Friday, December 26, 2008

I Stand Corrected...

Amongst the many gifts Santa brought Little Man yesterday, one of them was a play doctor's kit, which he's been playing with most of the day. Which I bought for four dollars, when most of his other toys cost 10 to 15 times that amount.

At one point, Little Man was playing in the living room trying to hear his heart beat.

Me: Are you a doctor?

LM: No, Mama, I'm not a doctor. I'm pretending to be a doctor.



Thursday, December 25, 2008

Merry Christmas!

Well, after many, many horrible travel experiences, all of my family has finally made it in. I expect that none of them will ever want to return to Dallas when it has meant getting stranded in all sorts of places and having to buy new tickets because Air Canada acts like it is the airline of a Third-World country, rather than the greatness of the country that turned me into such a fantastic human being somehow.

But 'tis the day where Santa comes bearing gifts for Little Man, and he can FINALLY get that Little Einstein bath toy that he has been hoping and wishing for the way I've wished for thinner thighs.

So on this day of peace, love and feasts a plenty, I give to you my boys.

Santa actually doesn't need to bring me anything this year. I've got all I could ever want.



Monday, December 22, 2008


Little Man can regularly be caught being sweet to Tiny Man. He does it very naturally, not because it's expected of him, just because that's just who he is, down to his core. I don't know where he gets it from, neither his father nor I are particularly nice people, but Little Man somehow defeated the odds and has this wonderful soft spirit and I intend to ensure the world doesn't crush him and harden him.

A few days ago, Tiny Man was going berzerk in his bouncy seat, demanding his next bottle and Little Man started singing to him. By the time I'd gotten the camera out, he was done singing and had begun humming, but I still love this video, because it's typical Little Man: unfazed, sweet and caring.

And for the record, at the end of the video he is not attempting to smother his little brother with the frog.

Brotherly Love from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.



Sunday, December 21, 2008

Two Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

So we've got smiling! And one night where you slept for six hours straight! I'd say your second month was a good month, except there were those three nights of hell when you caught a cold, and since you're a man, you behaved like you were going to die if I didn't hold you all. the. time. and you refused to do anything ressembling sleep when the sun was down, instead, you chose to whine and complain and do the whole 'woe is me' routine that millions of men befor you perfected. May I remind you that a happy home starts with a happy Mama? I'm just saying.

I guess it goes to show that when you're spoiled like we have been with you, the second we get a taste of what dealing with a normal newborn would be like, we can't handle and choose to go the whine and complain route. It's the same reason that I get cranky when your brother actually behaves like a normal preschooler, because it's just not something I've had to deal with before.

You lost most of your newborn hair this past month, which meant that for a while, your father thought you looked like something from Deliverance, which if you don't get that reference, Tiny Man, don't worry, it only means you're not ancient like your father. You have started to regrow hair on the side of your head, but are left with a longer strip on top, making you look really tough and punk-like. It also means you're three years too late to look like you're copying Maddox Jolie-Pitt, but hey, I've never been good at following trends either.

You've begun to smile, although it's yet to be a regular occurence. Your brother and I try so hard to get you to smile. We'll put on puppet shows for you, have funny face contests, make high-pitched sounds that send the dog cowering under the bed, until we're giggling so hard that he gets the hiccups and I can't breathe. And during this entire time, there you are in your bouncy seat, your brow furrowed, like you are so disgusted with us and can't believe we think this simpleton humor is supposed to amuse you.

If someday you sit down and compare your brother's "My First Year" scrapbook to yours, and you wonder why there are no pictures of you smiling yet, that would be because trying to get you to smile is a little like trying to give a pissed off dragon a throat lozenge. It just ain't happening. One of your aunts thinks most pictures of you ressembles paparrazzi pictures of celebrities, where they look midly annoyed all the time. Although, in your defense, a couple of nights ago, I was holding you after you'd finished your bottle, and you were looking around the room, when suddenly, your face broke out in the biggest grin I've seen on you. We're talking corners of the mouth reaching your ears, mouth open wide enough to fit our entire house in it, tongue sticking out in the way only new babies get away with. I was stunned for a second, and then it occurred to me that this huge smile wasn't even for me, that it was at some random thing that you spotted in the room. I'm unsure as to what this thing is that caused you to smile so big, it could be a stocking, could be the lights on the trees, but really, it doesn't matter, because seriously? Are you aware that you should be clamoring for a larger share of the will and smiling at the person who carried you for nine months, the one who had to give up alcohol and sushi for that long (270 days, in case you can't do the math). Despite all of that, you smile at random objects? Oh how you break my heart little one...

You are so cute and squishy though. You've spent this past month getting fatter, and I love how your entire body has these nice big fat rolls on it, giving you all sorts of places to hide lint, dog hair and other treasures you seem to collect. You've outgrown most of your 0-3 months clothes, a feat I never thought a child of mine would get done long before his two-month birthday.

So you might have caught on a couple of paragraphs ago that I mentioned something about you finishing a bottle. And you're probably sitting there going "wh-what? I thought I was Maman's master breastfeeder." And about that? Yeah, you're not. In fact, you're so far from being a master feeder that there is no nice way for me to say it: you suck at breastfeeding. After the lactation consultant diagnosed you with Lazy Eating Syndrome, you and I were supposed to do hardcore breastfeeding bootcamp together at home. And I tried, I really did, Tiny Man. But it was hard, as things with the words bootcamp in them tend to be, and you and I were miserable and it just wasn't worth the heartache. So I took the easy way out(if strapping myself to a machine that reminds me of a vaccuum cleaner that violently sucks the milk out of me every three to four hours is considered the easy way out). Your father thinks this is the most inefficient thing I've ever done and considering how often I do inefficient things, that should really tell you something. But the way I see it, it's the best of both worlds, you get the breastmilk and I'm not repeatedly trying to latch an angry baby on only to have him get off because he's not getting anything, and switching positions every ten minutes and feeling frustrated. Last time I made an attempt at breastfeeding? You actually kicked me in the boobs. Remind me to warn your future girlfriends and tell them this story, m'kay?

The point is, we tried, but in the end, we were like those deluded American Idol auditioners, we just weren't any good. So I will do my part, for the next 10 months, to keep getting that milk out for you, and you just continue to do your part, to keep eating and getting chunkier so that I can keep attempting to swallow those chubby cheeks and thighs whole.

We're currently working on getting you to sleep in the Pack and Play by our bed, after you made it clear that the bassinette was so beneath you. There are only four places you'll sleep: your car seat (but only in the car and when the car is either moving or we are out and about, the car seat is not an acceptable place to sleep when we're at home, you've made that clear), your swing (but only if you're sleepy, or else you'll grumble forever about how you're not tired and how we need to get you NOW!), your bouncy seat and on my pillow next to me, which don't get mad at me for breaking all of the SIDS laws, you're the one who's decided this was where you like to sleep best. The last few nights, we've managed to get you to sleep the first half of the night in the Pack and Play and the second half of the night in your swing. To me, this is a success worthy of a Nobel Prize, because you are mighty, mighty stubborn, my Tiny Man.

You're also extremely active. I'm not sure if it's because you've watched The Biggest Loser with me every week and you share my crush on Jillian the trainer, but everytime I put you down on your blanket, you begin to pump your arms and legs and make these grunting noises, like you're getting one hell of a workout. You tend never to just lay there like a blob, the way I remember your brother doing, not you, you just pump, pump, pump, until you've pumped so hard that you managed to scoot yourself completely off the blanket. I suspect this is your way of trying to make a run for it, you probably think to yourself "DAMN IT! How did the woman catch up to me," every time I pick you up to put you back on the blanket.

I've spent many hours since you were born playing with your little fingers, your little toes, nuzzling your neck and cradling you on my shoulder. I want you to know that I've enjoyed every single lazy minute with you. I love that you're becoming more alert now and stay awake for longer periods of time. I love telling you stories and watching your brow furrow, as you probably think to yourself "I hear she's a Democrat, surely no woman who gave birth to me could be such a thing," because I'm more and more convinced that you don't just look like your Daddy, you're a hell of a lot like him too.

