Tuesday, February 28, 2006

If You're Happy and You Know It Whine and Bitch

I guess karma had to evenutally bite me in the ass. I mean, I have been whining and bitching for as long as I can remember. For all I know, I could have been doing it when I was in the womb, taking a break from growing arms and legs and developing developing a ressemblance to a human to bitch and whine about how it's just way too wet and warm in this uterus and can someone please turn down the volume in here, because I'm seriously going deaf.

And then I was sent Baby Boy.

When I was pregnant with him, he was so quiet, so calm. Hardly ever kicked. In fact, the midwife told me at one appointment that I must have the most zen baby she's ever met, because when he was upside down, getting ready for the big birth, he had his legs crossed Indian style (oh wait, there's a new politically correct term for that... can't remember what it is though), like he was meditating.

Of course, Baby Boy came out and he sure wasn't interested in meditating. No, he had a busy social calendar that involves bitching, whining and on occasions where those two things don't work, wailing.

And I'm pretty sure that having a baby who won't let me eat dinner at home in peace because he needs to be sitting on my lap so that he can try to knock my plate down or won't let me blog in peace unless he's napping is the world's way of telling me "not too fun to be on the listening end of that whining, is it?"

OK world, you win. I won't whine any more. Now please fix my baby before Advil's stock goes up higher from my Sam's Club purchases in ibuprofen.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Oh Canada, My Home and Native Land

I don't write many patriotic blog entries, probably because, being Canadian, we have this very quiet patriotism about ourselves, which mainly consists of rolling our eyes silently at other countries and thinking that we sure are glad we don't live in (fill in the blank with any other country name than Canada).

But damn it, I wouldn't do the Great White North its due justice if I didn't write about how much the land of snow and the loonie (which to any of you who haven't experienced Canadian money is a one-dollar coin, named "loonie" because of the loon on the tail side of the coin) rocked in this year's Olympics. Let's just put it this way: Canada -- One Tenth of the USA's population. Total medal count for tiny population of Canada: One Less than the US.

Now Sweetie Pie's explanation for this phenomenon is that there is nothing else to do in Canada than weird Olympic sports like curling and short-track racing. And it is true that a lot of Canada does spend a number of months in winter weather. It's also true that Ottawa, the capital of Canada is the coldest capital city in the whole wide world, beating even Siberia's capital in frigid weathers.

But I grew up my whole life in Canada and I can't skate backwards, do summersaults wearing skis or shoot at a target while cross country skiing. So I just say tuques off to you team Canada. You freaking rock and I can't wait to go to the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver, because I will be there baby, whatever it takes!

This is my favorite thing about Canada. We pretty much dominate Hollywood. Name any ten actors or celebrities and more than likely half of them are Canadians undercover. The list goes on and on. Pamela Anderson. Alex Trebek. Jim Carrey. Nickelback. All totally different, all could be American if it wasn't for the fact that they grew up spending money with Queen Elizabeth II on it and respecting the beaver for the proud, noble and hardworking animal it is. Who needs the bald eagle for your national icon, when you can have an animal with funny teeth a big tail and fur that makes the softest coats? Yeah, because we love our national animal so much, older women are willing to wear them as hats or coats.

So last night was the closing ceremonies of the Olympics in Turin, Italy (or as NBC likes to call it, by its Italian name Torino. Because apparently they don't speak English at NBC and also go to Fiorenze and Roma instead of Florence and Rome. But semantics, my friends, are what distract readers like you from a half decent post) and Italy brought out the finest of its culture.

Pavarotti. And his scary eyebrows.

Andrea Boccelli. And his glorious voice that seduces you into removing your clothes in the middle of your living room for no reason.

And since it is the tradition for the current host city to pass on the Olympic spirit to the next country's folks, Canada found itself in a pickle. Who the fuck do we send to stand next to Andrea Boccelli?

Jim Carrey? Not really appropriate. Plus he can't carry a tune. Celine Dion? No freaking way, as we've spent the last ten years pretending she was never ours to start with.

And so the choice became obvious. Avril Lavigne.

A 17-year old girl who likes to give the finger to the cameras and call herself punk when she looks like a kitten in a heavy metal t-shirt. But she does love Sk8ter boys. Which I'm sure Andrea Boccelli is.

How no one thought of Michael Buble, the Canadian Frank Sinatra, is beyond me. I guess that's what happens when my homies don't ask me. But I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when the Italian Olympic committee explained to Boccelli who Avril Lavigne is.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, February 25, 2006

And Just When That Mother of the Year Award Was in My Reach...

Last night, Sweetie Pie didn't feel like having the roasted chicken that I'd made two nights ago, that smelled suspicious raw and cooking it did not make it any fresher. Apparently the salmonella had made Sweetie Pie's sensitive digestion system upset and he wasn't interested in experiencing that again. He decided that we were made of money, since he has no idea how much money I truly spend on stuff for Baby Boy and we went out to dinner at a Mexican place that's only one step better than a fast food joint. But the food there is good, and not too expensive and they're very quick, always a bonus when you have a baby.

Before we left, we tried to feed Baby Boy his bottle, but he'd have none of it. Apparently he wasn't hungry right at that minute and turned us down flat like we were trying to get him to ingest something poisonous. Off we all went to the restaurant, like the nice little white middle class family we are, in our SUV and our Old Navy jeans. Yeah, that's right, we're so white, all three of us wear Old Navy jeans. So what's it to you?

We hadn't been at the restaurant ten minutes when Baby Boy decided he wanted out of the car seat. Once he was out of the car seat, he began to let us know that he did want that bottle after all. And that's when it hit me. That I'd left the freaking diaper bag, with the bottle in it, next to the couch in the living room. I tried to convince Baby Boy that he wasn't hungry that he was just excited about being out. But he began to let us know very vocally that if he wasn't fed something soon, he would tear down the restaurant and pee in every single customer's food.

And so I was left with no choice. I fed him. refried. beans.

They were the only mushy food on my plate! What else was I supposed to do? And I have to say, he loved them. He loved them as much as the strained peas and carrots and everything else I feed him. And yeah, this wasn't organic food homemade by me, but at some point, he's got to be intoduced to excessive amounts of grease and high levels of sodium, right? And sure, some might say that six days shy of your six month birthday might be a little soon for that, but you got to do what you can to survive, right? And it shut him up, and the patrons got to enjoy their meals without having to listen to my baby's tirades, so no harm no foul right?

Well, tell that to the lady at the table next to me who watched us horrified the entire time. Never in my life have I felt like Britney Spears before yesterday. And as much as I think that you should never ride in your car with your baby in your lap, maybe I can just sympathize just a little tiny bit more to her after last night.

