With having family so far away, Little Man's had to travel a lot in his short two years. Like the chicken and egg dilemna, I'm not sure which came first. Did Little Man become a good traveler because he's flown so much? Or is it just in his nature to enjoy the experience? I think that it's ingrained in him, as I remember very vividly flying as a child and being mesmerized at being above the clouds, listening to the purr of the engine, enjoying the movie and the food, the cold cutlery on the little plastic tray, the flight attendants who brought me juice and cokes and other things I normally wasn't allowed to have at home.
Even now, I love to fly. Despite the cramped conditions, the delays, the flight attendants who don't serve you anything on the flight, the magic of being in a big steel tube up in the sky still amazes me. I know many people will go their entire lives never setting foot on a plane. To me, getting to fly is a privilege, even if that experience ends up being a miserable one.
Little Man, like me, has the travel bug. And I couldn't be more pleased for him. Not only was he the perfect little traveler on this trip, but getting to enjoy flying all over again, as I experienced it through his eyes, well, it made it even more magical to me.
Here are some of my favorite moments of our flights:
- Little Man, upon seeing the planes tucked behind the bridges said "Mama! Plane is hiding!"
- When we got on the plane and Little Man sat down in his window seat and he saw a plane next to us, he said "Don't worry plane, I coming!"
- Every time Little Man would hear the engine speed up or the wings adjust he'd say "What's that sound?" while putting his hand next to his eye.
- When we arrived in Montreal, on our second flight of the day, I asked Little Man if he was ready to see his grandparents and he said "no, I go on plane."
- But my favorite, was this. Upon every landing, Little Man would cheerfully yell "I made it!", like in the video I captured on our arrival in Dallas.
I Made It! from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
With having family so far away, Little Man's had to travel a lot in his short two years. Like the chicken and egg dilemna, I'm not sure which came first. Did Little Man become a good traveler because he's flown so much? Or is it just in his nature to enjoy the experience? I think that it's ingrained in him, as I remember very vividly flying as a child and being mesmerized at being above the clouds, listening to the purr of the engine, enjoying the movie and the food, the cold cutlery on the little plastic tray, the flight attendants who brought me juice and cokes and other things I normally wasn't allowed to have at home.
Friday, December 21, 2007
So tomorrow we leave for Canada. It may not be the land of the free, but it is the land of hockey and beavers, which is way better than freedom if you ask me. Well, maybe not, but it's a close second. Canada also has good beer, that doesn't taste like deer urine, and not being pregnant, I can get my fill.
I'm excited to be going on this trip, although I'm also fully aware that it involves my mother, which with her being quite unbalanced, I know that about three days into the trip, I'll say something that comes off as ungrateful, like the time she was worried that she'd die alone in a retirement home if something happened to my dad and I said something along the lines of "hell no, we'll just ship you monthly between our three houses, my sisters and I."
The general feeling behind this statement was that she could live with the three of us, and just take turns so that she could see all of her daughters and grand-kids equally and not get bored. Also, I thought in the back of my mind that this might prevent all three of us from doing heroin, or something even stronger, to cope with her living with one of us full-time.
Talking with my mother is a little like being interviewed by a very hormonal Bill O'Reilly. Every single thing you say is taken out of context and thrown back in your face, in the most stressful boardgame ever. In monopoly, if you lose, you lose all your money, in my mother's game, you lose your life through endless speeches and brain sucking whining. So this statement I made last Christmas turned into me being an ungrateful bitch, because in my plan she'd be shipped around without ever having a chance to give her opinion or do what she wants.
Uhm. What? First, this was a hypothetical conversation. And I was kind of put on the spot, so it's not like I had a solid plan, it was more of a hey, no, here's something we can do, but I was still open to suggestions, sheesh. Second, I thought it was sweet of me to offer not just my home, but my sisters' at the same time. I'm a good person like that.
So anyway. Canada? It might be very, very pretty and be filled with really, really nice people, but where I'm going, there are a lot of freaking land mines. I'm talking major war zone where I feel a few peacekeepers (invented by Canadians, by the way) should come with me for protection.
You want to hear everthing that's wrong with me right now?
Closed off throat from huge inflated glands on the side of my neck fighting world war with godzilla-like cold: 1.
Nose that's pouring snot at an alarming rate, causing side of nose to ressemble a porter steak from blowing it so much: 1.
Head that feels like Satan's Dog has chewed up the back of it overnight: 1.
Eye that's very obviously got pink eye: 1
Good thing I've seen every episode of Grey's Anatomy so that I can figure out it's pink eye and just use the drops from last time. I just don't understand how I've managed to get pink eye twice in a year now, when I've never had it my entire life. I know one class at Little Man's daycare (not his), had one reported case of it last week. He doesn't have it and he's there all day, I'm there three minutes twice a day and I get it. Does the pink eye just look for me????
Well children, I'm off. I'll try to post while I'm in Canada, but it will be sporadic. Some of you probably won't even try to visit me during the next week and to you I say "why are you so mean?" No. I don't. Because I won't be able to get my blog fix until December 30th either, because if I post, I won't also have time to go read all of you. So Merry Christmas to those of you to celebrate, to those who don't, happy 25th of December, enjoy the random day off.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
So the world? It has decided that I must go without sleep for the rest of my life. That it is a better place when I'm cranky and snarl and show my teeth all the time and my head rotates 360 degrees over every little thing.
I'd tell you the last time I had a full night sleep, but unfortunately, I don't remember when it was. I'm pretty sure the Civil War was still going on though. Also? Some kid named Frank Sinatra was becoming really, really popular.
For the past few weeks, Little Man has spontaneously woken up crying at random times in the night. I've always been a big believer of letting him crying it out, once I discovered that he would not in fact keel over and die if he cried for five or 10 minutes (this realization took a mere four months of motherhood to come upon me. I'm what they call a swift learner), but now, Little Man can freaking speak. And it's really, really hard to ignore your child when he's wailing "MOOOOO-MEEEEEE! DAH-DEEEEEEEE! HELP MEEEEEEEE!"
And I know from getting up about 10 billion times now that he's not in fact pinned under something heavy. And his stuffed frog has not come to life and turned into a vampire brain sucking toad trying to eat him. And he is not being attacked by an army of ninjas who think he's a member of the CIA. I know that it's him waking up for who knows what reason and using his words, something I tell him all freaking day when he goes into whiny mode instead of saying what he wants. The irony of him using his freaking words when the moon is out has not escaped me, I can assure you of that.
Two nights ago, Little Man couldn't fall asleep at all. Exhausted, I just finally said to him "do you want to sleep with Mama and Daddy tonight?" To which he thought "I've got me a sucker, whoo-hoo! Score! High five!" and agreed that yes, indeed, he would like to sleep with me. And my son, who I love more than life itself and would gouge my own eyes out if it meant I could add just one more minute to his life, somehow turns into his sleep into David Beckham or some gangster who kicks his victims to death.
I mean, we have a freaking King-size bed. This thing could accommodate Shaquille O'Neal and the whole cast of the Biggest Loser before their amazing weight loss. But somehow? When you throw in a 33 inch toddler who tips the scales at roughly 27 pounds, that bed shrinks to the size of a matchbook.
And my son, uses me as his punching bag, but with his feet. All. Freaking. Night.
Last night, when we were going through the bed time routine in his room, I finished reading his book and he jumped off my lap and said "ok, go dodo (sleep in French) with Mama and Daddy now."
I was like "uhm... Yeah. No."
Because I'm very eloquent when I'm put on the spot by very short men with too much hair on their heads.
And somehow, magically, the universe felt sorry for me. And not only did Little Man fall asleep in his toddler bed, like he does most of the time, but then he went on to sleep through the night, and the angels sang as I wept from joy in my sleep.
(side note: I expect there will be no pregnancy-inducing nookie this week, as I desperately try to catch up on weeks of lost sleep.)
I slept soundly until 3:41 a.m., when I was brusquely roused from deep sleep by the sound of a gagging dog. Freaking Satan's Dog, destroyer of all things made by humans, including sprinkler systems, gutters and fences, was puking whatever his stomach had decided was indigestible, which from the sounds of it was a small South American village.
I leapt out of bed because, have you seen the color of my carpet in my pictures? It's a light cream color, which in no way matches any of the vomit that's ever come out of the dog's system. I race through the living room to get him to the back door.
Unfortunately, I'm barefoot (because who the hell wears shoes to bed right?) and when I go running across the tile floor where the back door is, I slip and land on my side, which scares Satan's Dog, so that he runs through my living room while simultaneously throwing up. So that an 8-foot long trail of vivid gold-brown vomit runs through my entire living room, like some designer went off his meds.
This means that from 3:23 (I spent two minutes whisper-yelling every curse word I know) until approximately 4:12 a.m., I was carefully spraying white vinegar and blotting with paper towels to get my carpet back to its semi-spotless state.
