Friday, May 30, 2008

Potty Humor

Little Man had to pee for approximately the 1,500th time of the day. You don't realize how small a kid's bladder is until you remove their diaper and make them tell you every time a drop of pee forms in their bladder.

Since I'm pregnant and usually need to go, as soon as Little Man got off the toilet, I decided that I would go as well. I have probably peed dozens of times in front of Little Man during his life, in my feeble attempts to convince him that all the cool people don't pee themselves.

But this time, he actually took interest in my going. And he said to me "Mama, are you holding your pen!s down?"

And here we go...

"Actually, Little Man, Mamas don't have pen!ses. Only boys like Little Man and Daddy do."

This confuses Little Man. He comes closer and peers down, to see why I'm refusing to hold mine down, when I make him do it.

"Whoah!," he says as he looks down. "Mama not have a pen!s? Mama has hair on her poo poo?"

It was kind of hard to teach him anything after that, because I was too busy trying not to fall off the toilet in the midst of my laughter.



Thursday, May 29, 2008

Dem Kids Don't Know Notting About Notting

Last night, I'm driving home with Little Man when Kid Rock's 'Bawitdaba' comes on the radio. This is the kind of music my early 20's were made of. I have a very vivid memory of sitting in one of my closest friend's tiny one-room apartment, drinking cheap alcohol while we played this song three times.

So I blast it. Because Little Man must learn what real music is. And I decide that I'm going to teach him how to headbang. Because this is the next skill a child should be taught after potty training. There is a very strict order to childhood milestones as outlined in every baby training manual, and I don't intend to be the first mother to break them. The are latching (uhm, failed that one, moving on), sleeping through the night (ok, that one took longer than the next milestone), rolling over, crawling, walking, talking, screeching for no reason, throwing oneself on floor because popsicle melted in Texas heat, potty training, headbanging.

See? That's the order. I had to do it.

And so as I'm driving down the road, going approximately 55 miles per hour, I'm multitasking by showing Little Man how to headbang to the only decent Kid Rock song ever made.

This is the part where I wish I really was a true multitasker, because if I were, I would have been able to drive, headbang and take a picture of the look on Little Man's face.

Because at first, he glanced over at me with boredom. That look quickly changed to one of mild interest, then confusion, then concern and then he broke into hysterical laughter.

The kid freaking laughed at me so hard, I'm surprised he didn't have an accident or split his spleen open.

I gave up. This is one milestone he is obviously not brilliant enough to ever accomplish.

His loss when his friends drag him 15 years from now to a Metallica reunion concert.



Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Monthly Letter: Special Edition -- Potty Training

Dear Little Man,

For the past 32 months now, I've written you a letter once a month. But a momentous moment has happened this weekend, one that I think requires its own letter. This weekend, you officially joined the ranks of us underwear-wearing folks.

This is a moment, that I have to admit, I didn't think would ever come, because you might as well learn this right now, I tend to obsess over every little last thing and think that if I can't control it, it's never going to happen.

But the fact that we have another baby on the way motivated me to get going with this, because Huggies gets enough of our money right now and the idea of two in diapers led me to picture the new yacht the Huggies CEO would probably be buying with my money.

Friday night, I took you to Target and I made you pick out underwear and from the way I was going on and on about it in a high-pitched squeal, I'm certain the people in the next aisle thought that this was the most important purchase of both of our lives.

Then I dragged you to the Jelly Belly aisle and I let you pick jelly beans in any color you wanted and I let you eat one. You got excited and asked me for more candy, but I told you that the only way to get to enjoy more tasty jelly beans would be to go pee pee in the potty.

I don't think you really believed me, as the rest of the night, our conversation went something like this:

"Little Man, it's time for dinner, please sit in your chair.

- Can I have candy now?

- Let's go play outside.

- Can I have candy now?

- Do you want to blow bubbles?

- Can I have candy now?"

And I swear to you, I came this close to shoving the entire bag of jelly bellies in your mouth, because dear God, there's only so much water torture one pregnant woman can take, you know?

But I somehow stopped the urge, and the second we got home, I stuck you in a pair of Mickey Mouse underwear and constantly asked you if you needed to go potty.

After dinner, we went to play outside, and about half an hour after we got out there, you suddenly got this look of horror, and ran towards me with your legs glued to each other, as you screamed my name.

I removed your wet underwear and told you that next time you felt the urge to pee pee, you needed to use the potty. You then asked me if you could have candy. Can we say one track mind?

