Sunday, December 30, 2007

Perfect Little Traveler

With having family so far away, Little Man's had to travel a lot in his short two years. Like the chicken and egg dilemna, I'm not sure which came first. Did Little Man become a good traveler because he's flown so much? Or is it just in his nature to enjoy the experience? I think that it's ingrained in him, as I remember very vividly flying as a child and being mesmerized at being above the clouds, listening to the purr of the engine, enjoying the movie and the food, the cold cutlery on the little plastic tray, the flight attendants who brought me juice and cokes and other things I normally wasn't allowed to have at home.

Even now, I love to fly. Despite the cramped conditions, the delays, the flight attendants who don't serve you anything on the flight, the magic of being in a big steel tube up in the sky still amazes me. I know many people will go their entire lives never setting foot on a plane. To me, getting to fly is a privilege, even if that experience ends up being a miserable one.

Little Man, like me, has the travel bug. And I couldn't be more pleased for him. Not only was he the perfect little traveler on this trip, but getting to enjoy flying all over again, as I experienced it through his eyes, well, it made it even more magical to me.

Here are some of my favorite moments of our flights:

- Little Man, upon seeing the planes tucked behind the bridges said "Mama! Plane is hiding!"

- When we got on the plane and Little Man sat down in his window seat and he saw a plane next to us, he said "Don't worry plane, I coming!"

- Every time Little Man would hear the engine speed up or the wings adjust he'd say "What's that sound?" while putting his hand next to his eye.

- When we arrived in Montreal, on our second flight of the day, I asked Little Man if he was ready to see his grandparents and he said "no, I go on plane."

- But my favorite, was this. Upon every landing, Little Man would cheerfully yell "I made it!", like in the video I captured on our arrival in Dallas.

I Made It! from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.



Friday, December 21, 2007

Improving My Chances of Getting a Cavity Search

So tomorrow we leave for Canada. It may not be the land of the free, but it is the land of hockey and beavers, which is way better than freedom if you ask me. Well, maybe not, but it's a close second. Canada also has good beer, that doesn't taste like deer urine, and not being pregnant, I can get my fill.

I'm excited to be going on this trip, although I'm also fully aware that it involves my mother, which with her being quite unbalanced, I know that about three days into the trip, I'll say something that comes off as ungrateful, like the time she was worried that she'd die alone in a retirement home if something happened to my dad and I said something along the lines of "hell no, we'll just ship you monthly between our three houses, my sisters and I."

The general feeling behind this statement was that she could live with the three of us, and just take turns so that she could see all of her daughters and grand-kids equally and not get bored. Also, I thought in the back of my mind that this might prevent all three of us from doing heroin, or something even stronger, to cope with her living with one of us full-time.

Talking with my mother is a little like being interviewed by a very hormonal Bill O'Reilly. Every single thing you say is taken out of context and thrown back in your face, in the most stressful boardgame ever. In monopoly, if you lose, you lose all your money, in my mother's game, you lose your life through endless speeches and brain sucking whining. So this statement I made last Christmas turned into me being an ungrateful bitch, because in my plan she'd be shipped around without ever having a chance to give her opinion or do what she wants.

Uhm. What? First, this was a hypothetical conversation. And I was kind of put on the spot, so it's not like I had a solid plan, it was more of a hey, no, here's something we can do, but I was still open to suggestions, sheesh. Second, I thought it was sweet of me to offer not just my home, but my sisters' at the same time. I'm a good person like that.

So anyway. Canada? It might be very, very pretty and be filled with really, really nice people, but where I'm going, there are a lot of freaking land mines. I'm talking major war zone where I feel a few peacekeepers (invented by Canadians, by the way) should come with me for protection.

You want to hear everthing that's wrong with me right now?

Closed off throat from huge inflated glands on the side of my neck fighting world war with godzilla-like cold: 1.

Nose that's pouring snot at an alarming rate, causing side of nose to ressemble a porter steak from blowing it so much: 1.

Head that feels like Satan's Dog has chewed up the back of it overnight: 1.

Eye that's very obviously got pink eye: 1

Good thing I've seen every episode of Grey's Anatomy so that I can figure out it's pink eye and just use the drops from last time. I just don't understand how I've managed to get pink eye twice in a year now, when I've never had it my entire life. I know one class at Little Man's daycare (not his), had one reported case of it last week. He doesn't have it and he's there all day, I'm there three minutes twice a day and I get it. Does the pink eye just look for me????

