I brought Little Man to work for an hour or so yesterday, and the VP of my department met him for the first time. This morning, my VP stops by my cube to give me a project and he says before he walks away:
"That's a really cute boy you have.
- Did he enjoy his time here yesterday?
- Well, he's pretty shy, but he was ok.
- He seemed to have plenty of fun throwing me that foam ball.
(I laugh) - Yeah, he loved you.
- Well, doesn't everyone?
- Of course! But he's really into men right now.
My VP laughs kind of awkwardly. - Well, hopefully that will change as he grows up."
The thing is? As soon as the sentence about Little Man being into men crossed my lips? I totally thought "Oh God, tell me I didn't just say that."
I'm pretty sure my blushing has finally subsided a little.
Friday, August 31, 2007
I brought Little Man to work for an hour or so yesterday, and the VP of my department met him for the first time. This morning, my VP stops by my cube to give me a project and he says before he walks away:
Thursday, August 30, 2007
So I've admitted before that I'm a little slow. I mean, I'm all about keeping up with the fads and the trends and I watch way too much MTV, which means that I'm totally into what the kids are in these days.
But one thing that made me feel old? My Space. I got an account. And I just didn't get it. I mean, I tried, I really tried. But what the hell is it all about exactly?
And then all of my favorite Canadian bloggers started talking about how their blogging was lagging because they were totally addicted to Facebook. And I was like "what the hell is that all about?"
But I want to be like the cool kids, so I got a Facebook account as well. And at first? I didn't get it. Because here's my biggest problem? I just don't remember people. Seriously? Try it. Drop out of my life for five years and then have someone quiz me and get me to name your first and last name. I'd say there's about a 10 percent chance of me recalling your first name. Your last name? That would be very small pickings.
And so I got on Facebook. I added my siblings, because even though I haven't seen them since Christmas, I do remember their names. And then I looked up anyone I currently know. And then that was about it.
And I wasn't impressed with the whole thing, because really? Everyone I currently know? I either talk to them on the phone, by email, or through their blog comments.
So why would they care about my Facebook wall?
But then it happened. Someone from university found me. And they had friends. And as I went through their friends page, I recognized some names. And so I sent out friend request to those friends. And come to find out? People I used to know? They've freaking aged! It's the weirdest thing! They became adults. And they got married and have kids and have done all this crazy weird shit like becoming responsible and not making out with strange girls (a.k.a. me) at four in the morning in a dirty Montreal bar.
What? Oh, that? Nah, that never happened, what are you talking about. I'm a lady. I've never made out with boys just because I thought the most thrilling part of a relationship is the first kiss.
So anyhoo... Where was I again?
Oh, Facebook... So anyway, I've been on a mission during the last week to force my memory to come up with other people's names.
And now? Now? I'm in utter and complete love with Facebook. Every day, any minute not spent on blogs or work is spent on Facebook, because it's like my computer has all of a sudden turned into that Sesame Street segment "This is your life!" where the little muppet says "do you recognize this voice from your past?"
Every friend found brings a flood of memories cozier than the best mug of hot chocolate.
And my friends! My friends! The things they've done! One has moved to L.A. and is pursuing his acting dream, he was recently in a bit part in Hair Spray. The same person who I gallivanted around gay pride with arm in arm and he called me his future wife as all of his gay friends told me they'd be willing to go straight for a piece of ass like me. Can a woman hear any sweeter words than that?
A girl who tried to make me a little bit miserable in college, although it was past the time that I cared what girls thought of me and lived my life, partied and was happy with who I was, so it really didn't matter, is now a lawyer in the middle of nowhere, working with First Nations clients (our Canadian equivalent to native Americans).
I've found old friends that I lost touch with in ways that I don't even remember now. And who've thought about me over the years as much as I've thought of them. I've gotten to see people's kids, their adorable faces that mirror their mom's or their dad's in ways that stun me.
Facebook has become my best friend. It offers other amazing things, like the opportunity to play scrabble with old friends from all over the world. The chance to look at people's family pictures. Even the opportunity to compare my pet peeves, my favorite movies and more with friends, because these are the things that are important. Not whether you like somebody as a person. But whether they thought that Something About Mary was as brilliant as you do.
I heart Facebook. And should the people who blog Web sites at my company ever decide to add Facebook to the list, well, I'd just die, that's all there is to it. Because if Facebook could be given to me intravenously? Well, I'd totally do it, hatred of needles be damned!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
So my baby grew up this week. Really, really quite rude of him really. I mean, forget the fact that I grew him in my own belly. And provide him with cute clothes. And gave him my full lips so that should him and Shiloh Jolie-Pitt have children together, their child will be one giant pair of lips in a diaper.
Forget all of that. Because apparently, it doesn't matter. It's not enough to convince him to remain my baby and not break my heart.
This week, Little Man is transitioning to the next level in daycare. His new class no longer has the word "Todds" in front of it. He's in a "Two's" class now. Which I'm pretty much stands for Two's much to bear.
