Thursday, December 15, 2005

Diet and Exercise, Yada, Yada, Yada

I decided this week that I'm running out of excuses for not having a waist line. I mean, at some point in the near future, Baby Boy will be able to grow facial hair and I won't be able to point out that my belly fat jiggles like a big bowl of jelly because I've just had a baby.

So I've decided to take matters into my own hands and begin to diet now. Mainly because I look chunky in pictures and with the holidays only a week away, I want to minimize that, as much as one can in a week. Basically, I want to say when I see the pictures "oh, but I'd just started dieting then."

Yeah, I know, I rule at the mind games.

Now, I know that every freaking doctor will tell you that diet and exercise and all that bull crap is the best way to go when losing weight. But really, what does 30 years of medical school really teach you? Exactly.

So I've decided that I would kind of diet and kind of exercise and take Trimspa, because, damn it, it's worked for Anna Nicole Smith and she's a freaking dumb ass. I know that really has nothing to do with anything, but I just thought I'd share my thoughts on Anna Nicole.

Anyway, so now I've been on Trim Spa for two days, making this day three. And I have to say, I've been eating a lot less food. And of course, as with any diet, I totally have the rose-colored glasses on right now and am already convinced that the fat has begun to melt from my belly.

Already, I'm convinced that maybe, just maybe, I could be in a thong bikini next summer, proudly showcasing my C-section scar. Even though I couldn't have pulled off the thong bikini when I was 15. And the fact that I'm now also the proud owner of varicose veins right over my hips as a souvenir from pregnancy. But hey, that's nothing a little make up can't cover and I'm all about dreaming big.

I do have something personal and sassy to share. One of the reasons that I've decided to go on this diet is that I ordered this naughty schoolgirl outfit to spice things up in the bed room. Ignore the fact that I ordered this when I was nine months pregnant and thought to myself that at some point I would have some kind of sex life again and this sex life would be so exciting that I would start wearing outfits like a naughty schoolgirl uniform.

Anyway.

I tried on the outfit a couple of weeks after I had the baby and couldn't get the skirt past my thighs. "No problem," I thought. "I just had a baby!"

But now, I can get the skirt past my thighs and, surprisingly, my ass, but I can't zip the skirt around my tubby tummy. Which part of me thinks that maybe, in some other dimension, this is considered sexy as in "I want you so bad, I'm not even zipping this up so that you don't have to waste time when ripping it off of me." But when you have a roll over said naughty school girl outfit, it's probably not the image that comes into every man's mind when fantasizing.

So that stupid freaking outfit is my motivation for losing weight. How shallow am I.

And considering last time I tried to dress up, Sweetie Pie couldn't have sex with me for like two hours, because it took him that long to stop laughing hysterically (I'd bought a sexy Santa outfit, which he thought looked ridiculous, not sexy), you'd think I'd give up on the whole dressing up thing.

Maybe the Trim Spa is what made Anna Nicole so dumb and now it's affecting me.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

I'm Becoming One of Them...

Well, I guess the last little shred of coolness has officially been torn out of me. I accept the C-section scar that proves I've been sliced open like a fish to have a creature that my body somehow grew out of the junk food I ate for nine months; I accept the constant spit up stains on my clothes; I accept that the little breast milk I managed to make permanently stained my bras like nuclear waste; I even accept the fact that I can no longer just escape on a three-day trip to the Caribbean because it would mean looking for babysitting for that long (forget the fact that I never escaped to the Caribbean before the baby arrived). I accept all of these things as a part of my new life as a mother.

What I do not accept is the fact that I've now just gotten off the phone with a lady that runs a class named Kindermusik. That this lady has now somehow led me to believe that I need to spit out $120 of my hard earned money every eight weeks so my son and I can bond by bopping to music of some kind. My son will be better, smarter and damn it maybe even cuter because I've agreed to shell out money on a class that he will never remember.

I mean, let's be real for a second. I could just tell my son when he's 20 that I brought him to kindermusik class once a week, and he wouldn't be the wiser. He'd think "wow, my mom really loved me and spent time with me by going to ridiculous classes with someone who probably learned how to teach the class online and isn't qualified to be around children at all."

But of course, the rational part of me has been bound and gagged by the new me, the more insane and more irrational me (it says it right on my packaging: Better and Improved Catwoman!!! More Insanity! More Irrationality!) is convinced that my child will be a lonely and dumbass 38-year old virgin if I don't begin taking him to these kinds of classes at the very late age of 4 1/2 months (that's how old he'll be when the next semester begins). We'll also be starting swimming lessons when he turns six months old in March, because God forbid he'd only learn how to swim properly at six, like I did! That would just be wrong!