Well children, I'm off. I'll try to post while I'm in Canada, but it will be sporadic. Some of you probably won't even try to visit me during the next week and to you I say "why are you so mean?" No. I don't. Because I won't be able to get my blog fix until December 30th either, because if I post, I won't also have time to go read all of you. So Merry Christmas to those of you to celebrate, to those who don't, happy 25th of December, enjoy the random day off.



Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Conspiracy Theory

So the world? It has decided that I must go without sleep for the rest of my life. That it is a better place when I'm cranky and snarl and show my teeth all the time and my head rotates 360 degrees over every little thing.

I'd tell you the last time I had a full night sleep, but unfortunately, I don't remember when it was. I'm pretty sure the Civil War was still going on though. Also? Some kid named Frank Sinatra was becoming really, really popular.

For the past few weeks, Little Man has spontaneously woken up crying at random times in the night. I've always been a big believer of letting him crying it out, once I discovered that he would not in fact keel over and die if he cried for five or 10 minutes (this realization took a mere four months of motherhood to come upon me. I'm what they call a swift learner), but now, Little Man can freaking speak. And it's really, really hard to ignore your child when he's wailing "MOOOOO-MEEEEEE! DAH-DEEEEEEEE! HELP MEEEEEEEE!"

And I know from getting up about 10 billion times now that he's not in fact pinned under something heavy. And his stuffed frog has not come to life and turned into a vampire brain sucking toad trying to eat him. And he is not being attacked by an army of ninjas who think he's a member of the CIA. I know that it's him waking up for who knows what reason and using his words, something I tell him all freaking day when he goes into whiny mode instead of saying what he wants. The irony of him using his freaking words when the moon is out has not escaped me, I can assure you of that.

Two nights ago, Little Man couldn't fall asleep at all. Exhausted, I just finally said to him "do you want to sleep with Mama and Daddy tonight?" To which he thought "I've got me a sucker, whoo-hoo! Score! High five!" and agreed that yes, indeed, he would like to sleep with me. And my son, who I love more than life itself and would gouge my own eyes out if it meant I could add just one more minute to his life, somehow turns into his sleep into David Beckham or some gangster who kicks his victims to death.

I mean, we have a freaking King-size bed. This thing could accommodate Shaquille O'Neal and the whole cast of the Biggest Loser before their amazing weight loss. But somehow? When you throw in a 33 inch toddler who tips the scales at roughly 27 pounds, that bed shrinks to the size of a matchbook.

And my son, uses me as his punching bag, but with his feet. All. Freaking. Night.

Last night, when we were going through the bed time routine in his room, I finished reading his book and he jumped off my lap and said "ok, go dodo (sleep in French) with Mama and Daddy now."

I was like "uhm... Yeah. No."

Because I'm very eloquent when I'm put on the spot by very short men with too much hair on their heads.

And somehow, magically, the universe felt sorry for me. And not only did Little Man fall asleep in his toddler bed, like he does most of the time, but then he went on to sleep through the night, and the angels sang as I wept from joy in my sleep.

(side note: I expect there will be no pregnancy-inducing nookie this week, as I desperately try to catch up on weeks of lost sleep.)

I slept soundly until 3:41 a.m., when I was brusquely roused from deep sleep by the sound of a gagging dog. Freaking Satan's Dog, destroyer of all things made by humans, including sprinkler systems, gutters and fences, was puking whatever his stomach had decided was indigestible, which from the sounds of it was a small South American village.

I leapt out of bed because, have you seen the color of my carpet in my pictures? It's a light cream color, which in no way matches any of the vomit that's ever come out of the dog's system. I race through the living room to get him to the back door.

Unfortunately, I'm barefoot (because who the hell wears shoes to bed right?) and when I go running across the tile floor where the back door is, I slip and land on my side, which scares Satan's Dog, so that he runs through my living room while simultaneously throwing up. So that an 8-foot long trail of vivid gold-brown vomit runs through my entire living room, like some designer went off his meds.

This means that from 3:23 (I spent two minutes whisper-yelling every curse word I know) until approximately 4:12 a.m., I was carefully spraying white vinegar and blotting with paper towels to get my carpet back to its semi-spotless state.