Baby Boy isn't up yet, but I'm afraid that his first diaper with the evidence of those few spoonfuls of refried beans might be a killer. If you don't hear from me over the next few days, just assumed that I've been killed in action.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Good: The new chocolate cupcakes at Starbucks. Actually, they're better than good. They're great. They're these moist pieces of heaven who could survive the toughest Canadian winter thanks to their thick coat of creamy frosting. And then, just to make them the most luscious most huggable must-be-swallowed in one bite adorableness, they're decorated with perfect shavings of chocolate.

Bad: Eating a Starbucks cupcake while you're driving to a meeting and not realizing that some of the chocolate shavings have fallen to the front of your pants and melted there, making you look like you've somehow pooped the front of your pants.

Ugly: The damn numbers on the scale that seem forever stuck at the same weight. I'm still at my two pound loss. I don't gain, but I don't lose. I'm like Groundhog Day, the weight version.

Good: My roasted chicken. The secret is that I fill the cavity with quartered lemons, oranges and a halved head of garlic. OK. It's not my secret. I got the recipe from the Food Network. But it was my secret that I used their recipe until I told you.

Bad: Slicing my thumb off with a knife while cutting said head of garlic, causing blood to spurt everywhere and making me make inhumane sounds in front of innocent five-month old who had a permanent "What the fuck was that sound?" look for the rest of the night. Me almost faiting from being convinced that I'd cut a major artery (Sweetie Pie kindly reminded me that there are no major arteries running through the thumb).

Ugly: Sweetie Pie reminding me that we have another 5,000 to pay off in medical bills from my emergency C-section and although it kind of appears that I might need stitches, that he'll bandage it up for me. Said bandage consisted of sheet of Bounty wrapped in electric tape. Bleeding did eventually stop despite my fears of bleeding to death in my sleep keeping me up past midnight.

Good: Getting to see young calves suckling their moms in big fields and horses galloping with their friends.

Bad: Getting to see nature at its finest because I have to drive 35 miles one way to drop Baby Boy off to only daycare facility I will trust (a.k.a. best friend's sister), driving 35 miles back to house to work and then starting the whole driving process again 5 hours later. 140 miles per day of daycare if anyone had trouble doing the math.

Ugly: Gas prices and my Jeep's consumption due to my love of the gas pedal. Oh, and very ugly is the cop who wrote me a freaking citation for having expired plates. I tried to tell him that my license plates expired while I was having my baby, but apparently he didn't seem to comprehend that I've had no time during the past five months to take care of the citation. Also ugly was my meltdown after the police incident when I thought I was going to be deported for violating the laws of license plates.

Good: Baby Boy's amazing laugh. It makes the planet Earth stop rotating for a second due to the inability of the world to handle this level of cuteness.

Bad: My mommy brain making it difficult for me to remember to bathe Baby Boy more than once or twice a week, realizing that the child probably needs to be washed when we can smell him from across the room.

Ugly: The butt zit on Baby Boy's behind that sprouted out of nowhere and that I can't figure out what caused it. The fact that nowhere in the entire What to Expect the First Year book does it mention butt zits makes me think that I'm such a horrible mother that my child has sprouted a whole brand new skin condition. I hope scientists in a white coat don't take him away and put him in a bubble to study his gluteus maximus situation.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

When Stupid Fast Food People Attack

I don't mean for this post to be bitchy or whiny, but it'll probably be both. Yesterday, I was going to pick up some stuff from these people at a storage unit (long story, but in a nutshell, this store went bankrupt, the people ran away from their creditors and I had the opportunity to buy expensive fancy-shmancy baby stuff for dirt cheap as long as I paid in cash and was willing to go to this storage unit to pick it up) and I got really hungry, because it was around lunch time. I happened to drive by one of the greatest fast food restaurants ever that you find in the South, it's called Chik-Fil-A (which is pronounced like filet, not filah like I first called it to Sweetie Pie's overwhelming amusement when I first moved here from Canada) and they have the most wonderful fried goodness called chicken strips. But what makes the fried goodness oh so good, is the wonderful dipping sauces, particularly the Buffalo sauce which I get three packets of now, but used to get five packets of during my first trimester of pregnancy when everything I ate tasted like paper unless it was spicy enough to cause other people's tongues to disintegrate.

Anyway, I placed my usual order of a 4-pack of chicken strips, value sized (so I get more of the world's yummiest waffle fries) and a Dr. Pepper to drink. When I got to the window, they handed me my order and I drove away. Once I was on the highway, I realized that I forgot to tell them that I wanted Buffalo sauce and the girl at the window didn't as me what kind of sauce I wanted. I opened my bag and wouldn't you know it, mother fucker didn't give me any dipping sauce. I mean, who eats chicken strips or nuggets without sauce? And then, I go to take a drink from my Dr. Pepper and I see that it's a clear liquid. I've been given Sprite, which is nothing but water shaken up with sugar in it, a.k.a. pure nastiness.

So of course, at this point, I'm just pissed. Now some of you would say "how come you didn't notice the drink was clear through the see-through lid when they handed it to you?" And my response tot that, as well as the sauce forgetfulness is that Sweetie Pie and I had sex twice on Sunday night and my brain short-circuited from the rarity of sex, let alone have it happen twice in one night. My body, thinking the world was ending, was unable to go to sleep for the rest of the night.

Therefore, I spent President's Day in a blur, trying to pretend I was a human and attempting to keep up with a high-energy four-month old baby.

The funniest part is that Sweetie Pie came home yesterday afternoon and said that he stopped by McDonald's and ordered a number two meal (two cheeseburgers) with no onions. When he left the restaurant and was driving away, he realized they gave him a ten-piece nugget meal, which confused him because one, who orders chicken nuggets with no onions. And two, the girl didn't give him any sauce and he was complaining to me about who the hell eats nuggets without sauce.

Unfortunately, I couldn't tell him the same thing happened to me, since I'm still supposed to be on a diet.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 20, 2006

Death of the Candy Bra

I'm very sad to report that the candy bra will never had another chance to prove itself worthy of its mildly kinky name.

Sometime between 1 and 4 p.m., our dogs, figuring out that we had now left the bra sitting on our nightstand for almost a week and that we needed to be taught a lesson in the temptation of dogs, decided to leave nothing but the elastic as evidence that the candy bra had ever existed.

Some might call it a fitting death for this sad excuse for a candy piece of clothing. But I know Sweetie Pie is mouring its death, the way he mourns the end of football season the Sunday after the Superbowl and realizes that there will be no football to watch for seven months.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Three Cool Things About Baby Boy

I don't know what it is with me and lists lately... I'm becoming the David Letterman of the blogging world I guess. Or maybe it's the mom gene. Moms seem to love lists: shopping lists, lists of every bad thing you've ever done as a child, etc.

