Yesterday, I went to visit my father-in-law in the hospital with Little Man and my disloyal son decided that he wanted to ride with his dad on the way home, because apparently the moth infestation of my Jeep Liberty is not as fun to him as it once was.
Since I was by myself on the way home, with no toddler talking to me endlessly about pointer fingers and pinkies and thumbs and which one fits best up one's nose, I decided to be productive and call our insurance company to sign up for their maternity program.
Normally, I would never bother to do this, because after all, I've been pregnant once before and since I'm a research fanatic, I read everything baby related during pregnancy number one, to the point that I can still recite certain parts of What to Expect When You're Expecting.
But by signing up for the program, I get 250 dollars in my health fund from the company for free, which will help pay for one breakfast and lunch during my hospital stay when I have this baby.
I was in a cheerful mood, as I usually am and since the girl on the phone was pleasant, I went into maniacal performing Catwoman, the one who people either find hysterical or call the cops on.
For the record? This woman? Who was probably talking to me from a grey 5x2 cubicle loved me.
Some moments from our conversation:
Lady: "Is this your first pregnancy?
CW: No, it's my second. We're just not bright enough to figure out what causes this to happen.
L: What happened during your first pregnancy?
CW: Well, my husband got fresh with me, and next thing I knew, I was peeing all the time and gaining weight. 39 weeks later, I had a baby boy.
L: How much do you weigh?
CW: In my head, before this pregnancy or now?
L: Before this pregnancy.
CW: I tell her my weight. And I'm honest about it. Luckily, she doesn't think I'm joking here and therefore, she doesn't laugh.
L: How tall are you?
CW: 10 feet tall.
L: Well then, you're highly underweight, we'll have to hospitalize you right away.
CW: OK, I'm 5'3 and a half. Be sure to put the half inch in there, because it makes me seem less fat that way.
L: Are feeling depressed or upset about anything with this pregnancy?
CW: Yeah, all of my shorts from my first pregnancy are giving me a camel toe.
L: Has your spouse ever attacked you emotionally or physically since you've been pregnant?
CW: No. But if you ask me if he's ever been attacked, well then, the answer is quite different.
L: Well, I'm sure he deserved it, you are pregnant, after all.
CW: He did. Did you know there's a rule allowing pregnant women to throw large objects at their husband's head in most countries? Because there is. The US is way behind on this.
L: Is there a best time for our nurses to call you for phone check-ups during the pregnancy?
CW: Any time but lunch. I'm pregnant. If anyone dares to interrup my lunch, I'll be forced to throw something heavy at their head too."
I'm thinking that my file in the system now has the words COMPLETELY INSANE, HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE AND TRANQUILIZE WHEN APPROACHING.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Yesterday, I went to visit my father-in-law in the hospital with Little Man and my disloyal son decided that he wanted to ride with his dad on the way home, because apparently the moth infestation of my Jeep Liberty is not as fun to him as it once was.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Last night, I'm frantically trying to get dinner ready, while Little Man is rummaging through the pantry. He finds Sweetie Pie's box of mini powdered donuts and declares: "I want to have donuts for dinner.
CW: - Uhm... No. I'm making dinner right now, so you just have to wait. The answer is no.
LM: - How about you say yes?"
Which I'm totally using next time I get into an argument with someone. Because really, for a split second there, I actually thought of letting my son have powdered donuts for dinner, just for telling me that maybe I just had a bad attitude.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Little Man is watching Dora the Explorer this morning. As I'm getting him dressed Dora says "We need to go to the nutfarm!"
Seriously? If you give me material like that Dora, you make my life too easy. I will begin to knit you a straight jacket with a humongous neck so that your freakishly large head may fit through it.
And for the record, Dora, I know all of those badly drawn characters told you this morning that you're going to be a great big sister, but for the record I have already called CPS to have those babies removed from your home. Because anyone who wears pink and orange and tells their boot-wearing monkey that he'll be the babies' big brother and who has an obvious staring problem should not be left alone with infants.
Friday, April 25, 2008
I've always been a nature lover. I'm from Canada after all. And when I say "nature lover",I'm saying I like trees in my backyard and squirrels I can give peanuts too. I'm not saying I like to sleep on the ground where there are snakes waiting to eat me or interested in having mosquitoes devour me alive while I'm squatting over a hole in the woods trying to poop.
I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.
