my wife was the biggest target, occasionally it festered into almost animosity towards my children, like I was finding it incredulous that my one year old could not sleep through the night. I mean duh, he is one, he does not do things on purpose. My wife has broad shoulders and can temper and manage my lack of patience, reeling me in, pointing me back in the right direction. My kids can not, and do not need to feel the wrath of my own internal struggles. If I can be more patient, and slowly curb this bubbling beast, the self recognition will make me happier.

2. Be more diligent. This just means completing more tasks, both at home and at work, the sense of fulfillment will make me happier.

3. Be healthier. Now this is a classic resolution, but usually more geared towards weight loss. This year it's just about being more active, eating less peanut butter and bread, and bagels, and crackers, and bagel crisps, and crackered bagel crispy toast breads, and setting a better example for my boys. We generally have great dinners with all the 31 food groups, but my snacking, and their witnessing my snacking is an influence I do not want to have. If this healthy lifestyle rubs off on my boys, and I maintain it, my self esteem will sky rocket and I will be happier.

4. Write more. Both on ParentDish and my own personal fiction goals. I have many many ideas and have to create the time to create the sentences. As I have lamented to many, other than my joy of my sons, nothing makes me happier than the crafting of a killer sentence.

5. Create a better circle of influence. Now this is a bit life coachy, but I have too many friends that I don't really respect, yet seek their attention and adulation for some reason. This has to stop - my eagerness to please them makes me feel feckless. Stopping this can only result in increased happiness.

All of these items still feel like a resolution list - but it is positioned differently. Hopefully this will set me on the right path for success in 2008.

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I get a surge of happiness when I happen upon random items in my jacket pockets that remind me that I simply love being a dad. Yesterday it was a purple lite brite peg. No idea how it got there, but at some point I must have placed it there to avoid my dog Alice, or my son Tasman from snarfing it down their respective throats.

On Saturday the entire clan, Alice included, took the highway north of where we live to a tree farm. This is the first year we are waking up at our house on Christmas and my wife and I could not be more pleased. In the last five years, we have been alternating between grandparents, with a New Zealand Christmas wedged in between. This year, with my sister only an hour away, we said screw it, we will wake up as a family, begin our own traditions partially stolen from our own families growing up, and just drive to my sisters after lunch for the requisite turkey dinner. This is what brought on the decision to go cut down a tree up north instead of driving around the corner from our house where the Boy Scouts grin and sell you flimsy trees, cut in November, and imported from the Northwestern United States for $80. Yes, Canada imports trees. Next it will be orange cheese, maple syrup and hockey players.

The tree farm process is just that, a process. They huddle us onto a large tractor-drawn wagon and pull us into the middle of a large field. On the right, spruce trees, on the left, firs. With snow thigh deep, and two kids thinking to themselves - what was wrong with the Boy Scouts? Our tree was very close to the main path, and surprisingly thick compared to some other skinny trees.

What can I say, some like them thick, others like them long and narrow.

We get back on the wagon to rumble to the line where you pay by the foot, then force the tree into this magical tree wrapping machine that looks like a torture device from the Saw movies, and then secure it to your car with images of it flying off mid-drive home and causing a major accident. It took about an hour.

I am painting a bad picture. There was hot chocolate. There was face painting where Hud and Tasman got their noses Rudlolphed. There was a hear ye, hear ye dude complete with lamb chop sideburns and a faux British accent. It was just very obvious we were city folk, trying to capture a little Christmas magic on a cold a blustery Saturday afternoon.

That's OK - it's who we are, even if Hud and Tasman (and Alice) don't know it yet.

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When Hud was born almost five and a half years ago (gah! his age, ages me), he was the baby we said nothing about. By nothing I mean we did not lament of the constant up down of sleepless nights, or his colic-induced banshee-like wailing that makes anxiety feel like Novocaine compared to the breathless panic of not being able to quell a screaming baby. The truth is, he was a dream, sleeping through at three months, and other than a brief relapse at around one, he still sleeps at least 11 hours with nary a peep nor a murmur.

Welcome to Tasmania, our next boy. The payback kid. He just turned 16 months and wakes up at least twice, and wakes up for the day usually around 5am. Now we are no parental experts, we have read some of the books that are out there on sleeping, but as other parents will agree, by kid number two, you are not as rigid with the parental strategies the so-called experts write new books about every year.