And I was fine with it. Really, I was. I mean, I was worried that Little man would take this transition badly like he did the last time he moved up six months ago. But this time, 9 of his classmates are moving up with him, which should make it a little easier.
So I was ok. That is, until Monday morning, after dropping off Little Man in his class, I walked up to the computer to check him in and the screen showed his name above his new class name. And my heart literally ripped its own arteries out and smacked me on the side of the head. Because that's where it became real. My baby? Will now be a two-year old. A two-year old is not a baby.
And so I ran to my car. Sat in the front seat that sits upon a mountain of Fruity Cheerios, goldfish and animal crackers and I bawled my eyes out. Because it's over. My baby? Is grown up. His own person, who refuses to wear sneakers and sandals for some reason, but will happily wear his winter shoes, chocolate brown suede shoes, with all of his summer outfits, making him look like he's on his way to the gay pride parade. No longer can I coax him into eating broccoli by calling it a cookie. And he's too big to rock to sleep.
For a few minutes, I sat in my Jeep and mourned my baby boy. I'm now the mother of a boy, a real live boy. And in many ways, it's so much better than being the mother of a baby boy. He's funnier, he's sharp as a wit, and he's got strong opinions that would make the most rabid of activists wonder why they can't have Little Man's passion.
On Sunday, Little Man will officially be two years old at 5:39 p.m. CST.
I know he's ready. I guess I'll need to be as well.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
So it's looking less and less likely that I'll be pregnant this month, what with Sweetie Pie being gone during half of my prime ovulation period and Little Man doing everything he can to ensure that no conception could occur. They say abstinence is the only 100 percent proven birth control method, but I think having a toddler increases the odds of not getting pregnant even more than abstinence.
Today is our five-year anniversary. There will be no hanky panky tonight. I can guarantee you that. So instead, Sweetie Pie and I are meeting for "lunch" at our house and let's see if there's any remnant of an egg in there to fertilize.
But I'll tell you one thing, whether he wants one or not, Little Man needs a sibling. Because last night, he asked me to get back on that Hummer to play race car with him and when I said no to him, he tried to pull his car alongside him and eventually, he put his Ernie doll on the Hummer and asked Ernie to chase him. It was actually quite heartbreaking. And if I hadn't been enjoying a Miller Chill, I would have felt bad enough to get back on that Hummer. But we all know that you shouldn't drink and drive, even if it's just around your kitchen island.
Monday, August 27, 2007
There's a stereotype that exists, probably caused by every single family sitcom that was ever made, where the mom is the responsible, serious one, while the husband is the buffoon who puts diapers on backwards and lets the kids drink three sodas during the bedtime story.
In my house? I think it's fair to say that if one parent is more responsible than the other. May I refresh your memory with this incident?
I think it's fair to say, that would never happen with Sweetie Pie.
And for some reason, Sweetie Pie still goes out of town and leaves me unsupervised with our child.
In my defense, every time he returns, Little Man is still alive. And isn't huddled in a corner in the fetal position begging for someone to save him. So I can't be that bad, right?
Well, you be the judge. Here's everything I've done this weekend while Sweetie Pie was out of town:
1. Let Little Man stay up way past his bedtime. Thursday night, the first night Sweetie Pie was gone, he calls me at 9:30 p.m. to tell me he's made it to his destination ok. As I begin to respond, Little Man, who's next to me, still wide awake, begins to shout "HI DADDY!" which totally gave me away as being irresponsible and not putting the child down at his normal bed time.
2. Because Little Man went down so late, I put him in bed with me. About an hour after I was asleep, he somehow rolled off our high king size bed onto the floor. I woke up to his crying, stumbled in the dark feeling the floor with my hands to find him, felt him for blood, kissed him, told him he was ok and we both went back to sleep. If he ends up failing out of school because he can't do long divisions, this should be the moment you all point to.
3. Our bank account balance when Sweetie Pie came home? The bank claims it's $0.00.
I'm not sure how that happened. Although I did go to the mall on Friday. And also did a little shopping on Saturday. Pay day is on Thursday. I'm thinking I'll go raid a wish fountain for coins at lunch.
4. I invented the world's stupidest game. Where I sit on Little Man's Hummer push toy, which is about three inches off the ground and he sits on his little push truck and we race eacher other around the kitchen island and smash our vehicles into each other. This game made Little Man laugh very, very hard. Unfortunately, the toy is not meant for someone my height to sit on, so I had the "acceleration" lever digging deep into my right thigh. Which started throbbing in pain about 5 minutes into said game, I estimate around lap 13 of our race. Which I stood up to put an end to the game. Which a two-year old toddler? Who likes to do the same thing for hours on end, reads the same bedtime story 8 times in a row if I'm willing and watched the same episode of Mickey's Clubhouse three times in a row on Friday night? Is unacceptable. And he pointed to the Hummer and said "Shit, Mama!" Which I know someone will be offended by my potty-mouthed toddler, but they all pronounce their s's "sh". So don't go calling CPS on me, alright? And so I shat, uh... sat back on that Hummer and proceeded to weep quietly while my thigh lost all feeling and as I huffed, puffed and sweated my way around that kitchen island exactly 58 more times.