In Canada? I had no problems with most bugs. The spiders were little and friendly and couldn't poison me to death. They also shaved their legs, which made them seem less threatening, unlike the spiders here in Texas, who have hairier legs than Borat's mustache. When I first moved to Texas, for the first time in my life, I could understand how people could be afraid of spiders.
The spiders here? They are frightening. And really smart. As in if you hold a shoe in your hand, even across the room, they will spot you and they will run behind furniture and then they will leap at you as you approach so that they can test the strength of your heart or something.
Therefore, my strategy towards spiders has gone from being in Toronto, catching a spider, walking down for four floors and releasing it into the wilderness that is Uptown Toronto, to North Texas, where my strategy is now to scream like a little girl and kill it viciously and then call Sweetie Pie sobbing demanding that he remove the giant corpse from my view.
I'm sure somewhere Gloria Steinem is weeping at my reverting to the ways of women in the 50's. But Gloria's never lived in Texas and would surely consider this strategy to be very smart feminism.
Last night, Little Man and I had just finished a dinner of French wheat pasta called Ebly, because we're fancy like that and were settling down to watch the Top Chef episode I'd missed while in Hawaii, which Little Man calls "Mama's Cooking Show", which I personally find to be very flattering, considering my cooking these days consists of Kraft macaroni and cheese once a week.
Little Man suddenly says as I'm refilling my glass of water "look Mama! A spider!" This is not unusual around here, because Little Man sees spiders everywhere. All bugs (except for lady bugs) are spiders. Flies, grasshoppers, dog hair, all of these are called spiders.
But this time, Little Man was right and under my coffee table, there on my clean carpet was this vile creature about the size of a small cat, plotting my death.
I refrained from screaming, because I don't want Little Man to know that this poisonous beast will kill us all and that he'll never get to see Dora again.
So I casually go get a paper towel and tell Little Man to say goodbye to the spider.
He shrieks "No! Mama, it's my spider."
Oh is it now. Fine. We'll play this game.
The spider takes advantage of this situation and begins to scurry towards our TV cabinet so that it can multiply and have thousands of babies that will crawl out of the shower drain and eat me while I'm naked, so that the CSI guys can laugh at the largeness of my gut and the fact that I actually have cellulite near my belly button.
I cut off its path and direct it towards Little Man. "Little Man," I say. "If you want to touch the spider,then do so, but it has to go outside."
He decides that no, he does not want to touch it. I mean, hell, the kid rarely even wants to touch the cat, why in the world would he want to touch something that looks like it fell off of Lindsay Lohan's genitalia?
I explain to him that the spider has to go, but he keeps yelling at me to not hurt his spider! That the spider wants to live in his flower outside.
So, I had to gingerly pick up this spider with a paper towel, pray that it doesn't attack me and then carry it outside so that it could strategize how to get back into my house and crawl into my mouth while I'm asleep.
But I did it.
And there was no screaming.
But I'm pretty sure the experience shaved two years off of my life.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Here are the places I've lost my cookies the past couple of days:
- The parking lot at work
- Little Man's school's bathroom
- The trashcan in my cube
None of these places are places that I would normally consider appropriate to throw up in.
This morning, I figured that since my all-carb strategy and my all-protein strategy had both failed miserably, I would try an all-saltines strategy.
So I sat in front of the Today Show this morning and ate half a sleeve of Saltine crackers. Once all the moisture had been removed from my mouth, I decided this project was a success. Half an hour later, I dared to eat six strawberries.
And guess what? This morning? There has been no violent nausea that has decided to remove the content of my intestines via my esophagus.
I was starving half an hour ago, so I went downstairs to our cafeteria and got me a smoothie made with soy milk, peaches, mangos, strawberries, low-fat yogurt and a shot of protein powder. And can I tell you, yummy...
Who knows, maybe this nausea will actually help slow down my very alarming growth spurt. Because since my first appointment on week six, I am now exactly 10 pounds heavier as of yesterday, yikes! Should I continue this, I could gain an additional 40 or so pounds.
For some reason, it seems every other commercial on TV these days is Valerie Bertinelli looking really hot in a surfer girl outfit and grinning at me asking me if I've called Jenny yet. I keep yelling at her to leave me alone, that I will be calling her on January 1st 2009, dammit, but right now, I'm growing another human being, and if Doritos helps me do that, then Doritos it is.