Anyway, here are three cool things about Baby Boy that make me so happy to be a mom and think that I wouldn't mind having me another of these because it's pretty cool entertainment. Expensive entertainment, but entertainment nonetheless.

1. High Five!Last week, I taught Baby Boy to high five. He doesn't really open his hand completely and his hand/eye coordination is... well... That of a five-month old, so sometimes he misses. But when I put up my ginormous hand and say to him "High Five!" and he slaps his little hand on mine and gets this look of absolute glee on his face, it makes me excited about other cool things I can teach him. Suggestions for stupid baby tricks that will impress my friends are more then welcome in my comment section!

2. Cough, cough If Baby Boy is sitting in my lap or Sweetie Pie's or in his bouncy seat, exersaucer, wherever five-months old tend to sit, and he wants to get the attention of one of us, he'll cough. Not this dramatic "I'm choking to death, come save me," more like a polite gentleman from the 30's cough. Of course, he doesn't know that in order to be a polite gentleman, you should put your hand in front of your mouth, but give the kid a break, he's only five-months old, remember? We think it's a riot every time he does it and reward him for his cleverness (and non-screaming) with lot of attention and gold. Well, not gold. But that sounded better than love. I the book "What to Expect the First Year," they actually tell you how to stop them from coughing to get your attention, I guess if it gets on your nerves. And I told Sweetie Pie "why would we?" Soon enough he'll be bellowing our names at the top of his lungs turning purple in a terrible two's tantrum. I'll enjoy the quiet sweet couging as long as I can, thank you very much.

3. Torturing Dogs is Fun! I think I've mentioned before that nothing makes Baby Boy laugh his sweet little laugh harder than our yellow lab. And the other day, our lab, who's fat as turkey the day before Thanksgiving and is obsessed with his meals will beg for the half hour preceding his dinner time. The other day, I was playing with Baby Boy when our lab began whining and groveling at us to be fed. Baby Boy thought this was hysterical! He laughed and laughed. And so I kept telling the dog "Sit! Lie Down!" And the dog would do it all the while whining about how his body mass index was falling below the massive obesity level. The more Baby Boy would laugh, the more I'd laugh and the more the dog would look at us like "you people suck" which made us both laugh harder. I then began to order the dog to dance, something he's never known how to do in his whole life and never been ordered to do before. Upon being ordered to dance, our poor lab began doing this weird move of jumping up and contorting himself around the living room, not unlike many of the white-skinned nerds you'll see trying to be cool at night clubs. Well, this just about sent us both over the edge in hysterics. Not only did the dog get fed 45 minutes later than he usually does, making him work for his dinner when he begins to whine has now become Baby Boy and me's favorite part of the day. The thing is, our lab is too dumb to ever figure out that if he'd quit the whining, the rest would go away.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Creating a Champion

Those of you who've been reading this blog for a while and who like to retain useless information about other people's boobs might remember that Baby Boy had to be put on formula since my boobs wouldn't work properly and produce enough milk to sustain my child. So Baby Boy doesn't look at boobs and thinks "Yum! Dinner!" And unlike his dad, he doesn't look at them and think "Hey hey! Fun bags!" No, my son, if given the opportunity to lie next to me or sit on my lap will repeatedly punch and kick the crap out of my boobs, like he's training to be the next world champion of Extreme Fighting.

And just imagine that he did become one of those scary steroid-fueled men who wear nothing but a pair of shorts and tattoos and who's whole purpose is to kill the other guy thrown in the cage with them like some territorial dog.

Joe Rogan, host of Fear Factor and commentator for Extreme Fighting (no idea how that happened) would interview Baby Boy and say to him "Dude that was a sick fight! You punched the be-jeezus out of that guy. I mean, we're still looking for parts of his scalp! Where'd you learn to do that."

And, as I would proudly stand behind him, my boobs empty sacks that hang around my shins, Baby Boy would say "My Mama's boobs were my inspiration."

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Three people I'll Never Forget

There are three types of people in life. The people you love and who you'll never forget, the people who massively piss you off and for that reason, you'll never forget them either. Then there are those other people who are like smoke. You vaguely remember waving your hand to get them out of the way, but you can't recall their names or faces or other details about them. Just that someone was there.

Now, I'm not talking about the people who you have a relationship with, be that a friendship, an acquaintance, or someone you had mind blowing sex with one drunk night.

I'm talking about the people who you cross paths with on a daily basis. The ones who you exchange a few words with and then you might never see them again. The cashier at the grocery store; the bartender at a club; the guy who hits on you in the parking lot while you're trying to scarf down McDonald's.

These are the three people who I've crossed path who I will never forget, because they managed to piss me off more than just about anyone else on Earth:

The Moronic Airline Passenger: To put myself through college, I worked as a flight attendant on a charter airline. My passengers were drunk college students, white trash and people who thought that spending $100 for a return ticket between Canada and Florida meant that they should be treated like the King of England. On a particular flight, as I was picking up everyone's nasty used trays of food, I bent down to put a tray in my cart and the passenger next to my cart put his hand on my arm and with great pity in his eyes said to me "Don't you wish you'd stayed in school." Thanks asshole, but unlike you, I actually finished grade 9. The funniest part is that I was working on my BA, the flight attendant across the aisle from me was working on his Ph.D. and our flight director was finishing her MBA. He couldn't have had a flight with more overly qualified attendants.

The Obnoxious PR Agency Representative: When I started as the PR coordinator for this small software company in Dallas, I already had more than five years experience in the field and so felt like I pretty much had a good idea of what I was talking about. The company at the time also used a PR agency, so the CEO wanted me to meet them and see how I could use them better. Upon meeting me, our account rep said to me "So, do you know anything about PR?" Uhm, yeah asshole, that's why my title is PR Coordinator. It does not stand for paper raiser. Or Penis Raider. In fact, I knew so much about PR, I fired that agency the next day.

The No Tact Baby Registry Lady: I was barely four months pregnant when I went to register at Babies R Us with Sweetie Pie. I wasn't really showing then, I just looked chunky. And we didn't know what the sex was yet, but I had to try out the strollers and car seats right there and then because having to pick all that stuff stressed me out. When we got to the registry counter, the lady said to me "You must be having a girl!" Actually, I replied, we don't know yet, but why do you think we're having a girl. "Because your neck's dirty," she explained. Thanks a lot for telling me that I'm not just fat and cranky, I'm also filthy. I spent the rest of the day horrified, with my hands clamped over my neck.

It amazes me how a perfect stranger can leave a permanent mark on your life. Makes me wonder if there are people out there who still think of me with hatred, based on a two-minute interaction 10 or 20 years ago. Am I someone's moronic airline passenger? Or obnoxious PR rep? I can't be someone's no tact baby registry lady though, so at least I can sleep soundly knowing I've dodged one bullet.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

I'm Just Smooth That Way...