I then crawled back into bed, only to feel a wet spot on the top sheet. Did you know dog vomit can seep through a goose down duvet and a top sheet?

Yeah, me neither.

Who wants to write the "free to good home" ad for Craig's List for me?

Or who wants an 18-month old dog for Christmas? Anyone? Anyone?



Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Some Thanks...

With the holidays quickly approaching, I need to give a few thanks.

First, you've probably noticed my new look. I recently won a prize from the wonderful Splat Designs who did such a fantastic job at capturing me and creating this kick ass blog page for me. If you're ever looking to re-do your Web site, call her, will you, because not only is she fast, but she's really, really talented too!

Second, I want to thank Passport Canada, for making sure that my passport got out in time for me to get back to Canada so that my mother can say for a whole 8 days "should you really be eating that when you're barely fitting in your clothes?" or "when you were little, I never let you do that." Thank you Passport Canada for allowing me to spend a Christmas the way it was meant to, with people that made me want to drink myself silly so that all I hear are the voices in my head.

And last but not least, I need to thank all of you, my bloggy friends. I think a year ago, I only knew maybe a handful of you. But over the past year, your friendship has grown in importance to me to the point that non-bloggers might think I'm a little weird. Like when I hear something about Ohio, I think of a certain lady with blue eyes who has an insane amount of nookie. When I get yelled at for spending too much money at Target, I thing that a certain New York state resident would totally understand. I no longer think of Alberta as that place filled with Republicans, instead, it's where my oldest blogging buddy lives, and because of her it's now become to me a place filled with beautiful blonde blue eyed baby girls with kick ass moms. When it rains, I think of Washington State and how lucky it is to have as a resident Liam and Lily and their freaking off-the-chart cool mom and dads. Alabama's no longer a land of hicks, but instead two of my good friends now reside there. Same thing with Tennessee. I've learned Red Skins fans can also be great (and insanely busy) mothers, even if they have no taste in football teams. I read books now and wonder if a certain pregnant woman might have edited it. When I think about getting pregnant, I think of all of you who are pregnant, who've had children, who are struggling to get or stay pregnant. I've gotten to meet more hilariously funny, smart, talented, down-to-earth and amazingly cool women (and a man or two) through this blog and the blogs of my friends than I could have ever imagined. My world is a better place because of all of you. Every day, no matter how busy I might be, I have to keep up with my favorite people. If I had to choose between television and blogging, I'd give up the Grey's Anatomy cast in a heart beat. Because all of your lives? Way more interesting to me than anything any of the networks can ever put on.

Thank you for continuing to blog. I'd miss you way too much if you went away. Thanks for letting me read about your children and grand children. Your husbands and boyfriends. Your successes and heartbreaks. Your victories and defeats. Your joys and the things that make you laugh and cry.

Most of all, thanks for being my friend. For cheering for me and for making me feel that there's nothing I can't do, because I've got this huge support system. For crying with me, no matter how big or small the issue that's making me cry might be. For loving Little Man almost as much as me. There are days when I feel like I'm not raising him alone (well, I do have Sweetie Pie, so that's the first part of not being alone), but that he's being raised by this village in bloggy land, that cares and cheers for him as much as I do. Someday, he'll be on the soccer field and will score in the wrong net. And next to me there will be all of you cheering for him with me, albeit not physically, but I will feel you next me nonetheless.

I've received many Christmas cards from you and I've cherished every one of them. Sweetie Pie, who doesn't know about this blog is confused. "Who do we know in (name of city of blogger)." And I roll my eyes at him and say "you know, that's my friend so and so."

Some day, I'll let him into my world. But for now, I like having this safe place that's all mine. He's got hunting. I've got bloggy land.

As far as I'm concerned, I've got the way better deal.



Monday, December 17, 2007

Congrats CatWoman!

Ornament Time!

Look what I got! I got me an ornament! A Be-yoooo-tiful ornament (said the Anna Nicole Smith way). It's all sparkly and pretty and I heart it so much. I had to take the picture without the flash, because when I used the flash it sparkled so much, it looked like I'd taken the picture of the sun. To say I love it is quite the under-statement! And who sent me this fantastic ornament? Why my secret swap partner J, that's who.

And to all of you who posted about how great my Christmas tree looked in the picture of Little Man in his pimp suit, uhm, well, that wasn't my tree, that was the tree of a fancy schmancy steak house. As a refresher, this is my tree, with the new ornament in it, although you can't really see it, since it's tucked amongst 30,000 other ornaments.

