Friday, June 23, 2006

If They Get Any Bigger, I Just Might Get Into Porn

There are many holidays I like. Christmas, Halloween, Valentine's Day despite its commercialism, but most of all, I love the Victoria's Secret semi-annual sale, the time of year where highly overpriced bras become affordable to us mortals who aren't made of gold.

To those of you who haven't experienced the semi-annual sale at Victoria's Secret, let me try to paint the picture for you. Row upon row of bins with secret women codes like "36D" and "34A" line the middle of the store while screaming women scavenge like rabid raccoons through hundreds of bras in every color and style created by the bra gods. Sometimes, husbands and boyfriends, wide eyed and afraid, stand outside the store, waiting for their women while holding the parcels. They dare not enter, for fear of being shredded and having wires pushed through their bellies by women obsessed with the pursuit of the perfect cleavage.

I've now hit the sale twice this week, two different malls. This wasn't my goal from the beginning, it just happened that way. Simply because I am now forced to shop with Baby Boy who considers sitting still in his stroller in the middle of a store full of pink frilly thrills the equivalent of having small pox.

Therefore, I'm forced to now grab and run. Which consists of the following steps:

Step 1: Identify bins with my size
Step 2: Go through said bins at lightning speed looking for non-ugly bras of correct size
Step 3: Rush to cash register and pay for found bras
Step 4: Drive home
Step 5: Try on paid for bras and hope they fit.

Now, I need to give you a little history of my boobs. Because my boobs have a history. They're that important.

When I was a teenager, I had no boobs. I mean, literally, I was so flat, and skinny (man I'd love to be that way again!), that the boys made fun of me on the bus because they said my boobs were on backwards since my shoulder blades stuck out so much in the back and there was nothing to show on the front. When I was 13, I started wearing tank tops under my clothes to not be naked in the change room and I begged my mom to buy me a bra, which she did when I was almost 14, even though I required one as much as Baby Boy does.

At 16, I had little nubs that were more mosquito bites than boobs. Every night, I'd pray for boobs and try to sleep on my back because I'd read in YM or Seventeen Magazine that sleeping on your stomach prevented your boobs from growing. Every morning, I'd cry when I woke up on my stomach, knowing that I'd stunted my growth a little more.

Then I turned 18, and I went to Spain for the summer. Nowhere in the brochure did it say that Spain was the land of growing boobs. But it was. I gained 15 pounds while living in Spain, which helped my boobs grow to a 34C. A size that made the boys notice and me happy. I eventually lost a good amount of those 15 pounds, but the boobs stayed. Like if they were my prize for partying it up for a summer and sleeping with too many cute boys.

I began to slowly put on a few more pounds each year little by little, the way all of us women do. I moved to Dallas in September 2000. A couple of months after moving here, some girlfriends and I were talking about boobs and I mentioned that I was a 34C. My friend N., stated the now very famous quote of "I know boobs and you are not a 34C!"

I was stunned. And a little pissed. How dare she say that I'm not wearing the rights size bra? Sure, 70 percent of women wear the wrong size bra, but I wasn't one of them!

And just to prove her wrong, the next time I placed a bra order online, I ordered some 34C bras and some 34D. When they arrived, I pulled out the 34D bras and laughed and laughed at them. They looked ridiculous, with these ginormous cups that could hold enough water for a long trip through the desert.

Then I tried it on. And it freaking fit. And when Sweetie Pie showed up to pick me up for a date later that evening, he took one look at me and said "hey, you don't have four boobs."

Touche.

So I became a 34D. And I learned to accept that my bra cups were ginormous.

Then I became pregnant with Baby Boy. And I work pregnancy and nursing bras. And eventually, I began to wear my old bras again and I noticed that once again, I had four boobs. But if I tucked a little of the boob under my armpit, then it was barely noticeable, except for the fact that I looked like I had a tumor growing under each arm.

But I figured, I'm still carrying baby weight, when it comes off, I'll be back into my 34D bras and the world will be back to normal.

Well, I'm now back to where I was before the pregnancy, which is a good 15 pounds overweight and yet, I still have four boobs, looking like I'm part cow.

