Thursday, February 28, 2008

Beating People To a Pulp

Last time I was pregnant? I worked from home. This meant that I had human interaction with people outside of my husband approximately one to two hours a day.

At most.

Although it was kind of a lonely existence, it did allow me to eat bags of tortilla chips dipped in tubs of sour cream in front of the Young and the Restless in my pajamas without anyone judging me.

It also allowed me to hide from the world what a psycho path I had become.

I get a little cranky before my period. And by a little cranky, I mean I will tear your f'ing head off and suck out the creamy center of your spinal cord for looking at me funny.

Like I said. A tad cranky.

Me pregnant? It's like me having 10 periods at one time. The level of hormones in blood stream is so high, that I can literally see it pulsing in my veins. I dare you to tell me I'm exagerating. Seriously. You want a piece of me? Because I'll cut you, punk.

Anyway, where was I.

Oh yes. So I'm a tad hormonal these days.

But this time? I'm not in my home all day, email as my main vehicle for communicating.

This time I'm in a cubicle, in a building filled with 5,000 people, all who are looking for me to pull their liver out of their butt hole apparently.

I think I'm a lot like that toddler I spoke about yesterday, the one who beats up my ears with his screaming and the next lights up my whole universe with his big smiles, his hugs and his sweet as honey claims of "My mommy! I love my mommy!"

The only difference between the toddler and I is that I know the "f" word.

And I'm using it, a lot.

This morning? My work laptop made the mistake of not being able to connect to the server. Which meant I couldn't get on the Internet to do important work, like pay for the two pairs of Japanese Weekend capri pants I won on eBay gossip read blogs whatever it is I'm supposed to do today.

My boss had to literally talk me off the ledge because he found me standing over the atrium from our hallway (on the 6th floor may I add) ready to hurl my laptop to its death below.

In my review three weeks ago, my boss mentioned how nothing ever seems to fluster me and that I'm the most positive, enthusiastic employee he's ever had.

I'm sure he looked at me this morning, with my disheveled hair and this look of insanity shining like a beacon in the night and wondered "what the hell is happening to her?"

Amazing that something that is currently the size of a poppy seed can make me beat the shit out of a computer.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Only 19 More Years Until I Live in a Democracy Again

When Little Man turned 18 months old, he went from being a perfectly happy baby to a toddler angry at the entire world and its unfairness, because seriously? not being able to have ice cream for dinner is just as bad as the world coming to an end.

We worked through these difficult months with a lot of alcohol (for us, not Little Man) and many time outs (also for us. Actually, wait, I guess these were for both Little Man and us. Our time alones just included alcohol, because you can never drink enough when you have to live with a toddler).

When Little Man turned two, his vocabulary exploded and the hissy fits with the red face and the pulsing veins and the kicking of the feet and the pointless shrieking came to (almost) an end and were replaced instead with sobbing pleas that were much more tolerable.

Apparently, I have come to realize that half birthdays are extremely hard to celebrate, kind of the way women act with 30th, 40th and any birthday that ends in a zero. Luckily, we women only have these birthdays every 10 years, and the trauma can easily be avoided by lying about your age. For toddlers, these half birthdays are a once a year event and lying is reserved for giant turds in the diaper that are making the neighbor two doors down's eyes water. Because if you deny you've pooped long enough, surely they'll leave you alone and you won't have to stop crashing your Hot Wheels. I believe I might be raising the next Bill Clinton and I feel that any day, my son will turn to me and say "define 'poop.'"

This week, Little Man has decided that his lungs are out of shape and the best way to get them ready for the next Hannah Montana concert is to lose his shit at every possible opportunity.

Here are some of my actions that have been worthy of fits this week. I dare you to tell me that I don't live with a tyrant:

- On Monday, Little Man threw a fit and rolled on the floor because I had the gall to turn on the TV after serving him his breakfast and putting on a Blue's Clues episode. This has been a tradition since he was still unable to hold down all of his formula. Apparently, he wanted music instead of Blue's Clues, because television is below his intellect. How I was expected to know this, I don't know, but I have accepted the mental beating I took and now am considerate enough to never turn on the television set.

- A few minutes after I switched the television set to the Sirius Top 40 station, the stupid morning DJ's decided to banter instead of playing Nickelback's 'Rockstar' for the 11 millionth time. This made Little Man beat me to a pulp with his stuffed frog because damn it, I should have more control over radio dj's based somewhere in the Continental US.

