I've mentioned before that Little Man is all about his boobies these days.
Yesterday, Sweetie Pie was walking around the house without his shirt on, because we like to pretend we live in a soap opera around here, and of course, Little Man wanted his shirt off too, to look like his Daddy.
Of course, as soon as he had his shirt off, Little Man proceeded to yell "LOOK MAMA! IT'S MY BOOBIES!"
I said "it sure is, Little Man. Do you love your boobies?"
"YES MAMA! I LOVE BOOBIES! WHOO-HOO! BOOBIES!"
Monday, March 31, 2008
I've mentioned before that Little Man is all about his boobies these days.
Friday, March 28, 2008
So, apparently? I? Can have my ass kicked by a one-inch long fetus.
The last two days have seen me dry heaving for extended periods of time, which I now consider to be as fun as a Brazillian wax, except for way worse (although without the feeling of humiliation of holding your butt cheeks apart while a woman with a magnifying glass tweezes individual hairs from parts of you that no one should ever see under glaring lights.)
So I have nothing to say today.
Little Man has a fever, so at least he's content laying on the couch with me while we watch bad daytime TV and then nap for extended periods of time, which is pretty cool because even though I feel like absolute poop, I am getting paid for sleeping and feeling sorry for myself.
Ya'll have a good weekend now, you hear?
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
So my story yesterday prompted many of you to ask for the full Mormon boss/bitch slapping story.
This is a little like me telling you that the ship sinks at the end of Titanic and you tell me "oh really? How awesome is that! Tell us the story of the Titanic sinking!"
To which I'd kind of be confused and say to you that uhm, this boat? It hit an iceberg with lots of rich people on board and poor people who liked to dance to cool music. And then it sank.
But since you've asked for the story, I will tell it to you. Again.
Simply because I have nothing better to post about.
So first, I should explain that this Mormon boss of mine? He's not really my boss.
Yeah, I kind of lied.
But I didn't really.
It was just easier to write down that he's my boss than the long convoluted explanation I'm going to give you. So I have this boss. He's in his 50's and he's married with three grown daughters. Anyway, he left last month to get knee replacement surgery, so he's been out for the last month.
One of my coworkers who's kind of my boss' second in command became our boss during the past month while Big Boss Man was out.
So Second-in-Command Boss is Mormon.
But not the kind that comes to your door and gives you bulemia brochures, like I was once given.
He's pretty cool. And he's kind of a rebel, because he drinks Dr. Pepper's like they're going out of style, which has caffeine in it, which we all know that that's the beverage of the devil himself.
But he doesn't curse. He has a wife and three kids and he coaches Little League baseball a lot.
So except for the Dr. Pepper sinning, he's your good old Mormon boy, who was sad when Romney dropped out of the race.
I try not to curse too much in front of him, just like I try to do in front of Baptists and old people. It's just called basic respect.
Oh, and young children. I try not to curse in front of those either, unless I'm really drunk and belligerent like at my 28th birthday at the hibachi grill. To the eight-year old boy sitting at our table with his parents, I apologize that I found the words "pussy fuckers" to be highly entertaining and used them approximately 32 times during dinner. But in my defense, those watermelon martinis were STRONG. All five of them.
Flash back to two weeks ago, I had just whipped somebody's ass and was feeling completely invincible. Also, being slightly hormonal, I was on a total endorphin high from showing that person who's boss and who's the moron (for the record, they're the moron).
I flew into my boss' office and proclaimed myself "the best bitch slapper evah!"
Which my boss? Thought was really, really funny.
But he did ask me what has gotten into me lately, to which he would receive that answer only a mere week later when I violently sobbed in his office.
And that is how I came to use the words bitch and slap with my Mormon boss.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
I had my second of 300 doctor's appointment this morning and the new baby is kicking some serious act on the growing thing. If there were Olympics for growth and development of a fetus, I would say that my fetus would sweeps all the gold medals and leave the other fetuses sobbing in little amniotic puddles.
In the last two weeks, my fetus has managed to sprout arms and legs and it actually has a distinct head now.
I ended up being at the doctor's for close to two hours for reasons I'm not too sure of other than my doctor was running late, because that's all she told me.