And thanks to Abbily Ever After for setting it up!



Reason #923 I Love Having a Two-Year Old

This morning, I opened my laptop case and sitting next to my computer was the lid of my plastic drink pitcher.

And a toddler navy blue sock.

My day can't get any better than that.



Thursday, December 13, 2007

Getting Back In The Game

So I know I said that I was taking another month off from trying. What with the potential baby's due date being close to Little Man's birthday. But the greatness of Babycenter's ovulation calculator told me that my baby would be due September 10th, if I chose to put out all next week. That means that I would have a C-section around August 27th. That's six days earlier than Little Man's birthday, nine days earlier than Sweetie Pie's, 12 days earlier than my father-in-law's birthday and 15 days earlier than mine.

I figure, screw it. That's far enough apart for me.

The idea of letting another precious egg go to waste, when I don't know how many I have left at this point is making me itch. So I'm going for it. Wish me luck.

I also have an update for my passport situation, in case anyone actually cares.

I called the very sweet, wonderfully warm and amazingly good looking people at Passport Canada and they told me yesterday that my passport application has now been approved, and all that is needed for it is to be printed and shipped to me. I need to call on Monday to get my DHL tracking number, but I will get it in time for our trip, with a day or ts. To say that I jumped through the phone and French kissed the guy who told me this is an understatement. I would have given him my boobies and a kidney as a thank you.

So now, I just need to hope that Passport Canada doesn't google their name with the word "suck" and if they do, that they don't find yesterday's entry and with the details figure out my identity and somehow "lose" my file. Because that, would really, really suck. I take back everything I said about you, Passport Canada. I think you rock. And you smell really, really nice too. Like the breath of a baby butterfly.



Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Dear Passport Canada: You Suck!

So I am now nine days away from leaving for Canada. And I? Don't have a passport.

To say that I'm freaking out is quite the understatement. I applied the first week of October, which if we want to be petty is 10 weeks ago now. Sweetie Pie? He applied for his new US passport at the same time and had it in our mailbox two weeks later.

Three weeks ago, I spoke to a friendly Passport Canada agent who wanted to confirm what name I wanted printed on my passport. I asked her before hanging up with her when I could expect my passport and she said in two weeks at most.

Last Friday, the Passport Canada charge still hadn't appeared in my bank account and I was starting to get panicked. I called and the agent who answered began to ask me the same exact questions that the previous agent had asked me two weeks before. I told her this fact and asked if my file had just been sitting there the whole time with nothing done to it, when I was 14 days out from travelling. She told me that they just needed to double check some things, which is a big wh-what to me when I'd already had them double check this information and is obviously code for "yeah, we fucked up, but we ain't going to tell you that, ok."

The good news is that I have a plan B, C and D to get to Canada. I will get there for Christmas, even if Hallmark ends up making a movie out of the adventure.

Option A: I get my passport in time. The world rejoices, causing world peace and the safe return of our soldiers.

Option B: I get confirmation that I can fly to Canada with just my green card, which one Canadian girlfriend told me was the case and that if the Canadian Consulate would return my calls, I could confirm. The world prays that I don't get an a-hole customs agent on my return who says that's not true, even though the US Customs Web site says it is, and I don't get detained and cavity searched in a dark office at the airport.

Option C: I fly to Chicago with Sweetie Pie and Little Man. They get on a flight to Montreal from there. I get on a United Airlines flight to Burlington Vermont, an hour South of the Canadian border. Someone from my family crosses the border, comes and picks me up and I get through without any issues with just my green card, since you don't yet need a passport to drive across. This option costs me $500 more, because tickets to Burlington? Ain't cheap.

Option D: I drink a lot. This option actually bleeds into all of the previous options, because the only way I'll survive any of this is by being blitzed and not caring half as much.

I spent yesterday afternoon googling stories about Passport Canada and it was all horror movie materials. To say that I'm slightly tense about all of this is like saying that Bill O'Reilly on FOX News is slightly an asshole.



Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Pimpin' Since '05

This is Little Man at dinner on Sunday night, when we ate at a nice restaurant with my in-laws. He'll also wear this suit at his cousin's baptism next week, if Passport Canada would get their heads out of their ass and issue me my passport.

The suit? Was bought at a consignment sale for five dollars.

