Sunday, April 30, 2006

Love & Hate

Things I Love:

- The extra crispy McDonald's fries, the ones that when you bite into them reward you with a little happy squirt of pure oily goodness.
- Thinking you've eaten all your McDonald's fries and then finding the one or two that fell out of the fry container and are awaiting you at the bottom of the bag. It's like getting an unexpected gift you actually want on Christmas morning.
- Baby Boy's sheer look of glee when I laugh at something he does, that it makes me want to laugh at everything he does, just to encourage him.
- I just ate a turkey breast from an animal that was shot dead by my husband exactly 28 hours ago. Never would I, an ex-vegetarian, ever have thought I'd ever utter (or write) those words if you'd asked me even 8 years ago.

Things That I Hate:
- Not having been picked mom of the month by the stupid fitness class instructor of Baby Boy and mine's workout class. It pisses me off royally.
- Feeling crummy for being pissed off at not being chosen, because my best friend in the class (we've known each other a month, I get attached easily) was chosen instead of me. She's a great mom and looks like Cameron Diaz and goes to more classes than I do. But I've been going longer and it should be my turn. Plus I am not a shitty mom. Not that I need a stupid Mom of the Month sign in front of my house to convince me of that.
- OK, I'm adding to the list the fact that I do need a freaking Mom of the Month sign in front of my house to feel like a good mother. Because Baby Boy's beating the crap out of my breasts like they're a drum set isn't proof enough for my shallow ass.
- The fact that I have to get into a bathing suit in exactly 6 days.
- That I ate McDonald's twice this weekend, completely eliminating any chance of dropping 10 pounds in the next 6 days to look half decent in said bathing suit.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Like Nails on a Chalkboard

As I sit here writing this, Baby Boy is in his room screaming like he's being tortured by Saddam loyalists who want to know KFC's secret recipe.

Every muscle of my body is tense and I've never wanted a cigarette so bad. And yet, I let him scream. Because I believe in increasing my chances of going to hell by letting innocent babies scream until their lungs are raw.

There are two schools of thoughts out there about babies. The first one says to cater to every single one of your baby's whims. To hold them at all times and ensure that you spoil them so much that they will one day appear on My Super Sweet 16, bragging about how daddy spent 500,000 dollars on their party and rented the Sahara desert for the day, just so that they could have the most kick ass party ever.

The second school of thought says that your baby should know that their crying means shit and that when you decide it's bed time or nap time or whatever time you decide it is, they must bow down to you and scream until they realize that screaming does nothing because your ear drums have bled out and you are immune to it. This school of thought guarantees that your child will end up in therapy and blame you for their drug/sex/shopping addiction and their lack of drive to succeed in life.

Each school of thought makes parents feel like shit if they believe in the other school of thought. And so I've found myself during the past eight months doing both, trying one or the other based on my mood that day or what I feel will make Baby Boy and I survive another day.

This probably confuses Baby Boy even more, but so far, we're both happy and secure most of the time, except for the times he throws up slime all over me and I call him a little bastard before I'm unable to hold it in.

I don't actually think he's a little bastard, it's just what I've always called men who throw up on me and ensure that it gets all down my cleavage and puddles in that pocket under my boobs that used to not exist when I was 18 and perky.

I wish that babies could be reasoned with. I wish I could just say to Baby Boy "hey dude, it's time for your nap. Let's rock!" And then he'd nod at me and roll over and go to sleep. And actually, in his defense, most of the time he does. But then there's the days where he doesn't and that's when the core of the Earth threatens to blow up and cover my house with hot lava.

And I'll usually wait five, maybe ten minutes before going into his bedroom and saying "dude, there's no reason for this meltdown." Then I'll scoop him up, kiss him, wipe the snot from his face and tell him I'm sorry. We'll go on with our day and then I'll try again when I feel he really should be down for a nap. And then most of the time I get lucky and he accepts his fate, laying in his cage/crib, huddled with his stuffed animals, drifting off to sleep. And then there are days like today, where his wrath can be heard from blocks, and dogs three miles away cower from the loudness that is my child.

When this happens, I feel shitty, I feel like I need to smoke a pack of cigarettes to get my blood pressure down (oh why oh why did I decide to quit six months before I got pregnant... If anyone needs to smoke it's mothers) and I think there's not enough hard alcohol out there to numb me from the sick feeling slowly enveloping my body.