Just when I'd given up all hope, it was time for bed and I figured we'd try again the next morning. I poured you your bath while you were putting your frog in bed. And this is where details get a little fuzzy, because I couldn't see you from the bathroom. We figure that you were so excited to take your bath, you ran right into your dresser. This is our best guess, since you Daddy, who was downstairs just heard a thud thud and I, over the running water, only realized something was wrong when I heard you blood curdling wails.

I scooped you up and held you as you cried, and when I saw the big bump on your head, I took you downstairs to put ice on your head. We sat there quietly for a long time, me holding that ice on your head, you trying to stop your brain from filling with blood.

Suddenly, you said quietly "I need to go potty."

I looked across the room at your father, confused, and finally said ok, and put you back on the toilet.

And that's when it happened. You peed all over the seat.

You and I both got wide-eyed at the same time, like we both had the same simultaneous thought of "holy crap! We're really doing this!"

I shrieked and laughed and probably cried a little. I hugged you and we wiped and we flushed and as I was kissing you, you just said, with great relief "I can have my candy now!"

Because really, that's all that mattered. That you'd get to eat one more four-calorie jelly belly.

And that was it. For the rest of the weekend, you were in underwear. You didn't have one accident the entire time.

Because your dad and I are crazy like that, we even took you out to an outdoor concert on Sunday. Where there were port-o-potties. And I forgot your change of clothes on the coffee table, giving us zero safety net.

About two hours after getting to the concert, you said "I have to go potty." And that's where you and I entertained all of the port-o-potties around, as you would scream "Mama, I'm falling in!" and you would hold on to the seat and then the next second, you would grab my very germophobic self as I would scream "GAAAAAH! Don't touch me!"

It took three tries, but finally, on that third attempt, you did what few people in this world can do. You peed in a port-o-potty.

Which by the way, I can't help but laugh at your choice of pooping reading materials. You somehow decided this weekend that the best book for bathroom reading is a bible song book that you were given by one of your Nonnie's Southern Baptist friends. And so you and I sit there, in that small bathroom, singing "Kumbaya, my Lord" and "Jesus Loves Me," while we wait for you to make a deposit. I can't help but find this extremely amusing, especially when your grandparents would probably think it's inappropriate to sing God songs while grunting.

This morning, I sent you to school in your Elmo underwear and you couldn't wait to tell your teacher that you were wearing big boy underwear.

And I, who wanted this milestone so badly. I, who couldn't stand wiping smeared poop from your behind any longer. Well, my heart broke a little. Because somehow, seeing you in that underwear seems to officially close the book on your baby years.

My baby is gone, and in its place stands a big boy, one who has already learned that checking out the poop you've deposited in the toilet is about the coolest thing ever.



Friday, May 23, 2008

My Heart Has Since Started Beating Again

Last night was what I like to call a cluster frick of a night. Except that the word frick doesn't actually have an "r" or an "i" in it, instead it has a "u." Long story, but basically it ended with me taking Little Man to Chick-Fil-A, a fast food joint in the South that has the most awesome chicken ever and waffle fries that remind me I'm so glad to have survived that plunge into that empty pool when I was nine years-old.

After Little Man and I had a very healthy dinner, and he had an ice cream cone about the size of his head (calcium!!!!), we were about to leave when he spotted the play area and made it clear that we couldn't leave until he'd visited it. I really wanted to get home so that we could spend quality time together I could watch the Grey's Anatomy season finale, but I finally felt guilty enough and he never really demands much except for popsicles for breakfast and dinner, so I gave in.

There were two kids already playing in the play area, a little boy and girl, about 8 and 6, who were African American.

I usually feel nervous when there are older kids in those things, because Little Man isn't very tough, is very slow, and kids just aren't raised very well these days and most seem to push him or step on him, instead of waiting behind him as he slowly climbs up to the slide.

But whatever worries I had was totally off-base with these kids, as they were the gentlest, sweetest, best behaved kids I have met in a long-time. When we walked in, they immediately introduced themselves to Little Man and asked for his name and the little girl proceeded to lift Little Man up to get him up each of the levels to get to the slide. She kept banging his head on the the next step at each level, but she'd apologize profusely to him, Little Man would tell her "it's ok" and since he wasn't crying, I figured that no permanent damage was being done, and she really was being as careful as a six-year old can possibly be careful. Plus Little Man was actually being sociable instead of his awkward a little bit geeky self, and I figure I need to encourage this being friendly side of him so that he doesn't get the poop beat out of him by kindergarten, the way I did.