So yesterday, I had a big meeting with a hopefully soon-to-be new client. Baby Boy had been in the shittiest mood ever for the second straight day and he was getting on my last nerve, making me especially excited to go to this meeting so that I could dump him on my mother-in-law for an afternoon and actually miss him and remember why I love him.

My meeting got pushed back half an hour, which was great because it meant that I could swing by a fast food place and eat something, rather than just drive straight from Baby Boy's music class to my mother-in-law's to my meeting without stopping to even pee.

I drove past a Jack-In-The-Box near my m-i-l's and knew that the Bruschetta Chicken Ciabatta was exactly what the doctor ordered. If you've never had one, it's only the freaking greatest sandwich in the whole wide world. Biting into it is like the feeling you get when you hold a kitten that's so small, it fits in the palm of your hand. It makes you think that if you'd never lived long enough to experience the ecstasy of biting into that perfection, you would have to haunt the Earth for the rest of eternity, your soul not satisfied that it's experienced what it needs to. Until Jennifer Love Hewitt does some voodoo on you to make sure you go to the white light.

Anyway, back to the Bruschetta Chicken Ciabatta, you know the proof that there is a God and He wants us to be happy. I ordered it as a medium size combo, which means that my curly fries and Dr. Pepper were significantly larger than if I'd ordered the small combo. But I thought I needed it since I couldn't drink a bottle of wine to feel better about Baby Boy's crabby ass.

Well, for some reason, my body decided that it was pissed off at the amount of grease I had just ingested. And that I needed to be punished. Right. Away.

Within 20 minutes of having eaten all this food, my digestive tract made a horrible noise. The kind of noise that made me think that I needed to stop at a place with a bathroom. Pronto.

The next exit had a McDonald's so I went there and left a nuclear waste cloud that slowly dissolved the four walls of the building until only dust and a couple of pieces of metal were left where that Ronald McDonald hamburger joint once stood.

As I got close to my meeting spot, my intestines let me know once again that they would not sit through the meeting without something horrible happening. So I stopped at the next building, which was a McDonald's once again. Part of me thinks that this is Jack-in-the-Box's way of destroying the competition.

I went in the stall, sat there for a long time doing things so horrible that the minds of young children 1,000 miles away were forever tainted.

While I was in the stall, destroying Texas' hope for cleaner air, I heard somebody come in and begin to wash their hands. Or rather just rise them. There was no use of soap and I hoped that wasn't an employee.

I was in the stall for a long time and I'm certain dangerous fumes were seeping out of my stall. Yet the person continued to stand there with the water running. This began to make me worry as to whether this person was waiting to rob me once I got out since this neighborhood was kind of sketchy. But when I finally emerged, it was this tiny middle-aged woman in a Mickey D's uniform, who went in my stall, instead of using the non-defaced (and available)one next to me. I don't comprehend this at all, except that maybe it's her lucky stall.

I drove to my meeting and hoped that this was the end of my digestive fury. Hell hath no fury like intestines scorned.

And they cooperated. And I dazzled in the meeting. I was smart, I was funny and I really knew my stuff. No, really, I did. The owner of the company even said that I knew my stuff. And as I was walking out, proud of myself for pulling it together despite the bad day I was having, with it being Valentine's Day and Sweetie Pie not acknowledging it, having dealt with a baby going for the Guinness Book of Record's crankiest baby award and pissing off the one thing you always want on your side before a big meeting.

And as I said goodbye to the Vice President of this company and began to walk down the stairs to get out of the building, my heel got caught in the carpet of the top stair, my body went flailing forward, my notebook and daytime flew over the railing, barely missing the person in the stairs below. I somehow caught myself by slamming my left wrist into the railing, avoiding broken bones, but not a seriously bruised ego. So much for coming off as the smooth professional.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Would My Fist In Your Face Be a Better Hint?

Last time I received flowers on Valentine's Day? 2002.

Last time I received something else besides a card bought at the nearest grocery store a few minutes before dinner? 2002.

That's four years ago for any of you who are math impaired.

Having given birth to Sweetie Pie's offspring by being sliced open like a deer (or lawyer) that Dick Cheney just shot, I hinted very strongly that this Valentine's Day better be freaking different, since we have two paychecks now and I deserve to be treated like a Goddess since my body was able to grow a whole freaking other being. And I've had to put up with this other being's whininess on a pretty much full-time basis for 5 1/2 months now.

And yet, it's now 11 a.m. and Sweetie Pie has yet to acknowledge that it's even Valentine's Day. I didn't expect flowers first thing in the morning, but no one's come to the door yet. I haven't received chocolates, a singing telegram or a stripper, all of which I told Sweetie Pie just yesterday that they would all be acceptable things to send me on this commercial holiday.

There's a French Maid costume in the guest bedroom's dresser that may remain unused if something doesn't happen soon.

And just to add insult to injury, Baby Boy lasted 15 minutes in his "Mommy's Little Valentine" before throwing up all down the front and each one of the sleeves, ensuring that I would need to change him out of it before the smell of vomit became so putrid the dogs would leave the room. I'm trying to not take it personally, but it's kind of hard not to.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 13, 2006

Candy Bras: Great in Theory, Not So Much in Reality

My two loyal leaders will probably recall that at some point last month, I ordered a candy bra as a Valentine's Day gift for Sweetie Pie. Although V-Day isn't until tomorrow for the rest of you, here at our house, it was kind of last night.

See, Sweetie Pie and I have had this tradition for at least three years now, where we eat at a restaurant the night before Valentine's Day, to avoid the crowds and the marked-up prices and then we have a nice dinner at home the actual day of the commercial holiday of love. This year, because we have the addition of Baby Boy, I was hoping that my sister-in-law would watch him, and because of her job, it would be easier on Baby Boy's schedule it if it was on Sunday night, so that we could get home around his normal bed time and not mess up the fragile equilibrium of his routine.

Once we got home and Baby Boy was sound asleep for the night, I went in the bathroom to change into my candy bra. Here are all the issues that come with wearing a bra made out of hundreds of candies:

1. It's hard to feel sexy when you're covered with a treat mostly eaten by 8 year-olds

2. Hard candy is really, really cold. When it's in the 30's outside, it's hard for your nipples not to become so hard that they can cut glass to start with. So then try to cover them with candy (which doesn't work by the way, because each strand separates around the actual nipple, making you look like you just hung out with Moses.

3. When your partner approaches your boobies with teeth bared, it's hard not to tense up.

4. Sweetie Pie upon eating one of the candy made a face that ressembled that of a hyena forced to eat vegan food. "How old is this thing," he asked, thinking I'd bought it back in our wild and child-free years. Apparently, for five bucks, you don't get top of the line candy.