And now, there's the silence. In some ways, the silence is worse than the screaming, because it means my sweet little boy has exhausted himself crying. He's now asleep, his body ever so often shaking with a small sob, the devastation of being abandoned by his mother in his times of need too crushing to deal with. And right now, it's taking everything in me not to walk into his room, pick him up and hold him and tell him how sorry I am that someone convinced me that he needs to just cry and learn to go down when I say so. Why I had these nazi powers given to me, I'll never know. And in many ways, I don't want these nazi powers. I'd be content letting him play with wooden spoons, pots and bubble wrap all day really, except for the fact that when he gets overtired, he turns into nightmare child, some cross between the kid from The Omen and The Exorcist. That overtired baby is not only no fun whatsoever, he's also the biggest pain in my ass since my days at a PR agency.

The one thing I love most about Baby Boy is how much he's willing to forgive me. When he wakes up, he'll coo at me, letting me know that he's awake and ready to eat/play. I'll walk in and his whole face will light up with a smile while he rolls over in his crib to get closer to me. Once he's on his back, he'll raise both arms at me and open and close his hands, like a little crab in overalls, his signal that he wants to be picked up. And when I do, he'll hug me, his soft hair brushing against my face and I'll know that all in the world is right again and that we still love each other.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Oscars? Oh No, I'm Just Going to Get a Burger

I've got good news... Our baby is finally paid off, thanks to the tax return we've gotten. It's nice to know now that the credit card company can't show up one day and go "the child is ours," to which we'd probably laugh and go "haha, he's teething and we ain't giving you his Infant's Tylenol or his crack cocaine, good luck suckers!"

But now they can't take him away. He's ours, fully paid for and the most expensive thing we own. He cost more than my engagement ring, yet doesn't sparkle in the sun the way it does. Unlike my engagement ring though, he does make really cool sounds like his latest "GiGiGiGi!" which translates to something like "I can't believe you brought me into a world where shitty movies like Gigli get made."

What's really unbelievable is that Sweetie Pie and I have never sat through Gigli, so I'm not sure how our Baby Boy would be subjected to it.

If there's one thing that seems unbelievable to me is Baby Boy's unwillingness to like television. Now I've read all the studies that say that you shouldn't let children under three watch TV because it basically laser beams holes into their brains, forever guaranteeing that they won't be able to support you in your old age, which really is the sole reason to have children. But if I could just get a freaking half hour break a day where I don't have to entertain him, oh how happy I would be. But Baby Boy doesn't comprehend that TV is fun and something that he should be begging me for more of. He treats it like some cultured snob would, rolling his eyes at the juvenile behaviors of Elmo and snickering at the low IQ stunts of Spongebob.

Sweetie Pie had our first date in eight months on Saturday night. Not that I'm counting. Sweetie Pie's sister (which would make her my sister in law to those of you keeping track) offered to watch him for us while we went out. This made me very excited! I spent an hour doing my hair and putting on make up, put on a thong and then put on a cute and short little summer dress I bought when I was 22 and haven't fit into since then (closing the zipper took the superhuman strength I have developed hauling an 18 pound ball of flesh all day long, but it got closed and showed incredible resilience not ripping open when I sat down).

When I came out, Sweetie Pie looked confused and said to me "are we going somewhere fancy, because I thought you just wanted to go to that burger place."

Which so beats "wow, you look incredible" every single time, doesn't it.

For the record, yes I wanted to go to the burger joint, but I never have an excuse to get dressed up anymore and since I've lost five-pounds and am convinced I could give Gisele Budchen a run for her money on the catwalk (as long as I was allowed to wear a corset and could force feed her like a goose destined to be foie gras before the fashion show), I wanted to get freaking dressed up.

I'm sure the burger joint thought we were on a first date, since I was all made up and Sweetie Pie was in shorts and a t-shirt.

Did I mention I put on a thong, thinking I was going to get me some? Well, unfortunately Baby Boy is teething, and wouldn't go to sleep that night and exhausted, we threw him in bed with us, making the thong just be an annoyance all night, rather than something crumbled by the bed.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

If I Had a Choice, I'd Just Set Them on Fire

So I'm trying to be a good mom and make sure that my son only crawls in a minimum of filth, whenever he does decide to start crawling. Right now, he's rolling over like a barrel to get himself across a room. I'll sit him down next to his toys and then turn my back on him like the good mother I am to search the Internet for fresh celebrity gossip or good porn, when all of sudden I'll hear grunting next to me and I'll look down, and there he is, grinning at me. The first time, it freaked me out so much, that I said a four-letter expletive right at him, which made him grin even wider. The kid loves it when he can scare the shit out of him. He gets that from me.

