Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Fighting Fires With No Shoes On

Unless you've been living in a cave (hi Osama!) or live somewhere where the holiday isn't celebrated (hi bible belt!), today is Halloween.

'Tis the time of year where children get dressed up, go begging door to door for high-sugar treats, which most of the time are crap, because the homeowner has already eaten three bags of the good candy and in order to be able to fit into their clothes, have chosen to buy something they wouldn't eat even if stranded on a deserted island with George Clooney. Because then, you could just live off of the aura of gorgeousness that surrounds him.

I got Little Man's costume at one of the many consignment sales I've gone to during the past month. It's the cutest costume alive, and it was only 6 dollars. And it fits him so well, you'd think it was custom made for him. But it wasn't, because the only thing I can make is my French macaroni and cheese. Which really rocks, by the way. And which Little Man cannot wear as a costume.

The last time Little Man put on his costume was when we had our family pictures taken. Which I would post, if the damn idiots as Picture People would send me my link, which I've requested four times in four weeks now. When I put Little Man in his little yellow firefighter vinyl jacket, he began screaming "I'm stuck! I'm stuck!" To which I replied "you're not stuck, you're a firefighter."

Because I'm funny like that.

This morning, Little Man didn't fight me on the coat and pants, because he has finally accepted that it's not 90 degrees outside any longer. However, once I put the hat on his head and the rubber boots on his feet, all hell broke loose.

So my firefighter? He believes in fighting fires in socked feet, with his overly-long hair in the wind.

That's how real men fight fires, don't you know.

I'm thinking we'll attempt to go trick or treating, but with his anti-social gene potentially rearing its head, we may not go far.

Which makes me really, really sad, what with me voted most likely to eat most of his candy.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

At a Crossroad

I have an important decision to make, Internet. One that I need your input for.

Months and months ago, I decided that it was time for me to find a new OB-Gyn. Because the one that delivered Little Man, although she was fantastic and I will forever be grateful for her for saving my life and my son's and for giving me about the most beautiful C-section scar a woman could ask for, well, she's 45 miles away from my house. With the number of visits required during pregnancy and the fact that I now have a real job and just can't find it feasible to take off for half a day every time I need to go see her, I decided I needed to find someone closer to home.

After much research online of area doctors, I remembered a Mom in one of my mommy groups talking about having HELLP syndrome too and how much she loved her doctor, which is in my neck of the woods.

I looked up her doctor and realized that all of the doctors (all female, another important thing for me) in that practice had tremendous experience at the top-rated Parkland Hospital(our community hospital here which pumps out more new babies than anywhere else in the country), which means that all of them have about five times the birthing experience of any other doctor.

So I did what any normal person would do.

I chose the hottest out of the four doctors.

I went to meet her in January, and I totally loved her. She let me sob in her office as I told her my pregnancy story and about my fear that I shouldn't have other kids because of what we'd found on the Internet. She was fantastic and cool and young, probably only three or four years older than me.

I knew we were meant to be together after that appointment. Forever and ever. Me, unshaven in stirrups, her impossibly hot and rocking the lab coat the way anyone on Grey's Anatomy does.

She told me during that appointment that she was pregnant with her third son. This blew me away, since she looked as thin as Heidi Klum.

Then a few weeks ago, I get a letter in the mail announcing that she is retiring from medicine. That she has decided that she's missing out on too much with her kids, her eldest is starting kindergarten and she wants to be there for her boys.

I died a little inside. After all, she was the chosen one, the one who was going to deliver my next baby. And if I'm lucky enough to not get HELLP Syndrome again, then the baby after that.

Now, I would have to find another doctor. However, I know that I love that practice. Surely, if she's that great, and the other doctors have known her since they were all residents together, then they are great too, right?

So I just went on the Web site for their practice, to pick my next doctor based on their little write-up, their resume and, of course, their picture.

This is where I'm torn.

I can pick between the doctor who I know treated another mom I kind of know with HELLP Syndrome.

Or I can pick the new addition. Who, until June of this year, was still a resident. So she's very young. Probably in her late 20's or early 30's.

And I like the idea of being one of the first patients of a new doctor.

But then I think to myself that I'll be a high-risk pregnancy and what if she hasn't gotten a case like mine before?

But she's so cute and young. And would make me feel like I'm on an episode of Grey's Anatomy.

So what do I do, readers? Do I go for the new doctor who probably needs patients like me willing to give her a shot? Or do I play safe and go with the one who I knows has experience with my case?

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Sorely Unprepared

On Saturday, Sweetie Pie had his first Tae kwondo belt test. I'd told him that Little Man and I wanted to skip Little Gym so that we could cheer him on, because I'm trying to be a supportive wife. In exchange, I expect him to come to my next scrapbooking crop and stare at me for five hours as I carefully crop pictures, apply adhesive, stick them the the page and then add stickers.

I figured this would be a simple affair, 30 minutes to 45 minutes top. Since Little Man is now two years old and pretty laid back, except for a couple of diapers in the car and a sippy cup of water, we tend to leave with not a thing in hand.

Ends up? we were at the taekwondo event almost two hours. And about an hour into it, Little Man was incredible bored. I? Being the seasoned mother that I am, had absolutely not one toy with me.

So I did the only thing I could do. I handed Little Man my almost authentic Burberry purse and let him explore its content.

It started mildly enough.


See my cute little $24 Burberry purse in the back? Yeah, it's cute.




If you thought his lips were kissable before, you should try them after half a tube of Soft Lips.

I obviously have put a lot of lip gloss in front of him during his short life, because he can do it like a pro.