5. Despite the bad taste in his mouth, Sweetie Pie threw me on the bed and laid down, with his shirt off, on top of me to kiss me. If by kissing I mean yelping, because that's what he ended up doing. Apparently, the candies were deciding that his chest was too hairy and kept wrapping themselves around one hair at a time and yanking on it as hard as they could. Those candies are mighty talented.

And so the bra came off, to both Sweetie Pie and mine's relief. It's still sitting on our nightstand. The funniest part is that our dogs, one of which regularly eats the other pets' poop haven't even touched it.

Apparently, even they have better taste than that.

Can't wait until Sweetie Pie sees his real Valentine's day present... I got me a French Maid outfit. If that goes even half as well as the candy bra, I'm thinking that it'll be a fantastic night!

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Give Me A L! Give Me an O! Give Me An S! Give Me an E! Give Me an R!

What's that spell? Really crappy cheerleader!

Which is what I was when I was 16. Let me tell you a little about growing up in Canada, submerged by American culture. Despite what Americans may think, we're not the 51st State. We have our own identity and culture, that's constantly fighting to not be swallowed whole by the big bad U.S. of A.

Yet 80 percent of our television programming comes from the US and so it's sometimes hard to feel like you have your own identity.

The reason I'm explaining this really boring difference between the US and Canada, is because it's important to the following story.

As a teenager, my identity as a nerd was solidified by watching shows like Beverly Hills 90210 and reading Sweet Valley High books, so that I could constantly feel inferior that I didn't look like I was 25 with giant boobs and that I wasn't cool, going to parties that had alcohol and deejays and that I would never be popular because I wasn't a cheerleader.

Only problem is, high school sports in Canada are so not important. I don't even think my high school had a football team, although I vaguely remember that we had the picture of some mascot in the gym, so maybe we did. Despite not being popular, I do know that sports did not make you cool at our high school.

Until one day, this girl with bleached blonde hair and a weird face told me that she was trying to revitalize the cheerleading squad (which I guess was non-existent at that point) and since I was skinny, she thought I'd be a good addition.

I was so psyched!

Me! A nerd! On the cheerleading squad!!!!

This would totally give me the teen years that I'd been dreaming of.

Problem #1: I had the flexibility of a piece of 2x4 lumber.

Problem #2: My parents thought it was a ridiculous idea and didn't want me wasting my time on practices, when I should be focused on my studies during my last year of high school to get into a good university (see, it's my parents' fault if I was a nerd.)

So eight of us weirdos (none of the popular girls even wanted to join the cheerleading squad, that's how low on the totem pole cheerleading is in Canada) became our school's squad. I'm not kidding. Besides me, there was the school slut (who we found out two practices in was pregnant, although not showing and since we didn't do any jumps or anything (yeah, we sucked ass), she stayed on), the crazy psycho who started the squad, her two weird friends, the girl who hardly spoke French or English who probably didn't know what she was getting into, the sister of the guy who knocked up the slut, who was probably sent by her brother to keep an eye on the slut so that she didn't hook up with some other guy, and a few other people I don't even recall they were so far down in the high school food chain.

I quickly realized that our weirdo fierce leader was obsessed with cheerleading. She'd gone to cheerleading camp, which I didn't even know existed until that point. Since they didn't have cheerleading camp in Canada, she'd somehow made enough money babysitting and selling her eggs to go to some camp in the middle of nowhere Indiana or Missouri. I'm guessing it wasn't one of the top camps.

She created our routine and hand-sewed our uniform. This makes her sound very talented, so let me clarify. Our routine consisted of us kind of dancing around in place with ginormous fake smiles on our faces (our fierce leader's open gaped smile and distorted face still gives my sisters who were 13 at the time nightmares) and we did this one stunt that involved four of us climbing on the shoulders of the four heaviest girls (I can't remember if the pregnant slut got to be a top or a bottom. I have to say, at the time all of us were too young to know about things you shouldn't do when you're pregnant). Now this stunt will probably make any of you professional cheerleaders laugh, but it was hardcore to me who had the fexibility of a BIC pen. I just could not get this stunt. I kept screwing up every time, and once managed to knock down the girl on the shoulders next to me with my flailing arms. Yeah, I was naturally gifted for this shit. And our uniforms? They were this lop-sided grey and marroon skirt (our school colors) that somehow laid crooked against your thighs. A dollar store would have refused to carry them. And then we were all given a white wife beater that she got on clearance at K-Mart to wear on top. We were from a catholic private school in a middle class neighborhood, but in our uniforms, we looked like the white trash gang from the smallest town in Saskatchewan.

Now here's the best part. Freak show fierce leader decided to enter our team of losers into a national competition that just happened to be coming to our local theme park. We were the 26th team registered. That's how important cheerleading is to Canada, a country of then 30 million people.

Our fierce leader's reasoning for entering the competition was that since there were no football games (I guess we didn't have a team after all, or the season was over), that we didn't have anyone to cheer for. Which is why it made sense to start a cheerleading squad!

And so less than a month after our squad was started, we got to go on stage in front of about 150 to 200 people (a.k.a. the families and friends of the participants). When we got there, my parents realized just how much trouble I was in. All of the other girls had perfect uniforms, their hair all done the same, identical shoes. Our team did whatever the fuck they want and we weren't going to spend good money on new shoes, no sirree.

We got to go somewhere in the middle and so we watched some of the other teams. And they were like those American girls on TV. They threw each other in the air and did splits and kicked legs really high without bending the knees and they all danced perfectly together. "We can actually win this," said our fierce leader, officially proving that she was insane and in serious need of psychiatric help. I was yelled at and told that if I messed up our one stunt, everyone would hate me.

At this point, I had stopped caring, but I didn't like people yelling at me and basically prayed that somehow I would managed to jump on some girl's shoulders without looking like a dying fish.

The team before us finished their routine and the crowd went wild. It was our turn to get on stage. My heart was pounding. We got on stage, did our routine and when it came to our one big stunt, I did it! I jumped on that girl's shoulders and stayed up! I was on cloud nine! And then it got to our big finale where our fierce leader slapped her ass facing the crowd with a freakish clown grin on her face, while we all pretended to be oh so shocked. Yeah, I know, we totally deserved to win, based on that move alone, which of course, our almost professional cheerleader leader came up with.

The crowd was silent. We were jumping up and down on the stage, the happiest losers in the world, excited that we'd done an almost perfect routine at a freaking national competition baby! The crowd, finally figuring that the nightmare had ended and we were leaving the stage, began clapping politely.