And so, I took the dive at that Victoria's Secret sale. I bought two 34D bras and two, gulp, 34DD bras. Once again, I picked up that 34DD bra and glanced around me to make sure none of the other women were looking at me. After all, I was holding on to a tent that should have been sent to an African country trying to assist refugees.

Once I got home, I kicked out the ostrich family that was nesting in those enormous cups and tried on my new bras. And wouldn't you know it. The freaking things fit. Like a glove.

My boobs really are that big. And when I tried on the 34D, it was very obvious that I just needed to accept that I was no longer that size and needed to just return them.

And so I did and bought two more 34DD bras.

Now I know that anyone who's flat-chested and reading this is thinking oh shut up. I'm the boobage equivalent to the skinny woman who complains that she can't gain weight.

But here's the issue. You can't dress in 3/4 of the cute clothes out there without looking like a whore when you have big boobs.

Now I'm all for looking like a whore. But unfortunately, it's just not appropriate at baby playdates.

Now, to give you a warning... We are leaving for Europe tomorrow to baptize Baby Boy. Yes, because you can only have that done in Europe. God doesn't think it's real if you do it in the new land.

Either way, it means that it'll be difficult for me to post. But I will attempt to. However, if I don't until I return, don't hold it against me. We'll be back on July 9th. I'll post when I get back if I don't while I'm gone, I promise.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Bad Day for Sports Teams Everywhere

Well, I'm not exactly the person whose most into sports and I don't know if I've ever blogged about sports, but I think I need to today, because it's been a tad rough around here this week.

In the past two days, two teams I was really hoping would win a championship have been defeated.

First, the Edmonton Oilers. You see, they're Canadian. And for the first time since we like invented the damn sport (or as the sportscasters tell you, 1993), we had a shot at freaking winning the Stanley Cup, a trophy we probably invented to go with our national winter sport (very unknown Canadian fact: our summer sport is lacrosse. Nobody's really sure why. Apparently it was invented by native Canadians, but I've never met a Canadian lacrosse player. And now our national summer sport has been tainted by the Duke rape scandal. So that's just super) and I was excited.

After all, the whole freaking thing sucks. You see, when I was growing up there were like a ton of Canadian hockey teams. We had the Winnipeg Jets and the Quebec Nordiques. And then we didn't. Suddenly, the became the Phoenix Coyotes (PHOENIX! The freaking DESERT people!) and the Colorado Avalanche. And almost every other year, the Calgary flames threaten to move if people don't buy gazillions of tickets to support them. And it makes me sad.

The US is like that little kid who was invited to play with you and all of a sudden took over, stole all your friends and led them into crank calling you from a party you weren't invited to.

And this year, for the first time in 13 years, we got invited to the party. And we took it all the way past our curfew baby. But then we got wasted, threw up in our hair and our mommy had to come and get us and it'll be a long time probably before we have another shot.

If you don't get that analogy, I don't care. It's 3:41 in the morning right now, I can't sleep and I get the analogy. So that's all that matters.

And then there's the Dallas Mavericks. This was a pretty damn big deal here last week. We were in the freaking NBA finals. With a team who we'd crushed twice during the regular season.

And we started series by winning the first two games. We were invincible. And then we went to Miami. The city of hot chicks and beautiful beaches. And our players went 'ooooh fun! Vacation time!' and then we began to lose four games in a row.

But here's the thing. You know why Dallas lost the series? Our damn city planned the victory parade after game two. Now I'm not one to be superstitious, but that'd be the equivalent of me signing up Baby Boy for the 2026 Olympics in gymnastics, just because he does a mean baby somersault in his baby gymnastics class. Oh, we have a parade route alright, the problem is, the freaking parade is taking place in a State shaped like a deformed penis.

The funniest part of the Dallas/Miami NBA final is that the city of Dallas was so excited at the idea to have all these celebrities in town to watch the games. And then they didn't come. Unless you count David Hasselhoff, which despite being on that horrible looking 'America's Got Talent,' and having a singing career in Germany, is not a star in my book. And Dallas was baffled. Why would the celebrities not come?

Uhm, well, maybe because we're landlocked in the middle of the plains and are one big cement block with a few scattered trees, while Miami is on the beach and oh, celebrities actually live there.