Friday, August 24, 2007
There are so many things I don't understand. And one of the biggest ones is the way the media pits stay-at-home moms against working moms. Like women can't get along or support each others choices. I think I'm a feminist, because I believe in equality of the sexes. I think a woman should have the same rights as a man, from the right to vote, to the right to walk down a dark street at night and not worry about rape. I have friends who are stay-at-home moms, both online and in my offline life. I have friends who are working moms, both online and in my offline life. I've also been a stay-at-home mom and a working mom. And you know what? I don't think I'm a better mom now, or that I was a better mom then. I'm still a mom, doing the best sbe can, who loves her son to pieces.
And deep down, we're all that. And I guess I'm lucky, I've never encountered anyone who's been snarky about my lifestyle choice, no matter which side of the fence I happened to be on. And I guess that makes me lucky enough to only be surrounded by good people. But I also know that should someone judge me as a stay-at-home mom or as a working mom, I would have cut them out of my life so fast, their head would probably still be spinning.
Because I have a lot on my plate. I'm trying to raise a child to be a good person in a world that's full of hatred and violence. And I don't have the time or the energy to deal with judgemental people.
But here's the thing. I am so incredibly blessed. Last night, I realized it more than ever. I have the best possible job a mom could ask for. And I tell you, should this ship go down, I will go down with it, because I'm not sure I'd find what I've got here anywhere else. I kind of make my own hours here, coming in about half an hour earlier and leaving half an hour earlier. Never have I heard whispers about my leaving earlier than anyone else. Because partly? I'm not the only one who does so. One of my male colleagues, a dad, leaves early at least once a week, way earlier than me, to coach his son's little league team. And no one thinks this means he doesn't love his job.
Also? When Little Man doesn't drink his entire sippy cup of milk on the way to school, I bring it to work and leave it next to my lunch in our common area fridge. Yesterday, people laughed and asked me "Is that Little Man's milk in the fridge? or is it yours?" Anywhere else, that might have been awkward and I would have worried about whether I was seen as "less professional" for leaving hints of my other life in the shared fridge. But not here. Because I know for a fact they thought it was cute and precious that a child's milk was being kept cold along leftover tuna casseroles and turkey sandwiches.
And then there's yesterday, where my work life and home life collided. I had to do a 7:30 a.m. conference call, which is impossible for me to get to the office that early, so I just did it in the car, with Little Man in the back seat. On this conference call, I got to chew out somebody really, really bad. I got to say the kinds of things that make me all tingly with happiness, things like "You made me, my executive and my company look bad, none of which I appreciate" and "She has a name and a title and you need to introduce her using them, because that's just common courtesy." It was a fantastic call and I was on fire.
When I hung up the phone, I turned around and Little Man was in his car seat, his eyes open wide staring at me, and I could see that his little brain was trying to figure out if I was yelling at him this whole time and if he was about to go to time out. I smiled at him, patted him on the leg and said "it's ok baby, Mama was talking to someone on the phone for work." His face was immediately overtaken by a huge grin and he yelled "GO MAMA!!!! YAY!"
And I thought to myself that my son got to see that his mom has different sides. There's the Mama side that reads him "How do dinosaurs say goodnight" five times in a row. And then there's the Work Mama who can cut up a man to pieces using nothing but her tongue, without ever raising her voice. And he knows that both of those Mamas love him more than life itself.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
So I participated in CPA Mom's fantastic summer swap, which I'd never participated in one before. And I have to say, I've sucked so bad at it, that I doubt anyone will ever allow me to participate in one.
I received my package from And All The Jones Men last week when I came back from vacation and finally went through all of our mail You'd think being a huge package and all, that I'd open it, but I was terrified of looking at the mountain of mail period, and avoided it for a few days until Sweetie Pie threatened to leave me if the mountain of mail should collapse and kill our toddler. He's awful over-dramatic for a Baptist don't you think?
But see, halfway through our vacation, my camera officially stopped working, which means most of our vacation pictures are from Sweetie Pie's cell phone. And on Friday, a virus took over my home laptop, so now, even if I could convince my camera to work, I don't even have a laptop to use, until we either buy me a new computer or somehow get the piece of crap I call my personal computer, who needs 20 minutes just to boot up, fixed.
Therefore, I can't do a proper post on the fantastic package that was sent to me. Which if this were my real virginity, probably would mean that all the boys would be told how much I suck and no one would ever try to feel me up behind the bleachers again. And I'd never have a chance at being popular. Which is really, really sad, but probably would increase my chances of getting into heaven, so I guess there's always that bright side.
So anyway, here is my really, really lame attempt at posting about my fantastic Summer package...
S= Swimcap, Sunscreen and Softlips.
The swimcap is bright orange and oh so cool, we go through sun screen like there is no tomorrow with my fear of sun damage to my son's ghostly skin and how could a blogger who has probably never even read my blog before this know about my addiction to Softlips chapstick! Which I totally had to fight Little Man for, because he loves Carmex, Blistex and any other lip stuff I might have around. And it's raspberry flavored! YUMMY!