- Yesterday, Little Man was eating his breakfast and enjoying a rousing version of Flo Rida's 'Low'. I hadn't had a chance to make my breakfast yet, which consists of a soy milk, yogurt and frozen fruit smoothie. I started the blender, which apparently is a crime against humanity when Flo Rida's singing about apple-bottom jeans and giving big booties a slap.

Other crimes I have performed?

- Lowering the radio in the car to talk on the phone.

- Pre-cutting Little Man's food.

- Not letting him wear his footed pajamas to school.

It gets better at three, right? Please tell me that it does. Because I'm not allowed alcohol and cigarettes for another 8 months and chocolate just isn't enough to get through this.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

The Big Belly Question

So a number of you have commented during the past few days and asked whether I'd be posting belly pictures.

I find this interesting for a number of reasons, because one, really? you really care that much?

So here's my answer: don't hold your breath.

And I have many reasons for that answer, the first one being that I will never look this cute.

Secondly, I don't post pictures of myself, in order to keep some sense of anonymity. Yes, I realize that I post pictures of my son left, right and center, but really, he's just your average blond blue-eyed kid, and there's probably a million of them in Texas alone. I post about poop, doing the deed and other things that my relative anonymity allows me to do. Posting pictures of myself would increase my chances of a coworker at my huge company to say "wait a minute! I know who Catwoman is!" And then my blog would forever be altered. Is that what you all really want?

Thirdly, I only took one belly shot of myself my entire first pregnancy. No, I'm not making that up. I'll say it again, people, I'm not the cute pregnant woman you all imagine me to be. I literally look like I have a beer gut until the 9th month. Never during my entire first pregnancy did strangers inappropriately touch my belly. I took desperate measures, wearing shirts that proclaimed I was pregnant for a while. But then those stories about pregnant women being cut open and their fetuses stolen kept making it on the news and I began considering everyone who looked in my direction to be a potential fetus stealer.

My point is, that I only let Sweetie Pie take a shot of my belly when I actually looked pregnant. And was showered and dressed properly. And the stars aligned for all those things exactly once, exactly two weeks before Little Man entered the world.

Does that make me sound really vain? I hope not, because it's not really a vanity thing, even though, I guess it is at its core, because I hate pictures of myself period.

Do I regret not taking more pictures? Yes, I do. And seeing Andreanna proudly show off her belly and looking irradescent while doing it has made me realize that I too want to have more belly shots taken of me this time.

But I'm afraid they won't get posted, or if I do, my head will be cut off. Let's face it, all you care about seeing is the belly anyway, so that should make everyone happy right?

Maybe I'll even throw in a boobie shot for Slick, so he doesn't drown under the weight of so much estrogen.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Hormonal Undercurrent

I'm sorry I didn't post on Friday. Hopefully none of you worried, as I've discovered that the best way to break new posting records is to tell the Internet that you are with child.

A part of me wishes I could announce that every week, just so I could feel the tingly warm feeling of bathing in comments.

So let's try this again! I'm pregnant!

What? It's not news anymore, well whewy to you then.

This pregnancy has so far been uneventful, all 5 days of it since I've known. This makes me happy, because uneventful is good. I've been peeing on pregnancy tests and they keep telling me what I like to hear, and my uterus has started its quest of growing as large are the moon and already I look close to 12 weeks pregnant. I'm not freaking kidding. On Friday, between breakfast and lunch, my waist expanded by about 10 inches. One of the two coworkers I've told had her eyeballs fall out of her eye sockets when I went to see her to gossip after a couple of hours of non-stop working. She said to me "I hope this doesn't offend you in any way, but it's like you got bigger and I can practically see you expanding."

Not only was I not offended, I laughed heartily, because seriously, I'm looking like I might start waddling by next week.

The race is on as to when I'll start needing maternity pants and I'm going to try to make it to 8 weeks. Just for fun.

Although, I do have cute Seven for all Mankind maternity jeans I got for cheap on eBay, so really, I might not try too hard to make it to 8 weeks to wear those.

My farting problems have subsided, I'm happy to announce, even more thrilled is Satan's Dog, who's lost most of his facial fur from walking too close behind me. I'm telling you without any exaggeration that the EPA considered condemning our house due to the level of toxic gases I released last week.