I then crawled back into bed, only to feel a wet spot on the top sheet. Did you know dog vomit can seep through a goose down duvet and a top sheet?
Yeah, me neither.
Who wants to write the "free to good home" ad for Craig's List for me?
Or who wants an 18-month old dog for Christmas? Anyone? Anyone?
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
With the holidays quickly approaching, I need to give a few thanks.
First, you've probably noticed my new look. I recently won a prize from the wonderful Splat Designs who did such a fantastic job at capturing me and creating this kick ass blog page for me. If you're ever looking to re-do your Web site, call her, will you, because not only is she fast, but she's really, really talented too!
Second, I want to thank Passport Canada, for making sure that my passport got out in time for me to get back to Canada so that my mother can say for a whole 8 days "should you really be eating that when you're barely fitting in your clothes?" or "when you were little, I never let you do that." Thank you Passport Canada for allowing me to spend a Christmas the way it was meant to, with people that made me want to drink myself silly so that all I hear are the voices in my head.
And last but not least, I need to thank all of you, my bloggy friends. I think a year ago, I only knew maybe a handful of you. But over the past year, your friendship has grown in importance to me to the point that non-bloggers might think I'm a little weird. Like when I hear something about Ohio, I think of a certain lady with blue eyes who has an insane amount of nookie. When I get yelled at for spending too much money at Target, I thing that a certain New York state resident would totally understand. I no longer think of Alberta as that place filled with Republicans, instead, it's where my oldest blogging buddy lives, and because of her it's now become to me a place filled with beautiful blonde blue eyed baby girls with kick ass moms. When it rains, I think of Washington State and how lucky it is to have as a resident Liam and Lily and their freaking off-the-chart cool mom and dads. Alabama's no longer a land of hicks, but instead two of my good friends now reside there. Same thing with Tennessee. I've learned Red Skins fans can also be great (and insanely busy) mothers, even if they have no taste in football teams. I read books now and wonder if a certain pregnant woman might have edited it. When I think about getting pregnant, I think of all of you who are pregnant, who've had children, who are struggling to get or stay pregnant. I've gotten to meet more hilariously funny, smart, talented, down-to-earth and amazingly cool women (and a man or two) through this blog and the blogs of my friends than I could have ever imagined. My world is a better place because of all of you. Every day, no matter how busy I might be, I have to keep up with my favorite people. If I had to choose between television and blogging, I'd give up the Grey's Anatomy cast in a heart beat. Because all of your lives? Way more interesting to me than anything any of the networks can ever put on.
Thank you for continuing to blog. I'd miss you way too much if you went away. Thanks for letting me read about your children and grand children. Your husbands and boyfriends. Your successes and heartbreaks. Your victories and defeats. Your joys and the things that make you laugh and cry.
Most of all, thanks for being my friend. For cheering for me and for making me feel that there's nothing I can't do, because I've got this huge support system. For crying with me, no matter how big or small the issue that's making me cry might be. For loving Little Man almost as much as me. There are days when I feel like I'm not raising him alone (well, I do have Sweetie Pie, so that's the first part of not being alone), but that he's being raised by this village in bloggy land, that cares and cheers for him as much as I do. Someday, he'll be on the soccer field and will score in the wrong net. And next to me there will be all of you cheering for him with me, albeit not physically, but I will feel you next me nonetheless.
I've received many Christmas cards from you and I've cherished every one of them. Sweetie Pie, who doesn't know about this blog is confused. "Who do we know in (name of city of blogger)." And I roll my eyes at him and say "you know, that's my friend so and so."
Some day, I'll let him into my world. But for now, I like having this safe place that's all mine. He's got hunting. I've got bloggy land.
As far as I'm concerned, I've got the way better deal.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Look what I got! I got me an ornament! A Be-yoooo-tiful ornament (said the Anna Nicole Smith way). It's all sparkly and pretty and I heart it so much. I had to take the picture without the flash, because when I used the flash it sparkled so much, it looked like I'd taken the picture of the sun. To say I love it is quite the under-statement! And who sent me this fantastic ornament? Why my secret swap partner J, that's who.
And to all of you who posted about how great my Christmas tree looked in the picture of Little Man in his pimp suit, uhm, well, that wasn't my tree, that was the tree of a fancy schmancy steak house. As a refresher, this is my tree, with the new ornament in it, although you can't really see it, since it's tucked amongst 30,000 other ornaments.
And thanks to Abbily Ever After for setting it up!
This morning, I opened my laptop case and sitting next to my computer was the lid of my plastic drink pitcher.
And a toddler navy blue sock.
My day can't get any better than that.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
So I know I said that I was taking another month off from trying. What with the potential baby's due date being close to Little Man's birthday. But the greatness of Babycenter's ovulation calculator told me that my baby would be due September 10th, if I chose to put out all next week. That means that I would have a C-section around August 27th. That's six days earlier than Little Man's birthday, nine days earlier than Sweetie Pie's, 12 days earlier than my father-in-law's birthday and 15 days earlier than mine.
I figure, screw it. That's far enough apart for me.
The idea of letting another precious egg go to waste, when I don't know how many I have left at this point is making me itch. So I'm going for it. Wish me luck.
I also have an update for my passport situation, in case anyone actually cares.
I called the very sweet, wonderfully warm and amazingly good looking people at Passport Canada and they told me yesterday that my passport application has now been approved, and all that is needed for it is to be printed and shipped to me. I need to call on Monday to get my DHL tracking number, but I will get it in time for our trip, with a day or ts. To say that I jumped through the phone and French kissed the guy who told me this is an understatement. I would have given him my boobies and a kidney as a thank you.
So now, I just need to hope that Passport Canada doesn't google their name with the word "suck" and if they do, that they don't find yesterday's entry and with the details figure out my identity and somehow "lose" my file. Because that, would really, really suck. I take back everything I said about you, Passport Canada. I think you rock. And you smell really, really nice too. Like the breath of a baby butterfly.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
So I am now nine days away from leaving for Canada. And I? Don't have a passport.
To say that I'm freaking out is quite the understatement. I applied the first week of October, which if we want to be petty is 10 weeks ago now. Sweetie Pie? He applied for his new US passport at the same time and had it in our mailbox two weeks later.
Three weeks ago, I spoke to a friendly Passport Canada agent who wanted to confirm what name I wanted printed on my passport. I asked her before hanging up with her when I could expect my passport and she said in two weeks at most.
Last Friday, the Passport Canada charge still hadn't appeared in my bank account and I was starting to get panicked. I called and the agent who answered began to ask me the same exact questions that the previous agent had asked me two weeks before. I told her this fact and asked if my file had just been sitting there the whole time with nothing done to it, when I was 14 days out from travelling. She told me that they just needed to double check some things, which is a big wh-what to me when I'd already had them double check this information and is obviously code for "yeah, we fucked up, but we ain't going to tell you that, ok."
The good news is that I have a plan B, C and D to get to Canada. I will get there for Christmas, even if Hallmark ends up making a movie out of the adventure.
Option A: I get my passport in time. The world rejoices, causing world peace and the safe return of our soldiers.
Option B: I get confirmation that I can fly to Canada with just my green card, which one Canadian girlfriend told me was the case and that if the Canadian Consulate would return my calls, I could confirm. The world prays that I don't get an a-hole customs agent on my return who says that's not true, even though the US Customs Web site says it is, and I don't get detained and cavity searched in a dark office at the airport.
Option C: I fly to Chicago with Sweetie Pie and Little Man. They get on a flight to Montreal from there. I get on a United Airlines flight to Burlington Vermont, an hour South of the Canadian border. Someone from my family crosses the border, comes and picks me up and I get through without any issues with just my green card, since you don't yet need a passport to drive across. This option costs me $500 more, because tickets to Burlington? Ain't cheap.
Option D: I drink a lot. This option actually bleeds into all of the previous options, because the only way I'll survive any of this is by being blitzed and not caring half as much.
I spent yesterday afternoon googling stories about Passport Canada and it was all horror movie materials. To say that I'm slightly tense about all of this is like saying that Bill O'Reilly on FOX News is slightly an asshole.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
This is Little Man at dinner on Sunday night, when we ate at a nice restaurant with my in-laws. He'll also wear this suit at his cousin's baptism next week, if Passport Canada would get their heads out of their ass and issue me my passport.
The suit? Was bought at a consignment sale for five dollars.
The fact that Little Man looks like a freaking rock star in it? Priceless.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Saturday, I took Little Man to the eye doctor's for his annual eye exam. Since he was a new patient to this practice, I had to fill out the whole long questionnaire, including a whole slew of questions that really don't apply to a two-year old. And since there was nothing else to do, I asked Little Man the questions out loud. This is the conversation that ensued:
Me: "are you currently taking any medication?"