The fact that Little Man looks like a freaking rock star in it? Priceless.



Monday, December 10, 2007

Learning So Much About Him...

Saturday, I took Little Man to the eye doctor's for his annual eye exam. Since he was a new patient to this practice, I had to fill out the whole long questionnaire, including a whole slew of questions that really don't apply to a two-year old. And since there was nothing else to do, I asked Little Man the questions out loud. This is the conversation that ensued:

Me: "are you currently taking any medication?"

Little Man nods.

"Really? What medicines are you taking?

- Cookies?"

I nod and check the yes box and write "cookies" in the blank section.

"Do you drink alcohol?"

Little Man nods.

"You do? I had no idea. Next question. Do you smoke?"

Little Man nods.

"Huh, I should probably pay more attention to what you do. Do you drive at night?"

Little Man nods.

"Really? But night time is past your bed time."

Little Man grins.

I tell you, you think you know someone, and then you ask them the questions on a medical questionnaire.



Friday, December 07, 2007


The other night, Little Man woke us up with his crying. Which some might call highly inconsiderate on his part, but I've decided that I have to accept this flaw, since he's so good looking and good looking people don't have to be considerate. Just ask any celebrity.

When I rushed up the stairs, stumbling due to being roused from deep sleep, not due to being drunk, unfortunately, I came to find out that Little Man was crying because he couldn't find his beloved stuffed frog. The one that he clutches in his sleep as if it would be impossible for him to live without that worn down green frog.

I found the lost frog in the dark, gave it back to Little Man, shushed him back to sleep, stroked his hair and crawled back into bed.

As I did so, this flashback hit me like lightning. Am I the only one who ever has that? Where a flashback is so strong, you're practically transported back in the moment and can see everything so clearly, smell and hear everything of that instant that you feel like you are reliving it?

The moment I relived was when Little Man was itty bitty. I want to say he was a few weeks old at most. Those first months, I've talked about at length before, were very, very brutal, because Little Man was morally opposed to sleep then.

Eventually, I figured out that the only way he would sleep, was laying on my chest, skin to skin, with a swaddling blanket over his back.

When he'd sleep that way, I'd go in and out of consciousness, because I was so terrified that he would fall off me, hit the mattress and break in half somehow. Maybe his head would roll off, I wasn't sure, I was a new mom and I was scared shitless, no matter how many "What to Expect" books I had read.

One night, at some ungodly hour where only feral cats in heat are awake, I woke up and Little Man was no longer on my chest. I clearly remember the feeling of my entire skeleton flying out of my body, and I'm pretty sure that my bladder temporarily forgot about Kegel exercises, and I peed myself in terror. I had managed to lose my newborn son.

I groped the sheet around me, patted the floor, quietly wailing and wondering how I could be such a terrible mother. And then thanks to the moonlight streaming between the slats of our bedroom blinds, I spotted him. Asleep peacefully. In his bassinet. Next to our bed. Where I had managed to get him to sleep (for once) after the previous feeding.

I still remember the feeling of terror sapping every ounce of energy I had left as it was replaced by just overwhelming relief.

As I laid in bed this week, reliving that moment from more than two years ago, my heart still continued to beat a little faster. I still have the fear of losing my son. It haunts me every day. Maybe even every minute, somewhere in my subconscious.

And I knew that when Little Man woke up and his frog was missing, he felt the exact same way that I felt on that day.

I don't know if I should be happy for my son that he's able to experience love that intense. Or if I should feel sad for him that it's directed at a stuffed green frog, with a frayed ribbon around its neck.



Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Tick Tock, Tick Tock

I feel like I'm running out of time. As I write this, Christmas is exactly 19 days, 14 hours and 34 minutes away. Dear God, what am I going to do?

I don't know how this happened, I mean, I bought my first Christmas present on January 6th. How does one start 12 days after the last event and is still not done this close to the wire?

Little Man is done. He's not getting a ton of gifts this year, because it seems there's nothing left for him to own. And what he doesn't own is for kids three years and older and would be of no use to him, although I'd love for him to get cracking on learning to play Scrabble, just so I can feel better about Blue Momma beating me every single time at Facebook's Scrabulous. Surely I can beat a two year-old who pronounces outdoor spaces as "outchide."

