My Father, The Most Important Man In My Life (Also The Punniest)

When I was about twelve my father had an altercation with a lady at the bank.  They were screwing him around and he just got angrier and angrier the more she tried to justify the bank’s actions.  Thing is, he’s pretty good at hiding it.  My dad doesn’t get angry often and rarely to that level.  The lady eventually just backed away and ran into her cubicle.  He never said a mean word to her – of that I am sure – but his mere presence had her scurry away like a frightened rabbit.

As we were leaving I turned to my dad and said “Daddy, when you get angry, you get bigger.”

And he does.  Not physically bigger like the Hulk but…spiritually bigger?  It’s like his spirit becomes to large for his already massive frame (my dad is 6’4 and rotund) and seeps out around the edges.

This event sticks out in  my mind as a definitive moment in our relationship because deep down I realized that not only was my father a spiritual man – that he was human.  That he got angry and sad and all those emotions he hid from us to keep the smiles on our faces.

I love my father more than any other man alive.  He is the being to which all my relationships have been put against.  He is the person all the men in my life had to measure up to – and that’s a pretty tall order.  The only one to come close is my husband.

I’m one of the lucky ones, I know.  I have a father who is still alive, still a part of my life, who has always loved and supported me no matter what, who loves my mother with all his heart and would lay his life on the line for his family.  He’s an amazing man and wonderful father.

My dad is a martial artist.  As age and weight has set in he’s stopped practicing save for the occasional Tai-Chi in the backyard, but I say IS because he’s never truly lost it.  He didn’t join a club with levels and belts and all that jazz.  They had one belt and it was there to hold up their pants.  They met in a small club and fought, and they fought hard.  It was a small club as the amount of people who could “stand the heat” so-to-speak was small.  Once a week they’d sit under a waterfall and meditate (in Canada).  The spiritual training was as intense as the physical and he carries both to this day.  He wasn’t the best fighter, he says, but when other clubs would face his during tournaments more often than not the fighters forfeited before a punch was thrown.  So when I looked at other kids and said “My dad could beat up your dad” I wasn’t bluffing.

He told me a story of some dude trying to come up behind and mug him late at night.  That dude left with two broken arms (and I hope a new outlook on life).

I’ll never forget the time that my friend’s husband challenged my (already pushing 50) father to a fight.  Her husband was in his 20’s and as high as he could go in his martial arts club.  We all gathered on the porch to watch and it was over in seconds.  Friend’s hubby was sprawled out on the grass my dad holding onto his arm and pressing down on his chest.  Us ladies laughed our butts off.  Hubby’s pride was hurt but he found a great respect for my dad, and it carried over into a friendship for several years.

He rode dirtbikes in his younger years and met his true love through that activity.  I have a tattoo on my back of a wolf (dad) and cheetah (mom) in a circle done in a dirtbike style – in honour of them.  Dad always says that if he hadn’t met my mom he never would have married.  He’s not afraid to be alone.  He was a lone wolf most of his life before marraige.

He’s a nerd.  Since the first computer was built he’s been fascinated with them.  We had a computer long before most of my friends did, mostly so my dad could tinker with it.  I used it to write Sailor Moon fanfiction.

Now that he’s retired he spends his time on a computer creating 3D models of things he reads about in his sci-fi and fantasy books.  He’ll send them to the author when it’s done to his satisfaction.  My dad is retired and creates fan art.  I come by it honestly.

He reads comics.  He watches samurai movies.  He loves science and technology, cars and football, writing poetry and playing video games.  He’s the punniest man I’ve ever met.  A classic pun will elicit the best of groans, and they are always perfectly timed.

One time on a trip to Rome he got to take his shoes off and stand where Julius Ceasar stood.

One time he cooked macaroni and cheese for dinner and when my brother and I asked why the Kraft dinner was white, we discovered he had cooked the cheese with the macaroni.  Another time he lit a microwave on fire by putting in an Arby’s sandwich still in the tinfoil.  He’s not much of a cook.  But he does make a yummy egg dish full of cheese and hotdogs and bacon.  I used to ask him to make it for me as he took such joy in it.

He was a teacher and I always felt his kids must be so lucky to have him.  He taught the deaf and I would watch as he talked with others using his hands and marvel at it.  Sign language is, IMO, one of the world’s most beautiful languages.  He gave up his weekends to be with us – playing whatever sport my younger brother had decided was awesome at the time.