Then, things got a little messy, because he decided that his face was greasy enough from the Soft Lips.


That would be Mac lipstick, thank you very much, in the color Chic. Only the best for my little boy.


Unfortunately, his lack of a steady hand shows a lot more when you use dark lipstick.


I couldn't get him to look at the camera, apparently he was afraid I'd post these on the Internet or something. Like I'd ever do something that horrible, I mean come on, I'm not Britney Spears mother, now am I? No, I'm serious, am I? Because if so, I should totally be able to get a copy of her new CD for free, rather than look for someway to get it online for free. Also? Did you hear? Britney's real mother is writing a parenting book. Now why couldn't this have been published before I was pregnant with Little Man, obviously I would have done a much better job with him and he wouldn't have to resort to putting on lipstick to entertain himself in public.

An elderly woman was sitting beside me, and she thought the whole thing was really, really funny. However, she felt the need to point out to me that at one point, Sweetie Pie looked over and when he saw what Little Man was doing, apparently he looked quite horrified. Which amused the elderly lady even more. She? Is the kind of elderly woman I want to be, the kind who can laugh with bad moms, rather than do the raised eyebrow judgemental thing.

Sweetie Pie regularly accuses me of gaying Little Man. I have no idea what he's talking about.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, October 26, 2007

Only Five Hours and Six Minutes to Go

Do you people know what today is?

You don't?

Well, then, I feel sorry for you.

Today is another consignment with a half-price sale day!

Can I get a whoop-whoop?

Do you know what this means?

Baby clothes. For two dollars!

And more maternity clothes, because I have a serious, serious problem.

Yesterday? I had lunch with AFF.

And my kick-ass unused maternity wardrobe came up.

I kind of mentioned to her that I only have one pair of real life jeans that currently fit me and I refuse to buy more, since I'm on a mission to get pregnant.

Then I admitted that I do, however, have three pairs of maternity jeans (including my Seven For All Mankind maternity jeans that I bought on eBay).

She, who is the biggest shopaholic I know, actually laughed at me.

She didn't do it outright. First, she got this look of "oh my God, she's crazy." Then she slapped her hand over her mouth.

Then she giggled.

So I won't tell the Internet how her son had about five birthday outfits for his first birthday.

Which should totally make me look like the normal one. Right?

I'm also the crazy person who's started actually wearing her maternity clothes to work. Doesn't say anywhere in our dress code I can't, you know?

Plus, this wardrobe is soooo much cuter than my regular one. What with me having zero designer clothes in my regular wardrobe.

So I'm the crazy person at work who wears her maternity garb that does not look maternity like.

Right now? I'm wearing my Seven For All Mankind maternity jeans.

I'll have you know, they make my ass look great.

There is the issue of me having to pull them up every five minutes.

Maybe I should get suspenders?

I wonder what I'll get at the sale today? I'll just sit here and count the minutes until I get to fill a laundry basket full of stuff for cheap, cheap, cheap...

Isn't today a glorious day?

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

This Is Why We Need a TV In Our Bed & Breakfast

Sweetie Pie comes home the other night and Little Man is already asleep. On the coffee table sits Little Man's brand new Halloween Mr. Potato Head.



Sweetie Pie spots the Tater in full costume and says "What in the world is that?

- It's Little Man's new Mr. Potato Head.

(long pause) - Why is he dressed like a KKK member?

- What??? He's a ghost! He's dressed like a ghost!

- He looks like a KKK member, I can't believe you'd buy offensive toys like that, what is that teaching our son, exactly?"

So first of all? Mr. Potato Head is no longer allowed to be a ghost for Christmas. I'm thinking he can be Tinkerbell instead.

Second of all? I've booked a bed and breakfast. And our room has a TV in it. Our marriage can only handle so much talking.

Also, am I the crazy one for actually wanting to impregnate myself with a second spawn of this man?

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Keeping the Romance Alive

So Sweetie Pie are escaping for a weekend in November. Hopefully I'll be pregnant by then, but if not, the hope is that I can be inseminated in someone else's bed.

We'll be going down to the Hill country of Texas, which is a pretty area with antique shops, wineries and lots of beds and breakfasts. Last night Sweetie Pie and I looked at approximately 298 B&B's as old people like to call them, which makes me think of mothball scented quilts for whatever reason, so that we could find the one that would encourage my eggs to become fertilized and escape Little Man's incessant quizzing of "what's that?" about every. freaking. little. speck. of. dust.

We found one that we loved, it's in a tiny log cabin, I'd say roughly the size of kleenex, and it's rustic, but it has a claw foot tub and it doesn't look like Laura Ashley vomited all over it.

But as I looked at the description, one thing seemed to be missing.

"Sweetie Pie? I don't think this one has a TV in the room.

- What? How can it not have a TV?

- Well, they don't mention it in the description, when all the other ones say cable or satellite TV. And I can't see one in the pictures.

- Screw that! Who can have romance when they haven't watched Sports Center?"

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

His Canadian Side Comes Out

On Saturday, it was 90-something degrees (32 degrees Celsius) here. I'm guessing that the Republicans who believe global warming is some made-up myth (just like unicorns) by Democrats hyped up on Starbucks coffee, had to reconsider their position for a split second, only to return to keep shoveling debt on top of our enormous deficit.

Then on Monday night, someone realized that Halloween is next week and that Little Man's costume is very hot and the temperature dropped a full 40 degrees, into the low 50's (11 degrees Celsius).