Which might not be such a bad thing, after all, I married the man.

I love you, my Tiny Man,


Friday, December 19, 2008

Little Manisms

So I've said before that this kid? Is the funniest person I know. Here are the latest examples.

After naptime, sitting on the potty:

"Mama, am I big enough for dangerous things now?

- What kind of dangerous things?

- You know, sharp knives and scissors.

- Nope, you're not quite big enough.

- When will I be grown up for sharp knives and scissors? When I'm five I'll be grown up?

- Sure, when you're five, you'll be grown up.

- Can I have beer when I'm five?

- No, you're French. You can only have wine."


On the way to the grocery store:

"Do you want to ride in one of those car-shaped carts, Little Man?

- Yes, and I'm going to turn the steering wheel!

- Are you going to drive really fast?

- Maybe..."


On the way to the pharmacy:

"Mama, why do we have to pay for things in the stores?

- Because it's not our stuff until we pay for it. If we take it without paying, that's called stealing, and people go to jail when they steal."

The entire time we're in the pharmacy, every time I'd put something in the cart, as loud as can be, when he's usually the quietest kid around:


Yeah, I don't know where the again came from, for the record, I have never been convicted of shoplifting or anything else.


As I'm putting him in the car, when we're late going to my mother-in-law's.

"We've got to hurry, Little Man, Nonnie must be wondering where we are!

- We're right here!!!!"



Thursday, December 18, 2008

As Hell Breaks Loose Around Me

So yeah, I've been missing.

I suck, don't I?

But as I write this, my parents and sister are less than 30 hours away from landing.

And can I get a holy crap, I'm so screwed. Because I thought they were arriving Saturday. And I really, really needed that extra day.

Do you have any idea how much there is left to do around here? Peeps, please send paper bag muy pronto. Because seriously hyper-ventilating here. On a positive note? I'm now two pounds away from my starting weight for my pregnancy with Tiny Man. Can I get a you rock, breastfeeding?

Let's ignore the fact that it still means I'm 30 pounds overweight. One mountain at a time, people. By my calculations, if I breastfeed for the next 8 years, I should be back to my ideal weight then. How many times a day will a third-grade teacher allow you to show up with a sippy cup of breastmilk for your child? And would even the La Leche hemp-wearing weirdos be freaked out then? Surely, even they must want to be thin?

So here's what I've done this week:

- Had hardwoods installed in dining room.
- Had carpets steam cleaned.
- Cleaned out fridge (why is it that this is one job that you can't hire someone for? Seriously, I would have paid a thousand dollars to not have to discover what I discovered in the way, way back of our fridge. I think I might have thrown some crime scene evidence, or something, because whatever that thing was in that tupperware, it was awful funky and seriously decomposed.)
- Spent money I don't have.
- Taken care of three sick men, including one who's just now 8 weeks old, all while having a head cold that felt like the Incredible Hulk was using my head as a stress relief toy. (Note: the fantastic breastfeeding that has caused me to be only overweight compared to my previous really overweight meant that I was only allowed to take Tylenol for relief. Oh Nyquil, how I miss thou)
- Labeled the fridge in a belated fit of nesting. No, seriously, I did. I need to post pictures of this.

See? I ain't lying. Who the freak does this???

All the people who know me in real life are right now thinking that the head cold must have fried my brain, because that? Is so unlike me. I blame stupid Oprah and her stupid decluttering episode. Damn you Oprah! Why does this paragraph feel like I've said something really blasphemous? (Oprah, I take it back. I think you are the Queen of the World. Please don't have me killed).

So I will go back to doing the 50,000 things left to do on my list, including wrapping 1,500 Christmas gifts, gah!!!!

On a positive note? Tiny Many slept from 10:15 until 4:15 this morning. And only woke up screaming because Sweetie Pie had a coughing fit that scared the shit out of him. Note to self: Have Sweetie Pie killed for preventing Tiny Man from potentially sleeping through the night for the first time.

I will be drafting another post right now with Little Manisms that will post tomorrow. That is my Christmas gift to you. I will try to post at some point next week, but with 11 people total in the house, I'm thinking I'll be too busy getting drunk to survive.



Monday, December 08, 2008

And My Ego Was Never to Be Found Again

Things have been a little rough around here lately. Maybe I live in my own little world, but I thought that considering I had a baby 7 weeks ago, I was looking pretty good.

Thanksgiving weekend, we had a birthday party to go to for a one-year old. Someone there hadn't seen me in a few years, she's the sister of our friend whose son was having the party (you still with me?). Sweetie Pie was upstairs, trying to get Tiny Man to take a nap in a strange crib, which Tiny Man was all WTF, this is a party and there might be booze and maybe even some dope, I ain't going to sleep, so it was taking a long time.

Our friend's sister came up to me and said "Congratulations! I heard the news!" And I thanked her, as new mothers are forced to do. She then proceeded to ask me when I was due.

Cue sound of pin dropping.

There was also the sound of my ego shattering, which was a little like the sound I imagine 100 lambs would make as they are being kicked by a really mean person.

Me being who I am, I was busy trying to figure out how to respond without making this person feel bad.

So I just said, "actually, he's upstairs." Meaning the baby, of course.

But this person assumes I mean Sweetie Pie, and says "oh, no, I'm not wondering where Sweetie Pie is, I asked you when the baby was due."

This leaves me with no choice than to go to Death Con. And go to embarrassing mode, where I tell her "Uhm, Sweetie Pie is upstairs trying to put the baby to sleep. The baby was born last month. (pause) And here I thought I was looking pretty good."

Cue to two days later, where Little Man tells me that he and his Daddy are going to ride on a tractor, but that I can't come, because I'm too big and I won't fit on the tractor. So I'm just going to stay home and watch Tiny Man.

Uhm, seriously?

Because things like this come in three, you knew there had to be one more. On Friday, I was buying myself some new boots, some black, buttery leather Nine AWest gorgeousness and I was happy and ignoring the fact that I was spending money I wasn't supposed to, when the cashier begins to compliment me on my two boys. She then proceeds to say "they are such different coloring! They obviously don't have the same Daddy."

Seriously? That's your first guess?

I guess I should feel happy that she thinks that even though my ass is huge, I can still get me any man I want.



Friday, December 05, 2008

And It's Only the Beginning

When you make the decision to have kids, there are many things to think about. Like are you going to be the kind of parent who sends your kids down to the corner store to buy you beer and cigarettes. Because they look down upon that sort of thing nowadays, those judgemental bastards.

The most important thing to think about though is that someday, you'll be expected to discuss certain things with your kids like sex. When you have these conversations, you'll be expected to be the adult in those conversations. I know, right? It's like what the hell?

I admit that this is not something I thought about before I put out without any protection. I guess I didn't have someone wise to warn me, the way you guys do with me. You can thank me by sending me massive piles of money so that I may raise goats and make goat cheese just for fun.

Little Man has been recently paying attention to things related to his body. Like he's noticed that when he gets out of the tub, his fingers get all pruny, which made him curious, so I explained to him that his fingers just absorbed some water, and that they'd be back to normal once they were dry.

Yesterday, Little Man was peeing, and he does it sitting down, something that I hope he does forever, because I'm not interested in living in a house full of men who miss the seat and leave it up. They will be trained.

Little Man suddenly looked disturbed. "Mama? What's that behind my penis? Is that poop hanging down?" I begin to giggle nervously. "Uhm no. That would be your scrotum." "My scrotum?" I giggle again. "Yes. Uhm, it holds your testicles." "Oh. Is that where I keep my toots?" And cue me laughing hysterically.

Later, this whole testicles deal was still clearly on Little Man's mind, because he asked me "Is my scrotum all wrinkled because there's water in it?"

When it's time for "the talk," I'm totally outsourcing it, because seriously? I'm not cut out for the parenting stuff that requires me not giggling like a 12-year old boy.



Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Thirty-Nine Months: My Letter to Little Man

This is one of the first times this letter has been late. I guess you can blame the fact you're no longer an only child on that. I realized last night at 10:45 p.m. that it was your birth day, and that I'd completely forgotten. Aren't you glad we got you that baby brother? You know, the one who can't do all of the things you ask me to let him do with you, like take a bath, have a sleepover in your room, jump in your bounce house or dance around with you to the Imagination Movers.

You're getting so big, that I wonder when you turned into a grown up on me. The other day, I kissed you as I was getting you out of your car seat. You shook your head at me and said "you can't kiss me anymore, Mama. I'm a boy now. You could only kiss me when I was a girl, but now that I'm a boy, you can't kiss me anymore." I'm not sure when you were a girl, but I sure liked it better than, when I could impulsively kiss you any time I wanted. Because this whole not kissing you thing? I thought I was in the clear for that until you were at least in middle school.

You are still extremely sweet though. Last week, I accidentally knocked over six ounces of milk I had just pumped. All that liquid gold for your baby brother was all over the counter and the floor, and I was so upset that I was near tears. You noticed and started patting my side saying "it's okay, Mama, it's okay. Please don't cry, I'll play my guitar for you." And you know what? You did make me feel better. You stopped me from crying. All three-feet of you and your crazy guitar playing.

Your new obsession is your avent calendar, which you refuse to call a calendar, but instead you call it "That Game." Because how can it be anything else but a game, when it involves the tearing of cardboard doors that hide a chocolate treat? For the past two nights now, you try to negotiate with me "how about we open three doors tonight, Mama? OK, how about five doors then?" When I told you that we were going to bake some cookies this weekend and deliver them to the nearest fire station as our "spreading the holiday cheer" project, you told me that you also wanted to bring That Game and show it to the firefighters, and then you told me you were going to open six doors with the firefighters, show them the treats and then eat them all. Merry freaking Christmas to you too, kid.

Speaking of negotiations, we've now resorted to something I never thought I'd ever do, and that's the requests for you to eat three more bites of vegetables and two more bites of meat. I always said I'd never be one of those mothers, because all of the articles state that this is the best way to raise a child to become an obese adult. But if I didn't do this, on most nights, you'd happily dine on just a glass of milk and air. I don't care if you've eaten well at school and had a good snack, you just can't go to bed without some food in your stomach, and the one night I decided to let you get up after not eating, you demanded food in your bath, telling me that you're starving.

So now, every night you take one bite of your food and then tell me you're done. And then we negotiate, which I must say is a ton of fun for me, because you're the worst negotiator I've ever met. "Little Man, eat two bites of meat and three bites of vegetables." "How about I eat four bites of vegetables and five bites of meat?" "Uhm, ok, you have a deal." I must sign you up for a negotiation class before you enter the adult world, because I'd hate for you to walk into a job interview and have this scenario occur: "Mr. Little Man, we'd like to offer you 200,000 dollars a year plus bonuses." "How about you pay me minimum wage and give me cookies instead of bonuses?"

You're probably wondering why so many of your pictures involve you not wearing pants. That would be simply because the second you get home, you tend to take your pants off. I have to admit that you probably get that from me, since I'm much happier without pants. However, as my mini me, you don't yet know the limits of pantlessness and have asked me if you could take your pants off in highly inappropriate places, like at your grandparents' or at the grocery store. We must work on this so that you don't end up arrested for public nudity by the time you're in college.

You love your baby brother so much that sometimes I can't believe how lucky I am. Your favorite activities right now include helping me give him a bath, and you're better at getting him to take his pacifier when he's upset than I am, even if you've given it to him upside down or sideways on more than one occasion. You give him these bone crushing hugs and tell him all of your secrets. When he cries in the car, you talk to him, trying to reassure him and it always brings a smile to my face.

You're one of the most caring, gentle souls I've ever met. I hope you never lose that, because every day, I wish I were more like you. You're extremely sensitive and lately, when you've been acting up and I send you to time alone, you sit on the stair wailing "I WANT TO BE A GOOD BOY!!!!", reminding me of Pinocchio and I have to admit, and this is where you realize what a horrible person I am, it makes me giggle every time.

And if you did know, I know you'd say to me, like you do at least twice a day "it's not funny, Mama." The thing is? You are funny. You continue to be the funniest person I know. And I don't foresee that changing any time soon.

I love you my Little Man,


Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Missing the Point Entirely

Yesterday, Little Man and I were driving to the pediatrician's office for Tiny Man's one-month check up (side note: Not-So-Tiny Man went from 6 lbs 5 oz four weeks ago when he left the hospital to 9 lbs 8 oz yesterday. Who the hell manages to gain 50 percent of their body weight in four weeks? What are my boobs producing? Lard fried in bacon grease?).

As we were driving down the road, I suddenly spotted some poor guy dressed up in a dog costume on the side of the road, holding a promotional sign and waving at the cars passing by. I pointed him out to Little Man, who was quite perturbed by the scene.

LM: "Why is he dressed in a dog costume outside? It's cold outside! And he looks silly!

Me: Well, that's his job. See, this is why it's important to study hard in school and learn to read and write, so that you don't have to have a job standing on the side of the road in a dog costume. (Side note: Yes, I've turned into that mother. I swear I was cool, once upon a time.)

LM: Don't worry, Mama. I won't dress like a dog. I'm going to wave at cars dressed like a race car driver when I grow up."

Well, I can now sleep at night.



Monday, November 24, 2008

Boob Stories

It seems Little Man is a boob man. This is not news to anyone who reads this blog regularly. Here are two boob stories from yesterday. This seems to be our daily average.

Boob story #1:

At the mall, while sharing an ice cream:

Little Man: "Oh man, do I ever need to pump, I'm leaking milk like crazy."

I have no idea where he would have heard this before...

And is it disturbing that the kid still believes he's producing milk for his baby brother? If I catch him with Tiny Man pressed against his chest, I guess that's when I'll need to put a stop to this.

Boob Story #2:

While playing pretend doctors with me:

Little Man: "You're very sick, Mama, I'm going to need to give you a shot. Don't cry.

- Oh, doctor Little Man, please don't give me a shot, I might cry.

- No, no crying. (grabbing my hand) Just hold on to your boobie."

I know that always makes his dad stop crying, but I didn't know this was something men thought from such an early age.



Sunday, November 23, 2008

This Marks The Day He Officially Knows More Than Me

Little Man's school had a festival on Friday where each class performed. Last week, I asked Little Man if he was learning a song for the performance and he looked at me funny and said "what are you talking about?" Yup, he's turning into his father.

The other night, while I was tucking him in, Little Man suddenly started rattling off presidents "George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison." I knew that his class had been studying presidents. When I came back downstairs, I told Sweetie Pie that Little Man had been rattling off presidents' names and I thought he might have been saying them in order. I then asked Sweetie Pie "was Zachary Taylor a president? Because he's one of the people Little Man mentioned." Sweetie Pie thought for a minute and said "He might have been, yeah." I'd like to remind everyone here that I'm Canadian, so I have every excuse in the book not to know this crap, but my beloved is born and raised here, but was too busy fighting his Baptist heritage and drinking to learn this stuff.

On Friday, all of the other classes come out and perform cutesy Thanksgiving songs about turkeys suffering a horrible death in the name of a national holiday. Then comes Little Man's class, and apparently, his class is where all the smart kids were recruited, because instead of learning a song, they spent the past few weeks being brainwashed and the audience is told as his class takes their place that they will be reciting all 43 presidents of the United States.

And they begin "George Washington... John Adams... Thomas Jefferson... James Madison..." And so forth. Around the 10th President, Little Man gives up and begins just opening and closing his mouth, like he's still actively participating in this activity. By the 24th or so President, he begins to yawn a lot, as if he's really, really bored by this whole mess. But he did come back strong and joined in for the "AND BARACK OBAMA!"

The video is terrible and includes me cursing under my breath because Little Man's very large teacher keeps coming to squat right in front of him, so I have to keep trying to move, when I have Tiny Man strapped to my chest and the chairs are close together.

So I decided instead to reenact this at home with Little Man. Which he promptly refused to do. So I figured I'd pull up the presidents on the computer and see if we could do it that way. I'd like to point out that although he didn't name as many as he knows, he can name any president if you give him the first name, sometimes even the first syllable. And the kid is only three years old and two months old.