Little Man nods.
"Really? What medicines are you taking?
I nod and check the yes box and write "cookies" in the blank section.
"Do you drink alcohol?"
Little Man nods.
"You do? I had no idea. Next question. Do you smoke?"
Little Man nods.
"Huh, I should probably pay more attention to what you do. Do you drive at night?"
Little Man nods.
"Really? But night time is past your bed time."
Little Man grins.
I tell you, you think you know someone, and then you ask them the questions on a medical questionnaire.
Friday, December 07, 2007
The other night, Little Man woke us up with his crying. Which some might call highly inconsiderate on his part, but I've decided that I have to accept this flaw, since he's so good looking and good looking people don't have to be considerate. Just ask any celebrity.
When I rushed up the stairs, stumbling due to being roused from deep sleep, not due to being drunk, unfortunately, I came to find out that Little Man was crying because he couldn't find his beloved stuffed frog. The one that he clutches in his sleep as if it would be impossible for him to live without that worn down green frog.
I found the lost frog in the dark, gave it back to Little Man, shushed him back to sleep, stroked his hair and crawled back into bed.
As I did so, this flashback hit me like lightning. Am I the only one who ever has that? Where a flashback is so strong, you're practically transported back in the moment and can see everything so clearly, smell and hear everything of that instant that you feel like you are reliving it?
The moment I relived was when Little Man was itty bitty. I want to say he was a few weeks old at most. Those first months, I've talked about at length before, were very, very brutal, because Little Man was morally opposed to sleep then.
Eventually, I figured out that the only way he would sleep, was laying on my chest, skin to skin, with a swaddling blanket over his back.
When he'd sleep that way, I'd go in and out of consciousness, because I was so terrified that he would fall off me, hit the mattress and break in half somehow. Maybe his head would roll off, I wasn't sure, I was a new mom and I was scared shitless, no matter how many "What to Expect" books I had read.
One night, at some ungodly hour where only feral cats in heat are awake, I woke up and Little Man was no longer on my chest. I clearly remember the feeling of my entire skeleton flying out of my body, and I'm pretty sure that my bladder temporarily forgot about Kegel exercises, and I peed myself in terror. I had managed to lose my newborn son.
I groped the sheet around me, patted the floor, quietly wailing and wondering how I could be such a terrible mother. And then thanks to the moonlight streaming between the slats of our bedroom blinds, I spotted him. Asleep peacefully. In his bassinet. Next to our bed. Where I had managed to get him to sleep (for once) after the previous feeding.
I still remember the feeling of terror sapping every ounce of energy I had left as it was replaced by just overwhelming relief.
As I laid in bed this week, reliving that moment from more than two years ago, my heart still continued to beat a little faster. I still have the fear of losing my son. It haunts me every day. Maybe even every minute, somewhere in my subconscious.
And I knew that when Little Man woke up and his frog was missing, he felt the exact same way that I felt on that day.
I don't know if I should be happy for my son that he's able to experience love that intense. Or if I should feel sad for him that it's directed at a stuffed green frog, with a frayed ribbon around its neck.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
I feel like I'm running out of time. As I write this, Christmas is exactly 19 days, 14 hours and 34 minutes away. Dear God, what am I going to do?
I don't know how this happened, I mean, I bought my first Christmas present on January 6th. How does one start 12 days after the last event and is still not done this close to the wire?
Little Man is done. He's not getting a ton of gifts this year, because it seems there's nothing left for him to own. And what he doesn't own is for kids three years and older and would be of no use to him, although I'd love for him to get cracking on learning to play Scrabble, just so I can feel better about Blue Momma beating me every single time at Facebook's Scrabulous. Surely I can beat a two year-old who pronounces outdoor spaces as "outchide."
He is getting a little four-wheeler, because he's a Texas boy and embarrassingly enough, we're way behind on his redneck training. The kid can't even spit chewing tobacco properly yet.
We're hoping that by strapping a dead baby deer to the front of this, the neighborhood will be convinced that he's one of them. Even if he'll be wearing an argyle Gymboree vest with a Tommy Hillfiger blue long-sleeved dress shirt while riding around. He'll also probably pout that we didn't get him the fluorescent pink Dora ATV.
He's also getting books, because I think it's important for kids to not have too much fun. And because he's half Canadian, so I believe that despite being Texan by birth, he should be somewhat literate.
And then he's getting a couple of other toys. And that's it.
Sweetie Pie is not done, although I'm running out at lunch and taking care of him. All he wants for Christmas is a coupon that guarantees him adaily bj. But they don't sell those at Walmart, so he's getting a new backpack/laptop case and a new electric razor. I'm sure he'll think they're better than his Christmas wish.
I still need to finish my sisters' birthday gift, which is a recipe book/album with all of my grandmother's recipes. I only have some pictures in hard copies and our scanner is dead, so I need to figure out if I can go to Kinko's and scan them there and upload them to Snapfish from Kinko's. Snapfish keeps stressing me by telling me I only have 8 more days to order the gifts in time for Christmas. Which is so not helpful.
Then I need to get the two senior citizens and one foster child I've adopted their Christmas gifts. I also adopted a teenager, and I got her done easily, because she wanted scrapbooking supplies, which I have about $3,000 worth of stock from my Creative Memories consultant days. So she's getting a crapload of stuff, just because I just want to get rid of some at this point.
I think Christmas would be a really good time to start smoking again.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
So yesterday, I'm at home with Little Man, he's napping, I'm catching up on shows I've Tivoed, it's a great day off that included seeing some old friends in the morning. Suddenly the door bell rings and I run to the door, because why is it someone always rings the door bell during nap time? Especially when my son is starting to show signs that maybe at some point he won't take three hour naps anymore, like on Sunday where he slept exactly 0.0 minutes.
I open the door, and there's my favorite mail person. Her hair unbrushed, the smell of old nicotine hovering around her, she always brings me good stuff like eBay orders and it's nice to be there when she has packages for me.
I look at the package and it's a ginormous box from Emma.
And I opened it and I was blinded by the rays of sunshine and rainbows pouring out of it. Because this? Might be the greatest package ever sent to anyone, let alone me.
Want to see what I got?
See that? it's three books! Not one, not two, three! Which Little Man would tell you is tres in Spanish. And Dora the Explorer would agree with him. I haven't read any of them before, so I'm very, very excited!
And Little Man got a book too! Whoo-hoo! Canadian litterature for Little Man! I'm so excited! We've already read it six times in a row. It's safe to say I now know my ABC's. The illustrations? Are beautiful.
Then it gets really, really, really good.
Those? Are the best chocolate chip cookies in the world. How they're not available in the US and haven't put Chips Ahoy into bankruptcy protection, I'll never know. The only way I can describe them is imagine biting into a best-chocolate in the world filled kitten. When you bite into them, they practically purr. And your eyes tend to roll to the back of your head. And then you see colors that you didn't even know existed. And for that second, the world stops and all you hear is the singing of the sun.
Yeah, they're that good. Because I love Little Man almost as much as I love those cookies, I gave him one. He was so honored, he promised that he would never ever force me to watch Dora the Explorer with him again and make me pretend that I care that Boots the monkey lost his bouncy bouncy ball.
And the can of coffee? Oh goodness. That coffee must be the work of angels. I get myself a large English Toffee Cappucino every single time I can when I'm in Canada. How Emma knows these things about me? I have no freaking clue. She's either the world's most discreet stalker, or I've blogged about every detail of my life. Should I someday need someone to write a thorough biography of me, my first choice would be Emma, because she can probably recite to you where every single one of my moles are too.
But there's more! Look! It's chocolate! Not just any chocolate, Canadian chocolate! I once posted about how there are no Smarties in the US. Emma found this to be appalling. And I am with her. I've already written three letters to my congressman and senator on this issue, but apparently an exit strategy in Iraq is more important to them. And Aero, oh the greatness that is Aero. And Caramilk. It's a toss up on which has more greatness. I'd describe the feelings to you, but it would probably kill you to know that you have never gotten to live in a country with this much wonderfulness. Have you all applied for immigration to Canada yet? Because the whole country? It's filled with fantastic foods like this, I'm not even kidding you. There's also snow. Oh and beavers. We like beavers a lot.
Look! It's Canadian Magazines! Not just that! One of them? Says "reception copy" on it. In my opinion, you can't truly know someone is your friend until they steal reading material from work for you. Such thoughtfulness fills me with very, very fuzzy and gooey feelings.
But this? This is my FAVORITE gift of all! Look it's gum! But it's packaged like its food for a Supermodel! At first I was confused, because I thought it really was flavored like a roast duck with blackberry sauce like it said on the back. But it's actually cinnamon gum. The sheer brilliance of this makes me afraid to even eat it. It's too great to just be eaten!