Little Man spotted a big round globe that I guess, from the sounds of it, had steering wheels in it. He ordered the two older kids to get in the globe with him, and I couldn't really see what was going on in the globe, but I could hear Little Man ordering the kids to turn the steering wheels with him and was amused at how a 2 and a half year old could boss around two much older kids. I figured that someday he will be the CEO of a gas company and make billions of dollars while shrugging and telling the rest of us that he's got no clue why gas costs so much, it's a mystery to him too.

All of sudden, I hear Little Man say to the two kids "Is that black?" And my heart stops. And I freeze. And all of the blood leaves my body.

Because since I can't see the kids, I have no idea what Little Man is pointing to, and every single cell in my body is praying that he's not pointing to one of those sweet kids, because it would literally tear my soul in half.

Little Man goes to one of the most multicultural pre-schools in probably most of Dallas. It's run with a lady from India, so a large portion of the students are also Indian. As a white child, Little Man is actually a minority, as a lot of the other kids are Chinese, and there are two African-American kids in his little class. When we were at a birthday party for one of his classmates two weeks ago, Little Man was literally the only white kid besides the birthday boy at his party.

This made me happy. I want Little Man to be exposed to as many cultures as possible. I want him to be friends with kids of every color of the spectrum, with different religions, different cultures, different thoughts. I want him to be exposed to the world.

In a couple of years, he will go to a private school, where the great majority of the kids will be white. It's the school I've chosen for him, because I don't want him to grow up and not speak French fluently, when it's my native tongue. But no matter what the cultural mix at his future school might be, I'm hoping that being in a school with children from many cultures will help Little Man grow up to be color blind.

And as I froze in that moment last night, my breath stuck in my chest as the world spun around me, I was hoping that I wasn't the mom of that child, the one who points out differences in others, even if he is only 2 and a half years old.

But just when I thought I would never be able to go to that Chick-Fil-A again, the little boy said "yes, that's black." And then Little Man asked "Is that blue?" And that's when I realized that Little Man was pointing out things in the big plastic globe that I couldn't see, rather than people's skin colors.

Maybe I am raising him right and he is color blind. But obviously, with my over-sensitivity, I've proven that in my efforts to be, maybe I'm not enough.



Thursday, May 22, 2008

A Post About Toys... And I Don't Mean Little Man's

Last night, I was going through the mail at home, while Little Man was watching Dora in the other room. A thick envelope contained the new catalogue from the largest grown-up toy (if you know what I mean...) company. I always like to go through it, because how can you not, when you get to read descriptions of movies like Jane Blonde 007, where I think that someone went to college, more than likely on their parents' dime, dreaming of being a writer, and they spend their days writing descriptions of really hot co-eds who wear tool belts and nothing else.

As I was going through the entire catalogue a second time (and getting a little worked up, might I add, man are these hormones crazy), I spotted a very pregnant woman in a very sexy teddy. "Hey! They've got lingerie for pregnant women," I thought. But upon closer inspection, this was actually a movie. Featuring 8-month pregnant starlets.

I cannot imagine something more disturbing than discovering that your mother, while pregnant with you, shot p*rn movies. When I showed the item in the catalogue to Sweetie Pie when he got home (after Little Man was in bed and approximately 38 seconds before I tore his clothes off), he stated the fact that the starlets probably don't get maternity benefits.

Right. Either way? The idea of watching a pregnant woman getting it up the rear, is highly strange to me.

As I was looking through the catalogue, I also suddenly remembered a moment from earlier this week, and I can't believe I didn't blog about this before, but then I can, because I did have below the belt handle bar mustaches to write about and a monthly letter to post.

Little Man was going through his kitchen cabinet, the one that contains the body parts of many a sippy cup, none of which match and should probably be discarded. It also contains his plastic bowls and other non-breakable junk.

Suddenly, Little Man pulls out something from his cabinet and goes "Mama, what's that?" I peer down at him, to see that he's holding a very futuristic looking toy, that he obviously must have stolen from my nightstand at some point and stashed in the kitchen cabinet, because hey, you never know when Mama will have the in-laws over and if my life were America's Funniest Home Videos, you know that this situation would have only happened when the very conservative Southern Baptist in-laws are over.

And if that's not a sign that the universe loves me, that this situation would occur when it's just us at home, then I don't know how else to prove it to you.



Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Minus Five Months: My Letter to New Baby

In some ways, it feels like I've been pregnant with you forever at this point, like I've talked about it ad nauseum, to the point that I'm sure everyone reading my blog is just sick of the whole thing. Yet, in many other ways, there are days where you'll move and all of a sudden I think "holy crap! That's right! I'm pregnant!" Or like yesterday, when someone at work asked me if I was hoping for a boy or a girl, and the question confused me so much because I wasn't sure what they were talking about for a second.

And then I realize that you won't be here for another five months and I think "thank goodness, I don't have any of the onesies washed." And then in the same breath, I think "will this baby ever get here so I can meet it?"

This week, you're about the size of an avocado. I'm not sure if will still be around when you are are old to have a baby, but I tell you that if it is, you will never look at produce again the same way, when a Website tells you every week that your baby is a grape, a lime, an apple, and so forth. The week you were the size of a lime, I made guacamole and when I had to squeeze the juice out of the lime, I actually felt horrible for a second, like I was juicing you myself.

I have avocados waiting to be turned into guacamole as we speak (have I told you that I love guacamole yet?), but the idea of sticking an avocado in the food processor and pulsing it into a puree is just too disturbing for me to deal with this week, knowing that you are currently the size of an avocado.

Last night, I had a very vivid dream, where my doctor wanted me to have a sonogram at my next visit. The ultrasound technician said that he could tell what sex you are, but your dad wasn't with me, so I wasn't sure if I wanted to find out. Finally, curiosity got the best of me, so I told the technician to just tell me. He said you were a boy.

This is the first real inkling I've gotten this entire pregnancy of what you might be. With your brother, I really had no clue, because I was always convinced that I'd have girls, since I'm one of three girls, and my mother is too. And at no time was there a sign that he was a boy.

So this is my first sign. Is it true? Are you a boy? I guess all will be revealed on June 18th, when I really do have my ultrasound, which, just so you know, your father will be attending too, because he's looking forward to meeting you as well, just as much as I am, even if it's through a television screen.

You're still a complete mystery to me, little one. I know that soon enough, all will be revealed, and I will get to see your face for the first time, hold you and smell your newborn smell.

Have I mentioned that I can't wait?



Monday, May 19, 2008

Coming to a Country Bar Near You

There are many things that happen to your body when you become pregnant. Little by little, you lose the ability to sleep on your stomach. Sometimes, you get the irrational urge to kill someone, just because they looked at your French fries during lunch and you could swear they were going to steal one. Little by little, your belly button becomes shallower and shallower, reminding you of one of those plastic gauges they stick on turkeys that pop out to let you know the bird is done. But most importantly, you eventually are unable to see your bikini line. For a few months, you suddenly can no longer see the girly bits, making it easier to forget to groom because hey it no longer exists if you can't see it, right?

I decided that I'd actually shave the girlie bits on Saturday, because the weekend before, Sweetie Pie felt like he needed a weedwhacker to find the magic button. But being in a stand up shower unable to see what I was doing, I felt a little like a blindfolded artist. I did what I could and when I got out of the shower, I checked out my handy work.

And overall, it wasn't too bad.

I got the middle part down really, really good. Except that I'd missed a patch on each side.

At that point, I was too exhausted to get back in the shower, and I figured it would just have to do.

We get Little Man to bed that night, and I change into something sexy that I can still fit into, and 30 seconds later, Sweetie Pie defeats the purpose by taking the sexy teddy off of me.

And that's when he bursts out laughing. Which for the record? Never a good idea to laugh at a naked pregnant woman. Because we're a little bit sensitive, you know? Actually, scratch that. Don't laugh at a naked woman, period.

I hiss at Sweetie Pie and ask him what's so funny. And as he's standing in front of me, tears streaming down his face because he's laughing so hard, he tells me that I look like I have a handle bar mustache.

Which for the record? Is not so sexy on girlie bits.

From now on? I'm going back to getting waxed.



Friday, May 16, 2008

Dear Government:

So supposedly, you're supposed to be supposedly sending me some supposed money.

Because I am personally responsible for stimulating the economy.

This is a responsibility that I don't take very lightly. Especially, when just two months ago, you decided that instead of big fat return, that we are apparently rich enough to owe you 5,000. I have to say, that considering I grocery shop at Walmart to make our budge work, I'm a little surprised by the tax bill. But whatever, I understand that there are government workers in need or 85-dollar hammers and 200-dollar staplers, and so even though that could be 5,000 dollars I invest for my retirement or my children's college education, I turned it over to you without nary a complaint. OK, fine, I did complain, but admit you would too, government if someone tried to take a bunch of money from you that you'd worked pretty hard for.