U= Umbrellas! The cocktail straw kind! I love these! And they'll be perfect to use at Little Man's Hawaiian themed bash!
M= Magazine, Family Fun Magazine, which is about the greatest magazine ever! It's so chockful of ideas and awesome recipes! I can't wait to try some of them and hopefully get Little Man to eat something else than drinkable yogurt and grapes.
M= Magnets with awesome cocktail recipes and a bright orange cocktail mixer, which really, what is summer without some yummy drinks perfectly shaken, not stirred.
E= Earplugs, which are great, because I hate getting water in my ears and the yummiest candle that smells of mint and eucalyptus, which is what I imagine Australia, the land of eucalyptus to smell like, yum!
R = Two rafts for the pool, including a nice big one for me, and a cute little one for Little Man!
Thanks so much SJ! I loved my package! I just wish I could post pictures so everyone could see all of my great stuff!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
That? Is the face my son had any time a Sesame Street character came anywhere near him while we were at Sesame Place. If you can't read lips, picture a blood curdling "NOOOOOOOOO Cookie!!!!"
I expect that if any of you Mamas who read me end up raising a therapist, my son will make your child very, very rich.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
- Hey Sweetie Pie! I just picked up Little Man from daycare. What are you doing?
- I'm sitting at my parents' house watching TV.
(I laugh) - You are??? Why are you doing that? You do realize we have a TV at our house, don't you?
- Uhm... Yeah, I am aware of that, but you're supposed to be on your way here to.
- Why would I be doing that?
- Because I called you this morning to tell you that Mom invited us over for dinner and you said that was fine."
I swear to you that until he said that, I had absolutely no recollection of this whatsoever. Sweetie Pie called me a little after 11 a.m. to ask me about dinner at his parents. I left work at 5 p.m. In those six hours, my brain completely removed any memory of the conversation and I was wondering how I'd have enough time to marinate the salmon fillet so that the teryiaki flavor would be nice and strong.
Also? When I go home on Friday nights? My brain completely removes anything work related and sends it to the land fills or something, just to piss off Green Peace. Because people will follow up with me on Monday about conversations that we had the week before and I look at them like they're completely crazy and then they have to send me emails reminding me that, I, in fact, am the crazy one.
Did anyone else's IQ drop 50 points once they had a child? Did Little Man suck all the grey matter out of me when I was pregnant, resulting in a 23-month old who can count to 10, know all his colors, know his alphabet and is working on memorizing his dinosaurs, but a mother who can't even recall dinner plans a mere six hours after they were made?
Luckily, it seems my trivia brain compartment is intact, and I still know lyrics from one hit wonders from the 80's so at least I should live the rest of my life happy.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Here's what I've accomplished this weekend:
1. I managed to lose a two-dollar off coupon for Little Man's Nutripal bars. The other coupons I had with me were each for 25 cents off. But the only one I lost was the two-dollar one. I told Sweetie Pie that because of my negligence, he would have to buy two fewer Slurpies this month. It's only fair that he'd pay for my mistakes.
2. I managed to get a tampon stuck up my vijayjay. (And yes, that means that bitch Aunt Flo showed up stinking of booze and cigarettes four days late with no explanation as to why she was sleeping on my porch with no panties. I have absolutely no respect for the woman and will do everything I can this month to ensure she doesn't come back for another year. Even if it means I have to put out more than once a week, because, damn it, I'm a woman on a mission.) But back to the tampon. I go to take it out yesterday evening, yank on the string and I hear a distinct snap and in my hand is nothing but the string. Immediately I panic, picturing myself in the ER, my vijayjay exposed to some really hot Grey's Anatomy intern who's violating me with a pair of pliers trying to rescue the OB tampon I've taken hostage. Luckily, I got it out. I'll simply tell you it involved a fork.
I'm kidding. No kitchen utensils were used during the hostage negotiations. But there was much praying for the sucker to come out to save me from much humiliation.
3. Because it was Restaurant Week here this week, where all these fancy restaurants have three course meals for $35 per person, Sweetie Pie and I went out on Saturday night to celebrate our two anniversaries a little late and a little early, since this weekend was right smack in the middle of the two. I wanted to wear something sexy, so I dusted off the back of my closet where my sexy dresses are. There, I found dresses that I used to wear in my early 20's, back when I was taking the city of Toronto by storm with my wit and my boobs. One dress that I found was my little black dress. The kind that all women need to own. One that hugged my curves in a way that made me feel like I could totally make Heidi Klum pick up a hamburger. On that accentuated my boobs so dramatically, that if I took a sharp turn, I could poke someone's eye out with my nipples. I loved that dress. That dress made me feel sexy and hot and like I could steal Brad Pitt away from Angelina Jolie. Although, they weren't together 10 years ago. So I guess maybe I would have stolen Alec Baldwin from Kim Basinger, since they were still together then. But that analogy just seems a lot weaker somehow. Anyhoo... I'd completely forgotten about the dress and I felt like I should try it on, just because I have had Slim Fast on and off for three weeks now (I'm not including vacation week in the middle, obviously) and well, hope springs eternal, right? And this is where it becomes tragic, people. Because the dress that put Toronto on the map 10 years ago? It is now a really sexy shirt on me. I'm not freaking kiddig you. Britney Spears has shown much less of her coochie than I would if I were to wear this dress again. And so now? I wear my dress with jeans. And I look freaking hot doing so. I even got complimented on my really cute shirt. And the world became just a little sadder.