We went and rode rides for the rest of the day (the pregnant slut rode all the rollercoasters and bumper cars and stuff, despite the signs that state no pregnant women. I guess she figured she was under 18, so she wasn't technically a woman) and when the rankings were announced, we came in 26th.

That's right. Dead last baby. Our fierce leader was pissed. She said we were completely robbed. Then she said that we came in last place because of me, that I'd brought the quality of the team down and she asked me to quit.

So not only was I on the worst cheerleading squad ever put together, I was told I wasn't good enough for them.

Which is fine. Because now I cheer for Baby Boy and he loves it. He thinks I rock and gives me first place every time, which comes with a slimy award of his hand, that he's just sucked on, smooshed all over my face.

Love.

Catwoman.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Words From the Old Folks' Home

I think I might be getting old.

Actually, I know I'm getting old, because really, it's inevitable, with each passing day, we're all getting older.

Now that most of my readers have killed themselves with this depressing thought, let's continue.

Here are the reasons I have realized that I'm now officially an old fart:

1. People Who I Think Are My Age Keep Calling Me Ma'am. I mean, they are 18, but I feel like I look like I'm 18 and I know that I now travel toting a five-month old, but I could be a slutty teenager, you know? Despite the fact that I keep killing all these pimply boys and eating their heart for dinner to teach them a lesson, it seems that they keep multiplying, because this now occurs multiple times a day.

2. I No Longer Look Good Without Foundation. I've never been a big make up person, and really, in the past, I've used foundation to cover up a zit or other imperfection, or for big nights when I wanted to look really good. But now, I look at myself in the mirror and think "Man, I sure look tired." Now I realize that I am tired, having slept a total of nine full nights in six months, but still, I shouldn't look this crappy without make up.

3. Senior Citizens Are Now Offering Me Their Seat on the Bus. OK, fine, that one's a lie, since I don't actually take the bus, living in Dallas where public transportation is as rare as a unicorn. But if I did take the bus, trust me, old people would take one look at me and think I need the seat more than they do.

4. AARP Keeps Sending Me Applications. This one's not a lie. I'm not sure how I got on their freaking mailing list, and I realize they keep lowering the age of eligibility, but it can't seriously be down to 30.

5. My Magazine Subscriptions Once upon a time, I subscribed to things like Cosmo, Glamour, People Magazine and such. You know, cool stuff. Now, my mailbox is filled once a month with Parenting and a gazillion other magazines about how to make sure you don't raise a serial killer, two scrapbooking magazines and some cooking magazines. And just to make sure that my mailbox can be officially confused with my mother's, I just subscribed to Family Circle.

6. Turn it Down! These are actually the words that come out of my mouth three or four times a night to Sweetie Pie. Although, this could mean he's getting old and going deaf, and I'm just the long-suffering wife. But I sure as hell feel old saying it.

Come to think of it, I think I still have part of me who refuses to grow up, because:

1. MTV Still Rules Sweetie Pie and I watch any drivel that MTV will produce. Real World? We watch them all. Meet The Barkers? We've seen every episode ever made. Next? Date My Mom? We realize they just might be the worst thing on TV, but when there's nothing else on, it's like eating a bag of Doritos. It fills you up, leaves orange stains on your face and makes you feel a little guilty the next day.

2. Part of a Balanced Diet My son's diet only includes organic fruits and vegetables, iron-fortified cereal and formula. My lunch today consisted of three fish sticks, eight Pringle chips and a quarter bag of Mrs. Fields Milk Chocolate chips.

3. I Like to Talk About Poop and Farts I horrify Sweetie Pie on a regular basis by letting him know when I've pushed out a turd longer than a foot. I think he almost left me once when I tried to get him to come and see that I'd pooped out what looked like a penis and testicles.

I'm pretty sure that last one automatically disqualifies me from being allowed to join AARP. And you know what? That don't bother me one bit.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

The Defininition of an Analogy and an Expression

I have a love affair with analogies colloquial expressions. I probably over use them at least ten times a day. Analogies are great with everything, kind of like chocolate, which makes me appreciate their sweetness even more.

The problem is two-fold. One, with English not being my first language, my bad use of analogies and common expressions is usually what gives me away. Because I tend to mis-quote common sayings that everybody else knows and uses. For example, a couple of weeks ago, I told a new business prospect in a meeting that I had other people I could count on for hands and feet.

This made me sound like some Jeffrey Dahmer person who collect human hands and feet and keeps them in a cooler at home. This in fact, is not the case. What I meant to say was that when needed, I had other people I could use as my arms and legs, which could also sound cannibalistic, but everyone knows that arms and legs means people who can help you out.

Hands and feet makes a new business prospect look at you funny and then stop responding to your emails.

The other problem is that I also tend to make up my own analogies. Which is simply not a good idea when you have my miswired brain. Last night, Sweetie Pie and I were watching The Bachelor Paris (which is complete trash, but that doctor is freaking hot and it's where I was born and there was a Canadian chick on it who got cut last night which is total bull crap!) when something happened that made me say something like this to Sweetie Pie: "That totally doesn't make sense. It's like saying that you're not going to take care of your garden and let all of your flowers and plants die, but then you're going to keep fertilizing your neighbor's lawn and making sure it's all green and stuff."

What this analogy was referring to, I'm not sure. Why I used it, I can't remember. What I do remember is the actual analogy and that Sweetie Pie gave me a "great, the crazy woman's taken over my wife's brain again" look.

And this is why I can't write the great American novel. Because it would be filled with analogies that don't make any sense to anyone except for me and maybe three crazy homeless people. Who by the way, don't help make books top sellers or Oprah Winfrey Book Club selections.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 06, 2006

This is the One And Only Reason I Decided to Have a Baby...



If that picture doesn't make your uterus skip a beat, it probably means you have a penis.

Enough to say, Sweetie Pie was pissed as hell for my taking Baby Boy in for these pictures. He says it's the equivalent of dressing up your dog in those stupid outfits. But I don't believe that's true. Babies were made to be dressed up in cute outfits. Dogs were made to show off their ability to lick their own genitalia while you're trying to eat a nice dinner.

Love,

Catwoman

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Wardrobe Malfunction

So the other day, when I had all these meetings, I figured that I couldn't show up in my usual uniform of jeans decorated with spit up and whatever shirt covers my boobs and belly. So I began to assemble a dressier outfit out of the different pieces in my wardrobe.

I found this pair of winter white pants (for any men who may read my blog, winter white is a term that means "Oh, it's sooooo legal to wear it after Labor Day, because it has winter in the name") that have black pin stripes on them and are really, really cute and that I haven't worn in forever since they were in the back of the closet with other pairs of pants I couldn't fit into if you held a gun to my head, like my pair of chocolate brown suede pants that I split on a date when I was 22 and weighed less than 115 pounds and am still hopeful that one day I'll get back to weighing less than that ridiculous pre-pubescent weight and will once again wear them (and ask people to ignore the giant tear in the thigh area.)