This means that Little Man, who loves to be naked and believes that clothes are society's way of trying to rob you of your freedom and your identity now has to not only wear clothes, but they no longer consist of a t-shirt and shorts. Now, his body will be imprisoned in full-length pants! And his arms will no longer be able to breathe, as they will be covered in long-sleeved shirts! And his feet, oh the horror, will have to be smothered in socks.

And just to ensure that he will never have a chance to be happy again? Fall also means having to wear a jacket. It's enough to make Little Man weep if you just think of cooler weather.

Yesterday, when I picked Little Man up from school, I grabbed his jacket off of the coat rack at school. As soon as he spotted it, his eyes darkened and began to ressemble the ones of Satan's Dog when I forget to feed him, a kind of pleading look that leads strangers to think that I must be a really horribly cruel person.

Little Man whispered, almost terrified "No mama, no coat!"

I explained to him that he had to wear his coat that it was cold outside.

That's when Little Man decided that he must have inherited my debating genes (I placed in the top third individual speakers at most of the tournaments I attended at the Canadian University Society of Intercollegiate Debate, thank you very much), he said to me "no, Mama, it's hot." And then he blew in the air, like he does on his food to cool it off. Like the air around him was so hot, he might as well be in an oven.

I shook my head and said "no, really, it's cold. It's not hot."

Little Man looked at me and then looked around at his friends like he was telepathically saying to them "can you believe I have to go home to this insane woman every night?" and shook his head and said "no, Mama. It's hot outside." And once again, this time with even more gusto, blew to try to cool the obviously stifling heat.

That's when I forced his 26-pound ass into his jacket and as he screamed in mock horror, I said to him "I know you're half Canadian, but you still have to wear a coat."

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, October 22, 2007

From The Mouth of My Babe

On Friday night, in the middle of a crowded restaurant, we're practicing letters and their sound while waiting for the bill.

"Little Man, what does "M" say?

- M say Mmmmmmmmmm

- What does "Z" say?

- Z says zzzzzzze. (pause) like zebra."

I went totally crazy at this point yelling "Oh my God!" to the point the waitress rushed over thinking something was wrong. But seriously? That he said that? Totally freaking blew my mind. Because we NEVER said that to him. And at school? They study one letter a week and they're only up to "d is for donkey."

******************************

Yesterday night, I'd roasted a chicken and apparently Little Man loves the skin with my yummy stuffing crammed under it the best.

After inhaling all of his skin, he asked me for some of mine. As I was trying to cut him off a piece, he suddenly yelled "MAMA! In my mouth!"

*****************************

This morning, when I was hanging out with him and his friends while he was eating breakfast at the daycare. I'd already kissed him goodbye twice, but one of his girlfriends kept talking to me. All of sudden, Little Man tugs my sleeve, and pointing to the door says "Mama, door."

Yeah, I can take the hint.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Quite Enchanting

Sweetie Pie hates Little Gym. It's not that he's necessarily opposed to the concept of Little Gym. He just thinks that it's too expensive and that the teachers in their sing-songy voice and their over-enthusiasm and their need to clap and cheer every 4.8 seconds shave days off of his life every time he's forced to go.

Two Saturdays ago, I had an eye doctor's appointment and I broke the news to Sweetie Pie that he would have to take Little Man to Little Gym alone. This is way worse than that time I told Sweetie Pie that I'd somehow inexplicably racked up over $10,000 of debt on our credit cards in a rather short period of time.

Little Gym is somehow a sponsor of the new Disney Movie Enchanted (coming to a theater near you at some point, and starring the very yummy McDreamy). And because they want to get their money's worth out of their sponsorship, they feel the need to tie everything back to the movie. This has only managed to make the experience all the more painful for Sweetie Pie, who had probably scratched the word 'enchanted' from his vocabulary around the same time he gave up diapers. 'Enchanted' is as manly as a word as 'ovaries' or 'commitment'. And unless the terrorists are threatening you with a weapon of mass destruction, they just shouldn't be used.

Little Gym always begins by sitting on the rainbow mat (another action that fills his nightmares) and going around the circle telling our children's names and being forced to do something against our will, like pointing to our child's favorite body part (don't even ask me how many times I've been tempted to point to Little Man's wang, considering he bends over every diaper change to make sure it's still there). On this lovely Fall day, the teacher in her sugar-overload voice said something along the lines like "every single day, our children enchant us. Why don't you say your child's name and then tell us about the last time your child enchanted you."

Sweetie Pie probably tried to strangle himself with his bare hands at that point to no longer be subjected to this abuse.

And the parents around him began "this is Jimmy, and Jimmy enchanted us this morning by saying 'I wuv you" and "this is Molly, Molly enchanted us yesterday by giving us a big hug."

Because I had to know, when Sweetie Pie was recapping the horror and blood shed, I asked him "so what did you say?"

- The only thing I could say. This is Little Man and he can name all of his body parts in French."

Ah yes, what could be more enchanting than a half-French toddler who when you ask him what his name is, he'll point to his nose because he thinks you're saying "nez," which is French for nose.

On a bizarre note, I had a vivid dream last night that I was giving myself a Brazillian wax. In my dream, this wasn't painful at all, which should have been my first hint that this was a dream. The second would have been that I'm not flexible enough to wax my ass crack. Satan's Dog woke me up, and I was really pissed that I didn't get to finish and that I'd be all lobsided. Then I remembered I haven't shaved in three weeks, which might explain why I can't seem to get pregnant.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Getting Out

When I was in junior high, I regularly made friends with people who would meet my other friends and then they would all dump me. I'm kind of feeling like that right now.

So I'm getting out.