But hey, we'll always have Hasselhoff.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Once Upon a Time, I Was Kind of Cool... And a Little Sexy Too

Friday night I went out. I'd like to say that I whooped it up. But then I'd be lying. And if you resort to lying in your blog, then you're like that James Frey guy who made up his life in his autobiography. And I really don't want Oprah yelling at me. I kind of cry easy. And when I cry snot comes pouring out of my nose. And then I'd be on Extra, Entertainment Tonight and all those other shows, with snot on my face. And that's like one of my biggest fears ever.

So I didn't whoop it up. My mommy & me fitness class, which I am still currently the reigning Mom of the Month in case you had forgotten, was having a Mom's Night Out. And I really wanted to go.

So I left Sweetie Pie in charge of Baby Boy (depending how you look at it, considering that while I was applying my make up, Sweetie Pie was laying down, napping on the couch while Baby Boy was putting together the items necessary to build a pipe bomb) and I went out to paint the town red.

Or in my case, to paint a deviled eggs plate. But I did use some red.

Yes, that's right. The rough ass-kicking group I hang out with these days went to a pottery painting place on a Friday night. Because we're bad asses like that. And don't look at us funny, because we know how to use a stencil like no other beeyotches.

The problem with the whole evening is that I'm not very artsy. So the sight of my blank deviled eggs plate and a wall of paint colors made me wonder what the hell I'd gotten myself into and regretting the fact that I'd only brought two green apple Smirnoff coolers (the official beverage of cool tough chicks everywhere).

I carpooled with two other moms who don't live far from me, because bad asses believe in not paying the obscene prices at the pump and we all said that despite the fact that the party went on to a very late 11 p.m., we were going to leave around 9 or 9:30 at the latest.

At 10 p.m. we were still painting our hearts out, tongues sticking out perilously out of the sides of our mouths, paints of all colors smeared on our hands, scaring our enemies into thinking we could attack at any point.

Sweetie Pie asked me before I left where we were going and when I told him the name (Quiggly's Clayhouse), he assumed it was an Irish pub. And when I told him what it was, I'm pretty sure he thought I was insane to use my one night out on painting pottery.

But I loved it. And this is how I know that I am no longer the 20-year old clubber that I once was. I once was Lindsay Lohan, minus the raspy voice and the tendency to love anorexia. Now, I'm a pot bellied mama with a mean pottery fetish.

Other highlights of my weekend? Here they are in no particular order:

Number of dogs with diarrhea: Two
Number of cats with constipation: One
Number of poopy diapers changed: Too many to even recall, but anywhere from five to six per day
Number of times I got sperm up my nose: One

I'll leave that last one to your imagination of exactly how that occurs. I will tell you that it does burn quite a bit and I wouldn't recommend it.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Conversations with a Three-and-a-half Year Old

My best friend and I have an arrangement for the summer, where she picks up Baby Boy on Tuesday mornings to take him to daycare and then I pick him up and her two kids and bring them back to my place where she picks them up after work. This arrangement is great, because it saves us each 70 miles return and an hour and a half total driving time, since the kids all go to daycare in Oklahoma with her sister. Well, not Oklahoma exactly, but if you squint really hard, you can see the border from there.

I'm used to my silent car rides where it's just me, Baby Boy babbling to himself in the backseat when he's not asleep and me singing to the radio to relieve my boredom. But today, I had the pleasure of having my friend's three-and-a-half year old daughter behind me, kicking me in the small of my back for 35 miles and entertaining me the whole way. Here are some snippets from our conversations:

Her: My favorite color is red.
Me: Red, that's a nice color. Why is red your favorite color?
Her: Because it's groovy.

Her: How old are you?
Me: I'm 30.
Her: One day, I'll be 40 too.
Me: I'm not 40 though, I'm only 30.
Her: Uh huh, right. You're old.

Me: I don't see any cows in these fields. Where do you think all the cows are?
Her: I guess they went to the beach.

Her: When I sleep over at your house (which was never brought up, but apparently she decided that she was going to come over some day to our house and sleep there), I won't sleep in your bed like at my house. I'll sleep in my own bed.
Me: Well I think that's a great idea.
Her: Yeah, because sometimes in my sleep I have accidents. They're not my fault, it's just my dreams don't know I'm going pee pee.