Two things I need to point out:

- When in doubt Abraham Lincoln is Little Man's go-to dude. Followed, very strangely, by Van Buren.

- I had to stop the video sooner and skipped right to the "And Barack Obama" part, since Tiny Man started flipping out. Which confused poor Little Man.

The Presidents of the United States from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.

I suspect girls aren't going to want him just for his surfer boy good looks.



Thursday, November 20, 2008

One Month: My Letter to Tiny Man

So I guess I never said this officially here, but welcome to the world, my Tiny Man. Exactly one month ago, you were kicked out of my tummy and you came out screaming and pissed off. And I'm not sure you've gotten over it yet, because although you don't cry very much (which, please keep doing that, ok?), you do look pissed. all. the. time. You spend your days glaring at me, at your brother, at the dogs. Anything that comes within your one-foot radius. This makes your brother and I laugh a lot, which only leads you to glare more. I can't help but think that behind those serious, angry blue eyes of yours, your brain is plotting evil schemes to take over the world.

You decided to celebrate your one-month birthday by sleeping more than five hours straight. Do you know how much I think that's the best birthday present ever? I mean, I can't really complain, you only wake up once or twice a night already, but five hours instead of three to four? Well, I feel like the luckiest Mama in the world, that's how I feel.

And you know what? I am the luckiest Mama in the world. You're freaking adorable, first of all, even if you are sporting a combover worthy of Donald Trump this week as you wait for your permanent hair to come in. But also? You hardly ever cry, reserving your tearless screams for important times like when you're clearly starving to death and I'm taking a whole 30 seconds to pour my milk into a bottle for you. Damn me and my lack of superhero lightning fast moving. Why were you cursed with a human mother? Because life is freaking unfair, Tiny Man. Even more unfair than the fact that I can only move at a human pace? The fact that you'll be forced to watch whatever your brother likes until you are capable of making a compelling argument. And right now? That big brother of yours is obsessed with a horrendous show named Imagination Movers, about four men who live in some warehouse with a horribly designed puppet named Warehouse Mouse. And for that, I apologize.

You're a snuggler. Oh, how you love to snuggle. If you had it your way, you'd happily let me hold you all day. This morning, we had an event at your brother's school, so I put you in your Bjorn baby carrier for the first time and you slept there, against my chest the entire time, happier than a pig in mud. When I first put you in it, you woke up slightly and whined, but when you realized that this contraption was strapping you to me! Your favorite human! You decided that you would never, ever make another sound, with the hope that I would forget about you and keep you there forever.

And I would hold you forever if you'd let me. You're warm and when you don't smell of spit up, you smell amazingly sweet, the way I think sunshine would smell in heaven. You're amazingly warm, like me and your brother, and I'm always thinking that they need to figure out how to convert our heat into usable energy, because seriously? The three of us could power a fleet of cars.

I'm so glad you're here, my Tiny Man. During the past month, it feels like you've already doubled in size. In fact, you are already outgrowing your 0-3 months onesies, a feat that I never thought any child that I grew in my womb would accomplish by the one-month mark. This leads me to think that all those croissants I've been consuming are the reason you're growing so well. You know what this means, right? I get to eat more croissants. And for that? I thank you again.

Also? I thank you for making me smile. I thank you for letting me kiss you excessively. I thank you for that little round-mouthed look of disapproval you give me when I put you down to make dinner. I thank you for being my munchkin, my little monkey, my pooper, my love. Never did I ever suspect that I could be all-consumed by a little 7-pound lump. But I am. I adore you the way I adore your brother. All of my worries and concerns evaporated the moment you were born. Here you were, this little stranger, but the second I saw you, I knew that I loved you more than anything else in the world. Just like I do with your brother. I can't imagine life without you, and I'm thankful every day that I don't have to.

I love you, my Tiny Man,


A Christmas Miracle

Little Man might as well have been the inventor of the Stranger Danger concept. There is only one thing that Little Man hates more than strangers, and that's being told he's doing something wrong.

For three years now, I have been unable to get the traditional Santa pictures. I got Easter Bunny pictures when Little Man was six months old and too young to know any better. Then I got one more when Little Man was 18 months old. The 18-month picture shows a red faced Little Man screaming his head off. I figured that there was no point in me spending 25 dollars to get pictures of my child screaming. I can get those at home for free just by telling Little Man that Little Einsteins died in horrific crash aboard Rocket.

This year, I was planning on skipping the Santa pictures again. I figured by the time Little Man was nine years old, he'd get over his fear of the bearded man and really, is it the end of the world for us not to have any Santa pictures? Surely Little Man will be in therapy for other reasons, like that time his mother posted a picture of him with a breast pump.

As Christmas approaches, we've been talking about the holiday and its significance. Not the Baby Jesus part, because that would mean we're good parents, and why should we start down that path now? (Note: In all seriousness, all things religious are Sweetie Pie's department. He's the Baptist who went to church and church camp and Sunday school. I'm the heathen in the relationship, my area of expertise is underage drinking and fart jokes.) So I've talked to Little Man about Christmas trees and lights and presents and Santa Claus.

The other day, I was running through a store with the two boys in tow when Little Man saw something that sang to him and made his toddler brain explode. And he, who hardly ever asks for anything begged me for it. The last time this happened, he wanted an Aqua Globe. Why a three-year old needs a glass tube that waters plants, when I killed our last houseplant almost a year ago is beyond me. But the kid would not stop asking for it and would remind me as such every time one of those annoying commercials would be on TV. This time, however, the object of his desire was more appropriate, albeit totally unnecessary. It was a Little Einstein bath toy, as seen here.

I told Little Man that if he wanted, he'd have to ask Santa for it. Little Man looked at me confused. I explained to him again that Santa brings gifts to good boys and girls, but that he has to go sit on Santa's lap and ask for it. Little Man didn't seem to like that idea very much.

Yesterday, on our way to the mall for family pictures, Little Man reminded me again that he really wanted that Little Einstein toy. I told him again that he needed to ask Santa for it.

LM: "You ask Santa for it for me, Mama.

Me: Sorry little dude, I can't do that. Santa only takes requests from children directly, not from their Mamas.

LM: But I don't want to sit on Santa's lap. I'm going to stand and tell him.

Me: Well, you need to sit on Santa's lap to tell him, because it's like you're telling him a secret.

LM: How about I sit in my chair and Santa sits in his chair?

Me: (laughing)

LM: It's not funny.

Me: Well, what if there's only one chair? Then you're going to have to sit on Santa's lap.

LM: Then Santa's going to stand and I'm going to sit in the chair."

Right then.

We get to the mall and happened to walk in where mall Santa was. I hadn't planned on this, but since we walked by, I pointed SAnta out for Little Man. Santa waved and Little Man began whispering under his breath "I want the Little Einstein toy, Santa."

I told Little Man that Santa was hard of hearing and asked him if he wanted to go talk to Santa. I really expected to be told that no toy was worth speaking to the scary man.

But Little Man got out of the Sit N' Stand stroller and walked over. He stood in front of Santa and said "Hi Santa, I want the Little Einstein toy."

Just like that.

I then scrambled to get a sleeping Tiny Man out of the stroller, Santa convinced Little Man to climb in his lap and here you go.

Santa's elves and I tried to coax a smile out of Little Man, but his face clearly says "don't freaking push your luck, morons, I'm doing this for the greater good of humanity a toy."

So I got a Santa pick. Neither kid is wearing what I'd want them to wear for a Santa pic, but I had a tiny window and I smashed through it like I was in some Jean-Claude Van Damne movie.

This morning, I ordered the Little Einstein toy. Because I know better than to mess with my Little Man. If Santa were to not bring him that toy, next Christmas, Santa would find himself with a sharp kick to the shins from one pissed off shy boy.