Of course I find this mildly annoying, but at the same time, this woman will be cutting me in half in a few months and I'm hoping she'll love me so much that she'll throw in a free tummy tuck and I'll look better coming out of the hospital than I did coming in.
As we were wrapping up she congratulated me on my constant cheerfulness and even keel personality.
I told her that she'd caught me on a good day and then proceeded to tell her how I'd used the words "bitch slap" with my mormon boss the previous week.
She giggled really hard and I told her that it would take quite a bit for me to resort to using the words bitch slap with the woman who will be delivering my next child.
I then proceeded to tell her that my boobs are so swollen, that I have a heat rash in between them.
Then I clarified that I did forego sharing my boob story with my male boss.
I'm thinking the extra free Enfamil cans are all mine at this point.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Last Thursday was a really, really bad day. It was the kind of day that I haven't had in many years, where my job just left me in a puddle of tears. I spent a good part of this day in my cubicle, silently crying, pulling myself together long enough to drag my sad behind to the bathroom, where I locked myself in a stall and sobbed silently some more.
I ended up in my boss' office, where I fell apart once again when I tried to update him on the situation that had gone terribly awry and by the time I went home, I was emotionally exhausted and still upset.
After picking up Little Man, I called my best friend to vent, because this is the universal way for women to deal with situations. Men have beer and hookers, women call their best friends. The conversation was brief because my friend was in the middle of watching some neighbors kids who were apparently on a mission to tear down the siding of her house, but it was long enough for me to feel at peace again.
When I hung up, Little Man looked me in the eye in the rear view mirror and said "Good job, Mama! Good job talking on the phone!"
My eyes welled up with tears again, and I turned around and said to him "You have no idea how much I needed to hear that today."
Yesterday morning, I had already gotten dressed for the Easter church service when I went to wake up Little Man. I was wearing panty hose and a black dress with large white flowers on it and I looked surprisingly good for me and for it being 8 a.m.
I walked into Little Man's room and he audibly gasped.
"You wearing the black, Mama? You have white flowers, Mama?"
I nodded and smiled and said "I do."
"So pretty, Mama!"
Totally makes all those times he used me as his personal kleenex or fed me his half chewed food worth it.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Dear New Baby,
This is your first monthly letter of what will hopefully be thousands. Because I intend to live to be 99 years old just so I get the pleasure of whining about how no one will charge the batteries of my Rascall Scooter for me and now I've been stuck in the casino for four days with no change of Depends.
I've decided to start writing these letters to you now, because they say that you're never as good with the second baby. That with the first one, you take thousands of pictures, which is very true for your big brother. The first weeks for his life, there were weeks where I had to create multiple Snapfish albums, because I had taken hundreds of pictures of him and none of them were considered bad by my sleep-deprived hormonal brain, so that family (luckily I was never psycho enough to send these albums to friends and acquaintances) were forced to go through 300 digital pictures of a newborn. All of which looked identical, except for the slight differentiations in levels of spit up on the onesie he was wearing.
I think we have relatives who still haven't been heard from 2.5 years later, because their computers are still on strike from the sheer volume of pictures of the blob with a comb over that he was at the time.
So I write this newsletter to you before you're even born (hell, per Babycenter, you still have a tail, which I hope you're really, really working on getting rid of, because tail removal? It ain't cheap if you're not of the dog family), because I didn't do so for your brother and that way, when you whine to me about having to wear your brother's hand-me-downs again or playing with toys that were broken from him hauling them from the loft area to the tile in the entry way, I can say "yeah, but he doesn't have letters from me saying all the embarrassing things you've put my body through."
See? You've won already! Also? I'm already earmarking extra therapy money to make up for these extra seven newsletters. I'm a good mom like that.
It might seem strange to write about someone I've never met. Although, I've already decided that you? You're going to be my trouble maker. I know it in every cell of my body.
Your brother is for the most part laid back. He was a fairly easy baby, except for that non-sleeping thing, which at the time made him seem like the devil reincarnate to me, but I can look back objectively now and see that really, he was a pretty great baby and that he's a pretty damn easy toddler, as his time in time alone is proportionately as small as the time I've spent wishing I was drunk in order to make it through the toddler years.
But you? I have this nagging feeling that you're not going to be so easy.