Friday, August 17, 2007
A lot has happened to me during the past few days. Nothing Earth shattering, just some realizations.
First, I've officially lost my home town. This makes me sad and kind of makes me feel like I'm homeless. Toronto is the city I always called home. I wasn't born there, I didn't even spend most of my life there, but it's where I spent the longest period of time, from the time I was 14 to 24. My parents no longer live there, but it's where I spent my formative years. Where I got my first apartment. Where I maxed out my first credit card. Where I learned that you can live on pasta and tomato sauce for months on end because you spend too much money drinking with your friends on the weekend. It's where I got my first pet that wasn't inherited from my parents. It's also the place that I always knew that if things didn't work out with Sweetie Pie, I could go back to. But I have no family there, just memories.
And since on September 10th, it'll be seven years that I've lived in the Dallas metroplex, and I haven't been back to Toronto since 2002, since I always go to Canada to see my family, over the years, emails and calls with friends have seen longer and longer lapses of time go by in between them. Until I was left with just one friend who I'd speak to occasionally by IM or email and who came to visit me last year. But now? My last friend in Toronto emailed to say she was moving. She's putting her condo on the market and leaving town. She'll actually be living in the same town as my parents, which means I can see more often now, which is good. But it also means that now, I no longer have any excuse to ever return to Toronto, except for maybe as a tourist, which doesn't make sense since Sweetie Pie came up a bunch of times when we were dating long distance. And so that's it. I've lost my home town. My heart feels tight and my throat is filled with bile and I feel like I could cry. I have to mourn. I know it's silly. Most of you would say that after seven years here and a family created here, that this would now be my hometown. And I guess it will be, now. But that doesn't mean I can't mourn the loss of Toronto, and all of its glitziness and culture and pockets of multi-culturalism that offer you the best foods of the world. And its clean Loblaws with their amazing President's Choice decadent cookies. And the Eaton Center and the pubs of Yonge Street where I moaned about my love life for so many nights, all while flirting across the bar with whoever the cutest guy happened to be. And the subway, that I took so many times over the year, that I can still recite many of the Yonge line's stops in order. The business of Bay street with its hot financial guys in their suits. The funk of Queen Street West. The snootiness of York Avenue with its people with a different lifestyle that I couldn't even comprehend in my early 20's. All of it will now be stories that I tell my grandchildren someday, but may only see again once or twice in my life.
So goodbye, Toronto. I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you until I was gone.
Another realization? This morning, I was watching my son who was watching Jack's Big Music Show in our living room, standing about four inches in front of the TV, his tussled hair gleaming in the glow of the screen. And it knocked the breath out of me how much I truly love that kid. He's my best friend, my best bud, the one I can't wait to see when I awaken in the morning. The one whose voice makes me gallop up the stairs when I realize he's awake and who makes me smile when he grins so wide that his face might split in half. The one who laughs so hard at my jokes that he gets the hiccups and makes me laugh so hard, that I always end in tears. The one who's taught me that there are way more important worries in life than the size of my butt or whether I have a pimple waiting to form. The one who's taught me that nothing is more fun than dancing silly in the living room. And that slurping spaghetti makes you laugh so hard that it's a much better workout for your abs than a bunch of crunches.
I remember being pregnant and worrying that I wouldn't love my kid enough. Now? As his second birthday approaches at alarming speeds, I can't imagine how my chest cavity hasn't quadrupled in size from the amount of love in me.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
So I think Aunt Flo might have broken into my place without a key. She's never here when I check, but there's signs of disturbances, kind of like the remote control not being in the place you left it when you get back from the fridge, and yet no one else is home.
I'm talking full on bloating and achiness and when I go to the bathroom I see, uhm, how can I put this mildly without any of you losing your breakfast... Uhm, I see very light skid marks.
I am so very, very confused. I have peed on cheap pregnancy tests, digital pregnancy tests, but they're all the same. I'm not pregnant.
So the question is, am I just menopausal? Have Little Man's toddler tantrums shriveled up my uterus and caused it to shut down completely, even refusing to menstruate. Because that'd be the equivalent of me going on strike and refusing to eat chocolate. Just doesn't make sense. Which since we're on that subject, we were watching the game show Power of Ten and one of the questions was "how many women would rather eat chocolate than have sex." Sweetie Pie guessed that would be 100 percent of all women. But I, knowing that there are some people who don't enjoy chocolate (which I don't understand, it's like not enjoying putting on a clean pair of panties, what's not to like?) thought it'd probably be about 80 percent. Not higher than that, because I know Random Mommy and Ohio Girl and those two would skew the numbers lower. Well, the correct answer was 29 percent or something along those lines. Seriously? Where did they ask this question? In a brothel? Or somewhere where only chocolate ants are available?