Monday, November 17, 2008

That's Dedication

Little Man is apparently under the impression that there's a Big Brother of the Year award, and he is determined to get it. Here is evidence that he will go to any lengths to get it. I present to you, Little Man using my breast pump to get milk for Tiny Man:

To which Tiny Man just had to make his WTF face:

If there is no such thing as Best Big Brother of the Year, I'm totally ordering a trophy for my Little Man myself. Whether Tiny Man agrees with me or not.



Friday, November 14, 2008

Best Baby Picture Ever

I present to you, Tiny Man's "I'm taking a big dump face."

My only regret is that I was too sleep deprived with Little Man to get his picture mid-poop, because now I'll only get to embarrass one of them in front of his girlfriend in 15 years.



Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Guilty Conscience

So I have it really good at work. I've said that before. I'm extremely lucky and blessed, where I have had the same job for two years now and I'm still happy and content there. I'm loved and appreciated to the point of ridiculousness. Hell, when my admin threw me a baby shower last month, more than 80 people were invited and more than 50 of them showed up or sent gifts, to the point that it was completely overwhelming and I got to go on the shopping spree of my life, with more than 600 dollars worth of gift cards.

Although my job isn't the most exciting in the world, I'm respected, my opinion matters and people respect me and think I'm nifty. I also get to show up late and leave early without being questioned, I can work from home with a sick child without anyone batting an eye lash and I can come and go completely unmonitored and I'm not micromanaged in any way, which is the best way to keep me happy. I'm also well paid and I have good benefits.

There was some instability earlier this year, and there actually still is, but my job is safe, my new responsibilities for when I come back in January have already been determined, so really, all's good.

Out of curiosity, I look at job postings once in a while, more to reassure myself that there are still other jobs out there should something happen to mine, but I haven't considered applying to a single one of them in a very long time.

On Monday, I opened my email and found a message there from a Web site that's like Facebook, but for professionals. The message was from someone I didn't know, who somehow found my profile and his company, one that I've been interested in previously and applied to on at least two occasions during the past 9 years has an opening that he thinks would be a good fit for my experience.

I'm a slut. If you tell me I'm hot and perfect, I will smile at you and talk with you.

So I emailed him back. Told him I'd be interested in talking. Because there's no harm in talking, right?

We played phone tag all of Monday. Yesterday, I went to the office to introduce Tiny Man to everyone. Almost 100 people showed up. I was five minutes late and there was a group of people waiting in front of the door impatiently. I was hugged so many times, I couldn't tell you how many hugs I received. I was asked repeatedly when I'm coming back, because apparently I'm very missed. I was reminded of how much I'm loved and how lucky I am to work in an environment where I'm surrounded by such awesome people.

This morning, my phone rang again, and it was the other company. The HR man scheduled a phone interview for me for Friday. And he asked me if I was interested in the position.

I said yes.

And my heart broke. Because I am intereted. And yet, I'm not. I'm married to my current company. I'm happy. Why would I even look at another company? Why would I betray them like this? For more money? For a better title? Is it really worth it?

Sweetie Pie has already made it clear that he doesn't even want me pursuing this. He says I've got it way too good where I am and that we don't need the extra money. That my happiness is more important than any dollar figure. Part of me agrees with him.

And yet, part of me thinks "sexier company!"

And that part of me thinks "we're only talking! Nothing will come of it."

But the truth is? That my batting average in interviews is extremely high. It's homerun derby high. Actually, it's higher than that. There are many things I can't do well. I can't sing. I can't dance. But in interviews? I can sing and dance and blow the socks off anyone. I'm charming, I'm sharp, I'm smart. In interviews, I shine, I always have. Part of it is that I taught interview skills to other students in college.

So what happens if I do well?

What happens if I land the job?

I've got two months left of maternity leave. I don't intend to work before January 15th. My priority right now is Tiny Man (says the woman who just rocked him back to sleep in his infant carrier so that I could finish this post in peace. Where's my mother of the year award?) and whatever happens, this new job would have to wait for me, that's non-negotiable.

Also non-negotiable? The insane amount of money I will demand. And the flexible schedule I will demand. And the work from home at least two days a week I will demand.

Maybe if I play my cards right, I will manage to scare them away and then I can go back to my perfect job in January without a doubt in the world that I'm doing the right thing.

So why do I feel so freaking guilty?



Monday, November 10, 2008

Because I Can't Help It

I have a confession.

There's something I've been withholding from all of you.

It's not something I'm proud of, but you can't control your emotions, especially when you're me.

So I'm in love.

Complete and utter love. And I almost ran off to be with my lover, because this is not an acceptable affair, since my lover belongs to someone else, mainly, my father-in-law. And unless you're on Jerry Springer, it's not acceptable to run off with a lover who is your father-in-law's.

Here she is, in all of her naked glory.

And I wuv her. But I did the right thing and gave her back, because I'd hate to be taken out of my father-in-law's will. But my plan is that I will have my own lover for Christmas. We will be together. And I will fondle her for hours on end and lick her lens and do all sorts of dirty things to her.

Because when your lover gives you this:

Or this?

Or even this?

How can you not be in love?



Thursday, November 06, 2008

Snippets of Funny

In Canada, when someone has a baby and is on leave, we call it maternity leave. Here, in the US, it's also called maternity leave, but you're paid through Short Term Disability. This makes me laugh, because seriously? I'm now considered disabled because I have a child? I guess I am disabled when it comes to drinking, since I have to time glasses of wine just right so that I don't have to pump and dump, since I'm only producing enough breast milk that Tiny Man only gets six to eight ounces of formula a day, this stuff's like gold, and I'm not willing to waste a drop, thank you very much.

Anyway, my short term disability provider feels the need to mail me letters every few days to let me know that they will be paying me. Which is nice. I like getting mail, especially mail that promises me money to sit at home and snuggle with Tiny Man.

What I do have an issue with is that every single on of those letters reads the following:

"Dear Catwoman,

Re: Your STD status"

So now, not only am I disabled, but a pregnancy is also considered to be an STD? I can kind of see their logic here, since after all, Sweetie Pie did cause this and there was nookie involved in the conception of Tiny Man, I ain't going to lie to you. But Tiny Man is way cuter than a herpes outbreak, thank you very much.


And now I leave you with a Little Man funny.

Catwoman to Sweetie Pie: "When I was little, I never dreamed that I'd grow up to do PR for something so unexciting, and yet I love it and I miss it.

Little Man: "When I grow up, I want to be a tractor."



Sunday, November 02, 2008

Thirty-Eight Months: My Letter to Little Man

Dear Little Man,

For 12 days now, you've been a big brother. And I have to say, you took to it better than I ever could have dreamed. But that's kind of our pattern, you and I, isn't it? I worry about something, and you make me look like a freak by blowing my expectations way out of the water. For 12 days now, not a day has gone by where you haven't asked to kiss your little brother, but even more touching, not a day has gone by where you haven't touched his little face and told him you love him. And you've done it completely unprovoked.

Your sweetness is one of the things that I've always loved best about you. But to see you, my first born be so gentle and loving towards others, well, it's all I can do not to dance on rooftops and shout your praises to the world. Which I guess is a little what I do here monthly on this blog, but yet, it feels like it's not enough, because you are truly a gift to this world. When I look at you and your brother, I think to myself that I should have 20 more kids, because when the world seems to be a dark place, full of mean bullies and dumbness, surely I'm doing the world a disfavor by not repopulating it with greatness like you and Tiny Man.

I'm amazed at how much you know. Facts come out of your mouth constantly, like when you told me this morning that there are 365 days in a year. Seriously? Why does a three-year old even know that? Or the fact that you know the name Barack Obama. This morning you were talking about him, and since we're two days away from the election, one that many people consider to be historic because we'll have either a black President or a female Vice-President (which, for the record? Canada had a female Prime Minister almost 20 years ago now, but no need to rub that in anyone's face, we already do enough bragging with our universal healthcare and lack of litter), you and I had a conversation about politics this morning. I showed you pictures of Obama and John McCain, the Republican Presidential candidate, and you asked me what their names were. After I told you who they were, I asked you if you knew who they were. You said "yeah, he has brown boobies, and he has white boobies." Seriously? All political pundits should be three-year olds, because I think the world would step off of its soap box a lot more that way.