My point is, that I'm trying to get my carpets cleaned, because with two dogs and two cats, there's probably an army of pet hair down there, waiting for us to be in a deep sleep before smothering us and taking over the world.

But I had no idea that the cost of carpet cleaning was the same as a first born or a heart transplant.

This is why Child Protective Services are so busy. It's expensive to be a good parent.

Love,

Catwoman

Monday, April 17, 2006

A Toy That's So Much Fun, It's Orgasmic

Recently, there was this baby stuff consignment sale not far from here and I checked it out, and being me, I couldn't leave the place without buying stuff, because if I wrote my own version of the 10 Commandments, one of the first ones would be "thou shalt not enter a place of shopping and leave without spending money."

One of the things I bought was this toy called "Counting Pal." It's basically this big yellow caterpillar who's wearing running shoes on each of its 10 feet and just so it can keep straight which one of its shoes its supposed to put on which foot when it gets dressed in the morning before coming to its job of being beaten up by young children, each shoe has a number on it.

When you turn on Counting Pal, he tells you, assuming that you're dumb and don't remember his name from the last time, "Hi! I'm Counting Pal." To which I always respond to him, "we know, we're not retarded." Baby Boy always nods in agreement to this, being obviously annoyed at being confused for being retarded, when he's obviously just a really short adult who can only grunt and scream.

When I brought home Counting Pal, I didn't change the batteries, because the ones in him seemed to be working fine and anyone who has young kids know that the toy companies are convinced that our kids are addicted to sucking on battery acid, because they put this tiny screw that no screwdriver will fit into onto the battery compartment so that a parent spends almost half an hour each time batteries need replacing in a toy.

But now that we've had the toy for more than a month, the juice is starting to leave the body of Counting Pal, and he's been speaking a little more slowly, slurring his words like he's been hitting the vodka a little hard in his downtime.

But this morning, I was on the computer checking email and Baby Boy was behind me playing on the floor, pulling on Counting Pal's leash (because caterpillars, like dogs, love to go on walks. Hence the running shoes) like he always does and Counting Pal, to show his appreciation, kept slurring "Hhhhhiiiii, I'm Counnnthhhhinng Paaaaal." Until, finally, Counting Pal began to only say "Hi!" which then turned into the first half of "Hi," over and over again, so that all I could hear behind me was "Hahahaha!" Not like a laugh, but like the orgasm of a porn star who's being banged so hard, the top of her skull is protruding with each entry.

Horrified, I took Counting Pal away from Baby Boy, who got really pissed. Can't say I blame him, considering most 18-year olds don't know how to make women make that sound.

He might not be crawling yet, but I think it's fair to say my son is extremely advanced.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Happy Passover

In case one of my five readers celebrates Passover, I want to make sure that I give it the mention it deserves.

I have to say that I don't know much about Passover, but I do know all about getting passed over. I've been passed over for promotions, by hot guys who considered me to be the wing gal to my hot friend, just to name a couple.

I did have a Jewish boyfriend on more than one occasion. I'll go out on a limb and risk sounding slutty by saying that I've made out with most ethnic groups. I'm an equal opportunity maker outer.

Hell, I even lost my virginity to a black guy. Talk about not doing things half assed. If I could suggest anything to 15-year old girls thinking of sleeping with a guy for the first time is research whatever ethnic group has the smallest penis size. Don't follow in my foot steps.

And that's how, ladies and gentlemen, you start off a post on a religious note and end it with advising 15-year olds how to have sex.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Yes, I'm one of THOSE Women

I really believe that I'm a modern woman. I never needed a man to take care of me (well, if you don't count that time in 2001 when I was laid off from my job and Sweetie Pie paid for my rent and other bills, even though we were dating at the time, not married) and when I suffered my most debilitating break up, I decided that I'd rather live alone with 30 cats than be in another bad relationship.

I wouldn't say that I'm a feminist necessarily, simply because the term has gotten to equal man hating and bra burning. And really, my boobs are way too big not to be wearing a bra.