So anyway. That's two posts about my period this week. Aren't you so glad you come here?
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Little Man has been so grateful to be home for the last few days and back to his routine, that he's been particularly fun. Tantrums are at a minimum and sunshine pours out of every orifice of his, except for his butt, which insists on continuing to create hazardous waste because really, we haven't quite raped the environment long enough with disposable diapers.
A few stories that must be shared, now that those pesky Humor Blogs reviewers are long gone and back to reading Star Trek scripts re-written in Ye Olde English, or whatever it is that they actually think is funny.
Yesterday, I was washing Little Man's hands after dinner (I'd do it before he eats, but he only gets spaghetti sauce on his hands during dinner, so it would really defeat the purpose), which he usually screams at me that I'm an evil bitch who needs to die during the entire process, but since he didn't this time, I said to him when I put him down "You did it! Yay, Little Man!" To which he pumped both arms in the air way over his head and said, with no enthusiasm in his voice, "Whoo-hoo."
I'm trying to teach Little Man pronouns, because I usually say to him "Give Maman a kiss" which means that at this rate, he'll be one of those crazy people on reality television, who refer to themselves in the third person all the time. Or he'll be a World Wrestling Federation wrestler, which is about the most embarrassing thing to me. I mean really, I'd rather he be that guy who dresses in a chicken costume and stands in front of "Crazy Pollo" with coupons offering two bucks off a bucket of fried chicken bits. But please don't let my son become a professional wrestler.
But back to my point. Last night, I'm laying on the couch trying to convince Little Man to be quiet, because I'm trying to drink a beer while watching Big Brother, and his singing is preventing me from laughing at the humiliation of these human lab rats and really, shouldn't my son be learning to feed me oreos, rather than be inventing songs? I mean, like anyone's ever made money from singing. But oreo feeding? I'm sure that'd be a very rewarding profession.
And so to try to shut him up, I tell him "Little Man, come here and give me a kiss?" And I jabbed myself in the chest a few times with my index finger during the "me" so that he'd understand. Little Man looked at me confused, sighed, came over and kissed me on the chest where I had just pointed to.
Apparently he now thinks I call my sternum Me.
Since Big Brother wasn't yet over and Little Man was still awake, he was running around and all of a sudden walked up to our poor older dog and wacked him on the head with his xylophone's stick. He laughed and I said to him "Hey! That's not nice!" He ran right up to me and said, while wagging his finger "You not nice, Mama!" Wh-what? Which then led me to stammer "no! No! I'm nice, I'm nice! You-you're the one who's not nice!"
Which was kind of pointless, because he'd already left the room and couldn't hear me. But for the record? I am nice. I don't wack dogs on the head for no reason. Unless I'm drunk. But then, I'm doing it by accident, I swear.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
1. It was bought from a little Chinese woman who accosted you as soon as you got off the subway.
2. You had to follow said woman at a speed nearing 10 miles an hour by foot through many dripping alleys.
3. You then had to walk up six flights of stairs in a building with no air conditioning but plenty of urban art/graffiti on the walls.
4. You are convinced that you are about to be raped and killed in the process, but hope that the cops take your corpse's picture with the purse, so your friends can be impressed by how authentic it looks.
5. Huffing and puffing, you are taken into a small locked room in the back of a sweat shop, where hundreds of gorgeous and cheap replica purses and sunglasses appear.
6. You pay 24 dollars for a small purse that retails for $325 at Sak's Fifth Avenue.
7. When you get back to your hotel room, and you open your new Burberry Purse, the protective bag tucked inside of it says "Gucci" on it.
On a totally separate note, if anyone knows where my Aunt Flo went, please tell her that she'd better either show up soon, or at least give my urine the courtesy of making a second pink line appear, because she should have been here yesterday and nothing, and yet no pink lines either.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Well hello, ducklings! Did you miss me? I missed you and your blogs and all your sweet babies' faces, your life stories, the way that you look up my skirt whenever I sit on the subway. Oh, that's not you, that would be that strange really large man in a really large fuschia tee. I don't know how I'd get the two of you confused. Although, we both know that you'd probably love to peek up my skirt to laugh at the granny panties I'm wearing right now, since all my cute ones are in a pile by the laundry room as we speak. Please don't alert the dirty panties thiefts of this, because my house is currently a goldmine.
So I have returned. And it has taken me this long to even have a chance to log in to blogger. Because would you believe that my workplace didn't close down while I was gone? What the hell? And people kept sending me emails. And they had questions and stuff. And work that they needed me to get done. And so 300 emails later, I'm more or less caught up and have 500 to-do's. Hurray for time off!
I'm not complaining, I was just relieved that my gate pass worked and I get paid on Wednesday.
So as many of my favorite bloggers have made popular, here is my quick bulleted list of trip highlights:
- Little Man does not like teenagers dressed like ginormous Sesame Street characters. In fact, he finds them quite horrifying, and most of our two days at Sesame Place were filled with cries of "NOOOOOO! ERNIE!!!! NOOOOOOOOO!" and screams of terror that resulted in a tornado in Brooklyn. Because we all know Little Man's fits can result in strange weather patterns.