Not sure when I'll be back.

But me and my hormones need a break from this.

Catwoman.

And It Starts Again

This morning, I woke up and all I could think about is how for the next two weeks, I have to put out every other day. When you wake up with that thought, it kind of sucks the whole fun out of the act, you know?

I guess this is where women and men are different. Because if you said to a woman "you have to eat chocolate every two days," she'd just reply "why can't I eat it every day, or twice a day?" and then she'd be really pissed, storm off and slam a door. Or maybe that's just me.

I guess to men, getting to do it every other day is like eating chocolate, where the only way it can be too much, is if it kills you.

But in 18 to 21 days, Aunt Flo could decide to come back. She's like a hurricane that I have to barricade out. And if putting out every other day does the job, then sign me up. And send me chocolate.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, October 15, 2007

When Satan Takes Over

There's a lie every childless adult tells themself. All of us have thought it at some point and have judged others because of this lie. I'm talking, of course, of every single one of us who have said when we were childless and affronted with the presence of a temper tantrum-throwing toddler, "My children will never act like that."

I once was one of the judgemental people. I used to shake my head as soon as I was out of sight and wonder why a parent would subject their ear drums to those sounds, when clearly, it would be so simple to control that child, and it's no wonder Super Nanny is so busy.

Then I had Little Man. Although we've been overall pretty lucky with him, besides the non-sleeping, the excessive spitting up, the refusal to wear hats and, of course, the obsessive-compulsive love of Elmo that makes my eye twitch, there are those times when he turns into a fire-breathing dragon, where venom spews out of his every pore and he sucks my spinal fluid dry after beheading me, just to show us that he can.

Luckily for us, though, he only thumps us with these tantrums at home, just like any good abuser should. Although, for the most part, Sweetie Pie and I have been the only witnesses to this dark side of Little Man, no longer do I judge the people in the aisles of Target or at the mall with the screaming, thrashing child who they attempt to meekly threaten with a time out if the humiliation will stop. I don't judge, because I know that would simply be asking fate to punish me and whisper to Little Man that a tantrum is even more fun with a very large audience.

I'd much rather Little Man discover that the couch is flammable than the power of a public tantrum.

This weekend, Sweetie Pie was gone hunting. Which of course means our household turned into a frat house, where meals consisted of fast food, bed times became so passé, and wearing clothes is so lame, dude. Also, Little Man and I have slumber partie in our King-size bed, because it's so much fun to wake up to him hovering two inches away from my face, whispering that he wants cookies for breakfast. Then, when I kiss him, because he's so damn cute, he shakes his head at me in disgust and tells me "no kisses, Mama." I'm thinking by next year he'll roll his eyes at me for even being in the same room as him and asking him to drop him off three blocks from the daycare so his friends don't see that he got a ride from his mother, because, that's, like, so embarrassing.

We had such a brilliant day together, that after attending a birthday party, we ended up at Toys R' Us, with the original plan being that we would buy a birthday present for one of his friends who has a birthday coming up. There, Little Man fell in love with a Radio Flyer bicycle and rode that sucker around the entire store, laughing and yelling bicycle and it was such a magical day, that I bought it for him and I had to peel him off the seat while he screamed like I'd just amputated one of his limbs in order to get him in his car seat home.

On Sunday, despite his going to bed at 11 p.m., Little Man was up at 7:30. To most of us, 8.5 hours of sleep would be fantastic, but not for my toddler, who needs at least 10 to 11 hours a night and then loves a good four hour naps on weekends just to top up his sleep bank.

It all came to a head while we were grocery shopping at Walmart. I can't even remember what set him off, but next thing I knew, I was the woman with the thrashing screaming demon in my cart, the screaming approaching an octave that Nobel winners have yet to discover. As the shoppers around me cringed from their burst ear drums, I tried to tell Little Man to cut it out. Then I tried to reason with him, telling him that this behavior was not endearing at all. Then I tried to threaten him with a time out. Then with an imaginary spanking. Then with a can of whoop ass.

Nothing worked. So for the next 30 minutes, I was that woman, the one pushing the cart with the screaming child, who seems to not even notice that this red ball of snot in her cart is making loud noises.

I got home at 11:32. And I've never wanted a bottle of tequila so bad in my life. Or a pack of cigarettes.

By 11:33, Little Man was in his toddler bed asleep.

I ate half a bag of Ghiradelli chocolate chips. Because it's always a good time for chocolate.

Next time Sweetie Pie goes hunting? The fast food, television and nudity will still occur. But bed time? That will be at 8:30 or 9 as usual.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Leaving the Best Part of Stories Out

Remember how yesterday I posted that really, really long post about my day off? And remember how you got so bored halfway through that your eyes glazed over?

Well, I have more to add to that post! More, you say? How is that possible, when I didn't leave any details out, clearly mentioning every single breath I took that day.

On my day off, when I went to put a very exhausted little man to bed, I held him, read him his favorite books and when I tucked him into bed, I kissed him on the head and I whispered to him "thank you for spending the day with me." He whispered back "you're welcome." Like it'd been a pain in his side to do all of these playdates with me and eat too much sugar and watch Finding Nemo, but that because he's a good person, he did it anyway. He really is a good guy.

Everyone has somewhere that makes them happy. Where no matter what kind of day you're having, spending a few minutes in that place always makes you happy. For me, that place is my son's daycare class. It's such a happy place, with a ton of cute little creatures, about three feet tall each and they're snuggly and smiling and refer to you by your kid's name's Mama. I love being somewhere where I'm simply known as Little Man's Mama. It makes me feel special and cool and important.