Did I mention Emma freaking rocks????
And since I'm posting pictures left right and center, I got called a douchebag by someone who shall remain unnamed for not posting a picture of my Christmas tree. So there you go. In all of its glory. Notice there's nothing on the top of the tree. That would be because the tree fell over last year and our Santa at the top lost his ceramic face in the fall. He was headless Santa for the rest of the Christmas season. I just couldn't put him up again. I have requested from my mother-in-law a new tree topper, hopefully it's not something ugly and tacky that I regret for the next 30 years...
In 30 years, it will have so many ornaments on it, that the floor will cave in. That day, I will have finally achieved the tree of my dreams.
On a completely separate note, some of you have pointed out that Little Man's picture is missing from my header. I have no idea why. It shows up in the template, but on the blog, it doesn't. And I'm too stupid about these things to know how to fix it. However, I have a brilliant designer working on a new template for me, since I won third place in Splat Design's giveaway (link is still in my sidebar if you want her to create one for you, she's insanely affordable and does fantastic work) and will be using my monthly allowance to spruce up this place.
Also, you'll notice that the countdown to my pregnancy is gone. That's because Aunt Flo is expected any second now. Without getting too graphic, I know she'll be here by tomorrow in full force. Don't feel bad for me, I don't think I was ready to get pregnant this month, due to fear of having back to back miscarriages. Next month, I'm getting off the pregnancy bandwagon, because my math states baby #2 would either share a birthday with Little Man or be one or two days before. Which I will not do to my child, simply because he already has to share his birthday month with his dad, grandfather and Mama, with only a 9 day spread between the four of us. And with my niece having her birthday two weeks before Little Man, that's just too many damn kid birthdays.
I know that might seem stupid, but I'm going to wait another month and shoot for an end of September, early October baby instead.
Plus, I'd probably be ovulating while we're in Canada for Christmas, which I just cannot do it at my parents house. I don't have it in me.
Monday, December 03, 2007
This is Little Man during this past Thursday's Cowboys game.
Go Cowboys! from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.
This video also proves that like the Brad Paisley song, I'm so much cooler online... I apologize for the nerdy laughter.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
So you and I, we're buddies, right? So I have a couple of questions for you, and I'd like you to answer them honestly. First, why is that you think that if I ask you if you want an apple or cereal for breakfast that responding with "cookies?" will get me to change my mind? We don't have cookies in the house. Not because I'm against cookies per say, but the times I do buy cookies, they barely make it out of the store alive, because I'm busy shoveling them down as fast as I can, like I'm practicing for some eating competition. If you were a woman, you would totally understand how this lack of control can occur. My second question to you is why the hell do you feel the need to jam your sharp little fingers right in my eyeball every. single. time I wear my glasses? I realize they're crooked, but that's because you got a hold of them when you were younger and treated them like they were silly putty. I also realize I look like an unattractive version of Tina Fey with them on. But you making me more blind is not going to help, I promise.
You've made me laugh so hard this month that I'm pretty sure I've permanently pulled an abdominal muscle. I wish I wrote it all down, but seriously, following you around with my laptop all day wouldn't be very conducive, because the second you see my laptop, you like to hit all the keys as hard as you can while yelling what letter they are. And laptops? They don't like your abuse very much.
The other day, I put you in your car seat and your Ernie doll was waiting for you there. You picked him up, took one look at him and said "Oh my gosh! Ernie's a mess!" This made me laugh so hard, because you sounded like one of those makeover show hosts. And because, seriously? You still poop your pants, so who are you to judge?
Yesterday, we drove by the SPCA and I thought we could go in to look at the dogs and cats, because one, it's free and two, you share my love of animals, specifically my love for putting ridiculous things on them, like leis, and taking their picture while they sit there humiliated. As we pulled up to the building, I explained to you that this is where Satan's Dog came from. You nodded gravely and said "yeah, me too." Apparently? It only took two years, two months, three weeks and six days for you to decide that surely, you must be adopted, because you don't sing as off key as I do and you surely aren't as insane.
Your love of music has deepened further this month. If you hear a song you particularly like, you'll sit silently, listening intently until it's done. When it's over, you'll clap and cheer and tell me "Mama, I like it." Because you know I need more explaining than the average person, and when people clap and cheer around me? I'm usually confused as to whether this is a sign of their love or hatred. If I offer to play the song for you again, you look at me like I've just offered you world peace and chocolate. That? Makes me feel like I might be the most powerful person on Earth.
You've also developed a passion for cooking, which is so amazing to me, because growing up, I couldn't have cared less about anything domestic. I think I only knew where the kitchen in my house was because ever so often, there'd be chocolate kept there. But you demand to sit on the counter while I cook. And you'll take out every single one of my stirring utensils. This greatly amuses me, as your father used to complain that when I cook I use every pot, bowl and spoon we own. Now he's discovered that actually, I wasn't that bad until you came along. You'll happily hold a measuring spoon as I pour the milk, sugar or whatever ingredient we might need into it and then when you dump it in the bowl or pot or whatever else I ask you to do, you literally beam, and I swear angels are coming out of your ears and harps are coming out of your nose. Your grandfather is a trained chef, and your godmother, my sister, used to always be with him in the kitchen growing up. You, have obviously inherited their love of cooking, and I'm hoping, by default their talent. I'm thinking this means that at 10 years old you'll be making perfectly velvety Hollandaise sauce, and bring me Eggs Benedict to bed every Sunday morning. Right?
We took you to see Disney on Ice's Finding Nemo and you kept telling us the next day "I saw Nemo." Just in case we forgot. I was amazed that you sat through the whole thing, while your bored father fidgeted beside you the whole time. But you, you sat there silently taking it all in and ever so often, I'd whisper in your hair "do you see Nemo?" And you'd nod that yes indeed, there he is, out of the television screen and twirling around like the little gay fish we all knew he was.
You can't stand it when I try to do too much. You'll sigh dramatically as you're playing with blocks or a puzzle and you'll pat the ground or the chair next to me and say "Sit Mama!" That statement always brings a mixture of love and warmth, with a touch of guilt, as I wonder if you ask me to be with you because you simply feel that I'm not there enough.
Picking you up from school remains my favorite part of the day. As soon as you spot me at the door, you'll drop everything you're doing, run to me, without caring which child you mow down, and scream "MAMA! MAMA!" It's like something in a movie and it's all I can do to not squeeze you so hard that I end up breaking you. All I want to do in that moment is embrace you as hard as I can, twirl you around and wait for the music's crescendo to occur. Because surely real life can't be this great, can it?
You've become extremely bossy to your dogs, which is a little disconcerting, and yet so hilarious, because the things that come out of your mouth, are priceless? In your defense, those damn dogs are always harrassing you. You can't have any item of food in your hand without them plotting ways to extract it from you. This causes you great distress, and you've learned that your words are all you have to fight back. And so you'll wave your empty hand at them and scream their names followed by "Get away! RIGHT NOW!!!! This is Little Man's!" or "Stop it! RIGHT NOW!!!! You go outside! Be nice!" And all the dogs hear is "Wah-wah wah wah wah!" and they think "the little human seems more angry than usual, he might drop his animal cracker and we must stick our cold nose in the crook of his neck and give him another wet willie."
Your dad has officially turned you into a Cowboys fan, which brings him such great joy that really, you could accomplish nothing else with your life and he'd still be perfectly happy. My favorite part? You don't quite understand that there are other teams in the NFL. Some Cowboys fans would tell you that you are correct, the only real team is the Cowboys. But everytime you notice football on the television, you'll glance over at your dad and yell "Go Cowboys! Whoo-hoo!" All I can think is that I must get you to a hockey game ASAP.
I love you my Little Man,
Friday, November 30, 2007
I was watching the first few minutes of the Today Show this morning, as I try to do every day and of course, as has been the case for weeks now, the Stacy Peterson case was their top story. Why this disappearance is more interesting than the other hundreds of women, men and children who have probably disappeared since then, I'm guessing is because she's white, young and attractive.
An old African-American woman disappeared in Dallas around the same time Stacy Peterson did. Yesterday, her body was found. The story that briefly mentioned the finding of the body was on our local broadcast, squeezed between traffic and a story about artificial Christmas trees versus real Christmas trees. Where is Meredith to interview this woman's family begging for her return and asking for assistance in the search? Even worse? I've now tried to find on local sites the name of the woman and I can't seem to find any news stories about it.
I'm going to step off this soap box now, to get on another one. This morning? On the Today Show, they had a guy on who was talking about how Drew Peterson, Stacy Peterson's husband might have disposed of the body in a blue container. How did this guy know this? Because apparently, he went to Junior High School 19 years ago with Drew Peterson's half brother. And he still kind of knows the guy and apparently the half brother has told people he thinks he helped him accidentally.