Her: I'd like to watch my movie now. (pause) I don't see your DVD player.
Me: Well, I don't have one.
Her: (silence, then...) You don't have one? My mama's car is way better than your car.

(asking about the two new kittens at daycare)Me: Which kitten do you like best, the white one, or the black and white one?
Her: I love them both the same, it's not nice to like one more.
Me: But you like the color red better, isn't that mean to the other colors?
Her: (exasperated sigh) Those are colors, they don't have feelings like kittens.

(At the gas station, buying her the candy I promised her to get her in my car. (Crap, the FBI will be all over me now...) She accidentally backs up into the man in line behind us.)
Her: Oh, I'm sorry Mister. (looks at me) That's what I do when I accident bump into someone. I say saaaah-weee.
Me: Well, that's very good manners.
Her: Yes. It is. I'm good.

Her: I like to read.
Me: What's your favorite book?
Her: My Disney Princess book?
Me: Oh, which princess is that one about?
Her: A lot of them.
Me: Is Belle in it?
Her: Uh huh. And Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty.
Me: That sounds like all of the princesses to me.
Her: Nuh uh. Pocahontas and Mulan aren't in it.
Me: Oh, so it's a book with only the white princesses in it.
Her: No, just the pretty ones.

(once we're back at my house)
Her: Can I watch a Tinkerbell movie.
Me: Did you bring one?
Her: No, I want to watch one of yours.
Me: Well, I don't have a Tinkerbell movie, (I open the drawer to our collection of about 15 Disney classics) but you can pick any of these movies.
Her: (goes through all the movies for a minute) Sigh. These movies are no good. Your baby must not like good movies.

I can't wait to have my own three-and-a-half year old! Because that was oh so fun! And I would have oh so much more material for this blog if I had me one of those!

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Bizarro Neighbors

So for some reason, we just never seem to get to know our neighbors. It's not like we're anti-social, well, Sweetie Pie is, I'm not. It's just that I don't know, I guess we're just not the neighborly types. We just like to be at home by ourselves and we have plenty of friends who we enjoy talking to and seeing either at our home or other places, so that leaves no time for our neighbors.

There's that.

Plus, our neighbors are either way older than us or just weird.

For example, the house across the street from us has been on sale forever. In fact, it was already for sale when we bought our house, which we bought about a year ago this week and moved into in July.

A couple of weeks ago, I was in Baby Boy's room getting him ready for his bath when I heard a loud truck and peered out the window to see a moving truck across the street. Now, the sign had never been changed to sold, so I wasn't aware we were getting new neighbors. Out of this truck comes out a morbidly obese woman whose wearing track suit pants (in 99 degree Texas weather mind you) and a Carter Blood donation T-shirt (I realize she's moving and shouldn't look sexy in stilettos, it's the lack of short wearing that I'm really harping on) and a tiny, tiny man. I always find it odd when disproportionately sized people get together. Like Sweetie Pie's sister who's 5'3" and maybe 100 pounds fully clothed, soaking wet and with a super-sized McDonald's meal in her stomach's last boyfriend before her husband was this really HUGE guy. He was really tall and really big like a football player who fell off his training regimen. It always made me wonder if he could kill her if he rolled onto her in their sleep.

Anyway, back to my neighbors. So they start unloading the truck. And I ended up neglecting Baby Boy for 20 minutes, as I became quite fascinated by this process. Most people who move will put things in boxes because it makes it easier to load up the truck and unload it. But not our neighbors. No, they began unloading the truck by taking out small piles of files or papers at a time. Then they began carrying out little knick knacks in little piles in their arms. And on and on. Like if there was a shortage of boxes at their U-Haul store and grocery store. I wonder where they were coming from where boxes would be outlawed in this manner.

Then on Sunday, one of our neighbors stayed parked on the side of our house with the engine idling for almost four hours. With a woman. Making out. Now, this neighbor, we've never met, because he lives around the corner from us, about six houses down. So why he'd be sitting in his very noticeable truck that says something along the lines of "Dead Bugs.com" on the side with a picture of a cartoon cockroach with his tongue sticking out of his mouth, hidden around the corner of his own house is a mystery to us.