Through my dad I met so many fascinating people.  A card-reading woman who sparked my interest and empathy in Native affairs (and medicine cards).  A rough and tough biker who took my brother and I for rides on his motor cycle when he wasn’t roaming in a local gang.  A man from the islands who ate ox tail and watched bad martial arts movies.

He taught me compassion, empathy and to be accepting and inclusive in a time when this was still not the norm.  No matter your background, no matter your religion, no matter your sexual orientation – if you were a good person, you were welcomed.

Infinitely curious about the world around him my dad always asks me about my job at the comic shop.  One time when I was taking care of the Yaoi section of the store (romantic manga written by women for women starring guys) dad wanted to read one.  So I picked one out, gave it to him, he read it cover to cover said “Hmm, interesting,” and handed it back to me.  I laughed and handed him a samurai manga instead of a Yaoi.  “Much more my speed, but I see why it’s popular,” he said.

And as a Grandpa?  I’m so happy that I got to give him a grandchild to adore – and that Bean will get to know him at least some before the inevitable.

There are so many interesting stories, so many awesome things I could tell you about my father.  It would take up several posts!  But I think this is enough for now.  The most important thing is that I love him and he loves me and even if I’d created my own father he wouldn’t have been as good as the one I got.  It was father’s day this past Sunday and, though late, I wanted to share with all of you a bit of my daddy.

Am I a daddy’s girl?  Absolutely and I couldn’t be fucking prouder.

Dad at the local Pagan festival with me.

Dad at the local Pagan festival with me.

 

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Busy Busy Bean

Touching.  Climbing.  Exploring.  Licking.

One of the things I cherish most about being around Bean is his wonder and awe at absolutely everything.  His desire to test the limits of his body and his fearlessness.  Where other children fear to tread my little man rushes in with a big goofy grin on his face.  He’s not afraid to try new things and right now…pretty much everything is new and FREAKING AWESOME.  I mean, c’mon.  Did you see that transport truck?  It was like WHOAH DUDE.  SO BIG.

He’s a busy guy and an explorer.  I have to be on my toes because he has no hesitation to climb higher or go faster than his body is ready for.  Indoor playgrounds have been my blessing this winter as it gave Bean a huge and relatively safe place to play with lots of fun things to do.  They are also super fun for me because I’m pretty much a kid inside and giving me free reign to run around a playground and climb up things and go down slides…well let’s just say I was also having a blast.

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Sometimes I forget how small he is.  He’s in 2 – 3T clothes at 20 months – he’s tall and slim with my family’s thick thighs and big feet.  But then something happens and he needs to put his hand in mine and it’s still so tiny and fragile.

Temper tantrums, sleep problems, iron deficiency – it’s been a hard couple months.  But through it all I try to remember that his view of the world is still so new.  So tiny.  That he’s watching and learning but not all of what he’s seeing is something he can do.  That would be frustrating for me too!  That is big personality and big emotions are spilling out of him from time to time when he’s tired or hungry or just plain not having it.  He’s growing up so fast but he’s still so very small.

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Baby, Stairs Are Dangerous

I haven’t completely trusted my husband with Bean.  I’ve left them alone together (they look after each other on Saturday and Sunday) but there’s always this little nag in the back of my mind.  What if, what if, what if…it chants, spinning my anxieties and having me imagine the worst possible scenario.  Hubby is easily distracted.  He has a tendency to get sucked into the computer for hours on end.  Doing impersonal things when he’s supposed to be looking after the boy.  While I know much of this worry and mistrust is my anxiety, that logical conclusion does nothing to quell my fears.

Yesterday one of those fears came true.

At his grandparent’s house (Hubby’s side) Bean often goes up and down the stairs with our help.

This time he wormed his way past his father and attempted it on his own, tumbling headfirst down the flight of carpeted stairs.

Lightening quick, hubby dove headfirst after him, catching Bean’s shirt halfway down and preventing a full tumble.  Bean finished his fall gentler than he would have without his father’s quick grab and after a bit of scared tears and crying Bean was back to his normal self, wandering around and being silly.  He doesn’t even have a bruise or a red mark from this scary fall!

Hubby, on the other hand, has ended up with a scraped knee that would make any schoolyard boy jealous and multiple bruises on his shoulder and leg.  His knee puffed up and he’s been hobbling around since.

We took Bean to the doctor after I got home from work just to be sure everything was fine.

Someone was certainly looking after Bean yesterday and that someone was his father, my hero.