What draws these people to be on television and take such pleasure in a family's pain in order to tell others "hey, I was on the Today Show! Isn't that cool????"
When I was in university, I worked one year at a Second Cup, the Canadian equivalent of Starbucks, and the reason that I still harbor resentment for big, bad American Starbucks, because I was raised to believe that you support Canadian companies, damn it. Now that I'm in the US, it's obviously not as big of a concern, since there really aren't Canadian companies here to pick over the US companies, but the companies I grew up resenting, well, it's still hard for me to give them my money.
Like I still won't go to a Dunkin Donuts, because I'm a Tim Horton's girl. Nearest Tim Horton's to me? Uhm, probably about 1,600 miles. I'm what they call a brand loyalist.
Either way. I had some regulars while I worked at that Second Cup. If I actually had a long term memory, I might remember one or two of them. And for this exercise we'll pretend I do. Let's say one of my regulars that I remember disappears. And the case actually becomes interesting to media. Never would it occur to me to call one of the news stations and say "oh, I knew him back then, and I think he was kind of slutty, maybe that's why he's gone now."
Because really? If you knew someone 19 years ago, chances are, there nothing like you remember. Anyone who has gone to Junior High with me would describe me as awkward, shy, but then really talkative once I got to know them. Although I'm extremely talkative still, the rest of that phrase, not so much applies to me anymore.
I do still think of myself as awkward. Things will come out of my mouth, that I want to quickly grab and destroy before everyone has a chance to realize what I said. People around me? Consider these verbal diarrhea attacks charming and particularly witty.
Someone who knew me in junior high would also say that I was too skinny with no boobs. I think it's fair to say now that this description would apply to me as well as the spam emails offering me pills that will enlarge my member to make her scream all night.
I wonder who else might gravely look in the camera asking for my safe return. The neighbor who I've never spoken to, but wave at every time our cars pass on our street? My super in Toronto who met me once when I got the keys from him and said to never call him unless my apartment was on fire, leading me to have a broken oven for more than a year, until a new super started, because I didn't want to make him mad. Maybe the airline passenger I spilled an entire tray of orange juice on once during my flight attendant career.
What gives any of these people a right to have a public voice during someone's tragedy?
Thursday, November 29, 2007
So I have to say, I love, love, love Christmas time. A time where people shove each other at the mall, in their race to buy crap that the recipient will promptly hide in the back of their closet and then two years later sell for 2 dollars at their garage sale, or donate it to the Salvation Army so that poor people are stuck trying to decide what to do with it.
We put up our tree last week, which is always an event that destroys the Dallas power grid, because I believe that a Christmas tree is not a real Christmas tree if it isn't adorned with at least 125,609 white bulbs.
Then, we put up our 239 mismatched ornaments, because there are two schools of tree decorating, the Martha Stewart all one-color tree decorating, which to me is a little like sorting one's closets by shirt color and season, I mean come on, let loose, fart in public, really live man! Which puts me in the second category, which is that no more than two ornaments on the tree can match, and each year you add more, so that your tree ressembles something a three-year old put together when he was really, really drunk.
Sweetie Pie? He was raised in a family from the first kind of Christmas tree, which really isn't surprising, since he's Baptist and all, and color, like dancing, is considered to be a sin.
And so our tree is up. And the decorations are on. And yet, every day since we've put it up, Little Man goes around the tree, handpicks his favorite ornaments, removes them and carries them around, like they're his personal treasures. When you ask him what the hell he's doing, he just looks at you and tells you that "It's Little Man's." Because to a two-year old, everything is his. Even my mascara and my maxi pads are his.
I'm thinking we'll need to break him of this by the time he's a teenager, so he's not stealing cars and claiming to the cops that duh, they're his.
My shopping is almost done, which of course means that my eyes are twitching, because shopping? How can it ever be done? As long as there are paychecks earned, money has to be spent, right?
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
This morning, Little Man leads me to the pantry, as he always does, to choose his breakfast.
When we get there, he looks up at the shelves above him, the ones where I hide all the food he shouldn't have and he says "I want this one?"
I follow his hand with my eyes and realize that he's pointing at a bag of spaghetti. My child? Loves to eat raw pasta for some reason. He could literally eat an entire box of macaroni raw, if I would let him, but unfortunately, my fear of him having no teeth won't allow him to get on the raw diet that has made Demi Moore so hot.
So I tell him that no, he cannot have spaghetti.
And since every book on raising toddler tells you to distract them with something they can have in order to avoid a tantrum, I tell him "would you like these powdered donuts instead?"
Because what could be a more nutritious breakfast than processed dough that has been fried and coated in pure crack?
My son acquiesces that yes, this is a mighty good plan for breakfast, so I get him his cup of soy milk (we were out of Coke, obviously), and place him on the bed in front of the television while I finish getting ready for work.
I can hear all of you running to call CPS from here. Does it help if I tell you I give him a Flinstone vitamin?
So as I'm eating my healthy breakfast which consists of a little coffee drowned by 3 cups of flavored creamer with a toasted English muffin smothered by a stick of unsalted butter (oh God, how my taste buds are salivating again just at the description...), Little Man calls to me. Thinking he must have already inhaled the four mini donuts and that he's asking for more, I brace myself for having to tell him that I will not be giving him another package of donuts.
As I walk in, he has a look of disgust on his face and says "no more donuts momma" and he proceeds to shove the remaining 3.5 donuts towards me. My legs buckle at this point, because I'm concerned that he will never fit in here in Texas, the land of lard biscuits covered in lard gravy and that he'll be deported to California, where he'll open a restaurant that serves nothing but rice cakes coated in wheat germ and grass.
He then proceeded to break my heart by asking for a banana.
It is very clear to me now that the hospital? They gave me the wrong child.
To get over the sadness that fills my heart, I ate those 3.5 donuts. It was a hollow feeling.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Little Man rushes into the living room clutching two bouncy balls.
"I have two balls! I have two balls!
- Yes you do, Sweetie, and I'm sure your future wife would be very pleased to hear it."
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Since it's the day before Thanksgiving, I thought I'd just blog about the things I'm thankful for:
- I'm thankful for my wonderful Little Man, who's smart, funny, healthy and loves me so much that I'm reduced to tears just thinking about it.
- I'm thankful for being healthy, albeit overweight if you look at my body mass index (BMI).
- I'm thankful for maternity pants, despite not being pregnant, since I can't fit into any of my normal pants without showing off one mean camel toe.
- I'm thankful for my awesome husband and I'm especially thankful that he's very well hung. I'd love him even if he wasn't, but it's a nice bonus.
- I'm thankful for the Food Network's Web site and the fact that 90 percent of what I'm cooking tomorrow for our big feast comes from their Web site.
- I'm thankful for People Magazine realizing the hotness that is Matt Damon. I'd stuff his cavity with lemon wedges and herbs and roast him for Thanksgiving if I could.
- I'm thankful for Old Dog and Satan's Dog and my really, really ancient cat and am thankful that I have made it through the year without losing another pet to illness.
- I'm thankful for my friends, the ones who are close, the ones who are far, the ones I talk to every day and the ones I speak to once a year. Life is better because of them.
- I'm thankful for my blog. It's been a free therapist for me. I get to talk about anything I want and never feel judged for it. Every one should be this lucky to have an outlet like a blog.
- I'm thankful for our troops and their willingness to do the best they can in a really, really crappy war that most people in the US and around the world don't support. But I want you home, because my heart aches every day for you, your moms, your sons and daughters and your sisters and brothers. Please be safe and come home.
- I'm thankful for Passport Canada employees who have a sense of humor and can laugh when I call them back and tell them my mother is crazy and that's the only reason I have two middle names, but that I'm fine with them not including the second one because they can't do so.
- I'm thankful that my inlaws are extremely generous and have decided to take the whole family to Hawaii next April, because I don't think we'd ever in a million years have enough money to go if we had to pay for it.
- I'm thankful that even though I'm hosting the big event tomorrow, I'm actually very well organized and should get through the day without any tears.
- I'm thankful I'm a woman and have one killer set of boobs.
- All in all, I'm just thankful to be lucky enough to have the life I have. I'm healthy, can feed my family and am very, very loved. I'm thankful to have been so very blessed.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
First, let me begin by saying that I'm glad that my son gets to see a strong, feisty girl look for pirate treasures and get through icky sticky mud, rather than some weepy whiny chick who sits around wishing for a prince. I'm like you where I don't give a shit that it makes me weird to hang out with a monkey and to like climbing volcanoes. And I think it's nice for my son to see that I'm not the only girl like that. I think that because of you, he'll grow up to be a modern man, who does his share of the household chores and doesn't call flight attendants "babe" while slapping them on the ass.