I thought you would be, until this week.
My pregnancy with your brother was the easiest thing ever. Sure, I was tired those first few months, and your father can show you the scars where I savagely attacked him that one time he got between me and a container of sour cream, but other than that, I was just my normal happy healthy self. No morning sickness, no issues whatsoever, life was grand and I swore that if I could, I'd spend the rest of my life pregnant.
The first couple of weeks with you were the same way.
And then this week, I had to pick up your brother from school early. I figured I'd do some work from home, but by the time I made it home, I was so nauseous and exhausted that I crawled into my bed with him and threw the remote and a bunch of candy at him and told him to entertain himself.
I came to an hour later and had to run to the bathroom to hurl every item of food I'd eaten for the past three years.
All this time, as I'm struggling to breathe in between waves of vomit, your brother is yelling at me from the bed "Mama, are you going potty?"
I tell you that you're going to be trouble, because you made me throw up the most glorious lunch of my favorite 10-dollar hamburger, from the custom burger joint. My burger, designed by me has goat cheese spread on it, avocado, black bean and corn salsa, fried onion strings and tomatoes on it, with garlic aioli sauce. What is not to love, you half-inch long ingrate?
Since I can't put you in time alone yet, I'm totally taking that 10 bucks out of your allowance.
Don't tell your dad, but I've already got your name picked out. I used to think you were a boy, when you were first behaving like your brother. Now? I'm thinking you're a girl, the kind of girl who won't take any shit and will beat up her big brother just because he looked at her funny.
The kind of girl that I've always wanted to be and sometimes pretend I am.
In the end, it doesn't matter to me what you are or what your quirks are, as long as you learn to appreciate the art that is my favorite 10-dollar burger.
And that you are healthy, of course.
I have yearned for you for what seems like a long time. I never imagined that there would be a three-year gap between you and your brother.
Maybe I'd taken things for granted and this is the universe's way to remind me that I can't always get my way. Either way, I'm humbled that you've decided to come into my life.
When I lay on my death bed (at 99), one of my favorite memories ever will be the day I found out I was pregnant with you. It was the kind of moment that shakes you to your core and makes you believe in fate and in something bigger than you are.
In some ways, I guess that's what every parent wants for their child: to be bigger than them are and to make an impact on this sometimes tough world.
Welcome to our life, kid. I can't promise you perfection. But I can promise you that you will be loved as much as your brother and cheered on as much as he is and I will fill as many memory cards with your face as you let me.
Thank you for choosing me to be your Maman.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
We got a crazy amount of rain yesterday in Dallas, so that there was flash flooding a little all over town. This isn't exactly something unusual, to Dallas, massive rain storms is like snow storms to the Northern States and Canada, it's just a part of life. You would think that with the fact that the roads get drowned in rain a couple of times a year,that people would learn and you wouldn't see footage on the local news of morons in large SUV's who thought they could make it through the flooded streets, but apparently morons don't watch the news and therefore cannot learn from the mistakes of other morons that have come before them.
Last night, Sweetie Pie and I are in bed watching the 10 p.m. news and they break in with an excitable reporter who is on the scene of the most dramatic water rescue ever. I would have made a good reporter, I think, because I tend to speak in hyperboles like that too.
The reporter goes on to explain that there is an SUV stuck in the water, and the couple has been sitting on the roof, after escaping through their sun roof for more than two hours now and that the rescue crews are still working at not mocking them long enough to actually rescue them.
The reporter then goes on to explain that the SUV went around a barrier that was put in place so that people wouldn't go on the flooded road.
I turn to Sweetie Pie and say "Hundred bucks says the man was driving. Only a man would be stupid enough to go around a safety barrier."
Sweetie Pie ponders this for a split second and says "Of course he was driving. But the reason that he drove around the barrier in the first place is his wife wouldn't stop bitching at him and he figured the risk was worth it if it meant getting home two minutes earlier so that he can get away from her bitching."
Which of course is totally what happened. Of course the wife is to blame, that her incessant nagging is what drove this man to disobey the obvious and drive through standing water about two feet high. But as I pointed out to Sweetie Pie, was the risk really worth it in the end? Since he had to be stranded on the roof of the SUV for two hours with her as she told him over and over what a moron he is and how she would never have driven around the barrier and how she told him how many times before not to drive around those barriers and how her ex-boyfriend would never have driven around the barrier if she'd married him instead.