On another note, Little Man got invited to his first birthday party at his new school. Since I don't know any of the kids in his class, because drop off happens at the gym rather than in the individual classrooms and Little Man refuses to acknowledge that he has any friends, because this would let us know that he is human, I looked at the invitation and I said to him "You're invited to Wyatt's birthday party, is Wyatt your friend?" Simply because I figured if Wyatt was Little Man's sworn enemy, I wasn't going to spend money on a present or my energy on a Saturday morning interacting with adults I don't know.
But all Little Man heard was "Blah blah birthday party blah blah Wyatt blah blah."
To which he responded "CAKE!!!!! There's going to be CAKE!!!!! I love CAKE!!!!!"
Because this is how Little Man says cake. It's not cake. It's CAKE!!!!!, always followed by five exclamation points.
And I said "yes, there will be. But is Wyatt your friend."
Little Man said "Yes, Wyatt's my friend because there's going to be CAKE!!!!! and I love CAKE!!!!!"
I long for the days where I considered people to be my friends just because they had cake.
Oh, wait. That's me now. Anyone with chocolate, cake, fried foods, salty foods and anything that tastes good with guacamole on it is now considered to be my friend.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
So we're one-third of the way there, baby. And I've officially made it past the 12-week mark, the one that every pregnant woman feels like she can stop holding her breath completely, and yet not completely exhale until the actual birth is done.
I remember worrying most of my pregnancy with your big brother. First I worried about miscarrying. Then I worried about the baby staying in until the 25-week mark, which I knew was the earliest week it had a chance to survive, then I worried until week 30,which was the magical number with a 90 percent chance of survival. I'd like to say that I didn't worry those last nine weeks, but I'm sure that I did.
Somehow with you the worrying is worse. I guess when you feel you got lucky the first time, that you got a perfectly healthy baby, you worry more the second time, because you feel like you can't get as lucky the second time. So I guess, until the day they decide to forcibly remove you from my belly, I'll worry about you.
Can we talk about how much you're kicking my ass? I'm serious, child, I think I've thrown up more during the past month than I have in my entire university career. What is your deal? Why are you so angry with me? Is it because I tend to favor carbohydrates over any other food group?
This morning? Just the idea of brushing my teeth had me rush to the bathroom. And then, I dry heaved my way through the work parking lot, because I was thinking of this entry, and how I'd include in the entry that I threw up from thinking about brushing my teeth.
But you have also possessed me in other ways. The most shocking of all? Me, the hater of mayo, the one who uses just enough to wet the tuna in my tuna salad, well, I can no longer have French fries without dipping them in mayo. It's not an urge, it's a need that shakes me to my core, like my need for oxygen. I believe this makes you pretty powerful. With your brother, I loved to eat tortilla chips with sour cream, but the thing is that I'd always loved that combination, so nothing out of the ordinary there. But you, you have managed to take control of my taste buds, of my brain and of everything rational in me and turn me into a Dutch person. I'm telling you right now that I ain't switching my Steve Madden's for wooden shoes. This is where I draw the line kid.
During the past few days, I've started to feel you move. It's freaky to me that it's so early, but even more bizarre is just how much you move. Especially after meals, it's like you're doing a happy dance of whoo-hoo, calories! And I can't blame you. If it weren't for the fact that I work in a big office, I'd probably dance around too every time I ate.
Only two more month until we find out if you'll be wearing pink dresses every day or your brother's hand-me-downs. I still flip flop a lot about what you are. Yesterday, I was staring at your last sonogram picture and I thought your profile showed the face of a boy. But then, I remembered you wiggling like crazy during that sonogram and I figured you must be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader.
Either way, it doesn't matter. Just stay in there as long as you can, ok? Although I'm dying to meet you, I really don't intend for it to be until October. I swear, if you even try to come before October, you are so grounded, buster.
Monday, April 21, 2008
But only because I needed more money in order to go back to Hawaii some day and braid my hair and live off of coconut milk and crabs I catch using only my pinky finger.
In case you don't know this, Hawaii? It is very, very awesome. I strongly recommend it, unless you're one of those people who doesn't like turquoise blue waters and warm sand and sunshine and pina coladas. To which I tell you that I'm glad I'm not you.
Little Man spent the whole week not wearing shoes. He decided he hated sand in his sandals and used that as his reasoning for not wearing shoes. Even if we walked on the road, he'd claim that there was sand in his shoes and the horror of it was just too much for him to bear. He also decided that wearing shirts was the way for the man to keep him down, dude. His hair was a little long when we left, so he had the total surfer look down.