What I am however is someone who believes that the sexes should be equal, period. Women shouldn't be making 76 cents for every dollar a man makes when it's freaking 2006. That pisses me off.

Women should also not be discriminated against because our bodies have the amazing ability to grow a whole freaking other human being. Hell, sometimes, just to show off, we'll even grow two, three or more at one time. Just because we can.

But I do think that it's up to women to prove that we deserve our spot at the table. That means stopping stupid practices like criticizing other women for staying at home to raise their kids or for going back to work, simply because you're on the other side of the fence. And we should stop marrying ugly fat hairy old men just because they're wealthy. Women like that make me want to take off my bra, set it on fire and make them eat it.

There is however something that I should have my woman card removed from me for. And that is my ignorance of cars. This is one area where I say screw equality, that's Sweetie Pie's job.

I don't know what it is. I'm just car ignorant.

Sweetie Pie's been telling me to get my tires changed for a while. But I just haven't had the time and the way I figure it, if it was that important, Sweetie Pie would just do it for me, right? Spoken like the true modern woman I am.

Anyway, in Texas you have to get your car inspected once a year and mine was due end of March.

And so on March 31st, I sauntered into an inspection station with my bouncing baby boy, wearing high heeled boots and a slightly low cut top and sat in the dirty waiting area, telling baby boy to stop trying to put the grimy People magazine from 2002 in his mouth.

The mechanic took one look at me and figured that I was one of those women. He came up to me, sat gently next to me in the nice chair and with a slightly patronizing voice said to me "Ma'am, before I put your SUV on the inspection belt, I can tell you right now it won't pass, because I can see your tires' core."

"Huh," I responded sweetly. "And that's not good."

He looked at me, looked at Baby Boy and I know he wondered if he should call Children's Protective Services on me for being such a terrible mother.

But I mean, really. Can it be expected for the modern woman to know that much about freaking tires?

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

And the Torture Continues...

Someday, a girlfriend of Baby Boy's will love me, while he glares at me from across the room...



Love,

Catwoman

Things that Annoy Me...

So, unless you live under a rock or are on the run, you're probably aware that taxes are due next Monday.

Sweetie Pie and I have kind of procrastinated on this, even though we're thinking we're going to get a buttload of money back this year. Not the kind of buttload like celebrities get and then blow on 50,000 pairs of shoes or another private jet, the kind of buttload that for us peons means that we might be able to go out to eat cheap Mexican food.

Anyway, with the deadline looming, I called to make an appointment with one of the tax preparations places this year, since with selling a house, buying a house and having two businesses, a lot of medical bills and a brand new baby, we figured we'd either miss some deductions or just screw up massively and have the IRS take away our dogs and Baby boy as punishment.

Our appointment with this place was supposed to be tomorrow morning. That is until the woman who was supposed to do our taxes (who I didn't know, I was only told her name when I made the appointment) called me and left me a message asking if she could reschedule it. Apparently, she's behind on other people's returns and she's got a doctor's appointment.

Let me break this excuse up and analyze each piece for you.

1. She's behind on other people's returns. To which the bitch in me wants to respond "not my fucking problem." It's called stay late and get the work done. If I have a lot of work and Baby Boy to handle, never do I tell my clients "hey, I'm behind on my other clients' work, so you're going to have to wait." I just get it done once Baby Boy's asleep and miss the Real World.

2. A freaking doctor's appointment???? Are you kidding me right now? This is tax week baby! Can't your freaking appointment wait another week? That's like Santa Claus taking a personal day on December 24th or the Easter Bunny going to rehab this week. You're needed now! Your personal issues are not my problem.

I might not be so bitchy about this if it wasn't for the person who's supposed to be smarter than me in math sounded like a pregnant 15-year old high school drop out white trash girl who's been hit in the head a few too many times by her headboard. Literally, I have never received a message from someone who sounded this white trash. And this is coming from someone who was once told that her husband is kind of white trash.

There are many things that I'm fine with having handled by white trash. My taxes ain't one of them. Especially from someone who feels the need to have her hangnails checked out the week my taxes are due.

Enough to say, I turned around, called another company and am having them do my taxes tomorrow. I'm just glad I was able to get an appointment and escape someone who would ask me if I've ever gotten gemstones put on fake nails, because those are so cute, especially if you get them put on in your favorite Nascar driver's initials.