Love Came Later – The Story of A’s Birth

I’ve decided to get the ball rolling on this writing thing again.  It’s been awhile and I’m rusty but I need an outlet to bounce some ideas off the world and work out the feels I am feeling.

In order to get my blogging juices flowing again I’ve decided to share with you the birth of my son and all the drama that surrounded it.

In a time not so long ago, in a galaxy far, far away….no wait, scratch that.  Sorry.  I really shouldn’t write these things at work.

June.  2012.  I’m freaking HUGE.  I started off as a plus size mom but gosh golly gee I’ve upped the plus sized ante.  I’ve taken off from work a tad early due to blood pressure issues – mine keeps rising when I do, like, anything.  So I try my best to sit at home and not drive anyone else crazy with my “nesting” instincts.  Which doesn’t happen but they all still love me anyways.

My ob-gyn (an awesome and smart dude who got me through the still birth of Joel) was worried.  My blood pressure kept going up, I was showing extra fluid and he was worried about how much blood the baby was getting.  So after much discussion we decided to induce.  He booked an appointment for me June 13.

I had read up on birth and taken some classes with my husband.  I was going to (despite the induction) have a vaginal delivery with little-to-no medication.  Ahaha.   Ahahahahaha.  

I went in on the 13th.  Which was, apparently, the same day half of the pregnant ladies in my city decided to go into labor.  So I was sent home to try the induction the next day, when the hospital wasn’t taxed to their limits.

The next day was the same story.  They did, however, get the gel inside and sent me on home to wait for labor to start.

A few hours later I took a warm bath which triggered my water breaking.  Not so bad I thought until OMFG THE CONTRACTIONS.  Seriously.  Nada to OMG THE PAIN.  I thought it was going to be some sort of build up.

When I entered the hospital they got me to a room quick.  My blood pressure was shooting up and up and up and…well….they threw me on an epidural.  Not literally, of course, that would be extra painful.  Also probably hard to throw a plus sized pregnant woman.  Unless you had a catapult.  Anyways, sorry.  Easily distracted.

Now I’m sitting pretty.  I’m out of pain, my blood pressure is stabilizing, the baby’s doing fine and we are just waiting for things to move along.

Which is when the other half of my city’s pregnant ladies went into labor.

Turned out it was fortunate for me as I was able to bribe my panicked husband with a kiss to go downstairs and get me a diet pepsi while the nurse was attending another patient.  Score!

5 hours pass.  The contractions are starting to be strong again so the doctor and nurse get me to start pushing.

I push.  And push.  And push.  He crowns.  Yay!  He’s coming!  I still push.  And push.  They give me some pitocin as the contractions start to wane.  I push.  And push.  And push.

He’s still crowning.  In fact, according to the Dr, he’s stuck.  Also mom and baby are not faring well.  Blood pressure starting to skyrocket.  The Dr looks me in the eyes and tells it to me straight.  Emergency C-section.  So STOP PUSHING.

Yeah, easier said than done.

Especially when now the epidural wears out and the pitocin kicks in.  My pain level goes from 0 to 100 in less than a minute while I’m panicking that OMG MY BABY IS GOING TO DIE.

My terrified husband is tossed a covering and I’m wheeled into the operating room.  Where I meet one of the nurses who was there when I still-birthed before.  In my addled brain this means that I’m DOING IT AGAIN.

I am embarrassed of how I dealt with the pain.  I was BEGGING for more drugs.  To take the pain away.  I was screaming about how much pain I was in.  I hope the nurses realize that I wasn’t just screaming in pain.  I was PANICKING hardcore.  I was terrified and anxious and all those things compounded.  What came out though was a mom begging them for drugs.  And I’m embarrassed.  I look back now and I am ashamed.  So much so that when I am ready to give birth again I almost want to avoid that hospital.

Finally another epidural.  I’m numb from the neck down.  Fred is sitting in a chair beside me holding my hand, though I can’t feel it.  The doctors are talking in hushed voices.  I remember how QUIET it was because I was straining so hard to hear that little cry.  That first breath.  Anything to let me know everything is ok.  The nurses are running around making rustling sounds and in my head I’m screaming shut up shut up shut up.

He’s out.  They rush him to the scale.  Fred trims the cord.  Finally I can hear him squawking in the bright light.  Must be so weird to go from dark and warm to cold and bright so fast for the little guy.  He was born at 4:15 in the morning.