As mentioned, Hud was simple compared to Tasman, so this sleep deprivation is a little bit new, and a lot more challenging. My wife, the classic sleeperinner, hates it even more than I do. About 10 per cent of time Tasman will come into bed with us and fall back asleep. If this is the wrong thing to do, we could not care less. Both the feeling of him gently sucking air next to me, and the even better natural waking up a so so happy boy yelling "Da!" into my ear makes me forget about the number of times I have ridden the subway in two different shoes, with one sleepy eye open, dollop of forgotten peanut butter hanging from my cheek.

My sister, with her wonderful stories of support, reminds me of my niece did not sleep through until she around 2.

Yikes. But what can you do? Some kids sleep and some kids don't. Part of life I guess.

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Today my wife and I attended our son Hudson's school for both our parent/teacher interview as well as to discuss the results of the Occupational Therapist's assessment of our eldest boy's fine motor skills. I wrote about it here a little while ago, with my hesitations about its effect on Hud, particularly about his self image within his class. That turned out to be a non-issue as the transfer in and out of his assessment within his class was seamless.

Well it turns out Hud is at the high end of average for two of three assessment areas and a bit below average in one other. This did not surprise me, or cause me great discomfort. The truth is both Steph and I recognized that Hudson's struggle with writing and cutting and drawing was just that, a struggle. Both of us do the best we can to encourage him, and find new and creative ways to ensure his very valuable practice time is ardently performed.

This assessment was a free service provided through our Provincial education board, and even with the wait time being over 10 months, I was so pleased to get such an accurate and detailed account of how my son was progressing through his first year and a quarter of school. The truth is, I was a horrific writer when I was his age. - my big sausage fingers trying so desperately to stay in-between lines, and not being able to graduate to a pen long before my classmates were giggling and spirographing. I remember my struggle with a strange dose of clarity, meaning it might have been somewhat tragic to me back then.

Back then I was simply slower - but eventually I caught up. Now I use words like ardent. I am so cool. Or not.

We all agreed the therapist should continue working with Hudson for the remainder of the year - once every five weeks or so. She is also giving us some unique worksheets to handle at home - with our job to continue the practicing as well as finding new ways to spell words - with rice, with play dough, shaving cream in a zip lock bag etc... Sounds like fun to me so I can't wait to get started.

Parenting is such a roller coaster. I was not nervous about this meeting as I can see glimmers of pure brilliance in his comprehension and compassion. But having him assessed was odd - felt like a case study - but we are doing whatever we can to make sure he is getting everything he needs to keep his brain growing.

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Being that I was away last week at my cottage, wind and cold and rain keeping us indoors for most of the time, I had a lot of time to think about what I am thankful for. Being that my copycat thanksgiving was almost two months ago anyway, my timing is pretty much irrelevant. I also I do not remember recording this, whether verbal, or in text at the time of my Thanksgiving (I was high on tryptophan at my in-laws) so this will prove beneficial in many many ways.

In no particular order..

I am thankful for my beige slip on shoes that feel so comfortable even if though the bar scum stains can never be eliminated.

I am thankful that my son Hudson's hair is much thicker than mine ever was, hopefully proving the hair gene is passed on through the mother, saving him years of clumpy pillows and the bald men are more virile quotes I hear every couple months from women whose husbands could make rugs from their luxurious manes.

I am thankful that I am fully able to breathe through my mouth when changing the poosplosions in Tasman's diaper. I even keep breathing through my mouth for a full five minutes after he has scampered away ensuring no redolent poosidue is left to scurry up my nostrils.

I am thankful for Diet Coke, the sweet sweet elixir of the gods.

I am thankful for my wife's nape and see through eyes.

I am thankful for the occasional serene moment, usually when my family and what feels like the rest of the world is asleep, where I sit, and truly appreciate the quiet.

I am thankful that Tasman and Hudson are healthy and so so cute- although the night dry coughs scare me.

I am thankful that I have yet to truly grieve.

I am thankful for the tinger - because the chicks dig the tinger. (Note: I broke my ring finger 21 years ago playing basketball and never had it set - it has since morphed into an E.T. like, bulbous entity that looks like my big toe and ringer finger were merged - hence the the moniker - the tinger.)

I am thankful for my mother and father - who managed to raise me (with respective help from their spouses) to treasure and adore being a parent to my two boys. And I was no peach growing up.

And I am also thankful for my dog Alice, who at age 7 (we think) has never lashed out in anger while being ridden, pulled, poked, prodded when all she wants to do is sleep (and lick my toes).