And now we're back. And I'll tell you that Texas? Doesn't look so sexy when you're coming back from Hawaii. Sweetie Pie and I plotted most of Thursday about how we could possibly figure out a way to move to Hawaii permanently. And Little Man is totally on board, because he said to me in the car on our way home from grocery shopping on Saturday "Mama, I want to go back to Hawaii-a." And all I could say was "don't we all."
Other reasons to love Hawaii? No morning sickness there. Although, I was permanently hungry and ate my way through the island, reminding the locals of the Jurassic Park shoot. I came home, realized that I hadn't emptied the fridge before leaving, took one look at a bottle of chai tea protein drink that had curdled and barely made my way to the toilet before throwing up my Cheeseburger in Paradise guacamole burger from last Monday.
So obviously, new baby isn't happy with being back in Texas either.
A rant by Catwoman at 4/21/2008 01:24:00 PM
Thursday, April 10, 2008
So I haven't been very good about posting this week. And I haven't been good about visiting.
It doesn't mean I don't love you and that I don't miss you. It's just that there's someone else. It's called work and it's kicking my ass, especially when we've had crazy storms all week at night that have kept me up. And the fact that I'm growing another human being, which is kind of tiring. So between all of these things, life has been kind of hectic.
But tomorrow? Tomorrow, everything will change.
No, it doesn't mean that I'll go back to daily posting (minus weekends). It means I won't be posting at all for the next eight days.
Because people, tomorrow morning, unless American Airlines decides to ground our flight (which if that should happen, there will be tears and blood shed, neither of which will be mine, and there will probably be handcuffs used, but not in the kinky way), we are off to Hawaii! For freaking 8 days!
My life is pretty freaking awesome.
There is the chance that I decide to live on a deserted island and live off of seaweed and coconuts and bathe in waterfalls and give birth next to a palm tree.
But I'm thinking the odds are that I will come back a little more relaxed, a little more tanned and a little fatter from many virgin pina coladas.
I wish you all a great week, and we'll see you on the other side.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
So I'm a very, very bad person.
I've talked before that Little Man is pretty easy to get along with, but I think one reason for that is that I pick my battles with him.
Like for example, he can't go to school wearing his overnight diaper and pajamas. But he can go to school wearing shorts with brown socks pulled up to his knees with his brown shoes, so that he looks like a very short 90-year old man.
He can't have coffee for breakfast. But he can drag a couple of toys from his toy box and leave them in my car, so that my Jeep Liberty now looks like a homeless child lives in the back seat.
But today? Today, AFF's son is having his birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese's. So this morning, I told Little Man that today was SD's birthday party. "birthday party? Can I go?" I then told him that there would be cake there. "Yucky cake?" he asked, because for the last few days, this has been his question to every food item I offer, like if I have been in the habit for the past 31 months to offer him disgusting items like moldy cheese or rotten bananas. I assured him that the cake would be really yummy.
He then decided that yes, this party would be fun and that he was willing to attend and eat the yummy cake.
Which is good, considering I RSVP'd weeks ago and we bought a gift and all.
But because I am evil incarnate, I decided to use the party for everything this morning.
So when Little Man told me he wanted to watch more Mickey Mouse Club House instead of leaving for school, I told him "but we have to go to school! So you can go to SD's party afterwards!"
The kid practically jumped in the SUV and buckled himself up.
Then, when I pulled out his sandals and he told me that he wanted to wear his brown shoes instead, I told him "Oh, but SD said you should wear your sandals to his birthday party."
Which Little Man quickly decided that well, if the birthday boy decided this, then he must obey.
There's a special place in hell for me, isn't there?
Also, what are the odds I can convince AFF to throw a birthday every two weeks for me to use as leverage? I'm thinking I could teach the kid to vaccuum with this kind of ammo.
Monday, April 07, 2008
A few highlights from my weekend:
Little Man keeps jumping on me on the couch and I keep trying to shield my expanding mid-section.
Sweetie Pie "You probably shouldn't let him jump on your gut like that."
Clarification for the two men who sometimes read my blog? Don't ever call your wife's pregnant belly a gut. Not if you have hopes of ever getting you some somethin' somethin' ever again.
I took Little Man to his ever Kids' Workshop at The Home Depot.
The Home Depot used to be a client of mine in an old life and I always knew that the second I had a kid who was old enough to attend, I'd attend every month with them. ALthough Little Man is probably still too young to really attend, I dragged him anyway, thinking he'd have a blast.