They brought him over to me and put him on my chest.  And that was it.  Things got really messed up from there.

When you read about birth, when you read about other’s experiences, you hear over and over about that rush of love, the stream of adoration, the tears of joy at seeing your baby for the first time.  Cue the choir and the cherubs and rainbows and sparkles.

I felt none of that.  The only thing I felt was panic that I was going to drop him because my arms were still numb and I couldn’t hold him properly.  I had Fred take him away and go bond in a corner away from me.  I didn’t want to touch him or see him.  I didn’t want to hold my child.  How fucked up is that?

The rest of it is a bit of a blur.  I think they sewed me up and wheeled me into recovery where I slept for awhile.  Then they put me in one of those rooms where there are 4 (or more) other moms.  I remember waking up and Arthur is beside me with an exhausted husband at the foot of the bed.  He hadn’t slept in over 24 hours so I sent him home to get some sleep (and also contact grandparents/friends who were anxiously awaiting news).  The baby was snoozing in one of those hospital beds next to me.

I was tired but couldn’t sleep.  I remember a nurse coming in and asking if I wanted to hold him and I declined.  My arms and legs were still pretty numb and he seemed content in his swaddle and bed, I thought.

I could hear all the action around me.  I was surrounded by moms who had birthed the day before and the room was swamped with visitors.  It was divided into four by curtains hanging down.  The people on the other side of my curtain thought it was ok to take my only chair (and possibly any other chairs they could find) and build some sort of living room in there.  Where they continuously kept banging the chair into my baby’s crib.  I tried to call out but no one heard me.  Finally after the third “bang” I called the nurse and had her go chastise them.  Which she did spectacularly telling them to have some respect for the other mothers and pointing out that the thing their chair kept hitting was a baby’s crib.  One of the men sheepishly brought me back my chair and apologized.

Sometime in the midst of all this excitement a big bouquet of flowers arrived for me from my parents.  They were dealing with a very sick pup and couldn’t come see me but sent their love via purple lilies and pink carnations.  It was pretty and a nice addition to my small room.  However it also made me sad because all I really wanted was my mom there beside me to tell me it’d be ok.  That it was normal to feel so disconnected from my kid and that it would get better.  I understood why she couldn’t be there but it doesn’t mean it hurt any less.

When the hospital discovered I was under the care of a psychiatrist and a high risk for PPD they moved me to my own private room.  At no extra cost.  There was even a “crashing couch” for my hubby to make use of.  Only thing is that I had to stay for 5 days for “observation”.

Looking back now those first few days, even the first few months, are all kind of a blur.  Mostly I remember moments and feelings.

Like the only thing that got me out of that bed the day after my c-section was the thought of a shower.  I was bound and determined to take a shower.  A shower will make me feel better, I kept thinking.

I remember staring at Arthur.  He was quiet (due to the drugs) and wasn’t latching on properly when I tried to breastfeed.  My milk was taking it’s sweet time coming in as well.  He had jaundice so the hospital had him on a strict schedule of formula to “flush” it out.  He was cute.  He was a baby.  But I didn’t feel, anywhere in those five days, that he was mine.

People kept telling me he was.  I would smile and look after him and cuddle and feed and then easily hand him off to Fred so I could roll over in bed and go to sleep.  I pretended to myself and others that everything was fine.  But a part of me kept feeling like someone would come and take him away to his real mom.  I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was not mine.

Even despite the fact he looks so much like my brother.

I felt guilt.  Shame.  Like a failure.  Disconnection.  Numb.

I didn’t show any signs of PPD and the c-section was healing nicely so when I had my staples out they sent me home.

It took a more than a few days until the feelings I had in the hospital to fade away.  Even longer for a bond to form.  Breastfeeding was a challenge – let’s just say he was on almost all formula and I managed to fight my way through mastitis and bad latches to get him breastfeeding without formula.  (okay, the occasional bottle at night so mom doesn’t lose her mind).

After bonding I had a sudden realization like “Ah, now I SEE what all those other moms meant.”  Now I can’t imagine a life without him and I look forward to our time together.  The days and weeks are flying by and despite our rough start I look forward to doing it all again.

After all I have a good idea how to work on making things go differently next time – but also I have a pretty good idea how to accept them if they don’t.

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My Love of the Ocean

When I was a little girl I was fascinated by the ocean.  My favourite animal was (and still is) the humpback whale and I dreamed of the day I could see one in real life.  I loved the sound of the ocean, waves crashing against the shore.  I loved the look of the moon rippling on the water late at night.  Colourful fishing boats floating just off of the shoreline.