The second thing that annoys me is Web sites like blogger.com who require you to write a password in letters that are splayed crooked to comment on other people's sites. I have this function turned on my blog too, since those damn spammers are everywhere now. But do they need to be so crooked that you can't read them? It always takes me three or four tries to get the password right, making me feel like I'm either illiterate or dyslexic, which last I checked, I was neither although pregnancy has been known to cause crazy things.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Tom Cruise Conspiracy Theory

Sweetie Pie brought up an interesting point the other day. That Katie Holmes is faking her pregnancy and that they are waiting for their adopted baby to be born so that she can go "into labor."

Sweetie Pie says that Tom Cruise is obviously infertile since he was unable to have kids with Nicole Kidman or wife number one, Mimi Rogers. And that Katie Holmes belly doesn't make any sense, looking bigger on certain days than others. Also, he said that she doesn't waddle, despite being nine months pregnant. I told him that I didn't waddle when I was pregnant either, and he laughed and laughed at me.

I'm guessing that meant I did waddle.

Let's pretend for a minute that Sweetie Pie's theory is true and not look for any holes in it. The big question then is what the hell is wrong with Tom Cruise? And Katie Holmes for that matter.

Remember the days of Top Gun? Tom was normal. He'd talk about being dyslexic as a child and briefly considering being a priest.

Remember the days of Dawson's Creek? I helped launch that show in Canada, so I definitely do. Katie was sweet and played a gorgeous tomboy. She was unaffected and normal.

Flash forward a few years and he's gone completely insane and she seems oblivious to the fact that he's making her do crazy things. If she is in fact pregnant, how can her hormone level allow her to tell Tom when he says to her "you're a scientologist now and we believe that you shouldn't make a sound as your insides are being pushed out with an eight-pound ball of flesh?" If she was in fact pregnant, she would silently pummel him to death with the heel of one of her Jimmy Choos and think to herself "for a scientologist, you're awful loud when you're being pummelled to death you prick."

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Things I'm Worried I'll Forget...

- When Baby Boy falls asleep while drinking a bottle, even after I remove the nipple from his mouth, I can see his little tongue keep moving to drink through his half open mouth. It is the ultimate moment of zen and I could watch him forever.

- The feel of Baby Boy's baby head on my shoulder, the few times he's so passed out in his car seat that I can lift him out and he'll just fall back asleep against me as I carry him. I could walk to the ends of the Earth, holding my breath the entire time if he'd stay that way forever.

- The sound of Baby Boy's laugh. It warms the Earth and speeds the melting of the polar cap each time it sounds. The cross between a squeal and down in your gut laugh, it makes me smile just to think of it.

- The feel of Baby Boy's feet against my face. I could hold his feet against my face forever, forever proving that no matter how deep one's phobia of feet may be, there's no cure like your baby's own tootsies.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Laughing Contests

The best way to make Baby Boy laugh is by laughing yourself. He and I will sit there, laughing at each other for minutes on end until he gets the hiccups and has to put a sudden end to the contest, admitting that in his seven months on Earth, he has yet to develop the lung capacity of my 30 year-old body. Although all that screaming is ensuring that he's catching up to me awful fast.

My favorite parts of the day are when I lay Baby Boy down in his crib for his naps or bedtime. I lay him down on his back after giving him a kiss and he rolls over, gives his frog a hug and goes to sleep. It's so sweet to watch and so nice that after months of fighting with him to take naps and to go to bed, that he goes down so easily. And I love to be one of those moms who brags about her baby going right to sleep and sleeping 11 hours at night. The biggest reason I love to brag about it is that I thought I'd never be one of those moms. I thought that I would have an 18 year-old who still slept in my bed and woke me up every two hours, demanding to be fed.

And then there's the fact that Baby Boy is currently teaching himself to wave. I'll catch him sitting on the floor on his quilt surrounded by his toys, opening and closing his hand in front of his face, with a look of deep concentration furrowing his little brow.

It makes me want to run out and buy him every Elmo ever invented, just to remind him that I'd do anything for him, give him a kidney, or even bow to the evil of the red muppet.


Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

It's What They Call Optimism, You Should Try it Sometime

So there's something I left out of my post yesterday. When I went to Target, I didn't just buy Baby Boy the Elmo Bird. I also bought myself two bikinis. I'm not sure why I bought them, considering that right now when I put them on I look like a sausage that's been dressed up for some strangely themed Halloween party, but I bought them nonetheless.