And I agree with her 100 percent.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Little Man likes to hold things. For example, on Saturday, he found a dead leaf in our garage and proceeded to clutch it like a priceless treasure all the way to Stride Rite.
Everyone was quiet in the car when Little Man suddenly shouted "I LOVE AUNT S.!"
Sweetie Pie and I looked at each other and smiled. "That's very sweet, Little Man."
A few moments later "I LOVE UNCLE M.!"
"Well, they'll both love to hear you say that."
"I LOVE MY LEAF!"
"Well, surely Aunt S. and Uncle M. will be glad to know they rate as high as your dead leaf."
The next day, Little Man once again proclaimed his love for his aunt and uncle to us. This time though, it was followed by "I LOVE TO EAT ICE CREAM!"
Ice cream and chocolate totally rate up there with the people I love too. This is what them smart kids call genetics.
Friday, March 14, 2008
So the other day, when I was at the doctor's office, my doctor handed me this big Enfamil bag filled with magazines, brochures, a book and more samples of prenatal vitamins and other stuff than I could ever dream of.
I was excited because one, I'm a whore for free stuff (although, not in an Elliot Spitzer kind of way) and two, well, there is no two now that I think about it. I just like free stuff, the end.
That bag brought back the most vivid flashback of my first pregnancy, at my first appointment at the birthing center. There, I didn't get all sorts of free samples, which if I'd known what I was missing out on, I would have reconsidered my birthing strategy.
We did, however, get a plastic baby, that was supposedly exactly the same size as our 12-week along baby.
I was so excited to have that little plastic baby. I put it in my purse and showed it to all of the family.
A few days later, I went outside, and there, sitting in the grass in the backyard, was the plastic baby, with his skull chewed open.
I flipped out, because what kind of mother leaves her baby sitting around, so that her dogs get a hold of it and they eat it and suck out its brain?
I cried to Sweetie Pie that I couldn't do this, I was obviously not cut out to be a mother and what if our dogs really did eat the baby? How would we live with ourselves?
Of course, everything worked out fine. Our dogs, both the ones at the time and our current ones have shown that they are only interested in chewing up fake babies, not real ones. But I'd completely forgotten about that plastic baby until my appointment.
As I grabbed my bag of goodies from my doctor, I giggled at the memory and, of course, since I'm an over-sharer in real life as I am online, I had to tell her the horrific story of that poor plastic baby.
I knew I'd picked the right doctor when she laughed as hard as I did.
I actually posted about that story a few months after Little Man was born. But the post had zero comments, so I figure, it's new for all of you suckers who've somehow gotten into the bad habit of not only reading me, but of commenting too.
And can I say how much more fun it is to tell a story when people actually react to it?
Thursday, March 13, 2008
So I guess I’ll start at the beginning. Which would be the doctor’s appointment. Although, that’s not really the beginning of the story, as the beginning of the story would be that I woke up before the crack of dawn on Tuesday, showered, shaved everything there was to shave, got out of the shower only to realize that I’d managed to forget my right armpit, got back in the shower, shaved right armpit, and got ready.
I’d laid poor Little Man down in track pants and his National Canadian Hockey Team (the capital letters are there to show the respect that anything Canadian and hockey related deserves), so that in the morning I would only have to change his pull-up, put socks on him and throw him in his car seat before he had a chance to realize that all of this was happening at 6:20 a.m.
I managed to get him in his car seat with only a whimper (his, not mine) and when we backed away, his eyes had adjusted enough for him to say “Mama, it’s too dark, it’s too dark, Mama.”
You’re telling me kid.
After I backed out of the garage, it became apparent that I was in trouble. Because of daylight savings time, it was obviously pitch black outside. It was also so foggy, that I couldn’t even see the end of my truck. And I was now having to drive 17 miles in these conditions.
Somehow, miraculously, we pulled up to Little Man’s school at 7:02 a.m., only two minutes behind schedule, but with plenty of time for me to still get to the doctor’s on time, just five minutes away.