This post could go on forever, as I am lucky to have a lot of things to be thankful for.

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Tasman is almost sixteen months (when he reaches 18 months, be becomes a year and half old - the months will be banished from age description) and anyone who has experienced living with a similarly aged child knows this can be a trying time. Gone are the days of plopping in the middle of soft blanket with a couple of colourful toys while you sneak off and make dinner, or go to the bathroom, or to pick up your dry cleaning. Now he is a machine, running and roaring from room to room, hands above his head, looking very much like a gorilla stomping through the jungle.

The new sight levels allow him to witness things he never even knew existed. Like knives on counters. Or lap top computers on top of desks. All to be easily pulled off for closer examination on the floor. Basically, he is followed non-stop, gentle no no Tazzy's following him where ever he goes.

As with Hud, we did not really childproof our house. We put the plastic plugs in the outlets and keep all toxic material out of reach, but that is about it. Our house is old, so it has been split into many rooms, rooms with doors allowing us to manage Tasman's exploratory nature by sectioning him off into rooms where we can see him. This includes the door to the basement, which Tasman would freely step off as if the second step was a giant billowing pillow full of catchability.

We have been in houses that had been overly child proofed, with all the plastic covers for the door knobs, the gates, the toilet seat stopper (which I barely could figure out myself in time) and I know we probably are in the minority when it comes to this topic. But our house is small, and we watch him with a keen eye pretty much all the time. 100 per cent of the time if he is near any danger.

Hud made it to five with no major in house accidents. I trust us watching Tasman more than I trust not watching him with child proofing tools in place.

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It's been a couple of weeks since my last couple of posts - still recuperating from all the me time comments (both on the board and directly to me) - even my mother was kind enough to let me know how she feels about the topic - and she never lets me know how she feels.....ha ha ha...excuse me...I had to get up off the floor from laughing.

So, after all that complaining about the me time, I find myself in a position where, due to work commitments, I will be unable to interact with my boys until Saturday morning. Karma or what. You want me time? I'll give three days of me time! Now, I don't want it.

I can witness my boys sleeping, or potentially get an early morning quick cuddle or grumble, but tonight I am out late with a client and tomorrow I fly away to St. Louis on business until late Friday night. I e-mailed a friend and he accused me of being "that guy", the business trip, taking clients out for dinner/game kind of guy. If he were in front of me he would fire his fingers at me and wink.

Le sigh. That guy. I never wanted to be that guy. I want to be the guy in sweat pants and flip flops drinking strong black coffee from a big mug, with a overgrown beard, hand in hand walking my sons to school. I want to coach soccer games from fold up chairs and bang gavels at parent associations. Basically I want the freedom to be a full time dad, with a profession that affords me the time to do so. But being neither independently wealthy (yet I still have a live in nanny) or the stamina to write for a living, I have individual moments of being "that guy."

This morning Hudson woke up at 5:30am. On a normal morning, I would have got him back to bed with relative success. Today I just let him linger, laying next to me on the couch, watching a show he describes as "one you and me want to watch", usually a nature program, sometimes cartoons from my youth.

Tasman woke up soon after and joined us on the boy couch, hair like a broken broom, pointing in every direction.

Forget the me time. Give me more us time.

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I have been to four of my parent's weddings. Three of my father's, one of my mother's. The last one of my father's I finally reached best man status. Probably because I was barely a man for the two other weddings of his I attended.

While a shocking statistic, I feel relatively lucky to have the influence of my father in my life. He is seasoned veteran of marriage and still very much believes in it, obviously because after five times of repeating vows to five different women, he must either believe in the spirit of the union, or really digs sausage rolls. My mother was lucky to meet a man relatively soon after the divorce and is still happily married to my stepfather who is one of the strongest men I have ever met.

My father would admit that his frequent marriage program is not something he is proud of. He loved each woman, yet probably should not have married all of them. He also had lapses in being a good father, mostly absenteeism, never anything more dramatic, but on the whole, looking back through my childhood, when the feces was flying, he was there to be both the good guy or the bad guy when my mother needed him to be.

So I do have a great balance of paternal role models in which to both base decisions on the premise of what to do, and what not to do. Hopefully this will serve my sons well in the future. That being said, it was my mother that did most of my raising and in a father type post - she deserves a big shout out as well.

By the way, I was at home ill yesterday and managed to squeeze in 1.5 hours of me time in the afternoon.

Good times.

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