I squeezed myself into the pants and quickly realized that I had to, had to wear a thong, because you could read the "Made in China" tag inside my panties through the pants. After switching into a thong (cue stripper music), I once again put on the pants and realized that I had the world's biggest wedgie, since the pants were so tight they literally were a mold of my butt and butt crack area.

Not discouraged by the fact that my butt cheeks would not be allowed to breathe all day, I decided that I would just find a different shirt or jacket than what I intended to wear, one that would cover my buttal area.

In the back of my closet, I found this jacket that I've had since 1991, when I was shopping in cool, out there clothing stores (ok, not really, I purchased the most conservative stuff there, living in jeans, white T-shirts and black boots year-round) which was a simple blac, and had these slits at the bottom, so the jacket wouldn't look stuffy or restraining. When I put on the jacket and looked at myself in the mirror though, I realized that I looked exactly like the Ring Leader at a Circus.

Not exactly the look I was going for, although some would argue that PR people have a lot in common with circus freaks.

Enough to say, I should have just called the whole freaking thing off, climbed back into my pajamas and decided I wouldn't leave the house again until 10 pounds magically came off my body.

Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

This Reflects Just How Much My Life Has Changed...

Here are the three items I just ordered from Barnes & Noble.com:

- Black Bear, Black Bear What Do You See (board book version)
- What Does the Baby Say (board book version)
- Goodbye Moon (board book version)
- How to Make Love Like a Porn Star (Jenna Jameson, the world's most famous porn star's autobiography).

If you can't figure out which of these books are for me and which are for Baby Boy, you probably shouldn't have children of your own.

I think it's only fair that the next book I read is Jenna Jameson's autobiography, which is supposedly filled with juicy tidbits about the celebrities she's slept with, since the only reading I do nowadays is a couple of minutes at a time on the toilet.

Love,

Catwoman.

Maybe I Made the Wrong New Year's Resolution...

I don't mean to scare you, because I'm already scaring myself and it's not nice to spread things like scariness, unless you're a scary movie and that's what you're supposed to do or one of those guys who jump out at a haunted house and it's your job to scare people (which I'm neither of those things), but this is my ninth post is as many days.

Do you realize that if I'd worked out as many times as I've blogged during those days, I'd have Jennifer Aniston's ass and arms, Gisele Bundchen's abs and hips and Charlize Theron's face? Oh and I'd probably also have Halle Berry's gorgeous skin, because God would love me so much then, he'd want me to be that perfect color and glow. Yeah, I'd be freaking hot. But of course, since blogging only burns probably about 3.2 calories per post, I'm still little old me.

And just to add to the illusion of hotness, I'm sitting here with unbrushed hair and teeth, in my flannel pajamas. Although, you'll be happy to know I'm not wearing a bra and I happen to be wearing a thong since none of my other underwear is clean. And I'd rather wear butt floss than dirty underwear, because dirty underwear is just nasty. If I had lots of money, I'd just throw out my underwear and get new one, just so that I wouldn't have to touch them to put them in the washing machine. To me, touching dirty underwear is the equivalent of touching nuclear waste or an uncircumcised penis.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, February 03, 2006

Twenty Questions

Yesterday was Baby Boy's day off from having to babysit me and so I had back to back meetings planned. As it turned out, I ended up having an hour and a half to kill in between two meetings and after stopping at McDonald's, I realized that I was by a mall and figured that shopping for Baby Boy clothes would be a great way to spend money I was about to make (potentially).

So I was sitting in the parking lot, in my Jeep Liberty with the engine off, trying to scarf down my two-cheeseburger combo (no cheese, no pickles with a Powerade. Why can't McDonald's have a two-hamburger combo so I don't feel like such a dork ordering there?) as fast as I can to work it off by walking the mall, when this ginormous African American man starts walking towards my car and waves at me to get my attention.

I opened my car door (since the engine was off and I couldn't lower the window) and we proceeded to have the following conversation.

"Oh, I thought I knew you from somewhere... Do I know you?"

"No, I'm afraid you don't," I answered politely because that's one of my biggest fears, to think I know someone and then to have them treat me like I'm an idiot because I really don't.

"Oh, OK then... Are you single?"

"No, I'm not. I have a husband and a five-month old baby, so I guess I'm pretty far from single."

"Oh, OK then. Do you know where Zales is?"

And I did know where Zales was, even though I've only been at this mall a handful of times, but it's where Baby Boy and I had gone to StrollerFit class the day before and I'd happened to notice the Zales store for absolutely no reason. And so I told the man (who was beginning to look more and more like Bubba from Forest Gump "I like fried shrimp and scampi shrimp and coconut shrimp and shrimp cocktail and..." to me) that I did know where the store was and gave him directions.

I later wondered what his next question would have been if I'd answered no to his Zales question. Considering the train of logic that went through his head made no sense to me, who's got the brain most likely to jump from random topic to random topic.

Maybe I met my soulmate yesterday and he was just seven years too late in finding me eating junk food strapped into my front seat like some recovering food addict who's fallen off the bandwagon again. But I guess we'll never know now, since I knew the way to Zales.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Five Months: My Letter to Baby Boy

I swear you must have turned five months old about a year ago, because it literally feels like forever since I wrote your four-month letter. You've accomplished so much this past month that I feel like I really need to do more with my own life, because you'll be leaving me in your dust soon.

Let's see... Where to even start? Well, you had solids, too many to even mention now. Your favorites are carrots and bananas, you could literally eat them all day if I let you. I know this is because I loved carrot juice when I was pregnant with you. The bananas, I'm not so sure about. I'm not a big fan, but your daddy talks about banana splits all the time and how he'd kill for one from Braum's so maybe that's where you get the banana thing from.



You also rolled over for the first time, which really caught us both by surprise, since I'd laid you down on your stomach on the bathroom counter while I used the facilities so you could stare at yourself in the mirror, and instead, you decided to roll over, so I had to catch you with my pants around my ankles.

After a few months of searching for your thumb and sucking on your fist because you'd lost the hand-eye coordination to stick out the thumb, place it in your mouth and suck, you've now found it and want to suck on it all the time, whether you're playing, eating. In fact, you've now decided that since you have two thumbs, there's no reason to suck on only one at a time. I have to say, despite my experience with babies being limited to babysitting when I was a teenager, I have never seen a baby sucking both his thumbs at the same time before.