You are a 90-year old man trapped in a three-year old's body though. The other day, we were in the car and Eminem's "Lose Yourself" came on the radio. I turned it up and began to sing and bop to the music, until you shouted at me "I don't like that noise." Stifling giggles, I told you this wasn't noise, it was the greatness of Eminem, the only great white rapper who ever lived. You rolled your eyes at me and said "It's just noise, and I don't like it." You also yell at me whenever I decide to turn the radio away from the Oldies station. I think you might be the only three-year old in the country who thinks The Carpenters are the best new band ever and that The Beach Boys will never get old.

Besides getting a baby brother, this month was also marked by Halloween, and this was the first time that you really appreciated the whole concept. This was also the first year that you wouldn't let me pick out your costume for you, and you picked your own in a catalogue. And I must say, it was one of the ugliest costumes in there, but no matter how hard I tried, you were adamant about being a race car driver. I figured that Halloween was still weeks away and that being three years old, you'd change your mind. (See how I just did that again? I expected you to act like any other three-year old. Yeah, I don't learn, and the faster you figure that out, the better for both of us.) Enough to say, you didn't. So you were a race car driver. I have to admit, that as much as I hated the costume, once it was on you, it actually looked cute. I'm now convinced that you're one of those people who can wear anything and make it look good. Tomorrow I'm sending you to school wearing nothing but an unraveled roll of toilet paper to really test my theory. Unless it's raining.

When it was time to put on your costume, you flat out refused. You told me you wanted to go trick or treating in the clothes you were wearing. No amount of pleading, begging or threatening would change your mind. And then suddenly, you did change your mind. And when you went trick or treating with your father, I expected you guys to be back 15 minutes later, but you were gone almost an hour and a half, with your little spider bag filled with candy, and your father carrying a grocery bag more than half full as well. And yesterday, when it got dark, you turned to your dad, a look of excitement in your eyes and said "Daddy! It's getting dark, it's time to go trick or treating!" That's when I had to break the news to you that there are 364 days left before the next Halloween. But if you love Halloween, just wait until you get to celebrate Christmas. Kid, I swear to you, it's going to make your head explode!

I love you, my Little Man,


Friday, October 31, 2008

Happy Halloween!

I thought I should let Little Man practice trick or treating before the sugar extravaganza of tonight.

Happy Halloween! from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.

I believe he's ready.



Thursday, October 30, 2008 Profile

Name: Tiny Man Ourlastname

Aliases: Baby Brother, Ruler of the Universe

Hair: Some, but will probably lose it. Currently brown, but may be a future hot blonde.

Eyes: Very dark blue.

Best features: Butt, when it's not shooting poop at Mama's hand; ear hair; kissable lips.

Heroes: Little Man and the inventor of the pacifier.

Hobbies: Nursing, sleeping, throwing gang signs, snuggling with my Mama, watching my brother play sports.

Interested In: Women who like to eat a lot, someone to take naps with, someone who'll hold the pacifier in my mouth so it stops falling out.



Wednesday, October 29, 2008

I'm So Screwed...

Here are some excerpts from Tiny Man's full horoscope. I know some people don't believe in this stuff, and I'm not one to read my daily horoscope in the paper, but Little Man's full horoscope, that takes all planets into place is actually very accurate. And so it's nice to get a peek into Tiny Man's potential personality. Either way, the point is, I'm screwed.

Exhibit A: "You are also very magnetic, especially to members of the opposite sex."

Exhibit B: "You have penetrating insight into people and a keen eye and ear for the hidden, unspoken, behind-the-scenes elements in life."

Exhibit C: "There is also a sexual quality in your manner which can be quite alluring, in a subtle way."

Exhibit D: "You express a spirit of cooperation and compromise and often achieve through charm and discretion what would have been impossible to achieve by a direct, forceful approach."

Considering that only 8 days after his birth, he's already got me wrapped around his little finger, because, and don't any of you dare say that it's gas, Tiny Man actually smiles at me. He looks me right in the eye and smiles when I make noises at him. And I end up throwing things at him that I think he might want, like chocolate, Ferraris and strippers.

I thought Little Man had me figured out, but I suspect that he's been giving his little brother lessons when they're in the backseat of my Liberty and I'm in the front rocking out to Pink's new song, completely oblivious to thir plotting.

And now, the horoscope tells me that in 14 years, I'll be fighting girls off with a stick all freaking day. Which will seriously cut into my scrapbooking and drinking time, damn it.

I guess I shouldn't be too surprised, since he also has this face, besides the animal magnetism.



Tuesday, October 28, 2008

One Week

A week ago, my doctor slit me open like a fish, pushed on my ginormous stomach, and out popped this amazing tiny human being.

Yet, I've only felt like a mother of two since Friday afternoon, when I left the cocoon of my hospital and came home to reality.

The weekend was rough, I won't lie. Tiny Man, who was brought to me only twice a night for feedings by the nursery nurses, suddenly decided that he. must. eat. all. night. long.

I couldn't put the kid down. Seriously, the second I did, he'd rouse, root and want to feed again. I suddenly became a human Las Vegas buffet. Except I didn't even charge $2.99 for all-you-can-eat shrimp cocktail. I fell asleep nursing more than once, and by Sunday afternoon, I was already so exhausted that during a diaper change, I put the dirty diaper back on Tiny Man, complete with dirty wipes in it, and didn't notice that suddenly Tiny Man had some serious bootyliciousness going on, until I noticed the new diaper still sitting on the changing table.

Yesterday, Tiny Man had a pediatrician's visit to get weighed, as he'd dropped more than 10 ounces during his first three days, bringing him right around the acceptable 10 percent limit that they like to see weight drop. For the record? I would have killed to lose 10 percent of my body weight in three days, but alas, my doctor ignored my pleas for a tummy tuck while she was stitching me up.

But this is about Tiny Man. Ends up that my non-stop feeder? Only gained an ounce in three days. So we're back at the pediatrician on Friday.

It's funny, I always thought that I'd be less stressed with baby number two, and about a number of things, I am. But when it comes to health stuff? I'm even more neurotic than with Little Man, because when your first baby is perfectly healthy, you almost think you're more likely to have something wrong with the second one. So when I noticed a lump on the bottom of Tiny Man's rib cage, I was convinced that the weight loss was a sign that he had something seriously wrong, the 'c'-word even entered my mind and I sobbed for a while.

Apparently? All newborns have that lump and apparently I was just too euphoric/sick with Little Man to notice his.

After the pediatrician's appointment, Tiny Man and I went back to the hospital for a follow-up visit with the lactation consultant. And that's where I came to find out that my master latcher? Is actually a pretty inefficient eater. And so when he's nursing for an hour? He's actually only taking in maybe an ounce of milk total, which means he's expanding as many calories as he's taking in, and by nighttime, he's starving.

So Tiny Man is now in breastfeeding bootcamp, I get to manhandle my boobs in ways that should mean that when I reach the six-week mark all husbands count down to, nipple clamps will no longer seem terrifying to me, because seriously, they've got to hurt less than the way I'm beating the shit out of my boobies.

Tiny Man is now cut off at the 40-minute mark and gets a bottle of pumped breast milk with some formula after every nursing session. We spent all of yesterday doing this and last night, Tiny Man went down at 10 p.m. At 2 a.m., I woke up because I had to pee and nearly peed myself right there and then, realizing that I'd gotten a full four-hours of sleep.

One good feeding later, Tiny Man was back down, and had to be woken up at 7:30 a.m. so that I could change him, feed him and get him in the car to take his big brother to school.

I woke up one freaking time. Do you know how momentous this is? Do you know how much of a skip in my step I have today? Do you know how if it wasn't for the fact that I'm not allowed to exercise and the fact that I don't know how to do a backflip, I would totally be doing backflips right now.

Don't get me wrong, my hormones aren't completely normal, like there was an incident yesterday afternoon, where I sobbed next to my sleeping newborn for an hour, because I couldn't figure out how to put the new shields that my lactation consultant had sold me on my breast pump. And I knew the whole time that I was being psycho, but I still continued to sob into my pillow, like the time I was 14 and Sebastian, who I was madly in love with, told me I looked like a monkey.