Except for one caveat: Little Man’s school, which normally opens at 7 a.m. (or so I hear, we’ve never come that early before) was closed because no one had managed to fight their way through the fog yet.
So we waited and just when I was getting ready to give up and take Little Man to my appointment with me, the principal of the school showed up, I threw my child at her and ran for my life.
At the doctor's appointment, I had hands, that metal contraption from the Middle Ages and an ultrasound wand stuck up my vijayjay.
I should clarify they were not in there at the same time.
What better way to wake up than with that much action first thing in the morning?
The weigh in was terrible, as I realized that I'm starting out this pregnancy 20 pounds heavier than with Little Man.
My doctor warned me that we probably wouldn't be able to see the heartbeat on the monitor, since I'm only six weeks along, and that I shouldn't panic if we don't see her. I promised not to panic, a promise that is easy to make when the person asking you to make it is looking right at your cervix and your feet are up in the air.
The sonogram revealed that my uterus is like this giant abyss, with a tiny little egg sac in it. Even better though, we saw the heartbeat. To say I'm relieved goes without saying.
I get to go back to the doctor's every two weeks until I feel the baby kick, which means that I might as well move into my doctor's office, really.
Otherwise, my trip went well. I snored the whole way there and the whole way back on the plane, which is shocking, because I don't even sleep on red eye flights normally.
I came home last night with some presents for Little Man purchased at the airport from the Disney Store.
When I told him I had a suprise for him, he lit up and said "A prize? I love prizes!"
I didn't bother correcting him, because really, what's the difference?
The first present I pulled out was a Nemo stuffed animal. Considering the Finding Nemo DVD in our house has been played so many times that the last time I was asked to put it on, it bitch slapped me and threw itself into our fireplace to be put out of its misery, I figured Little Man would be so excited to have his own Nemo to add to his sleeping harem.
But my son took one look at that fish and said "Oh. I don't want it."
Luckily, I'd gone nuts and also gotten a four-pack of plastic Mickey character cups and Little Man deemed this present to be worthy of him and carried those four cups, still in their base around everywhere with him that night.
Next time, I might just buy myself some chocolate.
Monday, March 10, 2008
On Friday, we got what is considered in Texas to be a ton of snow. I say this, because in Canada, we'd have thought the Storm of 2008 to simply be a coked up Amy Winehouse sneeze.
I watched the news carefully on Friday morning to see if Little Man's school was closed, unaware that the principal had sent an email the night before announcing that they'd open at 10 a.m., and when I saw nothing, I figured we'd leave half an hour later and be good to go.
So we show up at 8:30 a.m. and of course, the place is deserted. As I ponder what the hell is going on, a loud gasp comes from the back seat and Little Man exclaims "Oh my goodness! Little Man's school is broken!"
My boobies have been very sensitive these past few weeks, to the point where if you even look in their direction, it feels like you've punched me repeatedly with hands made of bricks.
The other night, I was having a tickling match with Little Man and he started shouting "Watch out Mama! Watch out for my boobies!"
Apparently I've been telling him so much to be careful with mine lately, that he figured he should start being concerned with his too.
My mother-in-law is having to watch Little Man overnight tomorrow, since both Sweetie Pie and I will be out of town on business. I can't wait until he tells her about his boobies. Because I'm fun like that
This morning, it became obvious that I have to quit my job and move across the country. No, I take that back, I need to move halfway around the world.
I arrived as I usually do on Monday mornings, overloaded to look like I am homeless and am moving into my cubicle full time. I was carrying the following:
- My laptop case, which is the size of a crouched-down angry teenager
- My fake Louis Vuitton purse, which is larger than my head and boobs combined
- My lunch bag, which consists of one of my re-usable grocery bags, filled to the rim with bottles of water, lunch, snacks and enough food to feed a small country.
With my hands very full, I got to our door and scanned my security badge. I began to attempt to open the door, which is very heavy and closes automatically for security sake, making it impossible to open it and walk through it. But hey, at least it's secure.
I put down my lap top case, which has an extendable handle that reaches about booty level, to better be able to open the door, pry it open with my foot and try to wriggle all of my loot inside.
An older gentleman arrived behind me and decided to help me by holding the door open for me. I reached back to grab my lap top bag as I was thanking him.
And promptly grabbed his crotch.