When I drop Little Man off in the morning, I like to sit with all the kids for breakfast. They come and greet me, they talk to me and for a few minutes, I get to escape the adult world and all of my responsibilities and just chill. One little girl always gives me hugs and sits on my lap and chats with me. Little Man points out all of the kids and reminds me of their names, because, surely, I'm too old to retain important information like the names of the kids in his class.

It's a safe place, one where I get to be the hero for retrieving one sad boy's stuffed monkey from his cubby, when he's getting distraught that he can't reach it. And where I get to wipe boogers off faces and get apple-sauce coated handprints on my clean work clothes. No matter how pissy I might be that morning, I always leave for work content and happy and with a smile on my face.

It's my happy place. And I only have to pay $895 a month to get to hang out for a few minutes. Well, I think part of that price also covers Little Man's tuition.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

My Day Off: An Essay by Catwoman

I was always supposed to take Monday off. After all, it's Canadian Thanksgiving and you can't fly all the way to Canada without taking the day off. I'm pretty sure that would make me be considered AWOL, and considering I still have a bunch of pregnancy clothes that I bid on ebay this past weekend in an incident that will forever be known from now on as that time my brain and my uterus weren't speaking and didn't know they had different goals, I need to keep working so that I can actually afford to pay for all this designer stuff.

My body obviously has a deep-rooted loyalty to the Old Navy and Target clothes my broke ass has been wearing all this time, and now that I found a loop hole and can buy cheap designer duds, my body refuses to turn its back on the cheap clothing that has kept us from being naked all these years.

Enough whining and moping. Millions of women get their periods every month, and you don't hear them whining about it. Well, if you don't, that's because you're not reading their blogs. Because actually, even women who want to get their period whine about it. Makes you wonder why we're not all on that one period a year pill. Well, those of us not trying to get pregnant, anyway.

Back to the subject at hand. So I had Monday off. But was not in Canada, due to the incident as that time the government decided everyone should have a passport, therefore causing a backlog so great that no one can get a passport without a year's notice. And since I'm really lazy and don't want to jump over the big imaginary fence on the 49th parallel that has on one side the big bad USA and on the other side flowers, sunshine and lots of snow, I'm still here in Texas.

Since I have some vacation days left and October 8th was already next to my name on the vacation board at work and it seemed like too much effort to grab the eraser and wipe back and fourth over the writing a grand total of once, I kept it off.

This worked out great, because I was able to pack in about eight weeks of activities into one day.

In the morning, Little Man and I hung out. He watched Finding Nemo, an activity he would do approximately 38 times in one day if I let him, and despite my trying to bribe him with chocolate covered Trix cereal drenched with pure frosting and sprinkled with confectioner's sugar to watch anything else, since we own about 48 Disney movies, he just sternly shakes his head at me and states "No Mama, I watch Nemo." He says this in a manner that leads you to think that the world will end if we don't do as he says. And I'm not willing to mess with the fate of the world, if you are, come to my house and try to pop the Aristocats in, please.

After I'd showered and had me a healthy breakfast of soy milk and cereal, since I was still hoping to be pregnant at the time (in comparison, this morning, I had a cup of coffee drowned in Creme Brulee Coffee Mate with a four-pack of powdered donuts. Enjoy, you bitch Aunt Flo), I cooed to Little Man how awesome and fun it would be to get him dressed.

This is a ritual we perform everyday, where he yells at me to take my dirty hands off his damn pajama tops, although he uses much more vile language than that, I'm sure, I just don't understand a good part of it, since it's said at an octave that only the dogs can hear.

Once I'd wrestled Little Man into some clean clothes and stitched up the gash in my forehead I received during our bout, we were on our way to playdate number one. Where Little Man promptly got threatened by his good friend K. because he held two trucks she apparently wanted. The first time this occured, he pretty much pooped his Pull Up and said "'ere you go!" and practically threw the objects at her in an effort to stop her from pummeling him. He's known her since they were six months old, he knows that you don't want to make her angry. However, by the end of the playdate, Little Man figured out that she wasn't any bigger than him and held his ground a couple of times, including once when she tried to take the chair from him, not only did he not budge, but when she couldn't sit on the chair and fell down instead, he congratulated her. My Little Man is developing a back bone, which he will surely need by junior high.

We went home for a munch needed nap before play date number two. My Little Man, who normally sleeps the full 2.5 hours at school and always has to be woken up, because at home he'll sleep from three to four hours for nap time, only slept about an hour and a half. This meant that when he woke up, he was quite the bear.

When I told him he was going to SD's house, Anglo's son, he looked at me like I was crazy. Seriously? More socializing? When he's 50 percent hermit genetics from my husband's side. Plus he's a Baptist hermit, which means that not only does he not like people, he also won't dance alone in the living room in his underwear. Which to me, besides reading, is the only fun thing to do when you're alone. Well, there might be a third thing, but I'm sure the Baptists wouldn't agree with that activity either.

Anyhoo... So we head to Anglo's house and all is swell, being who she is, she's got an arsenal of activities for the kids and prizes galore and I'm pretty sure the only reason there wasn't a petting zoo and an army of juggling clowns is because they all got stuck in traffic somewhere. Because Anglo is like the Martha Stewart of playdate planners.

Little Man is having a great time, we paint clay pots into candy corn and he thinks this is the swellest thing ever, especially when I'm forced to take his shirt off because he's getting paint all over himself. Nudity at a playdate? That's when you know it's a good one.