- Philadelphia hates tourists. The proof is in the fact that they don't put any signs in their subways stations, so that poor luggage-loaded tourists end up going the wrong way. Twice. In one trip.
- My mother is still crazy. She refused to feed Little Man the Nutripals bars I'd left for him claiming that they had more sodium in one bar than a toddler, even an adult, should consume in an entire day. When I looked at the nutritional information when we got back to our hotel, the bar claimed it only had 85 mg of sodium, which it said was 4 percent of a toddler's salt daily allowance. When I told my mom this finding, she claimed 85 mg of sodium was way more than a day's worth of salt. My claims that a piece of cheese has more sodium and that on vacation days when Little Man only eats French fries that at least he gets some nutrition in him this way were met with an eye roll.
- Things I brought back from my three days alone with Sweetie Pie: a sweatshirt, a mug and a raging urinary tract infection.
- Number of nights Little Man slept in his hotel room crib, instead of in our bed: one.
- Number of fake Burberry purses I brought home: one. And I heart it more than anything else I own.
I'm sure I'll write a lot more about the trip over the next few days and I promise to post pictures when Sweetie Pie emails them to me since my piece of crap camera didn't work for most of the trip, so we relied on his Black Jack for pictures. Sigh...
Friday, August 03, 2007
So I've never gotten to work as late as I have today. Also? Yesterday, I spent the afternoon bouncing from cube to cube and office to office to gossip and giggle. I think it's fair to say that until I return from vacation, my productivity won't exactly be at its highest levels.
Because, in case you haven't gotten the memo, we leave on vacation on Sunday! Hurray!
And I am so freaking excited, that if I got hit by a meteor right now, I would be really, really pissed. Even more than usual.
So I won't be here for the next week, because I'm traveling light. No lap top for me. No blogs for me. No facebook for me (which oh my freaking God! How have I not mentioned yet how addicted I am to Facebook? Everyone I freaking remember from university is on there. And these people? Who I drank with excessively and a few of which I slept with? They're married now! With kids! It's freaking crazy! And they have double chins and lines around their eyes and how in the world did we get old? And somehow, we all have become grow ups with jobs and stuff! It's weird!).
So yeah. I'm cutting myself off from the world. And for a few days, I will hopefully not be driven insane by my mother. My toddler will hopefully not be terrorized too much by a six-foot tall Elmo suit.
Either way, I'm sure I'll have stories when I return.
Be assured, that I will miss you all.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
So it happened. Sometime during the past month, you became a little boy. I'm not sure I could pinpoint the exact moment. It's like I blinked, and all of a sudden, your whole face had changed. How you went from this little screaming blob who once got so angry that he ripped out his own umbilical cord stump to this smart, endlessly-talking boy who'll scream at the drop of a hat if he doesn't get his way, is like the greatest magic trick ever. I mean, I've watched you, every single day, and yet I still don't know how it happened. But now you're a boy, a real live boy.
Even though, in some ways, you don't deserve to be, because like Pinnochio, you've discovered the art of lying. The aroma of nuclear waste will fill our house and with tears streaming down my face, I'll ask you if you've pooped. You look at me, with this "who? me?" look on your face and say "Noooo! No caca!" I'm not sure why anyone would want to walk around with crap stuck to their hiney, but apparently, you have decided that it's absolutely no big deal.
I need to ask you for a favor. Please stop reading the "how to raise a toddler" books I'm reading, and stop laughing at me when I try to use their stupid tips. Or maybe you're trying to get me to learn new toddler rearing skills so that I may write my own book and become a millionaire. You want an example? How about the fact that we fight about getting dressed every single day. Because you are apparently a hippie who believes shoes are a way for the man to get you down, dude. And shorts and shirts are somehow responsible for the poaching of elephants.
I read in more than one book that toddlers like to be given choices. So I've begun to ask you "Would you like to wear your blue shorts or your red romper?" To which you'll simply reply "No."
Uhm... Yeah, that's not the answer we're looking for. So I'll just pick an outfit for you and then I'll try again and smile and say "Would you like to put your shirt on first? Or your shorts on first?" Only to be smiled at and told "NOOOOOO!" As in "if you didn't get it the first time, woman, I don't care if you offer me clothing made of gold, I'm not interested."
Also? You insist on throwing food on the ground, no matter how many times I've told you that if you do it again, you'll go to time out. So now, I've started threatening you with removal from the table and then executing that threat when you launch yet another spoonful of grub on the floor. This makes you mad, mad, mad. And you'll storm away from the table. And then promptly return with a smile on your face asking "Jojo, yes? And Goliath?" because you have got the hots for that wacky girl clown. This means that I'm very concerned about your future date choices.
As my go-to man for a laugh, I have to say, this month has not disappointed. You've perfected your Miss America wave and will often jump on your little truck, wave to us and say "Bye! I do!" Which never fails to make me laugh, because you "do" what, exactly? And I know that you're just imitating me when I say "Bye, I love you!" at school, but considering you always say "I wuv you" back at me, how exactly does it become "I do" once you're in truck driving mode? Is this some weird trucker limbo that you've picked up along the way and I'm just too uncool to know about?