Because dude was standing right behind my laptop bag.
I did what any normal person would do. I fled for my life inside the building, hoping to never cross paths with the man again.
Tomorrow morning is D-Day, doctor day, also known as exploring Catwoman's Coochie with cold metal instruments day.
I will literally be racing from my appointment to the airport to catch a flight to Orlando, because this is my life. Actually, it's not, this is just a really weird work period for me.
So I won't be posting tomorrow until I get to Orlando. Since someone's decided to schedule a meeting for me almost after I land, so that I can feel special, important and loved, it might not be until tomorrow evening that I post.
But post I will, of all the gory details, including my attempts to not fart in my new doctor's face.
Friday, March 07, 2008
So except for this blog's readers, my immediate family, four coworkers and my best friend, no one knows I'm pregnant.
I think some people might read that sentence and think "how weird she'd tell hundreds of strangers around the world before most of her friends," but I think you should change your outlook and think "wow, as one of her readers, I'm as important as family or her best friend, I need to send Catwoman lots of chocolate and Paul Walker naked."
The other day, I get the following two emails from one of my really good friends in Canada.
The first one read the following:
"Subject: Your dad is on TV
your dad is on tv! Whoo-hoo!"
This isn't too surprising, because my dad is one of those lovable people with a great PR firm, so he's on television or in the newspapers (in Canada anyway) at least a few times a year.
But it's always nice to hear from a friend and it's always fun when one of my friends spots my dad on television.
The second email read this:
"Subject: ok who's pregnant
apparently there's another grandkid on the way....
so who is it......
tell me tell me tell me"
Apparently? My dad? He went on national television in Canada and mentioned that he's got another grandchild on the way. All of Canada was told that I'm pregnant (although my friend wasn't sure if it was me or my sister) by my father on national television. Isn't this so Britney Spears of me? That my friends find out from the media that I'm with child.
This totally made me giggle and I feel like emailing Britney and telling her "OMG, it's like so awkward when your friends find out personal things about you from the news! You want to like go Mercedes shopping in our wedding dresses together?"
Oh, wait. I don't fit in my wedding dress anymore. Oh well, I'll just borrow one from Brit.
The funny thing is? My mother called me last week to tell me my 87-year old widowed grandfather, who lives in France, is very depressed. So I told her I'd call him and tell him I'm pregnant to give him something to look forward to this fall. My mother, was all like "I don't know, what if he tells people and something happens?"
And I'm all like "uhm... They live in France. Not like I'll be walking down the street in Texas and they'll hurt my feelings."
So my mother finally agreed to let me tell my grandfather.
A few days later? My dad, the normal one in the family, the one whose genes I like to think I inherited, excitedly tells an entire country.
I don't think I've posted much about my dad on this blog. Only because he's normal, I guess, so it doesn't make for great blog fodder. But for the record? I love the man and he puts a big smile on my face.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Two examples of how a toddler can make the expression "hot" way funnier than Paris Hilton ever could.
The other day, I made Mexican rice and accidentally used hot Rotel (tomatoes and chili peppers for those outside of the South) instead of the mild kind. Little Man digs into his rice, and his eyes bulge out and he say "Oh my gosh Mama! I'm so hot! My mouth is so hot! It hurts my mouth!"
It's hard to demonstrate compassion for someone when you're laughing so hard, you're practically falling off the chair.
This morning, Little Man comes into the bedroom as I'm getting ready and he's holding Sweetie Pie's chapstick. I ask Little Man if he'd like to put some on, not realizing that it's medicated chapstick.
As the tingling sensation starts, Little Man goes "Oh Mama! I'm so hot! I'm so hot!" as he pursed out his lips.
At first, not knowing that the chapstick is medicated, I thought Little Man had been watching American Idol too much. It was only as I was putting the chapstick away that I realized that in fact, Little Man's lips were being singed away.
Sorry I haven't been as good about blogging or visiting during the past week. I'm completely slammed with a huge project around an event in Orlando that is happening next week and I'm literally waking up at night from the stress of this, which is seriously undercutting my time to blog.