But beneath all of this happiness, I can feel the stirring. The stirring of the hormones, the ones that had me throwing fits during my pregnancy with Little Man that would make any Hollywood diva consider packing it up. And I'm frightened. Because losing it with my husband, well, he probably deserves it. But my toddler and all of his energy, and his love of the word no and his crazy demands (like wanting to eat yogurt on the TV. No, I'm not making that up. I told him he could eat it in front of the TV, but he got pissed, because he literally wanted me to put the Dora yogurt container on the base of our 37" LCD television. What the???), well, I need to keep the hormones under the wraps and not let my head do that 360 spinning thing while spewing pea soup like I did with my last pregnancy.

My first doctor's appointment is on March 11th at 7:15. When the receptionist said 7:15, I paused for a second and said "p.m.?" to which she said no, they're not open at night. So I paused, hesitated and said "a.m.?" because surely, there must be another 7:15, one that's in the middle of the day, not the 7:15 when most roosters are up early in the morning.

But hey, what better way to spend an early morning than with a big piece of cold metal up your vijayjay.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

How to Have Your Day Ruined

So Sweetie Pie let the cat out with his parents yesterday, which of course meant that I had to tell my parents, because you can't have one side know without the other knowing.

So I call my parents last night and this is the conversation I have:

CW: Hey Mom! Guess what? I'm pregnant again!

M: You are? Congratulations? How far along are you?

CW: 3.5 weeks.

M: Oh. (pause) Well, we're just not going to get excited then, are we?

Cue to Catwoman freaking out and telling off her mother.

Yes, I had a miscarriage last time.

Yes, it broke my heart.

But everything in life comes with risk. If every girl or woman who went out on a first date with a man thought "oh, this guy is likely to break my heart or this relationship will make me want to gauge my eyes out", then where would the fun be to date at all?

Of course there's a risk that my pregnancy could terminate.

But I don't care. I'm happy, I'm excited. I'm looking forward to the next 34.5 weeks.

And I won't let her take it away from me.

On another note, my poop issues have resolved themselves. I was extremely gassy yesterday, to the point that I apparently accidentally tried to kill myself by gassing myself in our enclosed glass shower.

Apparently one of my farts has the power to remove a room's oxygen in 2.8 seconds flat.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

The World Speaks to Me

There's this show that launched a few weeks ago that I haven't watched that's called Eli Stone. I might be getting the premise wrong, but basically this lawyer guy due to a tumor or something else has these visions, including one with George Michael singing "Faith" in his living room.

And these signs mean things in his life. Or something. Like I said, I haven't watched the show.

My point is, I, like Eli Stone, have feelings and trust the universe when it's trying to tell me something.

I have theme songs for everything. My theme song for life? Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life" is my official theme song. Because at the end of the day, I have a very charmed life, but I'm always looking for more.

When I was pregnant with Little Man, our song was Rascall Flatt's "Broken Road," because it felt like it'd been a long winding road to get to the point of getting pregnant with him. I still get tears in my eyes when the song comes on the radio.

Before I miscarried, my pregnancy song had been Lifehouse's "First Time," because the lyrics just seemed to speak to my excitement and fear at being pregnant again:

"Looking at you, holding my breath
For once in my life I'm scared to death
I'm taking a chance letting you inside

I'm feeling alive all over again
As deep as the scar, under my skin
Like being in love, she says, for the first time
Maybe I'm wrong, I'm feeling right
Where I belong with you tonight
Like being in love to feel for the first time

The world that I see inside you
Waiting to come to life
Waking me up to dreaming
Reality in your eyes

Looking at you, holding my breath
For once in my life I'm scared to death
I'm taking a chance letting you inside"


And of course, after the miscarriage, that song would just bring me back to that painful day.

I mentioned yesterday that the earliest I could test this month was Thursday. I knew that anything before that day would be a waste of an expensive pregnancy test.

This morning, my alarm went off and on the radio came "First Time." I froze and then I knew that the universe had just told me to take a pregnancy test.

I peed on the test and waited, but I knew exactly what it would say, even before it lit up with much fanfare with the word "pregnant," a mere 20 seconds after I was done.

As Sweetie Pie put it, I'm more backed up than Central Expressway on a Friday afternoon.

But I've never been happier.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Vomit, Pee And No Poop

So I'm backed up again. I share this with you because I'm in pain and the only way for me to revel is to have friends and strangers squirm at the thought that my intestines are currently backed up with pounds of poop.