You notice things that are out of whack. Like yesterday, we were sitting at a red light, and in the lane next to us was a tow truck with a car strapped to its back. All of a sudden, you gasped and exclaimed "Mama! Car! What?" Which I'm pretty sure is your toddler version of "what the hell" or even worse. The day you drop your first curse word, I want you to make it clear that you learned it because of your father's road rage issues. Not because of Mama's yelling at the TV during bad reality shows. OK? If you claim this, I promise to always share my chocolate with you.
I mentioned last month that you've suddenly developed a fear of water. Not with your bath, because you love your tub so much that you've begun to throw a leg over the edge before I've even had a chance to undress you. And if I even mention the word "bath," it's all I can do to stop you from propelling yourself head first into the empty tub. But the pool? Is a whole other issue. We took you again this past month and the second time we were there, you cried and hung on to me like a little monkey. But I stood in the pool with you and sang "The wheels on the bus" about 83 times while making the motions in the water. Eventually, you sighed and began mumbling "round and round." Half an hour later, you were standing on the side of the pool, counting to three and lunging yourself into our opened arms in the water, like you'd never even been afraid. My brave, brave little boy.
Many times in the morning, I will be up before you and after a while, I'll begin to miss you terribly and get excited at the idea of seeing you again. I'll creep into your room, bend over your crib and your eyes will all of a sudden fly open and when you realize that I'm the stalker, your whole face erupts into a smile. No one has ever shown such joy in seeing me, and I have to say, it's addictive. There are times where I remind myself that this too shall pass. Someday, you'll whine at me to get the hell out of your room and to quit staring at you. You'll also ask me to quit embarrassing you with all of the breathing I insist on doing and the fact that I keep talking to you in a manner that suggests that I care about you. And I think that's what makes these mornings all the more special. The fact that you get as excited to see me as I do about you.
I still watch you on the daycare Web cam. And it's like my own "Where's Waldo?" game, where I look for you in a sea of other fast-moving toddlers. You're usually easy to spot, as it's rare for you to not have your precious frog in your arms these days. And every time I find you, my heart skips a beat and I'm filled with contentment, no matter how bad my day might be going. I want you to know that no matter what, you have brought me the kind of joy that I used to hear parents brag about and just didn't comprehend. I now know that it's not that I didn't understand what they were talking about. It's just that knowing the joys of parenthood and trying to explain to someone who doesn't have their own 33-inch tall human in the house is like describing the silkiness of high-quality milk chocolate melting in your mouth to someone with no taste buds. Every day, I feel so blessed to have had the chance to meet you and that I was picked to become your mother. It's like the world is rewarding me for some good deed that I don't even know I've done. But every day, when I see sadness on the news, like a lost child or a bridge that crumbles while dozens of cars are sitting on it, I hug you a little tighter, kiss the top of your head and rub my c-section scar to remind me how lucky I am to live another day to see you and hold you tight. And I know, no matter what the future might bring, that thought will be the one constant thing in my life.
I love you my Little Man,
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
So Julie kindly threw me a bone and asked me the following question: "if Sweetie Pie gave you a "free ticket" for a one night stand with a celeb - who would you use it on? "
That's a great question, Julie! (why am I speaking like I'm on some kids show where children send me questions like "why do my boogers taste slimy?" or "why does my dog like to lick his own butt?")
The answer right now? Because we all know that I'm fickle and that things change from hour to hour or week to week. Anderson Cooper.
Come on! Wouldn't you want him to give you that look too when you take off your bra?
And he'd probably whisper things to me like "you're wilder than Hurricane Katrina" or "you're hotter than a Baghdad Mosque under attack by the Shiites."
Could anyone be sexier than Anderson, or as I call him when I dream of him, AC.
Also? I think he'd give a mean foot rub. You can just tell when he talks, in the way he casually moves his forearms.
And, he's meanly funny. I've seen him on Regis and Kelly a couple of times when he was a guest co-host and buddy could totally make me swoon talking about the fact that Usher's ex-fiancee is a freak for wanting barbecue at her million-dollar wedding instead of some fancy schmancy chef, which caused Usher to break it off. Because we all know that not agreeing on the food at your wedding? That's like the most important decision you'll ever make and if you can't agree, then by golly, you shouldn't even be together. Some people think agreeing on politics or religion is important. But they're obviously morons. Because it's all about the food. Jury's still out on whether my marriage will survive, because Sweetie Pie still doesn't like sushi, when it's my number two favorite food.
Yeah, we're pretty much doomed, I know. But we're young, and in love, and we think we can make it work, so let us be.
And damn it. My husband has once again invaded one of my fantasy posts. Back to AC. I'm sure he loves sushi. And would lovingly hand feed it to me from his freshly-washed with antibacterial soap hands. And then he'd melt chocolate and he'd tell me how much my back fat turns him on.
Does that answer your question, Julie?