You do, however, creep me out. Let's begin with your ginormous head. I mean, I'm all about liking people who are different. I realize that not everyone can have a proportionate head, like Victoria Beckham for example. She's married to one of the hottest men, and yet she looks like one of those giant lollipops from the fair. But I am curious to know how in the world that little neck of yours can hold up that giant head. And does your mom have to buy t-shirts from the big and tall store and then cut off the excess fabric?
Also? Sometimes I feel like despite the uncomfortable staring at me thing that you do, where you just look at me blankly and blink me some weird secret morse code message, you actually don't listen to anything I say. Like sometimes, you'll ask me a question, and just because I'm a smart ass, I'll answer incorrectly, just to piss you off. But this doesn't seem to phase you at all and you just answer "that's right!" No, Dora, it's actually not right. And I say incorrect things as a cry for attention and you choose to ignore it, you heartless bitch. And just to make it worse, at the end of the show? When you ask me what my favorite part of the day was? Sometimes, I'll tell you what I liked and you say to me "oh yeah, I liked that part too," but I can feel that you didn't listen to a word I said. Then? You launch into your favorite part and sometimes, your favorite part, is exactly what I just said word for word.
This is usually when I scream at you that I hate you and that I want to kill that stupid monkey friend of yours and feed him to you in my home made tortillas. OK, they're store bought and warmed up, but they taste homemade.
You know what? I take it back. I do think it's weird that you hang out with a monkey. Especially one that wears rubber boots and no pants.
Monday, November 19, 2007
It's happened people. Sometime around 5:28 p.m. yesterday, I officially became a crotchety old lady.
I'm so sorry. I tried to stop it as long as I could. I mean, I still listen to teeny bopper music. I leer inappropriately at 20-year old boys who jog topless (come on, they're just asking to be treated like meat when they let their nipples get chafed by the warm air. And you know what would make that chafing better? Me rubbing warm oil all over their chest... ... Uhm. Where was I?).
Sorry. I'm back. I've done everything in my power to make sure that I became one of those ladies on Maury Povich whose teenagers take them on the show because they're like so embarrassing with like their wearing of mid-riff baring Hannah Montana baby tees.
Except I have a gut on me now. So no mid-riff for me. Plus, I couldn't name you one Hannah Montana song, due to the lack of 6-year old girls in my house. Well, that's not true. I keep hearing them talking about Hannah Montana on the radio. So I know that she has this one song named Best of Both Worlds.
Is losing track of your point another sign of old age?
If it is, case closed. Throw me in the old folks home.
But there are two realizations that occurred yesterday that made me realize that those are two age spots on my face, and not random freckles, what with me never having freckled in my whole life.
I was at the nice grocery store by our house getting a few things for Thanksgiving yesterday afternoon, just getting the things that Walmart in all of its trashiness doesn't carry.
I spotted two teenage girls about 15 or 16 years old, who were gossiping. These are the type of girls who made my life a living hell in high school, so I tend to have disdain with them. They're the pretty girls and the ones whose moms agree with them that school is a fashion show, so they have the cool clothes instead of the ones grandma sent them like I did. Not that I'm bitter, or anything. As I was passing them, I realized that the prettiest one wasn't wearing shoes. In the freaking grocery store. Now I have to say that I'm foot-phobic. So this isn't going to help with my having a huge problem with this. I mean is there not a freaking sign in front of every store, particularly stores with food that say you must wear shoes?
I glowered at them, which of course they didn't notice, since I'm in my 30's, which to a 15 year-old is about 10 gazillion years old. As I passed them, I was so disgusted that I finally whirled around and said loudly, since I don't have an inside voice "You do realize that you have to wear shoes in the store?" She stopped her conversation and looked embarrassed and nodded slightly. But I was on a roll and shaking with anger. "That's absolutely disgusting and against the law." Because not only am I old, but I'm also a legal expert, don't you know. In my world? Also illegal? Matt Damon wearing a shirt. Him topless in the grocery store? No problems and the total antonym of disgusting. Unless he's far away from the chocolate syrup, then I might be slightly annoyed.
Then on the way home, I was stopped at a red light and day dreaming, as old people tend to do. The light turned green and I didn't notice, so the driver behind me honked. I waved to apologize and putterred through the intersection. Apparently I was going too slow, because the other car veered around me. I looked over and realized that the driver? Was a woman looking like she was in her late 70's, with a full head of white permed tight curls, a lot like my grandmothers.
Apparently I'm so old, that even senior citizens can't stand me.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Here's an email I received the other day from Sweetie Pie.
Body of email:
This ends tonight.
(pasted text from online banking site) current balance: $0.00"
Good thing the man only has a yellow belt in tae kwondo, right?
So I came home and we fought for two hours after Little Man went to bed. And Sweetie Pie? Thinks I need to see a therapist because in his words, I have issues when it comes to money. Which I admit, I'm terrible with money. I've never claimed that I wasn't.
But here's why he thinks I need therapy. I spent 120 dollars at Target. I told him that I didn't mean to spend that much, and that I'd just gone in to buy hummus. Because the Target brand hummus is the best one ever.
And Sweetie Pie said "how the hell does hummus cost 120 bucks?"
To which I replied that it doesn't. But after getting the hummus, Little Man spotted the green apples, so I bought a bag of organic green apples for him. And then I thought I'd check to see if Target carried my Indian sauce that I use to make my chicken curry. And they did. And since it's hard to find, I bought two of those. Then, I remembered that Little Man is out of vitamins. Then I remembered I was running low on prenatal vitamins. Then I saw some organic baby shampoo, body wash and stretch mark cream on clearance for 90 percent off. Then I saw the perfect Christmas present for my sister. Then Little Man fell in love with a Elmo goes potty sound book. Then I saw some tulip bulbs on clearance.
And so on, and so on.
I get to the cash register and I have $120 hummus.
And the man thinks that I'm crazy because of that.
Little does he know that I'm actually crazy because of the voices in my head who tell me that Brad Pitt is the father of my future children and I will not rest until I obtain his sperm.
I'm kidding about that.
Well, only half of it.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Proof that sometime during the past 2 years, 2 months and 11 days, I've become a mother.
- When Little Man says "ewww!" and shoves a piece of half chewed apple in my mouth, I'm barely disgusted.
- When Little Man begins to throw up on the couch and I scoop him up to bring him to the sink, I don't even think twice about cupping my hand around his mouth to catch the vomit.
- I also don't throw up myself, when I can't even stand to see someone throw up on TV without gagging.
- I can quote entire scenes from Finding Nemo and don't find it sad that it probably has topped When Harry Met Sally as the movie I've seen the most in my lifetime.
- I also don't find it odd that until two months ago, I'd seen Finding Nemo exactly once. And that the number of Finding Nemo viewings probably currently hovers around 10,982 times.
- When Little Man does something cute in public and someone smiles because of it, my heart practically bursts with pride.
- Like last night, when we were in Walmart and I said "oh, we need bacon!" and I reached into the case to grab it and Little Man said to me "good job, Mama!" The woman next to us couldn't help but look at him, smile and consider stealing him for herself.
- 24 months ago, I couldn't have recalled something amusing from the day before. And it sure as hell wouldn't have made me grin ear to ear all over again the way memories of my son do.
- Anytime I'm in public by myself with my Little Man, everyone I encounter looks like a potential kidnapper.
- If halfway through the work day I can't remember what Little Man was wearing that morning, I panic, because what if he went missing and we couldn't find him because of my forgetfulness?
- I don't find it upsetting when my mini back seat driver says "CRASH!" whenever I have to brake suddenly.
- I wonder how two years ago I couldn't even have an inkling of how great it is to walk into a room and be only referred to as "Little Man's Mama."
- I often feel like getting on every roof top in town and shouting the greatness that is my child.
- I've figured out that all those years that I kept thinking that fart and poop jokes are funny prepared me for having a son.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Today is my one-year anniversary at work. Last week, I wasn't sure I would get to celebrate this day, because I f-ed up really, really bad. To the point of cold sweats and face buried in my hands moaning and just praying that my badge worked when I returned the next day.
In fact, last week might go down as the worst week ever. Between my world coming to a halt at work, my son projectile vomitting everywhere on my way into work on Thursday, so that I had to choice but to enter the building with a vomit-covered child in order to grab my laptop and return home and then of course, Friday, bringing the week to a screeching halt, where vomit and screw ups seemed so minor quite suddenly.
And somehow, I made it, today, one year ago, I dropped off my son at daycare for the first time and joined the ranks of millions of working moms. I went to play for the other team, the one that feels a different kind of guilt and that obsesses over every decision, wondering if she is forever damaging her child. In other words, nothing really changed. If there's something I've never done, it's judge other moms. I admit I may have done it before I had kids, because, well, don't we all?