I speculated that he was hiding from his wife, since he and the mystery woman were making out for most of the four hours they sat next to our house. I told Sweetie Pie that married people don't make out. And it's true. The only time Sweetie Pie and I make out anymore is before sex. Making out is for teenagers and people who just started dating.

Sweetie Pie couldn't understand why someone with the most identifiable vehicle would "hide out" in broad daylight six houses away from his house if that was the case. But then came the really crazy part...

There was a vehicle parked behind the bug truck and across the street from it. So that a single vehicle could get down the road. Bug man pulled his truck into the street and parked, still idling in between these two cars. Therefore blocking traffic from getting past our house. Did he worry we were lonely?

And girlfriend and him continued to make out in the middle of the road. Each time a car approached, he'd look annoyed, drive backwards to get out of the way and then proceed to return in between the two cars.

I've made out in weird places. I'm trying to think of weird places, but all I can come up with is tame stuff like a rollercoaster and the beach. Yes, a wild child I was. But blocking traffic to make out? I don't get the thrill?

And this man isn't a teenager. He's probably in his late 20's, early 30's.

Sweetie Pie became convinced that Bug Man was staking out one of our neighbors, thinking that said neighbor hadn't paid Bug Man for his services. Convinced that a murder would occur, he told me to take a picture of the parked vehicle.

Which I did, which Bug Man saw me do since I raised to blind to take the picture and he looked right at me when I snapped it. Which really freaked me out. Because after all, Bug People have bomb-making materials. Wasn't that what was used in the Oklahoma bombing?

And Bug Man knows where I live!

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, June 12, 2006

I Really, Really Hate Money

I don't understand how we are constantly in debt. I don't comprehend where our money goes. And yet, before I even get paid on Thursday, all of our money is already spent for the month. And we leave for vacation on the 24th, which means that we're technically screwed and will have to live on bread and water. Considering we're going to France, that's actually not a bad thing, because it means fresh baguette and Evian.

But still. I hate how celebrities can blow 200 grand on a sonogram machine and I can't even afford to go to Starbucks once a week. Or buy myself short that fit. Or buy new shoes that are not five-dollar flip flops from Old Navy.

Is that too much to ask world? Of course, I could get a "real job" and make my old salary again and then we'd probably be fine financially. But here's the thing. We wouldn't be. Because at the end of the day, you never have enough money is what I've learned. I remember in my old job making more money than I ever had and with each pay day, just thinking "whoo hoo! I am freaking rich!" (By Paris Hilton standards, I was probably under the poverty line, but I'm not Paris Hilton in case the number of brain cells didn't give it away) and yet, we weren't saving up money left, right and center.

Why is that? Why is it that your budget just adapts to whatever amount of money you're making? And why is that the siren song of the credit card is so strong?

Now that I have a baby, I want him to have everything. Not in a spoiled brat sort of way, the kind that has a Louis Vuitton purse at eight and treats the world like shit. Although, if Baby Boy asked me for a Louis Vuitton purse, his brattiness would be the last thing on my mind.

But I do want to be able to walk into the Disney Store and see a Thumper beany toy and buy it without kicking myself when I get the credit card bill at the end of the month.

I want to be able to sign him up to activities like his Baby Gymnastics class without thinking that I'll need to cut our food budget (again) for the next two months.

I want to be able to support my scrapbooking addiction (I'm about to start volume 3 of Baby Boy's book. Yeah, I need to get a life) without the ginormous credit card bill for that enterprise sitting over my head.

I love being at home with baby boy and working on a part-time basis. I love that I get to be with him almost every day and watch the subtle changes that build up to huge accomplishments like crawling and standing up. And I love the fact that right now, I'm sitting here typing this in my pajamas.

But then there's the part of me that's sick of paying more than 400 a month in health insurance for a health plan that gives us squat unless something really serious happens to us. And then there's the part of me that wonders if a good part of Baby Boy's day, which involves sitting on the floor by himself, surrounded by toys, in charge of entertaining himself, is the best way to develop his growing brain.