Of course, all of the moms there brought their kid's costume, because it was a Halloween party, but I'd forgotten Little Man's, because one, I forgot and two, he hates it and when we put it on him for our annual picture session at The Picture People (future post, I'm waiting on the online link to post the pics), he kept yelling "I'm stuck! I'm stuck!"

All was well, until one of the little boys at the party dressed in his Spiderman costume, complete with full head cover. When Little Man spotted him, his whole body clenched against mine and he started yelling "No spiderman! No spiderman!" To the point that I had to move him to the kitchen to try to explain to him that it was just one of his friends wearing a costume, but Little Man didn't want to hear about it, he was reliving the nightmare of Sesame Place all over again.

In fact, yesterday in the car when I asked about Little Man about his day at school, since he doesn't have the concept of days down just yet, he told me how he colored, read books, played with the cars in the gym and then mentioned "not nice Spiderman." I tried to tell him that Spiderman was actually his friend and was nice, but I'm pretty sure that we won't be able to buy the Pampers Pull-Ups with Spiderman on them any longer.

Also? I made the best freaking Indian food.

Best part? I worked half a day in total on my day off handling random things, so now I still have half a day to take off, which I think I'll use at a consignment sale at the end of the month.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Optimist or Crazy Person?

Signs you're an optimist:

- You spend over $200 on a maternity wardrobe, when you're not yet pregnant, because you know that you'll get to use it and the next consignment sale isn't for another six months.

- You see a pair of Seven for All Mankind maternity jeans on eBay and you bid (and win!) them. Even though you're not going to find out if you're pregnant for another week.

- Even though you're spotting, you tell yourself its just that egg burrowing itself into your uterus.

- When you begin to feel cramps, you tell yourself it must be because you ate Indian food for dinner last night and something didn't agree with your system.

- Even though the spotting is getting heavier, you still take a pregnancy test.

Signs that you're not in completely denial:

- When the test comes back negative and five minutes later, your period officially starts, you have yourself a really good cry in your closet full of maternity clothes that still can't be worn.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, October 05, 2007

Haiku Friday



Time moves so slowly
As I wait for damn Aunt Flo
Will she crush my dream?

Finally, it's done
Credit card debt is all gone
Must go shopping now

First Friday haiku
It's much harder than it looks
Mine suck really bad

Hey, knock, knock, who's there?
I say "Boo." You say "Boo, who?"
Sorry I scared you.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

Because This One Won't Bore You To Tears

That kind of sounded like a promise, eh? Well, no money back guarantee here, so don't take it too seriously.

I've been passing on a lot of memes lately, to the point that I don't even get tagged anymore. It's not that I don't appreciate reading the memes, it's just when I start doing them, I'm bored to tears reading what I wrote and I like for this blog to at least not cause keyboards everywhere to die by drowning in drool. I guess it's because once I read the fantastic answers on one of my Bloggy friends sites, I just know I can't top it and then I end up sucking.

But this one, I don't have to worry about not doing as well as my friends. Because this is a fun one!

1. Your rock star name: (first pet, current car) Titi Liberty. Are you ready to rock Cleveland???

2. Your gangster name: (favorite ice cream, favorite cookie) Haagen Dasz Oreo. Somehow, I don't think someone would be able to sit through their cement shoe fitting when I introduce myself. They'd be too busy laughing at my name.

3. Your fly guy/girl name: (first initial first name, first 3 letters last name) - Abax. I am pretty fly for a white girl.

4. Your detective name: (favorite color, favorite animal) Red Koala. Which makes me sound like I'm a koala with a weird skin infection.

5. Your soap opera name: (middle name, birth city) Anny Lyon. Actually, I may have to change my name to that just for the fun of it.


6. Your Star Wars name (first three letter last name, first 2 letter of first name)
Baxan. Which also kind of sounds like an insult, like, you baxan, you ate my last freaking cookie.

7. Superhero Name: (2nd favorite color, favorite drink and add "the") The Yellow Mojito. I'm always minty fresh and don't blen in anywhere. But I'll kill you with my sweetness.

8. Nascar name (first names of your grandfathers) Pierre Jack. Which sounds a lot like the French driver's name in Talladega Nights. I'm contacting Perrier and Evian right now to see if they want to sponsor me.

9. Stripper Name: (favorite perfume, favorite candy) In Love Again Nips. Never mind, this is what I'm changing my name to.

10. Witness Protection Name: (mother's and father's middle name) Janine Serge. Makes me sound like I work at the school library. Which, what better place is there to hide if mobsters with ice cream names are looking for me.

So I'm supposed to tag people here. But since I've been such a bad tagee, I won't tag anyone. If you want to give this a whirl, give it a shot!

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Perfect For Each Other

On Saturday, Anglophile and I hit a consignment sale at a church in our neighborhood. Some might say that this is the equivalent of taking an alcoholic to a kegger, what with Anglophile being recently deported to her parents house due to her overspending. But I don't like to fight hordes of suburban moms alone and Anglophile's elbows are nice and pointy. Plus she always showers before meeting me, and it's nice to hang out with someone who smells better than I do.

When we got to this sale, it was very clear that it wasn't as good as the consignment sale we're used to going to. Some of you who haven't experienced the greatness of consignment sales probably need an explanation at this point, so here it is. You know how if you have kids, you've got all these clothes that haven't even been worn, yet your child's already outgrown them? Or you have an attic full of Fisher Price toys and you really, really would like to store the Bowflex you never use there. Well, then, a consignment sales is where you want to get rid of all of that stuff. Basically, a consignment sale is a place where mothers sell all of their like new items for a fraction of their original costs. And then deal obsessed mothers like myself and M buy these items for our own kids and shout with glee about them to our terrified husbands and bloggy friends.