He is getting a little four-wheeler, because he's a Texas boy and embarrassingly enough, we're way behind on his redneck training. The kid can't even spit chewing tobacco properly yet.

We're hoping that by strapping a dead baby deer to the front of this, the neighborhood will be convinced that he's one of them. Even if he'll be wearing an argyle Gymboree vest with a Tommy Hillfiger blue long-sleeved dress shirt while riding around. He'll also probably pout that we didn't get him the fluorescent pink Dora ATV.

He's also getting books, because I think it's important for kids to not have too much fun. And because he's half Canadian, so I believe that despite being Texan by birth, he should be somewhat literate.

And then he's getting a couple of other toys. And that's it.

Sweetie Pie is not done, although I'm running out at lunch and taking care of him. All he wants for Christmas is a coupon that guarantees him adaily bj. But they don't sell those at Walmart, so he's getting a new backpack/laptop case and a new electric razor. I'm sure he'll think they're better than his Christmas wish.

I still need to finish my sisters' birthday gift, which is a recipe book/album with all of my grandmother's recipes. I only have some pictures in hard copies and our scanner is dead, so I need to figure out if I can go to Kinko's and scan them there and upload them to Snapfish from Kinko's. Snapfish keeps stressing me by telling me I only have 8 more days to order the gifts in time for Christmas. Which is so not helpful.

Then I need to get the two senior citizens and one foster child I've adopted their Christmas gifts. I also adopted a teenager, and I got her done easily, because she wanted scrapbooking supplies, which I have about $3,000 worth of stock from my Creative Memories consultant days. So she's getting a crapload of stuff, just because I just want to get rid of some at this point.

I think Christmas would be a really good time to start smoking again.



Tuesday, December 04, 2007

I Might Be The Luckiest Person Alive

So yesterday, I'm at home with Little Man, he's napping, I'm catching up on shows I've Tivoed, it's a great day off that included seeing some old friends in the morning. Suddenly the door bell rings and I run to the door, because why is it someone always rings the door bell during nap time? Especially when my son is starting to show signs that maybe at some point he won't take three hour naps anymore, like on Sunday where he slept exactly 0.0 minutes.

I open the door, and there's my favorite mail person. Her hair unbrushed, the smell of old nicotine hovering around her, she always brings me good stuff like eBay orders and it's nice to be there when she has packages for me.

I look at the package and it's a ginormous box from Emma.

And I opened it and I was blinded by the rays of sunshine and rainbows pouring out of it. Because this? Might be the greatest package ever sent to anyone, let alone me.

Want to see what I got?

See that? it's three books! Not one, not two, three! Which Little Man would tell you is tres in Spanish. And Dora the Explorer would agree with him. I haven't read any of them before, so I'm very, very excited!

And Little Man got a book too! Whoo-hoo! Canadian litterature for Little Man! I'm so excited! We've already read it six times in a row. It's safe to say I now know my ABC's. The illustrations? Are beautiful.

Then it gets really, really, really good.

Those? Are the best chocolate chip cookies in the world. How they're not available in the US and haven't put Chips Ahoy into bankruptcy protection, I'll never know. The only way I can describe them is imagine biting into a best-chocolate in the world filled kitten. When you bite into them, they practically purr. And your eyes tend to roll to the back of your head. And then you see colors that you didn't even know existed. And for that second, the world stops and all you hear is the singing of the sun.

Yeah, they're that good. Because I love Little Man almost as much as I love those cookies, I gave him one. He was so honored, he promised that he would never ever force me to watch Dora the Explorer with him again and make me pretend that I care that Boots the monkey lost his bouncy bouncy ball.

And the can of coffee? Oh goodness. That coffee must be the work of angels. I get myself a large English Toffee Cappucino every single time I can when I'm in Canada. How Emma knows these things about me? I have no freaking clue. She's either the world's most discreet stalker, or I've blogged about every detail of my life. Should I someday need someone to write a thorough biography of me, my first choice would be Emma, because she can probably recite to you where every single one of my moles are too.

But there's more! Look! It's chocolate! Not just any chocolate, Canadian chocolate! I once posted about how there are no Smarties in the US. Emma found this to be appalling. And I am with her. I've already written three letters to my congressman and senator on this issue, but apparently an exit strategy in Iraq is more important to them. And Aero, oh the greatness that is Aero. And Caramilk. It's a toss up on which has more greatness. I'd describe the feelings to you, but it would probably kill you to know that you have never gotten to live in a country with this much wonderfulness. Have you all applied for immigration to Canada yet? Because the whole country? It's filled with fantastic foods like this, I'm not even kidding you. There's also snow. Oh and beavers. We like beavers a lot.