You're strong, but the strongest thing about you are definitely your lungs. You constantly work them out by yelling baby obscenities at us in your crib, in your bouncy seat, in your car seat or wherever we may place you that you don't want to be. I got so desperate at one point, that I've tried screaming back at you to show you it's not nice. But you thought that was the funniest thing ever and I think you may now believe that if you scream long enough, I'll join in the fun again. The only thing your dad and I have found that will get you to quit screaming, especially when you're in the car, is to sing "Alouette," to you. Your dad, who couldn't speak a word of French five years ago, is now singing to his son a French song about removing feathers from the different body parts of a bird.

You also found your laugh this month. It's the most amazing sound in the world. It's guttural and funny and your whole face transforms when you're laughing. You literally look like an angel when you laugh. You don't laugh a lot. You don't think I'm funny at all. I can do silly noises, weird dances and every trick in my hat to make you laugh, and you'll smile at me in pity like "oh mom, give it up, you're the caretaker, not the entertainer." But people think I'm funny Baby Boy. And the fact that I can't make my own son laugh makes me sad. And then our yellow lab walks in the room and you start laughing your little head off. Why you think he's funny beats me. You also think your Dad is hilarious. He'll lift your chubby little arms up and say "Hurray! It's Friday!" And you'll laugh and laugh at him. When I try to do it to you when he's not around, just to hear you laugh, I just get a lifted eyebrow like "that's daddy's line." Do you know I would walk on broken glass if it made you laugh? That's the power your laugh has. It's the sweetest sound I've ever heard and my biggest hope for you is that you never have a reason to stop laughing. This world can be full of sadness, but just hold on to the laughter.

But the most amazing thing at all, is that you've proven you can sleep through the night. Do you know how amazing that is? The first time it happened, your dad and I thought we'd slept through your cries. It took us a few minutes to realize that you'd actually slept through the night. Although, the "night" was 4:45 a.m. at that point. But hey, we were thrilled. You eventually moved wake up time to 5:30 and then 6:30. And now, if I'm lucky enough, you'll sleep until 7 or 7:30. Although don't get me wrong, you've slept through the night a total of six times during the past month. Scientists would probably say that one in five nights is hardly a pattern, but when it comes to sleep, I'm choosing to be the eternal optimist. We can't figure out what makes you tick. You'll sleep through the night fine for two nights in a row and just when we get excited and feel like the bags under our eyes are receding, you'll begin waking up twice a night for no reason. For a couple of nights, you even got in the habit of waking up at 4:30 and screaming for us to come entertain you. All we'd hear through the baby monitor is "AHHHH! (pause waiting for us to come up and entertain you) AHHHHH!" But now, to celebrate your five-month birthday, you not only slept through the night, but as I sit at the computer writing this, you're still asleep. That's right, I'm up before you are. I honestly can say that I never thought this could ever happen.



You started daycare one day a week, which broke my heart a little and yet made me happy for you. Happy that you would no longer have to settle for me entertaining you all day. That you'd get to make friends and experience new things. The second we got to the house and you saw the two other kids playing with Play-Doh, you were in hog heaven. You barely looked at me when I said goodbye to you and when I came to pick you up, the kids were entertaining you as you laid between them like a king. You smiled the biggest smile in the world when you saw me like you were thinking "This was freaking awesome! When can I come back?"

You've also started music class and although you seem to have no clue what's really happening, you do enjoy it, because it gets us out of the house and around other moms and kids and to you, who has a shorter attention span than I do, that's always a good thing. I know you get bored staying at home all day with me. And so I look for things for us to do. We go to fitness classes for moms and babies now. I go to the gym where there's a daycare that you can stay in for an hour. And we go to the grocery store, Target and Walmart way too much. I worry that you'll become a white trash personal shopper since half of your education involves us walking up and down the aisle and me showing you items from the shelves and explaining their use to you and what brands look like crap.

It's hard for me to fathom that next month you'll be halfway to your first birthday. In 17 and a half years, you leave for college. Are you getting excited? Because to me, it just seems like it's going to come way too fast.

I love you my little man,

Maman.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

When He Weighs 300 Pounds, He Can Sue Me

Baby Boy and I have been fighting a lot lately. We still love each other, of course, forever bound to each other by that invisible umbilical cord and having donated to him half of his genes.

But this does not mean that we have to get along all the time. I always knew he had a stubborn streak in him, after all, this is the baby that made my liver shut down and still refused to come out until he was cut out of me. And I'm pretty sure he's still pissed over that one, that he was forced out before he was good and ready. Plus, he's my baby, and I can be stubborn as a delusional billy goat, so really, the kid had no choice but to be born this way.

And just like me, he believes he's always right, which when you've only experienced a very limited part of the world in the first five months you've been on Earth, means you're usually not right.

Lately, we've had fights over whether he really needs to be strapped into his car seat like a crazy person at the loony bin (my unwavering answer: yes you do.) We've fought over sleep (he believes we should begin to party at 4 in the morning, I don't.) This is how stubborn my son is. We let him scream now when he wakes up at night, because we know full well he doesn't need food, he's proven that in his previous ability to sleep through the night multiple times in January. And it's not his hungry scream, so don't act like I'm a bad mother, it's his "get the fuck in here, I'm bored scream," which I'm thinking he needs to start outgrowing. Anyway, the other day, he kept screaming and then waiting for someone to come for a few minutes and then letting out another curse-word laden scream out for two and a half hours. Most babies would have gotten tired of this and thought "fuck it, I'm going back to sleep." But not my baby. No, he's got to prove a point. Of course, he spent a good chunk of yesterday sleeping, because he was so exhausted from his short night.

We've also fought about spoon feeding. His pediatrician wanted him to start solids to get him to start sleeping through the night. And at first, he didn't like the solids, but kept accepting it, until finally he was eating pretty darn well. Until he decided that he didn't want to be a grown up and eat with a spoon. No matter how hungry he'd be, he'd refuse to open his mouth. Not wanting to pry his jaw open and stick the spoon in his mouth, I let him win that one and began to dump the peach, pear, carrot, sweet potato, banana, squash or pea baby food in his bottle. And we were both content that way and I figured that as long as he was off the bottle by the time he was 18, we'd do good. Except that now I've read in What to Expect the First Year that putting the food in the bottle is the worse thing you can do for a bunch of reasons, including the fact that it leads to overeating, which means it leads to fatter babies. Well, now he's got something to bitch to his therapist about.

Oh and as of two days ago, he's decided that sucking on the bottle isn't enough, he must also suck on his thumb. At. The. Same. Time.

I dare you right now to stick your thumb in your mouth and try to eat a bowl of soup. Not conducive right?

And so I try to take Baby Boy's thumb out of his mouth, but the way he screams at me, you'd think I'd tried to remove his arm from his torso.

Damn gene pool, bites me in the ass every time.

Love,

Catwoman.