Thing is…I had never seen the ocean.  Everything I knew about it I knew from pictures and National Geographic specials.

It was the one place I wanted to go.  The one natural thing in this world I desired to see with my own eyes.  I especially wanted to visit the East coast of Canada – Nova Scotia, PEI, Newfoundland.  I was fascinated by the beauty in the pictures I saw and I thought where better to see the ocean and possibly…whales?

In my early 20’s two beautiful friends of mine took a trip to the East coast.  I couldn’t go due to financial restraints but they brought me back a little something that, to this day, is one of my precious things.

The risk is if we open this now it'll probably kill us all.

The risk is if we open this now it’ll probably kill us all.

They’d gone to the ocean and packed a small jar full of findings and seawater.  I opened it once or twice when I first got it just to smell the salty water.  I think this is still one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever gotten.

My first attempt at seeing the ocean was when I accompanied my boss on a trip to an anime convention in California.  I told him how I’d never seen the ocean so we took a trip to the shore as the sun set and dusk fell.  I could smell the sea and hear the waves but I didn’t get close to the water.  There was a palm tree and I excitedly hopped over to see it.  Which is when I was accosted by the buzzing of some sort of insect flying at me.  It was probably some kind of beetle but seriously – the sound of it’s wings made me picture something the size of my head.  I’m not good with bugs normally but when one is flying right at me and I’m in a skirt and I’m picturing the mutant june bug from hell – well let’s just say I didn’t stop moving till I was back in the car.  My boss got a good laugh over it.

It wasn’t until a few years later, after I’d met Fred and we took our first vacation together, that I got to get my feet wet.  We traveled down to Rhode Island to visit my best friend and her husband.  About an hour out from Rhode Island is…OCEAN!

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The waves were fun and quite big!

It was windy and rainy that day so the waves were deliciously big.  I remember squealing and giggling like a little kid as the water pushed me this way and that.  I’m not a great swimmer so I didn’t go in too far but I still got wet from head to toe.  I tasted the seawater and got sand and rocks between my toes.  I reveled in the beautiful blue hues of the ocean ripples and danced in the frothy sea foam.  It was so much fun and I was in love even more with the ocean.

This bridge went OVER the ocean - it was nailbitingly HUGE.

This bridge went OVER the ocean – it was nailbitingly HUGE.

I still haven’t seen a whale in real life.  Or the east coast.  But now I have someone with whom to share my childlike wonder at the ocean and all of it’s contents.  I’m looking forward to when Arthur (and any future siblings) are old enough for a trip out East.  Because I believe it’s important for them to experience the country we live in from coast to coast – so they know why we must love and protect it.  I want him to have the joy of splashing in the waves and fond memories of days at the beach.  And I want to take him whale watching so he will understand how very, very important it is to protect the whales of the world.

But most of all I want to share with him all the things that I find wondrous and exciting because sharing those things – that’s one of the best things about being a mom.  And the ocean is the most wondrous and exciting thing of all.

My First Haunting – Beginnings Of A Paranormal Fascination

I believe in ghosts.

In fact I don’t just believe, I KNOW they exist.  I’ve seen them once or twice and there just isn’t any coming back from that.

When I was 8 – 9 years old I lived in a medium sized two story house.  My family had moved around a bit before then and we were renting this house as well.

The basement was innocuous enough – unfinished so we basically used it for storage.  The only time I ever went down there was to release our family dog from his kennel when I got home from school.  I remember the smell of dust and the feel of stones under my feet.

The main floor was where my parents and my little brother slept.  It was also home to the kitchen and the living room.  When you went out the door from the living room and walked straight you came to the stairs heading up to the third floor.

The stairs led up to a long hallway.  On the left two doors – the first a playroom full of toys.  A playroom neither myself nor my brother EVER used.  Especially not after dark.  We would get whatever toys we wanted and bring them downstairs.

The second door was my bedroom.  Large and bright yellow and decorated with cartoon bird wallpaper.  I had my own bathroom (though the toilet didn’t work) and lots of space.

I also shared the upstairs with a ghost.

I remember every night laying in my bed, the covers pulled up tight, listening.  Listening to the creaking and the groaning.  The light shuffling and the momentary pauses (those were the worst because of silence).  Up and down the hall the noises paced.  Starting at the stairway and towards my room.  When the footsteps reached my door they would stop momentarily, as if deciding whether or not to come in.  Then they would walk back down towards the stairs.  I know this happened more than once but I couldn’t tell you how long the ghost paced or how many nights they appeared.