He was given a little orange apron with his name on it, which he promptly refused to wear.
This month's project was a wooden planter, and I had Little Man put in the nails in the pre-drilled holes for me. He happily did so, but when it came time to hammer the nails in, he told me "I hammer the table, you hammer the nails."
Well, as long as we each had our responsibility, right?
My planter? Is a little crooked. But it now sits, painted by Little Man on our front porch with two potted flowers in it. And it looks awesome if I say so myself. Nope, I don't have a picture to post of it.
Me to Sweetie Pie on Saturday night: "You need to go put Little Man to bed right now and hurry up, because I am H-O-R-N-Y like I have never been in my entire life."
The ambulance service had to be called to revive my husband who never thought that would ever happen to him in a million years.
This pregnancy? Might end up being more fun than the last one if my hormones decide to act up like this.
I went on a walk with Little Man and as we were walking, I spotted some ants. "Look Little Man! Some ants!" I squatted down and he did the same. Little Man stared silently at the ants going about their business for about five seconds and then said "No more ants, we have to walk now."
Should The Biggest Loser be looking for a new trainer, I know where they can find one.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Last night, Sweetie Pie and I were watching Moment of Truth. Admitting to watching Moment of Truth is a lot like admitting publicly that I have crabs, I know, but for the sake of this story, I'm willing to share with you this dirty secret.
For those of you who haven't watched Moment of Truth, it just might be the scummiest, yuckiest show on television. It makes Jerry Springer look like it was directed by Martin Scorsese. The concept is simple. People sit in a chair and are asked incredibly personal questions by a scummy host (formerly of Temptation Island, so he's made a career of nasty television) and if they're caught in a lie, they lose all of the money. How do we know they are telling the truth? Because before the show, they were asked 50 questions while strapped to a lie detector, and the producers picked the 21 juiciest questions to use on the show. Questions have ranged from things like "Do you hope that you don't end up looking like your mother?" to "Do you regret marrying your husband?" to "Have you ever stolen money from your job?" and of course, just to make things more fun, family members and friends are given front row to the person's interrogation so they can feel the humiliation that the contestant is obviously unable to feel.
These people admit their deepest darkest secrets for $500,000. I'm not sure if there's any amount of money that could make me admit in front of all of America that I was kind of slutty at some point (even though, I technically do it for free here, but my face isn't posted all over this blog and my readership is not in the millions), but maybe I just don't understand how $500,000 (really about $250,000 or $300,000 after taxes) could change my life. And boy golly am I glad I don't.
Last night was the season finale, and this supposedly Mormon woman admitted to doing things while her husband was out of town that he would be horrified about, that she's had men in the house while he's been gone, that she regrets marrying him, and much more.
Once again, Sweetie Pie and I watched, partly because there's nothing else on at this time, partly because I feel so disgusted when I'm done watching this show, that I'm reminded of how great my life really is.
Because this was the season finale (thank God!!!!), they did updates of previous contestants. One update totally made my night.
A man had previously appeared and brought his wife to sobbing multiple times when he admitted to having fantasies about one of her sisters, that he'd bumped uglies with one of his friends wives, that he didn't think his wife was the prettiest of all the women he'd dated and much, much more. The deep-voice announcer guy tells us that the man and his wife are still together, but that they are going through a period of healing and trying to work things out if they can. He then reminds us that the scummy man won $100,000 and tells us that the winning scummy man has decided to use part of his earnings to buy his wife breast implants.
Yes, nothing says "I forgive you" like giant new perky boobies.
I know that if my husband admitted really, really horrible things to me, the fastest way to get back into my good graces is new knockers.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
I hope I've said this to you before, but in case I haven't recently, I am so very, very lucky to have you. You, my child, might be the easiest toddler in the world. I'm not going to pretend you're perfect, I refuse to be that mom. You have your flaws, but for the most part, they are charming and endearing and make you seem just a little more human.
But for the most part, when I take you anywhere and we cross paths with the stereotypical toddler, the one whose head is spinning around 360 degrees while their parents throw candy at them, the kind that scared me childless through my entire twenties, I hug you a little tighter and thank you for being you.