And then of course, there's soccer, that starts at 18 months and art classes, those start at 2 1/2 because let's face it, 2 1/2 year olds who can't even color within the line need to have their creativity structured to ensure they have a chance of cutting off their own ear one day and go insane.

Oh, I think the rational me snuck in there again. I apologize for that.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, December 02, 2005

Three Months: My Letter to Baby Boy

We made it! A quarter of a year! Cause for celebration isn't it? After all, I've spent the first three months of your life convinced that somebody was going to ring our doorbell, tell me that there's been a terrible mistake and take you away from me. But even Target's return policy is only 90 days, so now that you're in your fourth month, I'm thinking that means they can't take you back, unless you really start complaining about our crappy senses of humor that only entertain us and make you roll your eyes at us. But I'm pretty sure that embarrassing humor isn't grounds for Child Protective Services to rescue you, tough luck little buddy.



You have grown so much this month! You're now big enough to fill your whole car seat. I still remember needing to roll up a blanket and having to place it next to you in the seat when you were first born. Now, you look like an astronaut ready to blast off to outer space. And I love driving around with you. When you're awake, you'll tilt your head to the side and look all pensive as you watch the passing scenery. I have to remind myself to look forward, or else I'd probably drive us into a phone pole just staring at you constantly.

And you smile all the time! It's the most amazing thing ever! Humanity must have been around as long as it has only because babies like you smile big toothless smiles at their mamas. You love to "work" next to me in your bouncy seat, clumsily trying to grab the toys on the toy bar. And if I look at you and grin, you'll tilt your head and grin back at me, the kind of smile that lights up your entire face and makes me feel like I must be the most loved person on Earth.



You've changed me to my core in ways that I can't even explain. I've always liked children and babies, I mean who doesn't! But before, if there was a story on the news about a neglected child, an injured child or a disabled child, I'd think "oh, that's sad" and move on with my life. Now, these stories cause me to bleed severely from the heart. A talk show had an entire episode devoted to kids with horrible birth defects. I sobbed hysterically clutching you for the entire hour, thanking my lucky stars that you are the most perfect baby ever, that you're healthy as a horse and hoping that anything bad that could come your way would happen to me instead.

You know I'd take a bullet for you, don't you? I had to take you in for your two-month vaccines last month and you got your first fever that night. You were crying inconsolably and after half and hour, I was crying along with you. I promised you that night that I would never ever take you to the doctor's office again. Your dad thought I was crazy. And in many ways, I am. Insanity comes with being a mother, because loving anyone this much would lead to insanity.

I've cried more since you came along then I have in the last five years. No man has ever made me cry as much as you have. Because I can't imagine life without you. If anything were to happen to you, I would track down the people even remotely responsible and tear their insides out with my bare hands.

Please don't cry those big tears anymore. You break my heart every single time. We were told to move you to your crib in your nursery, since the pediatrician's office thought that your sleeping issues were caused by us being near you. And that first night, as I kept trying to put you down, you'd look at me and sob and I just wanted to scoop you up and tell you that you could sleep in our bed until you're 40, that we'd just get a King-size bed and we'd all be fine.

You've lost most of the hair on the sides of your head now, making you look like the cutest skater punk ever. With those eyes and that mouth, I'm sure that little punk girls the world over are fighting over the chance to date your grown up version.

Christmas is just around the corner, and I have to warn you that we may have gone a little overboard. The ratio of your presents to everyone else's is about 16:1. Hopefully you're good enough at math to understand what that means. Because if you don't, I'm guessing that means you're not the nobel prize winning doctor that I'm convinced you'll become. But you know what, if you're not, I'll still love you more than anyone else in the world.

I still don't understand how you're going to learn to roll over, crawl, walk or talk. I mean, you're still not entirely sure how to hold on to your rattle. But people keep telling me that you won't stay like this forever. And that's ok. I've got over 500 pictures of you during your past three months in every outfit, pose, expression possible. I think your cornea might be permanently damaged from the flashing camera, but you're such a great guy that the second I pull out the camera, you give me a smile, knowing that's what I'm looking for. I know you're going to be the next baby ubermodel. You were born to have your picture taken.

Keep smiling! At me, at the dogs, at strangers in the store. Whatever you want. Just promise me right now you'll never stop smiling. But if you should, just know that I'll gladly travel the world ten times looking for the way to make you smile again.

I love you my little man,

Maman.