But once I became a mom, and worked part-time from home, I felt like I was in a weird twilight zone, not fully a stay-at-home mom, not fully a working mom. This meant I couldn't always go have fun with my stay-at-home mommy friends and I felt like I neglected my son at times because I sometimes had deadlines.
Not once did I ever think that one group had it better than the other, though. Because both sides have their own guilt. That's what motherhood brings you. Some say that no one can teach you guilt better than a Catholic or a Jewish mother. What they don't tell you is that when you become a mother yourself, you reach a whole new level of guilt, one that can eat you alive, limb by limb, even worse than a staph infection.
I remember sitting in my cubicle that dreary November week, and watching my heart-broken son on the daycare's Web cam system. He'd sit in the corner after I dropped him off, and wouldn't move or interact with anyone, like he couldn't believe that I wouldn't come right back to save him. And as I watched him bury his face in his frog, tears would drench my keyboard, and I would silently sob and curse myself for ruining his life.
I still don't know if going back to work is the best decision. At the time, it was the only decision I could make. We were completely broke and if I hadn't gone back to work, a second child would not have been feasible, since you can't buy maternity health insurance in Texas if you're self-employed. Also, I was running myself ragged with guilt, because I felt like I was doing everything badly. I felt like I was neglecting my son when I was working, but when I played with my son, I felt like I was letting my clients down.
The house was never clean, I just felt like I was on a treadmill that was speeding up constantly and I just couldn't keep up with any of it.
Being a working mom works for me. My life is categorized for me. There's Little Man time. Then work time. Then Little Man time. Then Sweetie Pie time. I don't feel like I'm having to divide my attention at any point.
A year ago today, I changed my life. For the better? I don't know. But we've made it work. And I hope to be here many more years, if I don't mess it up completely.
Monday, November 12, 2007
First, I'd like to thank all of you for your sweet thoughts, well wishes and prayers. Although I didn't get to read them until a few minutes ago, let me tell you that they did help. It's nice to know that my little blog has made so many of you root for me, cheer for me and comfort me when I'm down. Never did I imagine when I first started this online diary that anyone would read it, let alone care.
So the doctor say's I've had a chemical pregnancy. It's not uncommon, it doesn't mean anything's wrong, and I know that I just have to get back on the horse, uh Sweetie Pie, and try again.
I can't believe I have to put out again. There really is no fairness to this world.
This weekend was supposed to be our romantic weekend get away, remember? The one with the bed and breakfast with the television?
When I originally booked it, I figured that one of two things would happen. Either, I wouldn't be pregnant and we could try really really hard in someone else's bed. Or I'd be pregnant, and we could just enjoy each other's company.
Instead, the trip became one that was necessary to heal and regroup. I have to say, nothing gets you over a broken heart faster than wine tastings at vineyards. In fact? I've sampled so many wines this weekend that I actually had a hang over at 10 p.m. I didn't even know you could get a hang over before morning. The good thing about an evening hang over? Is you get to sleep it off.
The thing that makes me sad is that the next time I get pregnant? It will be tainted. When I tell people, they'll worry that it'll end in heartbreak, their joy will be tampered. I know, because my sister's had a miscarriage and we couldn't help but worry when she announced she was pregnant with my niece. I've always believed in loving like you've never been hurt before.
Should I be pregnant at the end of the month, I won't worry, instead, I'll choose to be excited all over again.
Friday, November 09, 2007
There's a statistic that states that 33 percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. And today, I'm a statistic.
Last pregnancy, I got to be the 1 in 150,000 pregnancies that develops HELLP Syndrome.
This time, I get to be part of a much larger portion of the population, one that loses a baby.
For a week now, I got to be over the moon with the happiness of knowing I'd have another baby. For a week now, I've worried, fretted, anticipated, smiled too much and lovingly rubbed my belly, with its layer of fat now serving as a protection barrier.
But in the back of my mind, there was this growing concern. When I took my expensive digital pregnancy test last Friday, it lit up like a Christmas tree.
I took another one Saturday, just because I'm like that, I like to know things and have them stated to me multiple times. I got another positive.
On Sunday, I was out of expensive tests, so I started testing with my friend's left over eBay cheap pregnancy tests. It came back negative.
I wasn't worried. I figured, it's a cheap test! My period's not technically due yet if I were to have a normal 28 day cycle, and my cycle's been all over the map.
I tested again on Tuesday, and the cheap test came back negative.
Same thing on Thursday. Same thing this morning.
I mentioned to Sweetie Pie yesterday that I was concerned. Why could I not get these cheap tests to show positive? I could last time with Little Man.
This morning, I stopped by the pharmacy for an expensive test. I snuck the test into work and peed on the stick in a stall.
As I was wiping myself after peeing, there it was. A red blotch.
The world went dark. I knew what it was, but I kept reasoning with myself that it must be the fetus implanting itself or the placenta or something else.
I sat through a meeting, my brain refusing to completely believe, toilet paper stuffed in my underwear, just to keep track.
When I came out of my meeting, I rushed to the bathroom, and this time, it wasn't just spotting.
I've lost my baby.
I know that right at this moment, thousands of women around the world are probably losing a baby to miscarriage too. I know that their heartbreak combined with mine is enough to make the weight of the world a little heavier.
I wanted this baby so much.
I loved him or her already.
I have a doctor's appointment at 1:15. I've never dreaded anything more.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
So yesterday? I had my first doctor's appointment. And I was really, really excited about it.
I thought about just sneaking off, since most people don't know about HJB, but then I figured that just because I was going to a doctor's appointment did not make it sound like I was pregnant.
I got to the doctor's office, ready to be prodded, poked and weighed. I'd even shaved my legs and my bikini line for it, which is a big deal, because I only do that for anniversaries and Sweetie Pie's birthday.
A few minutes after I sat down, the receptionist calls me over.
"Catwoman, who told you to come in today?
- Uhm... I have an appointment.
- About that, uhm, we don't have you down and the doctor can't squeeze you in.
- What? But I made the appointment on Friday!
(receptionist punches furiously into the computer to avoid pregnant woman tears)
- Uhm, it seems you have an appointment but on Tuesday, November 20th.
- The 20th? Are you sure?
(looks at screen again)
- Yes, I'm sure. And I see there that I made the appointment and now I clearly remembering speaking to you and saying Tuesday, November 20th.
- Oh, I heard you say Tuesday and then I think I stopped listening because I was so excited."
So, folks, there you have it. The length of my attention span? Has officially been reduced to one word. If you try to say anything longer than one word to me, I will forget immediately what you've said.
Since they felt sorry for me, they gave me a pregnancy-safe flu shot and weighed me, even though I argued with them that since I didn't have an appointment, there was really no need for this, plus, I had put on lipstick by that point, which I'm sure added a few pounds.
I'm officially five pounds lighter than Sweetie Pie. This means that after Thanksgiving and until next summer? I will weigh more than him. I'm pretty sure that could be grounds for murder.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
I'll admit it right now.
I can't stand the Wiggles.
I don't care if this makes me a bad person.
I don't care if you call me a heartless bitch who doesn't have a soul.
I don't care that they are millionaires, so obviously they must be likable.
I? Cannot stand them.
I think the Wiggle's show might be the worse thing on television. If I were given a choice between watching Ultimate Fighting Championship or The Wiggles, well, I'd probably just get on Facebook and turn off the TV, really.
Little Man has not been exposed to the Wiggles. Because why would I subject my son to something that makes my eyeballs and ear drums throb and filled with grown men wearing red, purple, blue and yellow shirts, grinning maniacally like they're about to eat my spleen for dinner.
Little Man, somehow has uncovered the Wiggles. I'd blame school, since it would be the only place he might have been tortured with this, but apparently, on movie day, which is Wednesday, the kids each and every time clamor for Satan's illegitimate daughter, Dora. Which Little Man now requests episodes of her highness with the shrieking voice and purple monkey by asking for "Dora? D-d-d-d-d-Dora?", because if he didn't say it like in the theme song, I might think he was asking for that other Dora.
I finally put two and two together when Little Man kept asking for The Wiggles that he was seeing promos for it on The Disney Channel, while watching his Mickey Mouse Club House tivoed episodes.
Disney's promotions department is probably filled with people who challenge themselves by creating promos for ice cubes and then running them only in homes in the Arctic Circle, just to see if their powers of persuasion actually do have a limit.
Now, those promotions bastards have convinced my son that his life will never be whole if he doesn't watch the Wiggles.
I tivoed an episode for him, because I'm very weak when it comes to 3 foot tall blond blue eyed men, and I sat down to watch a little bit with him.
I couldn't believe it. The level of cheesiness. The horrible cheap looking costumes. The lameness of the acting. It was all worse then I expected. I looked at Little Man, and his face was blank.