We take you everywhere. We really always have, but we always expected that at some point, this would end as you would not be interested at staying seated at the restaurant or in the shopping cart at the grocery store. But you take great pleasure in adult activities, being the typical first born, and your serious nature makes you more mature than I am most day. The other day, you and I ran into a restaurant for a quick bite to eat after I had dragged you through many errands. You decided on the child's pizza and as we sat there, talking about important world issues like whether Swiper was born to steal or if his Mama just didn't love him enough, one of the employees came by and told me that you were the best behaved toddler he had ever seen. To a mom, this is like hearing your child won the Nobel Peace Prize and baked you a dozen chocolate chip cookies. And lucky me, it is something that I hear regularly when I'm out with you.
You continue to make me laugh extremely hard. One morning, I asked you what you wanted for breakfast and you said "I want some coffee." Without blinking, I responded "you're two years old, you can't have coffee." You looked at me again, sighed and said "ok. How about some milk then?"
You also like to purposely tell me things that are incorrect, so that I repeat it in the form of a question so that you can then correct me. You take great pleasure in correcting me, a trait obviously inherited from your father. For example, on a day where it's 80-something degrees outside and the humidity is somewhere around the drowning level, you'll say to me "it's cold outside!" and I'll respond "really? It's cold outside?" to which you look at me like I'm crazy and say "no, Mama, it's not cold outside, it's very hot outside, like what is wrong with you woman, do you not see that we're both coated in sweat? I think that you'll make a wonderful mid-level manager some day.
You take your school work extremely seriously. On most days, your daily report at school lets us know that you ate everything and you took a good nap and that you were active and chatty and used good manners. And every single day, next to the words "played while working," is circled the word no. Because work is work. There is a time for playing, dammit, and there is a time for playing. And rarely will the two mix in your world. At school, you have the option to work on a desk or to roll out a mat and work on the floor. This has resulted in you stealing my placemats at home and letting me know that "I do my work now." During this time, you'll get mad at me if I try to distract you or if things like say my breathing are too loud and you can't get the freaking puzzle done, because these puzzles aren't going to get themselves done, you know.
But when you do play, you are all play. And your favorite game to play is what I call your homeless man routine. This is where you'll take your very large push dump truck, and put as many toys and odd things that you accumulate like my tea towels, wrappers or empty containers and you'll pile them all in the truck and then push it around the house. Throughout the house, at locations like the coffee table, you will come to a stop, take out every single one of your treasures, admire them on the table and then replace them in the truck once again, only to push them to the next logical stop in the house. You can do this for what seems like hours and it's a routine that always fascinates me, because I can't figure out if you're preparing for a nuclear holocaust and trying to gauge how many things you would take with you in an emergency.
We've told you that you're going to have a baby brother or sister in a few months, not that you really understand the concept as you were recently asked where the baby was, to which you responded "in Little Man's belly button." Yesterday, when Daddy asked you if the baby was in my belly, you came to me and lifted my shirt way up over my head. Which you might as well learn this lesson now, but most women? Don't appreciate guys who come up to them and lift up their shirts. It's one of our many womenly quirks, I know.
I was looking at a picture of you from last Easter the other day and it took my breath away to see how much you've changed during the past year. Gone is the face of my little baby. The one who'd spit up on me and then crinkle his nose at me like "eww, Mama, you smell like sour milk," and in its place is the face of a boy, a boy who is smart and witty and funny and inquisitive and talkative and all of the things that I never imagined a boy could be like when I found out I was pregnant with you. With the return of American Idol this past month, I've been able to spend lazy Tuesday nights with you, snuggling on the couch, your hair tickling my lips, your sweet smell intoxicating me and taking me to a level of calmness I'm not sure I knew before I became a mom. As you listen to each song, the good performances end with you cheering and clapping, which always makes me smile. During these times, I'll ask you "do you like that song?" and you'll smile at me and say "yes, Mama, I love that song.
I never knew watching American Idol could be this much fun. In fact, I never knew anything could be as much fun as it is when I experience it with you. This past weekend, I took you to your first movie, Horton Hears a Who. You had seen a preview a couple of weeks before during American Idol, and you asked if we could go see "the elephant movie." Your dad was out of town last weekend, so after your nap, off you and I went to the theater. Once we have purchased popcorn and juice, we went to grab seats. You were so tiny in that big seat, that it wouldn't even stay folded out. The whole movie, you kept saying "Oh my gosh!" like you couldn't believe the insanity of this movie, and when I'd laugh during a scene, you'd laugh with me, like we were the only two people in the theaters, sharing an inside joke. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed going to the movies so much.
I love you my Little Man,