But then part of me wonders... Could I even deal with a real job at this point? I've been out of the grind, the office politics, the back stabbing, the looming deadlines for 22 months now. I'm like Tom Hanks after he got off the island in castaway. Except that I'm forced to shave because of Sweetie Pie. So I guess I'm Tom Hanks with better hygiene.

And then the question is, what would I do if I got a real job? I'm so sick of jobs sounding great on paper and then when I start them they're nothing but a big pile of caca. I'm sick of every office having that one bitch who makes it her goal in life to make me drive home crying every day.

But the money is so tempting... Even though, almost 900 dollars a month would have to go towards day care, so then I wonder, would the math add up?

What's more important? Being debt free or being fairly happy? Am I willing to gamble with my current level of happiness and hope I'm just as happy as part of a company? Some of my friends are. The big question is, can I ever really be?

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Yup, That Saying is Because of Moi

I go through these stages where I seem to lose everything in sight. I don't know what it is, I can't explain it, but when it occurs, it's quite deadly, because it means that I have to replace a gazillion things.

During the past two weeks, I have lost the following things:

1. My bank card. I keep thinking it's somewhere in my car, but my apparently enormous Jeep Liberty has hidden my card somewhere to never be found.
2. My driver's license. Baby Boy lost this one. He was playing with it in the cart while we were in line at the store. And then he didn't have it anymore. I looked all around the cart, under the baby, but no sign of it. He's yet to poop it out, so I'm pretty sure it wasn't eaten.
3. My cell phone. It's really hard to run a business and have some sort of social life when you lose your only way for people to reach you. Sure, we have a home phone, but who uses that anymore? I tried calling my cell phone repeatedly, but could never hear it ring. I finally broke down and got a new one yesterday. And my Jeep promptly burped out my old one an hour later.

This is why I've always had a fear of forgetting the baby somewhere. Can you blame me? I'm surprised I don't randomly lose my underwear. Imagine explaining that one to Sweetie Pie. "I don't know what happened. I was in the bathroom, and then poof! It was gone!"

Speaking of losing underwear... Here's a freebie butt shot, just because I'm a mother and I can. These are the sorts of things that will make Baby Boy hate me someday, but he can just have his own damn kids to abuse someday.



Love,

Catwoman.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Life As a Nine-Month Old

Things that are really attractive when you're nine-months old:

- The dirt of potted plants
- Toilet brushes
- Toilet plungers
- Trash cans in the bathroom
- Tails, paws and ears of dogs and/or cats sharing your home
- Any piece of lint, clump of pet hair or other non-edible item spotted across the room
- Power cords
- Anything your parents are eating or drinking
- Anything your dogs are eating or drinking
- Anything considered innappropriate for a nine-month old

Things that are oh-so-unappealing when you're nine-months old:

- Your toys
- Your crib
- Nap times
- Bed time
- Vaccinations
- Being told "no." In either French or English

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, June 02, 2006

Nine Months: My Letter to Baby Boy

We are three quarters of the way to your first birthday. Which is really insane. Do you realize that although nine months represents 100 percent of your entire life span, it represents less than 2.5 percent of mine? You've also now spent as much time in my womb as outside of it.

You've gotten even funnier and more stubborn this month. Which is funnier and more frustrating for me. For example, you're not happy simply being placed down now when you are wanting to stand. If you don't want to sit, you'll keep your knees and hips rigid, so that sitting you down becomes as easy as folding a two by four with one hand.



But best of all, this month, you've shown me the kind of love I have never known before. Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a Shakespeare play and I have to pinch myself to be reminded that I'm not as great as you make me feel so that my head doesn't swell to alarming sizes. When I pick you up from daycare, your whole face lights up. If I put you down in the living room with your toys to go to the kitchen, you become hysterical, the idea of being separated from me for more than a second too unbearable to live with. A year ago, I don't think I would have been capable of accepting this level of adoration. I think back of when you were first born and you'd constantly want to caress my hand with your sticky fingers when I'd feed you a bottle, and a couple of times I'd remove your hand, just needing a little personal sapce. Now, I enjoy your gentle touch, appreciating the fact that it will only be a few moons before you decide that I'm the bane of your existence and I should drop you off three blocks from the movie theater or party or brothel where you're meeting your friends.