"This show really sucks, eh?" I said.
His head whipped around 360 degrees, and he gave me the look of death to tell me that the cult of the Wiggles? They'd just ordered him to have me killed for stating such a blasphemous thought.
Somehow, he let me live.
And now I have that ridiculous "Hot Potato" song stuck in my head.
Four men in a little red car singing together? It's just not right, that's all, oil crisis or no oil crisis.
Monday, November 05, 2007
So yesterday? I hosted a playdate for our daycare class. All 18 kids and 36 parents.
Luckily? Not all of them could come. Which is good, what with me not living at Buckingham Palace and Little Man's swing set only having two swings.
However, 12 kids, 3 siblings and about 16 parents did come, and Little Man? Thought it was the best thing ever, because he was having a sociable day.
It was one of those perfect days, where the temperature was just warm enough that you could keep the door open, toys were sprawled everywhere, kids were running and laughing, parents were gossiping. Also? No juice boxes were spilled on my carpet, no kids were injured and the dogs didn't chew up anything while they were locked in our bedroom. In other words, I declare it a great success. I've always loved hosting things, it's that Martha Stewart in me, the one who wishes she was crafty enough to make the kids homemade November-themed favors and declares to everyone when they fawn over it "those? They're nothing! I just had 18.3 minutes to kill, that's all."
Me? I'm not crafty. Plus, I kill time on Facebooks' Scrabulous, which, because ever since finding out I'm pregnant I've been waking up at 3 a.m. like I've got all this excess energy to burn, I've been playing a lot of Scrabulous with people around the world or fellow insomniacs. I figure using time wisely in the middle of the night totally defeats the purpose of being up.
I've always known Little Man was a good sharer, but this weekend proved it all the more. He showed his friends all of his toys, played with everyone and never got upset that all of his buddies were using his stuff. All of the parents were impressed at what a gracious host he was. Only towards the end of the party, when only one of his girlfriends was left and he sat, exhausted, in his Pottery Barn chair with his name on it, and she walked up to him and smooshed herself into the chair and snuggled up to him, only then did he glare at her and snapped "my chair!" Like "I don't care that you're in love with me, get the hell out of my chair if you know what's good for you, woman."
Seriously, what's with these modern girls? Thinking they can just snuggle up to a man like that, without even having been on a date.
She later kissed him goodbye, on the mouth, leaving Little Man completely horrified. I'm guessing she's not his type, even though she screams his full name, first and last, at him whenever he's standing more than three feet away from him.
It's a technique I'd never attempted in my early days, unless I was really, really drunk. In two year-olds? Drunk flirting is done on way too much juice and sugar, apparently.
I must say that to those of us who are sober from no drinking or excessive cookie eating, it's just very cringe-worthy to watch.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
This made me pee my pants. It's from an eBay listing for a maternity top (yes, I know, I need professional help...)
"Lining is NOT stretchy, so if you are enormous, don't buy this."
Seriously? You're trying to sell your stuff to women who get fatter by the second and you tell them, hey, fat ass, don't bust the seams of my little top, ok?
Me? Personally? I'd go with "sizes smaller than you'd expect".
But that's just me.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Dear Little Man,
Some might say that this newsletter is late because I'm posting it the day after your actual 26-month birthday, and I guess they would be right. In my defense, I started it almost two weeks ago, as I always do, because I've got too short of an attention span to remember all the amazing things you do to write this at the end of the month. Yesterday, I announced to the world that you have a sibling on the way. And as the oldest child myself, I can see how you might think that this new sibling is already displacing you, what with him/her deciding to make their presence known on your day. I bet you anything, he/she did it on purpose. Now go pull his/her three-week old fetus hair.
I want to place a bet right now, and that bet is that your future career will either include teaching or interrogation techniques. I feel it's a little early for me to choose between the two, so I'm going to settle for narrowing down your options to these two choices.
Many people who know me would say that I'm kind of oblivious, even when it comes to the obvious. However, the past month has been all about you quizzing me all. freaking. day., to the point that even I've noticed that the odds are very good that you will become an educator or a CIA interrogator.
We'll be sitting in the car, next to a multi-colored truck, one that has every color of the rainbow as part of its paint job, and you'll ask me "what color, Mama?"
Each time, my heart rate accelerates, my blood pressure rises and as I try to figure out which color you're thinking of, I'll take a shot in the dark. "uhm, it's red?"
Silence. Then a disapproving look from you followed by "no Mama, it's blue."
We'll keep doing this back and forth, and as I keep choosing the wrong color each time, your brow will suddenly furrow and I can see in your eyes that you are concerned that I won't be able to help you when you're attending Harvard and you're having trouble with a third year organic chemistry problem.
A few days ago, you were looking through an animal book, you pointed to a tiger and you said "Mama, what's that?" I responded, in French "c'est un tigre." You looked at me, shook your head and said "no, it's a tiger."
The only times I get to be right are when I know what you're pointing to, or when it's a word you don't know yet, like the time you pointed to a bulldozer, asked me what it is and when I told you, you thought about it for a second and said "yes, Mama, that's right."
I'm thinking you might be more of a science brain, than an artsy-fartsy man, as you don't like to get crazy creative, which unfortunately for you is my second-favorite thing to do after eating chocolate. You? Are more like the Baptist side of the family on the way things should be. If we do things a certain way once, you like them to be done the exact same way from that point on, because as you see it, that is the only right way. And we simply cannot do things the wrong way, we are civilized people, damn it.
I bought you a Mr. Potato Head and you enjoyed taking his various features off and putting them back in. After a few minutes of playing with it, I said to you "Look, what if we put his nose where his arm belongs!" And when I did it and laughed, you paused, looked alarmed and said "oh no, oh no!" and quickly fixed Mr. Potato Head, as if his sense of smell would be forever damaged by my callous attitude toward the plastic tater. From this point on, each time we have taken Mr. Potato Head apart and you hand me a piece so that I may help you, I know that I shouldn't mess around during such a risky surgery, instead, I should just put back the body parts where they belong. If I know what's good for me.
Then, just because I apparently like to make you upset because I obviously don't have any hobbies of my own, I decided that we'd use your Mr. Potato parts on our pumpkin. I know, I realize now that people have been hanged for such stupidity. But I'm still kind of new to this whole mother thing. When I tried to put one of Mr. Potato's arms on the pumpkin, you freaked and yelled "no mama! No pumpkin!" Because duh! That's very obviously a potato man nose and vampire teeth. Which do not under any circumstance belong on a pumpkin.
I have noticed lately how much you've impacted me, particularly with my speech. You tend to say "oh my goodness!" whenever something surprises you, pleases you, or just when you need an expletive. Lately, at work, I've found that instead of saying "oh..." followed by a four letter word that rhymes with truck or twit, I'll exclaim "oh my goodness!", just like you. I'm sure my coworkers think I'm some time traveling Baptist from the 50's, but every time I say it, it makes me smile, because it reminds me that since you came along, I'm a better person: I laugh more, I notice the little things, and I've learned that one episode of Mickey Mouse Club House a day, just isn't enough.
Looking at you often feels like looking into a kaleidoscope, full of blinding colors that give me the kind of bliss I never even knew existed, and yet, every time I turn my head slightly, I see something completely different. When you cry, I see my baby, my little man, the mussy haired toddler whose head fits perfectly in the crook of my shoulder, and whose breath against my neck makes every fiber of my body feel loved. When you laugh, I see the man you'll become, a happy generous person, with a laugh so infectious, that it often causes my entire rib cage to hurt from my own laughter in response to yours. When you talk, I see a little boy, no longer a baby and yet, with so much still to learn. Sometimes I worry that I don't retain enough of this time we have together, that you won't remember it at all and that I feel I must remember enough for both of us. I wish I could just capture your every move, every emotion, every word, every laugh, every funny thing you say on camera, so that I'd have them to cherish forever and ever.
I know that life won't always be this great. I realize, at times, as you grow up, our relationship might become awkward or strained. I hope this never happens, but I understand that you will change. I hope you never doubt, no matter what happens, how much I truly love you. And that I know how lucky I am to have had you enter my life, turn my world upside down and teach me to really live, really love, really be happy. To think that once upon a time, I had a life without you, a life where I didn't know that I could feel so much joy, it just boggles my mind at this point.
You have such a good heart, my sweet boy. If you are eating something and notice that I am not eating anything, you offer me a bite of your food. In the mornings, you almost always share your breakfast with me, even if it's a biscuit with jelly or a bagel with cream cheese, proof again that you are my carboholic genetic spin-off. If I ask you to give a toy you're playing with to one of your friends, you gladly surrender it every single time, without any complaints. I have so much left to learn from you. I just hope you don't ever get bored of teaching me.
I love you, my Little Man,