Look! It's Canadian Magazines! Not just that! One of them? Says "reception copy" on it. In my opinion, you can't truly know someone is your friend until they steal reading material from work for you. Such thoughtfulness fills me with very, very fuzzy and gooey feelings.

But this? This is my FAVORITE gift of all! Look it's gum! But it's packaged like its food for a Supermodel! At first I was confused, because I thought it really was flavored like a roast duck with blackberry sauce like it said on the back. But it's actually cinnamon gum. The sheer brilliance of this makes me afraid to even eat it. It's too great to just be eaten!

Did I mention Emma freaking rocks????

And since I'm posting pictures left right and center, I got called a douchebag by someone who shall remain unnamed for not posting a picture of my Christmas tree. So there you go. In all of its glory. Notice there's nothing on the top of the tree. That would be because the tree fell over last year and our Santa at the top lost his ceramic face in the fall. He was headless Santa for the rest of the Christmas season. I just couldn't put him up again. I have requested from my mother-in-law a new tree topper, hopefully it's not something ugly and tacky that I regret for the next 30 years...

In 30 years, it will have so many ornaments on it, that the floor will cave in. That day, I will have finally achieved the tree of my dreams.

On a completely separate note, some of you have pointed out that Little Man's picture is missing from my header. I have no idea why. It shows up in the template, but on the blog, it doesn't. And I'm too stupid about these things to know how to fix it. However, I have a brilliant designer working on a new template for me, since I won third place in Splat Design's giveaway (link is still in my sidebar if you want her to create one for you, she's insanely affordable and does fantastic work) and will be using my monthly allowance to spruce up this place.

Also, you'll notice that the countdown to my pregnancy is gone. That's because Aunt Flo is expected any second now. Without getting too graphic, I know she'll be here by tomorrow in full force. Don't feel bad for me, I don't think I was ready to get pregnant this month, due to fear of having back to back miscarriages. Next month, I'm getting off the pregnancy bandwagon, because my math states baby #2 would either share a birthday with Little Man or be one or two days before. Which I will not do to my child, simply because he already has to share his birthday month with his dad, grandfather and Mama, with only a 9 day spread between the four of us. And with my niece having her birthday two weeks before Little Man, that's just too many damn kid birthdays.

I know that might seem stupid, but I'm going to wait another month and shoot for an end of September, early October baby instead.

Plus, I'd probably be ovulating while we're in Canada for Christmas, which I just cannot do it at my parents house. I don't have it in me.



Monday, December 03, 2007


This is Little Man during this past Thursday's Cowboys game.

Go Cowboys! from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.

This video also proves that like the Brad Paisley song, I'm so much cooler online... I apologize for the nerdy laughter.



Sunday, December 02, 2007

Twenty-Seven Months: My Letter to Little Man

So you and I, we're buddies, right? So I have a couple of questions for you, and I'd like you to answer them honestly. First, why is that you think that if I ask you if you want an apple or cereal for breakfast that responding with "cookies?" will get me to change my mind? We don't have cookies in the house. Not because I'm against cookies per say, but the times I do buy cookies, they barely make it out of the store alive, because I'm busy shoveling them down as fast as I can, like I'm practicing for some eating competition. If you were a woman, you would totally understand how this lack of control can occur. My second question to you is why the hell do you feel the need to jam your sharp little fingers right in my eyeball every. single. time I wear my glasses? I realize they're crooked, but that's because you got a hold of them when you were younger and treated them like they were silly putty. I also realize I look like an unattractive version of Tina Fey with them on. But you making me more blind is not going to help, I promise.

You've made me laugh so hard this month that I'm pretty sure I've permanently pulled an abdominal muscle. I wish I wrote it all down, but seriously, following you around with my laptop all day wouldn't be very conducive, because the second you see my laptop, you like to hit all the keys as hard as you can while yelling what letter they are. And laptops? They don't like your abuse very much.

The other day, I put you in your car seat and your Ernie doll was waiting for you there. You picked him up, took one look at him and said "Oh my gosh! Ernie's a mess!" This made me laugh so hard, because you sounded like one of those makeover show hosts. And because, seriously? You still poop your pants, so who are you to judge?