I believe my thinking at the time was that the bikinis would serve as inspiration for sticking to my diet of diet shakes during the day and fried foods at night and exercising more.

Instead, I have hidden them under my pajamas in my closet, terrified of those few square inches of fabric.

Now these bikinis are very cute. And we're going to the South of France in three months. So technically, it would be doable for me to look half decent in them in that amount of time. But man, that's a big commitment. I realize that marriage didn't seem like much of a commitment to me, since Sweetie Pie and I got engaged July 17th and then we were married August 28th in Vegas, but I'd been with him three and a half years. I knew what I was getting myself into. But I just met these bikinis. And my body did pop out an almost six-pound human being only seven months ago.

OK, fine. I admit it. I'm just terrified that my body hasn't been thin in so long that it doesn't remember how to. I admit that I've accepted the fact that I have thunder thighs and they probably won't ever look like they did when I was 14. I admit that I have a love for sour cream and butter that makes it impossible for me to pursue a modeling career.

So why in the world would I torture myself with two bikinis? Because I don't want to be the only woman on the freaking beach in Cannes who's wearing a one-piece bathing suit. I want Sweetie Pie to be surprised to see me in a bikini and go "wow, you look hot" and actually mean it, rather than think that he's reading from the good husband manual.

And I want to be able to get into a bikini one more time, since when baby number two arrives I'm likely to be scarred by even more stretch marks, my second c-section will mean that my abdominal muscles will be even weaker and my chances of fitting into a bikini will only keep decreasing.

This summer is my last hurrah in some ways. I'm just not sure I'm motivated enough to take advantage of it.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, April 03, 2006

The Cult of Evil Has a New Member

In the seven months Baby Boy's been on this planet, I've managed to shield him from the ultimate cult leader. Not Tom Cruise, although I'm sure I'll have to worry about him at some point too. I'm talking about Elmo, who embodies all that is evil in this world. Is it a coincidence that he's bright red, like the flames that cover every corner of hell?

I'm sure Elmo's a great guy. After all, rumor is that he's voice by a big black gay guy, whom I've always had a weakness for. But I don't understand the power that the bulgy-eyed high-pitched voice muppet has on toddlers the world over. And the Elmo dolls that come out are more and more preposterous. It started out with Elmo wanting your child to tickle him. "Oooh that tickles," he'd coo, with mild sexual undertones.

Then all of a sudden, Elmo started to sing "Shout!" which why the hell would anyone want to encourage that behavior in a two-year old. And he's also done the chicken dance. It seems Elmo's sole purpose on Earth is to drive the parents loony so that their children can take over the world and follow all of his commands. Probably to feed him peeled live pigeons or something disturbing like that.

My point is that I always swore that Baby Boy would be protected from the evil of Elmo. That is until Saturday night, when my best friend and her two kids came over and her 14-month old son was clutching an Elmo doctor doll and Baby Boy went nuts for it. Every time Elmo would talk, his little chubby arms would flap.

And since he's my first-born and my world revolves around making him happy so that my ear drums have a chance to heal, on Sunday, when Baby Boy was in the world's crappiest mood, I packed him up and we drove to Target as quickly as the speed limit would allow us to.

When I got to Target, they only had two talking Elmo dolls. The first one allowed you to get Elmo to say whatever the hell you want him to say. Your child's name, his favorite food, commands like "go get mama a gin and tonic," whatever really. As much as this should have been the perfect doll for us, since Elmo couldn't technically control Baby Boy if the sentences were programmed by me, the damn thing was $40 and I refused to contribute that much to the Elmo Cult.

The only other option was the brand new and most ridiculous ever "Bird is the Word" Elmo. As much as I thought Elmo was insane before, I'm now completely convinced that he's also trying to recruit for the gay camp. Because this Elmo is dressed in bright turquoise and fushia feathers with a toucan nose on his orange ball of a nose and he squeals with glee "Elmo's a bird!" and then sings the gayest bird song you've ever heard. Of course Baby Boy loved him. And so I pushed the cart with one hand to the cash register and kept pressing the button on bird Elmo's hand to get him to keep singing so that Baby Boy didn't start screaming at me each time it would stop.