My dad would tell you that it was merely the house settling.  But I know different.

One morning I’ll never forget, I awoke earlier than all my family.  I hurried downstairs to catch my beloved Saturday morning cartoons.  As I stepped down the last few steps I saw something floating in the air up by the ceiling.  A green mass that looked oddly hand shaped. It floated down the hallway, turned right and disappeared into the door of my parent’s bedroom.  I ran to my brother’s room and woke him up just so I would have the company, I was so shaken up by the apparition.

That’s all I remember from that house – we lived there about three years –  but it sparked an interest in the paranormal that has followed me throughout my life.  I began reading books on ghosts and hauntings.  I turned my scary experience into a story for school called “The Green Hand” (which led to my friends being quite afraid to sleep over after that).

One of my favourite scary books from those years was “Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark”.  Apparently this was also a favourite of many other children as well!  The stories were creepy (I can still recite most of the poem about not laughing as the hearse goes by) but by far it was the illustrations that have stuck with me to this day.  They recently redid the illustrations for a less gruesome look but I will always love the old ones.

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See?  Now THOSE are the stuff nightmares are made of.

But it was the real thrills and not the artificial ones I sought.  Perhaps it’s one of the reasons I’m such a Ghostbusters fan – and Ray Stanz was my favourite character – I seek the truth when it comes the paranormal.  I get excited when I think I may be experiencing something out of the ordinary.  I love shows like Ghosthunters, Destination Truth and Celebrity Ghost Stories.  I long to take a camera and a recorder into some unknown place and find my own evidence.

Not that I’m saying I see ghosts all the time.  Quite the contrary actually.  But perhaps because I am open to it I have had one or two more experiences than your average person.

There was the nightclub I helped paint with it’s mysterious wall writings, swinging chains, weird noises at night and whispers in your ear.

There’s the restaurant in a mansion I visited where I got “that funny feeling” on the stairway and come to find out later the mansion was home to tragedy – a maid hung herself on those very stairs.

There was the full-body shadow I saw at a local pub while stealing a look into their basement.  The one with the baseball cap and collared shirt.

As I said, you just can’t go back from that, y’know?

Do you have any personal “ghost stories” to share?  I’d love to hear them!

Dalek Arthur’s First Convention

My husband and I are huge nerds.  Our combined nerdiness permeates every corner of our home.  Shelves full of role-playing books, anime and super hero action figures, comics, manga, anime, board games, stuffed toys – well you get the idea.  So really if Arthur wants to be anything but a nerd he’s in the wrong house.

Yesterday my hubby and I took Arthur to his first anime convention.  I desperately needed out of the house and Arthur desperately needed stimulation so off we went to get down with our geeky selves.

Now anime conventions are really more my thing than Fred’s.  He’s more of a sci-fi and game guy.  So lucky for him the Dr Who Society Of Canada was at this convention showing off their wares.  We both LOVE Dr Who (new and old) and Fred always carries with him the sonic screwdriver I gave him last Christmas – 10th Dr.  Y’know.  Just in case.

The Society had some Daleks there – they were life sized and AMAZING.  They moved and talked and decided to make Arthur one of their own.  He was fascinated by them and had to stop and watch whenever we saw them roaming the hallway.

This is Dalek Simon.  Simon Says "EXTERMINATE"

This is Dalek Simon. Simon Says “EXTERMINATE”

This convention also had some of the best cosplay outside of Anime North.  I especially loved seeing all the ponies – Arthur got his picture taken with this nice lady dressed as Rarity (mommy’s favourite).

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We spent the last two hours enjoying the comedy improv of the 404’s.  Arthur actually fell asleep halfway through, and I didn’t have to leave at all.  During the show he played/ate cheerios on the floor – we stayed in the back corner so he had room to move about.

He had to take them all out to eat them one by one.

He had to take them all out to eat them one by one.

It was a good day.  Saw some people I hadn’t seen since going on mat leave.  Got to chat and hang out with my brother for awhile.  He made everyone who saw him smile and enjoyed seeing all the people in bright clothes.  Next convention though I’m totally dressing him up.  Then all uteri in the area will explode from the cuteness.  I’m thinking Finn from Adventure Time.  Or a small Dr Who.  So many costume choices!