They call it separation anxiety and it's meant that you refused for a good part of the past month to be put in your crib alone, so you've slept nestled between your dad and I and I've had to lay with you so you would take naps. And I've loved each second of it.



But the coolest thing ever is that you have literally become a little person in the span of only a month. At the beginning of this month, I could sit you down and you'd entertain yourself for a little while. Then you'd go down on your stomach, roll over somewhere and would scream at me to sit you up. Now? Not only did you wake up one day and just know how to get back up, but then you freaking crawled! I thought it would never happen. And as much as I hate to admit it, hearing all the crazy theories about how kids who never crawl end up being illiterate or in jail had me accepting the fact that I should be prepared to use your college fund for bail and lawyer fees. But now, no worries, you'll turn out midly screwed up like the rest of us, and you'll learn to read so that you can appreciate the great litterature of the 21st Century, like Maxim and Playboy and claim you buy it for the articles.



Speaking of reading, did I tell you lately how freaking smart you are? I've been reading you a bedtime story in French and one in English, just about your whole life. Storytime used to consist of me reading a book out loud while you either screamed the entire time, ignored me, or attempted to eat the book. But I persisted, figuring eventually, you would share my love or reading, or I'd die trying damn it. This month, since you discovered standing up, story time has consisted of you paying attention for part of the story and then standing up to conscientiously throw your other books from the book shelf to the floor. And yet, I continued to read to you. And then, last week, all of my work finally paid off and in one of what is certainly going to be many gratifying moments of motherhood and complete mind-blowing pride, you stood up, took one of your books, handed it to me and sat down on my lap, waiting for me to read it to you. I acted like it was no big deal, but I wanted to call Mensa and have them recruit you on the spot, because surely, no eight-month old has ever shown this level of intelligence before.



We traveled to Canada, just the two of us this month and once again, you proved yourself to be a sophisticated world traveler, flirting with all the passengers around us and never resorting to body thrashing and screaming. As the other kids on the plane proved that no one under four feet should be allowed on commercial airlines, I sat there with you, my perfect child, nodding my thanks to the compliments that were consistently given to us. I love being your mother, and know that even when the day comes that we don't see eye to eye or that you begin to misbehave, I will still always be proud of you and love you more than anyone else ever could. Unless you take me on one of those humiliating MTV reality shows. Then I may have to disown you.

Love,

Maman.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Today, My Reign Begins

Bow down to me...

It has happened...

After months of crying and saying "why not me, why not me," I have been named Mom of the Month.

Forget that my son got a huge shiner the day before my kingdom was bequeathed to me. I wasn't there when he got it, so that really shouldn't be held against me. Plus, it's the kid's fault. He's nine months old and has a huge head. His legs can't be expected to stand very long without slamming his cranium into a wall. Besides, I'm sure concussions breed genius. Baby Boy can already say bye (which is more "ba," but who needs that second syllable anyway) as well as tell awesome jokes to himself in the backseat that go something like this: "ah dadada tatata baba. Hahahahaha!" I keep telling him the best comedians don't laugh at their own jokes, but he watched Last Comic Standing with me, and now his idea of what's funny have been warped forever.

I just might have created the next Pauly Shore. Oh world, please save me and yourself if that's true.

But back to me. I've won. I'm Mom of the Month. I get a big sign in my yard that says that I am Mom of the Month and for the rest of my life, I will refer to myself as Former Mom of the Month, June 2006, the way those Miss America women do even if it was way back in 1953. No one can ever take your crown away from you, baby.

I'm going to tell Britney Spears to join my mommy and baby fitness class so that someday she can win mom of the month in LA and then when the papparazzi come clamoring at her house for pictures of her dropping her baby, she can just point to her sign and tell them to leave her the hell alone.

That image makes me wish I had papparazzi hounding me. I'd love to be in US Weekly in the "stars, they're just like us" page standing next to my sign with the caption "They win awards that mean nothing in the real world!"

But here's the thing. It means something to me. When I got the email from our instructor telling me I'd won, I literally jumped up and down from joy, like Tom on Oprah's couch.

Love,

Catwoman.