Because this hurts. And I'm cranky and nauseous too, none of which are making me any happier.

I went to sleep at 7:30 last night, that's how worn out I felt. I think it's fair to say something's going on with me, and on Thursday, I better find out when I pee on a stick that this is because I'm pregnant, because or else, it means I'm sick or just getting old, none of which will make my mood any better.

This morning, we were woken up by Satan's Dog throwing up at 5 a.m. Because I was sick, I wasn't able to get to him promptly, clamp my hand around his snout and drag him to the back door, so of course, by the time my slow-ass husband got to the dog, he had already vomited on my cream-colored carpet his entire dinner and some blades of grass.

Either the dog is the most moronic creature on Earth and eats bad stuff that makes him sick, or else he's just got the weakest stomach of anyone.

So we cleaned up the vomit and went back to sleep for 45 minutes.

And just because my morning didn't have enough bodily fluids involved, Little Man peed on the living room carpet this morning, after I pulled off his night diaper and went to throw it out in the trash (something we've done every day for over a year, might I add, without any issues). I come back to see a puddle at Little Man's feet and him just staring at the stream of urine coming out of his wee-wee.

When he saw me looking at him, he just went "ohhhh! I made a mess!"

You think?

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, February 15, 2008

Men Selling Half-Dead Flowers on the Side of the Road Are Out of Work for Another 364 Days

So Valentine's Day is over.

Which in my world is a big so what, because in my world, every day is Valentine's Day.

Sorry I stepped away there for a second, I had to spit out the vomit in my mouth.

Here's my Valentine's Day summary:

Number of Valentine's Day Cookies eaten by Little Man in a 3-minute period: 2

Number of meltdowns when he was refused the third cookie: 1 (very large one)

Number of choking hazard hard candies removed from Little Man's Walmart pail with the scrapbooking stickers on it: 3

Number of Valentine's Day dinners bought from the grocery store's take out section: 1

Number of bottles of wine bought to accompany meal from grocery store: 1

Bottles of wine drank with dinner: 1

Gins and tonic drank after wine was all gone: 2 (very large ones)

Number of underwear drunkenly thrown on the floor right before obligatory Valentine's Day marital relations: 1

Number of underwears thrown up by Satan's Dog a mere three hours later: 1

Number of hangovers this morning: 1

Number of Caramel-stuffed Hershey's kisses about to be eaten to try to beat hangover before going to playdate with tons of toddlers this morning: Too many to count with a hangover.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Holding Up the Mirror

Last night, Little Man was playing with Sweetie Pie on the floor, when Little Man suddenly ordered his dad to sit down on the couch. Sweetie Pie, who was sprawled on the floor, ignored the request. Little Man repeated againt "Daddy, sit down here!" while patting on the couch.

But Sweetie Pie continued to ignore him. So Little Man made his request one more time and looked at me, frustrated as hell.

I shrugged my shoulders at Little Man and said "I guess Daddy should go to time alone for not listening."

A gleam appeared in Little Man's eyes like "wait, holy shit! I can do that?"

Little Man walked up to Sweetie Pie, put both fists on his hips and said "Daddy, you go to timone for not listening."

He grabbed Sweetie Pie's hand, dragged him (without too much effort needed, I must say) to the bottom step and said "blah, blah, blah, blah, timone, stay there!"

Apparently? When I put my son in time alone, that is exactly what he hears "Blah, blah, blah. Stay there."

It's nice to know that my heartfelt discipline messages are being heard, every single word of them.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

I Am That Mother

There's a stereotype of working moms on television. The working mom is so busy with her job that she often forgets important events in her child's life. She's the one who shows up at the recital almost at the end of it, but just in time to have the child see her in the audience and think that mom cares.

I personally think this stereotype is bull. Of all the working moms I know, I don't know a single one who doesn't make the time for their child and doesn't consider motherhood to be their most important job.

But I've now figured out where the stereotype stemmed from. It's not that working moms forget things, it's just some of us don't read the overly-long school memo all the way through and don't realize that the Valentine's day cards you painstakingly signed with your child's name the weekend before (all 27 of them) were supposed to be brought the day before Valentine's day, along with the shoe box turned into a Valentine's Day mailbox, thanks to my Mommy arts and crafts talents.