Yesterday, we drove by the SPCA and I thought we could go in to look at the dogs and cats, because one, it's free and two, you share my love of animals, specifically my love for putting ridiculous things on them, like leis, and taking their picture while they sit there humiliated. As we pulled up to the building, I explained to you that this is where Satan's Dog came from. You nodded gravely and said "yeah, me too." Apparently? It only took two years, two months, three weeks and six days for you to decide that surely, you must be adopted, because you don't sing as off key as I do and you surely aren't as insane.

Your love of music has deepened further this month. If you hear a song you particularly like, you'll sit silently, listening intently until it's done. When it's over, you'll clap and cheer and tell me "Mama, I like it." Because you know I need more explaining than the average person, and when people clap and cheer around me? I'm usually confused as to whether this is a sign of their love or hatred. If I offer to play the song for you again, you look at me like I've just offered you world peace and chocolate. That? Makes me feel like I might be the most powerful person on Earth.

You've also developed a passion for cooking, which is so amazing to me, because growing up, I couldn't have cared less about anything domestic. I think I only knew where the kitchen in my house was because ever so often, there'd be chocolate kept there. But you demand to sit on the counter while I cook. And you'll take out every single one of my stirring utensils. This greatly amuses me, as your father used to complain that when I cook I use every pot, bowl and spoon we own. Now he's discovered that actually, I wasn't that bad until you came along. You'll happily hold a measuring spoon as I pour the milk, sugar or whatever ingredient we might need into it and then when you dump it in the bowl or pot or whatever else I ask you to do, you literally beam, and I swear angels are coming out of your ears and harps are coming out of your nose. Your grandfather is a trained chef, and your godmother, my sister, used to always be with him in the kitchen growing up. You, have obviously inherited their love of cooking, and I'm hoping, by default their talent. I'm thinking this means that at 10 years old you'll be making perfectly velvety Hollandaise sauce, and bring me Eggs Benedict to bed every Sunday morning. Right?

We took you to see Disney on Ice's Finding Nemo and you kept telling us the next day "I saw Nemo." Just in case we forgot. I was amazed that you sat through the whole thing, while your bored father fidgeted beside you the whole time. But you, you sat there silently taking it all in and ever so often, I'd whisper in your hair "do you see Nemo?" And you'd nod that yes indeed, there he is, out of the television screen and twirling around like the little gay fish we all knew he was.

You can't stand it when I try to do too much. You'll sigh dramatically as you're playing with blocks or a puzzle and you'll pat the ground or the chair next to me and say "Sit Mama!" That statement always brings a mixture of love and warmth, with a touch of guilt, as I wonder if you ask me to be with you because you simply feel that I'm not there enough.

Picking you up from school remains my favorite part of the day. As soon as you spot me at the door, you'll drop everything you're doing, run to me, without caring which child you mow down, and scream "MAMA! MAMA!" It's like something in a movie and it's all I can do to not squeeze you so hard that I end up breaking you. All I want to do in that moment is embrace you as hard as I can, twirl you around and wait for the music's crescendo to occur. Because surely real life can't be this great, can it?

You've become extremely bossy to your dogs, which is a little disconcerting, and yet so hilarious, because the things that come out of your mouth, are priceless? In your defense, those damn dogs are always harrassing you. You can't have any item of food in your hand without them plotting ways to extract it from you. This causes you great distress, and you've learned that your words are all you have to fight back. And so you'll wave your empty hand at them and scream their names followed by "Get away! RIGHT NOW!!!! This is Little Man's!" or "Stop it! RIGHT NOW!!!! You go outside! Be nice!" And all the dogs hear is "Wah-wah wah wah wah!" and they think "the little human seems more angry than usual, he might drop his animal cracker and we must stick our cold nose in the crook of his neck and give him another wet willie."

Your dad has officially turned you into a Cowboys fan, which brings him such great joy that really, you could accomplish nothing else with your life and he'd still be perfectly happy. My favorite part? You don't quite understand that there are other teams in the NFL. Some Cowboys fans would tell you that you are correct, the only real team is the Cowboys. But everytime you notice football on the television, you'll glance over at your dad and yell "Go Cowboys! Whoo-hoo!" All I can think is that I must get you to a hockey game ASAP.

I love you my Little Man,