But today is a new day, my breast pump works, Tiny Man should have put on a decent amount of weight by Friday and when I weighed myself at the pediatrician's office, I'd already lost 13 pounds. Considering that I was 30 pounds overweight when I got pregnant, this means that I'm now 40 pounds away from where I want to be. One pound at a time, baby.

All is good. Because look what I get to stare at all day.



Friday, October 24, 2008

How to Scare a Three-Year Old

Ever since he attended his big brother class, Little Man has been dying for the opportunity to give Little Man a bottle. Almost every day for the past month, he'd ask me "can I give baby brother a bottle today?" Which would put me in an awkward place and have me explain that Tiny Man was actually not born yet.

With nursing working out so great, Little Man watched me breastfeed his baby brother for the first couple of days, which led to many inquisitive questions from my favorite three-year old that basically meant "what the hell are you doing to my brother?"

On Wednesday night, after a day that was filled with way too much nursing, Tiny Man had literally sucked me dry and was angry because the gas pump was empty. I asked the nursery to bring me a little formula to supplement him, and figured that at the same time, I would let Little Man give him a small bottle the next day, thinking this would make him very excited and involved.

Little Man showed up yesterday and was excited to see me and Tiny Man and asked right away to hold him. I turned to him and said "guess what! You can feed Baby Brother today, if you want to!"

Little Man froze, stared at me, perturbed, and said quietly "I don't think he'll like my boobies."

Since I was waiting for my pain killers to be brought to me at that time, I can't even explain to you how painful that laughter was.

Once I stopped laughing hysterically, I told him that he'd in fact be using a bottle. Little Man's whole face flooded with relief and he simply said "oh, that's a good idea."



Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Complete Love

So I did it. Yesterday, Sweetie Pie drove me to the hospital, we walked in as a family of three and now, I sit here just two doors from the nursery that contains my new man. He's gorgeous and perfect and the most incredible newborn there ever was. And I know you might think I'm biased here, just a little bit, but I swear to you, if you could meet this kid, you too would think to yourself "man, these newborns are pretty freaking cool."

I guess things are different this time. I mean, first of all, I didn't get sick like I did with my first pregnancy, we successfully kept the HELLP Syndrome at bay, which makes me feel like a freaking superhero, because that bitch of a HELLP Syndrome is mean and evil and hard to avoid once you've had it before.

But Tiny Man and I did. We avoided it, and I got to be awake during my c-section, even though I was so tired from being up since 3 in the morning from the excitement, that I almost fell asleep a couple of times. Yes, only I would find a c-section relaxing...

Tiny Man came out pissed off and had no issues telling the nurses that he did not appreciate being ripped out of his warm and comfy womb without being asked.

And then the rest of the day just rolled on by, choreographed so perfectly that my only issue was that I couldn't connect to the Internet from my room, and so had to take a quickie picture with my iPhone to send to my folks and to the fantastic
AFF who was awesome and posted for me yesterday so that you guys would know the news quickly.

So what is there to say about this little guy?

He's literally the best baby that was ever born. You guys know me, you know how much I love Little Man. I'm sure that the fact that I know what I'm doing as a mother helps this time, but this kid? Freaking does everything by himself. I swear, right now, he just went downstairs to have a cigarette, and he didn't even ask for my help in figuring out the lighter's childproofing.

I've talked about my breastfeeding issues with Little Man. He and I were a disaster together. We tried, oh how we tried, but he didn't know how to latch, and I wasn't producing and he and I would end in tears every two hours and despite hours spent with many lactation consultants, I was forced to pump and bottle feed and after 8 weeks, I dried up and that was the end of that miserable experience. And I was fine with it, because I had tried, and that was all I could do.

This time, I was ready to try again and I hoped I'd be successful, but I wasn't going to beat myself up if I wasn't.

When it came time to feed Tiny Man for the first time, I demanded the presence of a lactation consultant, after all, I had no clue what I was doing, really. But my new son, he scoffed at me, called me ridiculous and latched himself on, no effort, like a marine who'd been fighting battles for years.

So even though I continue to fumble and worry that I'm not holding him in the right position, my Tiny Man doesn't care. "Just get me near that boob, lady," he tells me. "And I'll take care of business."

He makes me look good. He makes me feel like I'm Angelina Jolie and like I'm a natural at this and should be on the cover of W Magazine. He makes me feel like I can take on the world, that I can do anything. He makes me want to work even harder at being the best mother I can be.

He's got my fingernails, his dad's chin and hair so straight, it looks like we've been electrocuting him for entertainment in between feedings. His eyes are so dark blue, that we thought they were brown originally. He's got a double chin, thighs that demand to be devoured whole and toes the length of fingers.

He's enraptured all of us, and now, 40 minutes shy of his one-day birthday, I can barely remember life before him.

Little Man came to visit us yesterday afternoon and the staff had given us great advice on handling the introduction. Little Man got to go fetch his baby brother from the nursery and push him down the hall to our room, after visiting with me alone for a while.

Little Man declared his brother was small and pretty cute. He then agreed that we should keep him. When Tiny Man began to cry, Little Man petted his head and told him not to cry, that everything would be ok. He then offered him his new Matchbox tractor. I know it won't always go that well, but for a first visit, I couldn't have imagined it going any better.

Today, I sit in a hospital bed, but it might as well be cloud nine, because life? It's pretty freaking awesome. And this little guy?

Gets to come home with us in a few days. If that doesn't make me the luckiest woman in the world, than I don't know what does.



Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Oh, BOY!

Hi. It's AFF here, and I'm pleased as punch to share my dear IRL friend Catwoman's exciting news: He's here!

I actually just got off the phone with Catwoman herself (She sounded damn good for having just had a c-section - lemme tell ya!) & she was very put out with the craptacular hospital internet service. The only picture she was able to use was the one from her iPhone, apparently. I will be heading up to the hospital tomorrow to check on mom & boy personally, and I will be sure to take some serious baby shots. Cause although I take crap for pictures, Mr Canon makes them seem Vogue-a-licious.

Congratulations to the Catpeople! And, especially to the new big brother. Little Man, you so have got this one.

Name: Tiny Man Catperson
DOB: October 21, 2008
Time: 7:54 am (CST)
Weight: 7 pounds
Length: 20 inches

If you want to compare the newborn boys, Little Man's is HERE.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Language Barrier

Ever since moving to the bigger kids' class in early September, Little Man has taken to talking in a baby voice at times. We're guessing this is his way of regressing, that he's hoping that people will go "oh, this kid talks like a baby, he must belong in the smaller class", letting him be moved back with his old teacher who he was totally infatuated with.

This baby talk has driven Sweetie Pie and I bonkers, and we've done everything from ignoring it, to threatening him, to dunk his head in the toilet. We actually haven't tried to last tactic, we're saving it for other behaviors that will drive us nuts, like when he decides he wants to be a white rapper.

This morning, we went to the local monthly market, where people sell all sorts of crap and puppy mills are out in mass trying to convince people that buying a six-week old puppy for $300 that sits miserably in a cage with chicken wire on the bottom is a great idea. I'm now stepping off the soap box.

Anyway, Little Man got tired of walking around and asked to be picked up, so Sweetie Pie carried him on his shoulders for a few minutes, until Little Man spotted a stand with all sorts of toddler-appealing junk in it and demanded to be put down.

Little Man: "Abajo!"

Sweetie Pie: "Little Man, I swear to you, I'm not going to tolerate this baby talk any longer, use real words."

Me: "Uhm, he said 'abajo.' That's Spanish for down. You just yelled at your son for using his Spanish correctly."

Little Man, looking at me: "Can I get abajo now?"

The look in his eyes said "dude, why the hell would you keep procreating with this man who doesn't even know the Spanish word for down?"



Wednesday, October 15, 2008

What I Did On My Maternity Leave: Sample Day

So I've now been on maternity leave for 8 days now. Which is crazy, because people, do you know how much it's flown by already? Some of you have accused me of being a bad blogger, and that's true, I have, but if you knew how hectic work has been for the last few months, you'd totally cut me some slack. Oh wait, I'm forgetting who I'm talking to, I should know that blogging should always come before anything else.