This is the ultimate consignment sale in the Dallas area. See those pictures on the left hand side? Yeah, it's really got that much stuff.

Anyway, this sale wasn't like that, because it was much smaller and at a church, so the stuff was thrown in hallways and in small rooms. I hit the maternity rack, because I can't help myself, while Anglophile sobbed over the lack of like-new Ralph Lauren clothing in her son's size.

My most prized outfit? A brand new Pea in the Pod (for those of you outside of the US, it's the snooty Designer Name only maternity store, with $198 maternity jeans and probably nothing under $70) 100 percent silk two piece capri and sleeveless top outfit. I paid 10 dollars for it. The price tag, that's still on it? It says the outfit was originally $295. Now the girl who sold the outfit and never wore it did buy it on clearance for $69. But still! Me? I've got me designer clothes for $10!

Weee!

One tiny little hiccup, is that this outfit is in my smallest size. And it's a summer outfit. Which means I'll be seven to nine months pregnant when I can wear it. But I'm thinking at that price? It's worth a shot!

When I got home, I tried on the outfit to see if I even fit in it not pregnant. I figured my ego was less fragile right now and if I busted the silk pants now, well, I could laugh a little bit about it. And then eat a pound of chocolate chips while swigging tequila as I cried. You can't swig tequila when you're pregnant.

I came out to ask Sweetie Pie what he thought of the outfit, since it's a pink plaid, and I was worried that the capris with the shirt was just a whole lot of plaid and might make me look like a giant tablecloth.

Sweetie Pie's response?

"Are those pants a little snug?

- Yeah, there's not a ton of room to grow in the thighs, I've got the belly pouch to fill, that's about it.

- Well, I guess we better hope your ass doesn't get any bigger."

Some women? Might be really, really offended by that comment? When I told my mom the story the next day, while giggling hysterically at how non-smooth my husband is, my mom? She said that if she were married to him, she would have thrown a chair at him.

Me? I find it endearing.

Plus, it confirms that I really don't need to worry about anyone stealing him from me.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, October 01, 2007

Twenty-Five Months: My Letter to Little Man

Your Nonnie told me when you were very little that when your dad was a baby, she found herself saying at every single age "this is the best age ever." And then your dad would get a little older and she'd say "no, this is the best age ever." At the time I kind of smiled at her and asked her if she'd mind passing me the antibacterial gel so I could get the poop off my hands. Also, I might have been asleep with my eyes open, because you were really little and acted like the fate of the world rested on you not going to sleep.



Don't tell your Nonnie I ever said this, because if you do, I'll claim you're some crazy person I've never met before, but the fact is, she was right. The year between one and two, was really fantastic. You got to be really funny and you'd run into stuff and there were the really fantastic tantrums and meltdowns, which torched the top layers of skin on my face, revealing younger, smoother skin.

Then last month, you decided to turn two. You still haven't exactly explained why you chose to do so, but I've decided to let that one go. And I have to say, two is even better than one. Because during the past month, you've decided that two is really too old to be having meltdowns over every tiny little thing. And you've revealed this fantastic new side to you, one that tells us things that make tears spring to my eyes right now just thinking about it, because you're so funny, that I always end up laughing to the point of tears, so that all I have to do is think of you, and my eyes begin to sting with tears of laughter. You're pretty powerful, eh?



A couple of weeks ago, your crib was recalled because you have been born in a time where companies seem to put out shoddy products just so they can be sold for cheap, and then once a few consumers die then they say "our bad! Whoopsie-daisy!" Besides the fact that we had to come to the realization that for the past two years, you'd been sleeping in a potential death trap, there was the just as frightening realization that we were going to have to move you out of your crib. We'd tried once before, an incident I like to call the week I wished carbon monoxide poisoning would find me so that I could get some sleep. For about six months now, you have had this beautiful little boy's room, painted to match your bedding, with a cute toddler bed, a chalkboard on an easel and a little table with a wooden train on it. It's a room that's so cute, I would like to sleep in it.



But you? You have refused to sleep in that cute room I slaved for hours painting. You love your crib the way I love chocolate. It's your little cage, your safe place and its walls keep you safe from the dangers of the world. And not once has it ever occured to you to try to escape its confines, because why would anyone want to leave their crib? But we had no choice this time, so I dismantled the crib and dragged your toddler bed into your baby room.

When I put you down for your first nap in it, I was worried, but you amazed me and showed that you are now a big boy, and took to that toddler bed like a fish in water. You slept so long, that your father and I fought over who would get to go upstairs and wake you up in your new big bed. The best part of your toddler bed is that it hasn't even occured to you that you can get in and out of it by yourself unless we're in the room. When I walk in the morning to get you, you smile at me and slide down the side and applaud yourself, but the thought of escaping, well, that's craziness. Rebelling is the sport of the silly and bored, you reckon.



On Saturday morning, I woke up at 8:40 and I realized that we hadn't heard you calling us. I ran up the stairs and there you were, kneeling in your bed, looking out your bedroom window. When I walked in, you simply said "Hi Mama, I see a boat, over here." Seriously? You rock something really, really fierce and if you keep making my heart explode with this much happiness, I'm afraid that I'll become one of those over the top happy people who shriek all the time and talk about rainbows and butterflies to terrified strangers.