I'm happy to say that as much as Baby Boy loves that Elmo doll, he does enjoy beating the shit out of it when it's flapping its wings. This makes me hope that Baby Boy can see through the bright colors of that costume and see the evil hidden beneath.

In the meantime, I'm about to go to toysrus.com to see if they have the stupid doctor Elmo that my friend's son had. Because I'm a masochist like that.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Seven Months: My Letter to Baby Boy

You have changed so much during the past month and it's all good baby! You are turning out to be so much freaking fun, that sometimes I look at you and my heart breaks under the weight of your sheer cuteness.

You never shut up, and that's the best part about having you. I guess you see me talk all the time and figure that's just the way humans are supposed to be. I was at someone's house with you when you were just a day past your six-month birthday and this other mom and I had to make a phone call together. The whole time we're talking on the phone, you are squealing, chattering away in your foreign language, making us laugh so hard that we couldn't even concentrate on what we were doing.



And your looks. Don't even get me started about your looks. There's your horrified look that you usually give me when I'm carrying you up the stairs in the dark in a horizontal position when it's your bed time. You get this wide eyed look like I'm some serial killer taking you to a torture chamber. It takes everything I have not to laugh, although I have more than once, which makes you even more wide-eyed and makes me laugh even harder. Then there's your look of disgust, usually reserved for when I slam your stroller yet again into some display at the mall. I call it your "damn women drivers" look.



You've also been allowed to eat cheerios and fruit puffs this month and so while I prepare your breakfast and dinner every day, you sit in your booster chair and pick up cereal. Despite sticking everything in site in your mouth, you show no interest in putting the one edible thing you can pick up anywhere near your tastebuds. You do, however, tend to open your hand with the cereal in it to the side of your tray, so our dogs have become big fans of you and sit each side of you during your breakfast and dinners, worshipping you like the little king you are. The times where you do put your hand up to your mouth, you stick your fingers in your mouth, but the cereal remains nestled in your closed fist and you just sigh and give up, opening your hand to feed the dogs. Then you proceed to scream at me, ordering me to shove yet another Cheerio into your mouth, like a baby bird.



But this month, you went and grew teeth! I'm not sure why, because you had the most perfect gummy smile I've ever seen. And then one day, while you were sitting there mouth wide open for the next bite of applesauce, I saw them. Two little nubs, barely poking out of your gorgeous pink gums. This milestone made me sad. Little boys have teeth. Not babies. Now you've left me no choice but to go out and have another baby, since you're so freaking determined to grow up on me.



This month you also got sick for the first time. Although, I didn't know you were sick at first, I thought you were just being you and acting out. You didn't have a fever and I'm not a mind reader, so don't you be judging me. When I took you to the pediatrician's office because I was on my last frayed nerve and they told me you had an inflamed throat, I felt so bad, and yet, I was so relieved that this wasn't just another demonstration that your temper is worse than mine.

And then, the last day of March, two new accomplishments! You were sitting on the floor, playing with your toys. Me, being the dedicated mother, was sitting on the couch reading a magazine, when you said "Mama." I looked at you, thinking you'd called me, but there you were, looking at a rattle saysing "mamamamamama" to it. I'm still excited that you said mamamamama first rather than dadadadada. You've also been teaching yourself to wave. I've been waving at you like a maniac your whole life, because I think there's nothing cuter than a baby waving. And two days ago, you were sitting on the ground, you palm towards you, opening and closing your hand. I went nuts and told you "that's right! You're waving!" And began to maniacally wave at you again. You grinned at me and waved at yourself again like "yeah, lady, I know, I'm waving. No freaking big deal."



You're now refusing to sleep through the night again. And more than once, I've gotten so frustrated that I've just thrown you in bed with us. This is the equivalent of putting a hungry wolf in a pasture of injured cows. Not only does it piss you off that we just lay there instead of playing with you, but you feel the need to scream even louder than when you're on the second floor. I tell your dad to just play dead, thinking that eventually you'll give up and go to sleep, but he usually gets tired of your eardrum shattering anger and scoops you up and places you back in your crib, far away from us. This usually angers you even more, but then wouldn't you know it, you always go back to sleep within ten or 15 minutes. I know you wouldn't do that well if I was the one who put you back up there. But I accepted a long time ago that you're daddy's guy.

I love you my little man,

Maman.