I only realized my snafu when I was walking out of Little Man's school and three parents walked in armed with their child's Valentine's Day gear.

That's when I thought a big WTF?

Luckily, being the way I am, I'd left the Valentine's Day memo on my front seat and I quickly scanned it and realized that yeah, things were supposed to be brought in today, those other parents weren't just really eager when it comes to Valentine's Day.

Luckily for me, Little Man's school has a Walmart right across the street from it (something I try not to hold against them), so I raced over there, found this Valentine's Day mail pail for a dollar, raced to the scrapbooking aisle to buy letter stickers to use for Little Man's name so that I wouldn't be forced to use a Sharpie, which would really give me away, and bought 32 more Valentine's Day cards.

I sat in my Jeep Liberty and painstakingly signed 27 more cards, raced back to the school and handed the loot to the front desk, asking them to deliver it to Little Man's class.

So I saved the day. And I didn't show up right at the end, I beat my stupidity fair and square and got the job done in advance.

So why do I still feel so freaking guilty?

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

An Important Lesson

I'm sure some wise man somewhere (maybe a fortune cookie?) has said at some point that you shouldn't ask a question if you're not prepared to hear the answer.

Although Little Man's daily reports from school have gone during the last week from "not happy" to "sometimes happy" to "happy", there are still tears in the morning and I wouldn't be surprised if the teachers have nicknamed him "the cry baby."

Last Wednesday, after leaving a screaming Little Man in the gym, I went to drop off his pull ups and coat in his cubby in his classroom. His teacher was there straightening up the classroom and I asked her how Little Man was doing.

She paused, hesitated for a few seconds and finally said "He's a very good eater."

It took every ounce of of my being not to laugh out loud at her political correctness. I'm used to his old daycare, where they sugar coated everything and claimed every child was happy every single day and every child ate absolutely everything every day, which any mother worth her baby weight will tell you is bull.

So at his old day care, Little Man was gorgeous, he was brilliant, he was so smart and his vocabulary was more evolved than any child they'd ever seen before.

At his new school? He's a good eater. They're not going to bullshit me and tell me how smart he is, when he's still figuring out what the hell he's supposed to do.

And I? Like it a lot.

I like knowing when my child's not happy. If anything, when I see on his report that he's been scowling all day, I know that he's just crabby and I can mentally prepare myself for an evening filled with tantrums.

I like knowing when he's been a ball of sunshine all day, because then I know that I'm in for a good fun night, one where I wish I didn't have to put him to bed at 8:30.

And so, my child? He's a really good eater. In fact? He's one of the best eaters she's ever had. Apparently, at school he'll eat anything. He's such a good eater, that she asked me if he gets breakfast at home, because she's been needing to slip him an extra snack in the morning because he seems to be famished.

My son? Might kick the ass of that scrawny little man who wins all those hot dog eating contests.

And we will be oh so proud.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Complete and Utter Terror

I had this horrible dream last week that robbers had broken into the house and killed Sweetie Pie.

I woke up to Little Man crying and screaming for me, and when I looked next to me, half awake and confused, I saw that Sweetie Pie was missing. My heart stopped, as I realized that this must not have been a dream, that Sweetie Pie really had been killed and now, they were going after my son.

I jumped out of bed and began to run up the stairs. I did this at lightning speed, the only thing on my mind being the need to save my son, but there were two flaws in my plan. Flaw number one: I was clutching absolutely no weapon of any kind. Flaw number two: I was buck naked, and as I ran up the stairs, my boobies were threatening to knock me out and my stomach flab flapped in the wind.

I ran into Little Man's room and as I did so, Sweetie Pie, who was replacing Little Man's covers on him, looked at me a little confused.

When I realized that the whole thing had in fact been a dream and that Little Man's crying was just coincidental, my knees actually buckled. Luckily, any risk of falling would have been broken by my still jiggling boobies, that had been slung over my shoulders.

I may not have had any weapons with me, but I think any robber would have run out of the house screaming at the sight of my naked disheveled body, with my thighs glued together from my earlier tryst in our efforts to get pregnant.

Who needs castle laws when you've got my naked body as the ultimate weapon?

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

How Rumors Get Started

I showed up to pick up Little Man from school yesterday and found him snuggling with the school's receptionist. Little Man is rarely in a snuggling mood, and when he is, it's usually pretty rare, so I thought this was a little odd. For dinner, I made chicken fajitas and Little Man didn't eat any of it and drank three glasses of milk instead. I cut up two organic kiwis for him, his newest addiction, but he took two bites and then gave up.