I thought that once I'd go on maternity leave, I'd have all the time in the world for blogging again, but this is literally the first day that I have time to just sit on the couch and do nothing.

And when I say do nothing, I mean that I'm ignoring the fact that the cleaning lady will be here in exactly 2 hours, and I haven't picked up the arsenal of toys in the living room, haven't hidden the arsenal of adult toys in the bedroom and haven't moved the four boxes of Little Man's clothes I packed up yesterday into the attic so that the hallway can actually be vaccuumed. Oh, and I also have a load of laundry that needs to be put into the dryer (which needs to be emptied) before it sours. And the dishwasher needs emptying. And the kitchen needs to be cleaned. Also? I've got important papers that need to be faxed from Sweetie Pie's office, the chicken needs to be cut up and marinated for tonight (tandoori chicken, YUM!) and I'll need to check work emails again, because so far, in 8 days, they have proven that they can't live without me, which I admit, makes my ego very, very happy, although it annoys the crap out of the rest of me, since I spent almost a full-day writing hand-off documents that thoroughly documented every little thing I do, including important tasks like silently passing gas in my cube and fanning it so it smells like it's coming from somewhere else.

I have, however accomplished quite a bit during the past 8 days. I've now spent more than $500 worth of gift cards given to me at my work baby shower, which can I tell you? The only thing more fun than a shopping spree is one paid for with gift cards given to you, oh the thrill, the fun, the no guilt! It saddens me that I'll probably never get to do that again. I've installed the infant seat and the mirror that allows me to obsessively occasionally check on the new addition while I'm driving. I ordered and have now received two Britax Marathons for when the new addition outgrows the infant seat. I've washed about 350,000 infant outfits, receiving blankets, swaddlers, spit up pads, bibs and other things I'd forgotten were even needed, all which have been boxed up in the attic for three years now. I washed the bassinette cover. I've gotten my eyebrows done, part one of my six-part plan to look hawt in the pictures right after my c-section, my revenge for looking so almost-dead in the pics after Little Man's birth. The next parts will be occuring during the next few days, where I will be getting a hair cut, a manicure, a pedicure, a prenatal massage and having many more McDonald's lunches so that I may win the million dollars at their highly addictive Monopoly game (now with online game so that I can be even more obsessed!)

Sweetie Pie is highly annoyed with me. He likes to remind me that due to my regular spotting, I'm supposed to practically be on bedrest, per my doctor, but seriously, people, this is me hardly doing anything. If I did anything less, I'd be dead. I don't know how to sit still. It's like when I'm at the doctor's office and they take my blood pressure and they always tell me to relax my arm and I have to tell them that this is me relaxed. Is is just me? I think that if I were ever put on bed rest, I'd probably die of shock. I mean, seriously, I'm a little bit like Speedy Gonzales, where my idea of sitting still is your idea of running a marathon. I guess this is why they always call me high energy at work. Which always amuses me, because to me, this is normal. My entire family is like this. Hell, I'm actually the most relaxed one in the family, the one who's least high strung. They call me the zen one.

When I'm not busy doing everything that needs to be done, I'm busy having mild heart attacks at the realization that in exactly six days, I will be cradling a newborn baby in my arms. No longer will I watch my belly ripple as I type blog entries from my couch. No longer will I watch a small tiny butt push itself through my belly button, so that I become this lobsided beach ball.

Can I just say right now how much I love to be pregnant. A part of me knows that more than likely, this is the last time I will ever experience the magic of pregnancy. This saddens me tremendously, because for the most part (you know, except for that part at the end where my body goes fuck this and shuts down my liver and stops forming blood platelets) my body can do two things very well: grow fantastic boobs (it only had to do this once, don't let me fool you into thinking its something I do regularly, like a lizard re-generating a tail) and pregnancy.

I'm a really lucky pregnant woman. I did have some morning sickness at the beginning of this pregnancy, but nothing debilitating. I was able to do my job. Sure I was dead tired at times, but what mother isn't tired? But even now, at 37.5 weeks, I'm still super comfortable. I can still move swiftly from place to place, I feel like I'm 30 pounds lighter than I am. I still can sleep comfortably for the most part and wake up to pee only once a night. I'm happy, I've got this awesome glow to me, and I feel like I have this aura that shines a block away from me, lighting my path everywhere I go. I'm happy, I'm loving life and even the odd comment about how big I am make me giggle. Life is good, life is brilliant, and I get to enjoy this whole process and get a freaking cool prize in the end. How fantastic is that?

If you had to step away from the screen halfway through that post to throw up from the overly sickening sweetness of it all, I don't blame you. I think I would too if I weren't me.



Monday, October 13, 2008

Things I Will Never Understand About Men

I've never been a girlie girl. Not growing up, where despite my attempts at ballet, where I had the grace of a tutued hippo, not now where my idea of full make up is pressed powder, some mascara and some light lipstic. I was a guys girl growing up, and it's only recently, when I became a mom, that I began to have more girl friends than guy friends.

So I would think that I understand men better than most women, and yet? I'm realizing that I really, really don't know anything at all. And now that I have one son and another one arriving only 8 days from now? I'm thinking that I'm going to find out even more regularly how little I know.

Here are the latest things I will never understand about men:

Example #1
How poop can become so entertaining at such a young age. Yesterday, I was playing play-doh with Little Man, and I was playing with the brown play-doh. He promptly decided that my creation was a piece of poop. And then laughed hysterically. Because poop is funny, duh. And even funnier than poop? Is 15 minutes of poop talk until your Maman threatens to throw out all of the brown play-doh, not just in the house, but the entire world's brown play-doh stock.

Example #2
Every woman knows that men are physically unable to hear any sentence that comes out of our mouth, unless they involve "you wanna have sex?", "I'm so drunk right now and I think I forgot to put panties on" and "I grilled you a steak and also, I'm naked." This is nothing any woman who's been within 1,500 feet of a man at any point in her life doesn't already know. But it seems that this sensory inability affects other senses as well. Like take last night. Little Man wakes up at 2:30 in the morning, crying. Natch, make that hysterically sobbing. This is not an unheard of incident in our house, Little Man tends to have bad dreams, he is the child who can no longer go to any restaurant where "happy birthday" is sung, because OMG! The singing! And the clapping! It's freaking frightening. No? That's just my kid? Huh.

Anyway, back to the point. So Little Man? Was crying. It was 2:30 in the morning. Sweetie Pie gets up, because you know what? I'm 37 weeks pregnant with a belly that sticks out front far enough to deserve it's own zip code (and my ass still looks great, thank you very much) and the man weighs 25 pounds less than I do. He can get his freaking ass up. Sweetie Pie comes back to bed two minutes later, and no sound emanates from upstairs. Until right before 5 a.m. where Little Man begins screaming again and this time he says he needs his Mama. I get up and when I get to the bottom of the stairs, this horrible stench hits my nostrils. Despite being half asleep, my brain begins right away praying that I'm not really smelling poop. As I glide gracefully up the stairs grunt all the way up the stairs, the smell keeps strengthening, until I feel like the lack of clean air is putting my unborn child in harm's way.

I bravely make my way to Little Man's room and as he looks at me, I ask the question that I've never thought I'd ever need to ask: "Did you poop yourself?" And even in the dark night, I can see the very distinct nodding of a little blonde head. The underwear goes straight to the trash on the curb, because that ain't getting anywhere near my washing machine. As I begin to clean up my child's poop-smeared bottom, it becomes very clear that a lot of it is dried solid and that my poor child has been made to sleep with diarrea for a few hours.

How can anyone not smell a diarrhea filled pajama pant? I don't care that it's two in the morning and that you're not awake yet, I'd literally smelled landfills that didn't make my eyes water as much as this kid did last night. But when I lividly asked my husband about it the next morning, he said he didn't notice anything. I wonder if he'd notice if I beat him to a pulp with a baseball bat.