But to those of you worrying, I'm still pregnant, things are good, my hormones have for the most part calmed down and my pooping is fantastically regular.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Last week, I was snuggling with you, all scrunched up in your little toddler breath, your breath the only sound in your darkened room. Suddenly, your hand reached out in the dark and you began caressing my hand while whispering "my mommy." I smiled so hard that my face hurt afterwards, and I know I've said this before, but you constantly manage to teach me that I continue to love you even more every day.
You've become quite the snuggle bug during this last month. You'll make me hold you for a few minutes in the morning, chest to chest, you kneeling on my lap, your head in my neck and that thick head of hair of yours tickling my cheek. If I'm in a rush and try to break the embrace before you're ready, you start to cry, this heartbreaking moan coming out of your lips like you've just been hurt to your core. And so I snuggle.
I snuggle because you're warm and you smell of lavender and sweetness and hope. I snuggle because during those minutes, the world becomes this amazing place filled with light and silence and wonderment. I snuggle because I know that soon enough, you'll be too big to snuggle with me and I'll cry as I remember those snuggly moments.
You've decided that children's television is for the most part beneath you. I say for the most part, because you still have a crush on that unblinking freak, Dora, and you happily watched two episodes of Dora in a row on Saturday, while doing your little white man dance anytime any of the badly drawn characters broke into song.
You've also decided that you are way too old for your mother to be cutting your food. I'm not sure if this is from school, as you are now in a class with older kids, who might be trusted with a sharp plastic disposable knife, which I'm sure could cut a piece of paper if you sawed at it for 20 minutes.
I have to give you all of your food uncut and give you a plastic knife. You usually try to cut with the serrated side up, and yet you still refuse my help. Because of this, your table manners have gone from almost decent to completely atrocious, but we have dogs, so I've accepted the fact that they can supplement their diet with hormone-free, antibiotic-free chicken with organic corn and my floor can pass as almost clean.
I discovered today that you live a double life. This is very strange to me, because I've always felt like if there's one person I know everything about, it's you. For the past few weeks, your backpack filled with eight pull-ups in the morning has come home with eight pull-ups at night. I was confused by this, because at your old school, where they supposedly changed you every hour, you'd begun developing really, really bad diaper rash, something you'd never have before. But at this new school, where I provide the diapers and where you've had a rash-free bum for four weeks now, our Pull-Up stash seemed to go unused.
This morning, I accidentally forgot your backpack and in a panic, I told your teacher I could run to Walmart to get some. She laughed and said "oh, he's got more Pull-Ups than he knows what to do with! Little Man goes in the toilet almost every time now."
I froze, confused and thinking she must be talking about someone else. Because at home? You'll sit on the potty for 20 minutes, happily coloring, but nothing ever comes out. I asked her to clarify that you were going in the potty and not just sitting on the potty and she laughed again and said "oh yes, he'll sit there, sing to himself and then call for us when he's done to help him." Which I don't understand this. So, you're potty trained? When did this happen? And why haven't you told us? Did you think it would hurt our feelings, like we enjoy wiping the smooshed up poop from your glutteus maximus? Because newsflash, when your dad and I are playing rock, paper, scissors to decide who has to go up there to change you, it's not because we're fighting over the nuclear waste you produce.
I wonder if you also know other things that you're not telling us. Like, maybe, just maybe, you can also read and write, but you figure that we'll worry about our job security and so you continue to shove book after book at us saying "You read it." Or maybe you can perform open heart surgery and you'll finally admit to this skill when we really need you to.
All I know is that you're now six months away from your third birthday. In just under eight months, your whole life will change. A little brother or sister will shatter your world. He/she will play with all your old toys, steal some of your snuggle time, drool all over your favorite puzzles. When I used to ask you if you wanted a baby, you used to shake your head and state firmly "no." As in, that's the worst idea you've ever had, please don't ever bring it up again.
A few days after I found out I was pregnant, I asked you again and you thought about it for a second and said "ok Mama, let's have baby today." On Saturday, I bought a baby swing at a consignment sale and you were fascinated by it "what's that, Mama?" I explained to you that it was a swing, for the baby.
The dog tried to approach the swing to snif it and you freaked out on him, yelling at him that it was for the baby and that he was never to even think of sniffing it again. I grinned and felt envious of your sibling. Because he/she will have the bestest big brother anyone could ever ask for.