A little before bed time, Little Man's head was burning up and then I knew that he was officially not feeling well. I gave him a dose of children's ibuprofen, changed him into his pajamas, and Sweetie Pie put him to bed. While we were chilling on the couch, we heard Little Man whimpering numerous time in his sleep.

This morning, when I went to get him, he was still warm and he snuggled with me the whole time I was eating breakfast and got ready, as I had to go to work to get my laptop in order to work from home (and write blog entries and read blogs, of course).

I told Little Man that we would go to my work really quickly and he replied "okay, I love the farm."

For the record, I don't work on a farm.

Although, being in media relations, I have dealt with reporters who were pigs.

And I have had a couple of bosses in my previous life that were quite the hormonal cows.

So I can totally understand how he could be mistaken.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

The Unfairness Of Life

On Friday, Little Man started his new school. When I picked him up that night, he seemed content, running around the library because all that reading can suddenly give you the urge to run laps, you know?

In his backpack was a goodie bag and his teacher told me that he picked the best day to start, as there had been a birthday party for a girl in his class.

On Monday, as we were driving to school, I asked Little Man if he was excited about going to his new school again. "Yeah!," he replied. "I love cupcakes!"

I was confused. What does school have to do with cupcakes? And then I remembered the birthday party. So I said: "Did you have cupcakes at the birthday party on Friday?

- Yeah! Yummy cupcakes! I love cupcakes!

- Well, uhm, there probably won't be cupcakes today, Little Man. Uhm, it's probably not someone's birthday again.

- I going to eat one cupcake! No! NO! I going to eat two cupcakes today.

- But the school doesn't have cupcakes every day.

- Yes, school have cupcakes! I love cupcakes!"

I warned the teacher who hauled my screaming and crying Little Man to the gym that morning, that he might be upset today as he realizes that the new school? It doesn't have cupcakes every day the way he'd determined from his first and only day there.

That night, when I picked him up, he seemed majorly bummed.

"Did you have fun today, Little Man?

- (pause) Yeah.

- What did you do today.

- (longer pause) Mama, why cupcakes go bye bye? I like cupcakes."

Note to self: Next time I change my son's school, make sure that it's not on a day where they have freaking cupcakes.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Whoring Myself Out a Little More for Bling

Apparently?

Blue Momma also nominated me for two other awards. Because she's mistakenly thought that because I talk obsessively about how hot Tom Brady is, that I must be Gisele Bundchen in real life. Which for the record, I am not. But if someone wants to call me hot and isn't homeless or peddling cheap crap from a booth at the mall, then I will happily accept the compliment.

My site was nominated for Best Parenting Blog!

My site was nominated for Hottest Mommy Blogger!

So y'all feel sorry for me and vote for me, you hear?

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, February 04, 2008

I Can Honestly Say That I'm Happy Just Being Nominated

My site was nominated for Best Humor Blog!

Can you believe this? Blue Momma nominated me for the Golden Globe awards-equivalent in bloggy land. Or maybe it'd be the People's Choice awards. Either way. Make me look half decent and vote for me, will you? Even if you've been lurking. You'll have to register, but right now my only vote is Blue Momma, which makes me look like only one person likes me. If I could just get to five, then I'd be all mushy inside, like the inside of one of those chocolate covered marshmallow hearts.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Twenty-Nine Months: My Letter to Little Man

So much has happened this month, that it's hard for me to even know where to start. First, I had to put you in a new school, when you inexplicably became very unhappy with your old one. This was a decision that I grappled with most of this month, it became all-consuming in many ways for me. I have a tendency to obsess over things, I admit, but this decision seemed like one of the toughest I've ever made. What if I chose a new school, and you were even less happy there? What if you were just going through a phase and I ended making the wrong decision. What if you, who needs time to adjust to everything, had to be moved another time in a few months, causing you even more heartache.



Friday was your first day at your new school. My stomach turned all night. I'd talked to you about the school and you had visited it with me and seemed to like it, but on the drive to school, I kept telling you about all the great things you were going to do, my voice an octave too high, a little like a used car salesman desperate to make the sale. "You're going to get to eat pizza!" I said. "And you're going to make so many friends!" To which you replied "Yeah, people have friends," which can sound deeply philosophical as an isolated statement, but ever since our Christmas trip to Canada, you've been obsessed with people. We're guessing it's because we talked about all the people working on the plane while we were waiting to board, and so now every day is started with "We going to go see people, Mama?"