You've tested my creativity like no one else this past month. Your favorite way to keep me on my toes is to lead me into rousing renditions of "Old Macdonald had a farm" while we drive to school, but when we get to the "and on this farm he had a..." part, you like to throw in random things like "a car," (sometimes it's a big blue car, so that you can make sure that I know the unique noises different colored vehicles make) "a tree" (which I've interpreted as "swish, swish" because I reckon that's what a tree swayi in the wind), and my all time favorite "green grass," which actually stumped me for a second and as beads of sweat appeared on my forehead, I decided that grass would go "a grow, grow here and a grow, grow there." This seemed to satisfy you greately, and I was glad to know my performance pleased the prince that day.

Your vocabulary constantly seems to add new words to it and you're constantly telling me one thing or another. You've also learned to express your discontent in a more gentle tone than your previous screaming. The other day, as I was trying to remove your pajama top to get you dressed for school, you sighed and said "no, Mama, no touch shirt." Which is such a sweet request, much better than the flailing and screaming I'm used to, that for a second, I actually considered taking you to school in your pajamas, because shouldn't awesome behavior like that be rewarded? The other day, as I was showering you with kisses, you also said to me "no kisses, Mama." I'm guessing you're becoming a little bit of the kiss nazi.



You're obsessed with dinosaurs, which I guess is a rite of passage for boys the way Disney princesses are with girls. A couple of weeks ago, Sesame Street had an episode where Elmo wanted a pet dinosaur. When I plopped you down on our bed with your breakfast that morning and put on the episode, your head almost exploded. Seriously? Your two favorite things in the world? Combined? Into one TV show? This must be what heaven's like, except probably with a better breakfast than dry Trix cereal.

You've also become a bit of a vegetarian this past month. You don't eat very much, which is something many parents would worry about, but I was the same way as you and considering the little bit of food you do eat is very healthy, I figure that I turned out fine, and so will you. When you do grace us with your presence for dinner, I have to not tell you there is chicken on your plate, or you'll get this look of horror and say "No! No Old Macdonald had a chicken!" And promptly hand me the offensive pieces of white meat. Your diet has consisted mainly of grapes, strawberries, gallons of milk, yogurt, pasta, bread and dry cereal this month. You will eat a cut up meatball though, which luckily I make mine out of ground turkey, so you're getting some lean protein in you.



You've been working on learning your letters this month, and there are so many that you recognize already, that I know you'll have the alphabet identified in no time. You have an alphabet magnet toy on the fridge that was a gift for your second birthday and you'll spend much time grabbing letters that we call out and sticking them on the music making piece. I'm always amazed at how smart you are and how quickly you learn things. I'm hoping that in a few months, you can teach me the trick to solving those stupid Sudoku puzzles. And maybe you can help me get my first bingo on Scrabulous on Facebook, because I'm getting my butt whipped and could really use you on my team. I can't wait for you to teach me things, like quantum physics and performing appendectomies. In return, I'll teach you fun things like the lyrics to every Justin Timberlake song and how to get the dog to attack his own tail.

video

I love you my Little Man,

Mama.

Another Reason Why I Suck

So for some reason? Every time I try to have any kind of get together at my house? Most people stand me up.

I'm not sure why that is. People seem to like me, until I invite them for something. Then, they don't like me anymore.

I've had New Year's Eve parties where only half of the people who said they'd show up actually make it. I once had a Mary Kay party where it was only me and two girls there and I felt so bad that I ended up buying $120 worth of stuff from the girl. I still haven't freaking used it all up.

Yesterday, I decide to put a toe in the hosting water once again, and I sent out evites to 32 people. I didn't even know I knew 32 people, so I was pretty impressed with that. I invited them all over for some sweets and to do some Christmas shopping for those hard-to-shop for people. You know the ones, the mothers, mother-in-laws, that random girl at the office who you can never figure out what the hell to get them. I went to a Taste of Home Entertaining party a few weeks ago, and I loved the stuff so much, that I figured I'd have my own party, hang out with my favorite ladies and have a reason to clean my house.

Because I work all week, so I don't have many excuses to kick my husband out and hang out with girls doing girly stuff like oohing and aaahing over Tuscan-inspired kitchen stuff.

Out of the 32 people I invited, 12 people were confirmed to attend. Of those 12, four said that they'd likely bring a friend. Then five people were maybes, including my mother-in-law who said she'd be a little late and then my sister-in-law said she'd probably make it and bring a friend.

So I was supposed to have anywhere from 10-20 people. I didn't make a ton of food, because the party was at 2 in the afternoon, but I did cover in chocolate 32 strawberries. I also made truffles, which ended up looking like a diaper gone really wrong. But if you looked past their look, they were tasty. I made a dip.

I was excited.

My little girl's afternoon? Kind of sucked ass.

Out of all the people who were supposed to come? Four showed up. Luckily for me, I've got awesome friends like Anglophile who would only not show up at something that she said she's coming from if she was stuck under a really, really big boulder with no phone or Internet. And even then, I'm pretty sure she's teach a pigeon baby sign language and get me the message.

So Sweetie Pie and I? We ate a shitload of strawberries last night, coated in chocolate. At least we got our vitamin C quota for the day.

And I spent $80 and got a free serving spoon. Because I rock like that.

Then one of my coworkers asked me this morning if she could still order stuff, so I had the damn lady reopen my sale.

So Internet friends, if you want to help me earn a free fork to match my serving spoon, just click here to see the catalogue and then just email the lady at troycrystal at sbcglobal.net your order. Tell her you're a friend of Catwoman's.

I'm afraid I'm out of chocolate-covered strawberries, but at least I got all of my hard shopping done, so I thought I'd help out my bloggy friends do the same.

Love,

Catwoman.