And apparently now? People have friends. Which is good, because people should have friends.

We got to the school, and you went floppy legged on me, and stuck out your tongue, which you do when you go into shy mode or are forced to do something you don't want to do.

I picked you up, my heart pounding a little faster and you thrashing silently against me.



At your new school, the kids who arrive before 8:15 are brought to the gym, so I walked in with you still thrashing and introduced you to the teacher in the gym and explained that you were a little shy. She peeled you off of me and asked you if you wanted to play with her. That's when you spotted a big blue ball and exclaimed "a blue ball! A blue ball!" and leaped out of her arms to go chasing after that ball.

I stood there, stunned and kind of yelled out awkwardly "okay, I guess I'll see you later."

I drove off with tears in my eyes, partly with pride, partly with the fact that you looked so grown up, in your new school, adapting to it like it was no big deal.



You're becoming such a mini adult these days, with expressions directly ripped out of your father's mouth or mine. Like now, whenever you yawn, you exclaim "I am soooo tired!" As if you imply "damn, all that coloring and playing and trying to balance my piggy bank, it's freaking exhausting!"

You also love to call everything "stinky butt", like the other day when you burped garlic and said "whew! Stinky butt!" It's great that you're two, because right now, it's cute and funny, but I'm guessing at some point, it might not be funny to your paternal grandparents.



Just remember that half of you is fun. And if there's one thing that my family taught me, is that unless you're at a work event, farts and burps are always funny. And if you ever bring home a girl who's so uptight that she can't laugh at poop jokes or at a silent but deadly fart, I'll have no problems telling you to throw her back. Life's too short to be uptight.



You're quickly learning that life is much easier around here when I'm not pissed off. A few days ago, you did something that caused me to raise my voice, and as I was cleaning up your mess, you looked at me and said "Say I'm sorry, please." I looked at you confused and you said "Say I'm sorry, please." And that's where it clicked in my head that I always ask you to apologize so that you have a chance to fix things before going to time alone. I smiled and said "Say I'm sorry, please." Your whole face softened in relief and you said "I'm sorry, Mama!" You, my child, are Mr. Routine, and if anyone dares to veer slightly from what you're used to, you're always first to let us know.



Mind you, you have no issues adopting new routines when they're fun or to your liking. A few weeks ago, we stayed home sick and when you woke up, you wanted to play in your big boy room. I decided that I'd make us some hot chocolate and we would drink it while playing on your train table. Now, every time you wake up from your nap, you'll often say "Mama, drink chocolate milk here?", which only reminds me that I can't ever do something just for fun. If it's happened once, it can automatically become the norm with you, so it better be something I can live with long-term.

You surprised me earlier this month, by suddenly making the decision to nap in your big boy room. For months now, I've had the room painted to match your toddler bedding. The chair rail was installed, all of your favorite books were moved to the book case in that room. Your train table was installed, a chalboard and easel stood on the corner. When it was all done, I gave you the tour and you were blown away. But that night, back in the summer when I tried to put you down in the new room, you freaked out. After that, every few weeks, I'd ask you if you wanted to sleep in your big boy room, to which you'd always answer an emphatic "no." I never forced the issue, after all, it's not like there was a baby on the way to kick you out of the old room. And then suddenly, one day last month, you just walked into your new room for nap time. Surprised, I asked "do you want to sleep in your big boy room?" and you nodded that yes, it was time. You helped me drag the toddler bed out of your baby room and install it in your new room, then you hopped in bed, kissed me and took a four-hour nap in your room like you'd always done it.



It's times like these that I know that you are very much my son. That you'll always do things, but that you need to do them in your own time, when you've had a chance to make the decision for yourself.

We started our own band, you and I. You're the lead singer, on your microphone, and I get to stand behind you and strum the guitar. Once, you decided to trade places with me, but two seconds into my singing, you decided that this wouldn't do at all, that you were meant to be in the limelight and you thrust the guitar back at me and took the microphone back and launched into verse number 923 of Old MacDonald. I quietly took my spot back behind you and smiled.

I love you my Little Man,

Maman.