But I figured, it's ok, in a month we'll get that tax-stimulus money and my dreams of saving up for hardwood floors will once again be a reality.

And you said that I would receive it by May 16th.

You know what today is? For the record, without me sounding like a smart ass, today is May the 16th. And I just looked in my bank account and it's short 1,500 dollars. So what's the deal? Did you decide that I wasn't worthy of the money? Because in case this didn't make its way to you, we have a baby on the way. And babies are expensive. They need things like doctors and delivery rooms and diapers. Also, if my boobies fail their mission again, they need formula. Also, babies really, really need hardwood floors.

This one's not covered in most pregnancy books, so you'll just have to believe me on that one.


Catwoman in Texas.

(Unless this letter pisses you off, government and then it's not Catwoman. It's AFF from down the street from Catwoman, ok?)

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

From Sweet to Inappropriate in 2.8 seconds

Last night, I came home after the longest work day of my life and it was just Little Man and I since Sweetie Pie had his Tae Kwon Do class.

I was sitting on the toilet, weary and exhausted and every part of my body aching. Little Man walks into the bathroom and begins to lift my shirt. As I'm thinking "oh, how sweet, he wants to look at my belly and talk to the baby again", he says "I want to see the BOOBIES!!!!!" with this crazy grin on his face.

I'm sure the fact I laughed so hard that I practically fell off the toilet will completely discourage him in the future to do that to other women.



Monday, May 12, 2008

When in Need of a Post...

Too much going on at work today, so I'll just give you my favorite Little Man quote of the weekend.

After picking up a stick from the ground "Mama, take a picture of my stick, I need a picture of my stick."

I mean, seriously, I know that he probably thinks at this point that I'll take a picture of anything, but seriously, a stick? Shouldn't that be where I draw the line?

So I took pictures of the stick. Five of them. Until the toddler deemed that one of the pictures properly captured the stick's good side and I was allowed to return to my favorite activity of the weekend, eating the Hot Wings & Blue Cheese flavored Doritos that Kellie sent me, because she knows how to make my heart pitter patter (although she's still not willing to let Paul Walker off his leash, making him unable to run to me and be with the one he truly loves).



Friday, May 09, 2008

Proving Once Again That He Is a Man

This morning at Little Man's school, they had a little breakfast event called Muffins With Mom. I was excited about this, because score! Free food!

Little Man was dragging his little ass this morning, and I kept trying to light a fire under him, except the matches were a little wet. I kept yelling at him "There are free muffins at your school! And other people are going to EAT THEM! And WE should be the ones eating them!"

To which he replied "I want a muffin, get me a muffin."

And I argued with him that these fantastic muffins I was yelling about, they're at school, but of course, have you ever tried to argue with a two year old? It's a little like trying to get rid of a headache by slamming a door repeatedly on your head: it doesn't work and you're pretty sure you have brain damage afterwards.

We finally made it to school, and miraculously, there were some muffins left. We walked into the gym and one of Little Man's teachers handed him a carnation to give to me, which Little Man shot her a look like "what the hell is wrong with you? My Mama's standing right there, why don't you just give her the freaking flower yourself you lazy ho?"

Little Man then proceeded to eat two mini blueberry muffins and half of my banana nut muffin. Which people in my world have been known to be killed for less, so I think that's proof that I do love my kid more than anything else. Even banana nut muffins.

Once we were done, I walked Little Man to his classroom, because it was also teacher appreciation day and since I'd spent 60 bucks on Target gift cards, I wanted to make sure Little Man actually gave them to his teachers instead of trading them for toddler crack cocaine, which is actually pixie sticks.

Little Man told me he wanted to hold my flower for me, and I, naively, let him. As we made the walk down the hall, he proceeded to swing my flower wildly around, so that within three seconds, it looked like it had been attacked by wild coyotes. I finally got him to destroy my flower, and what was left of the flower made it to the classroom. We walked through the door, Little Man saw his teacher and said to her "here you go, it's a present!" and proceeded to hand her my flower. Which was given to me. Only 10 minutes before.

I know men are all about regifting things, but seriously? This totally takes regifting to a whole new level.



Thursday, May 08, 2008

It's Like He Doesn't Know Me at All

Sweetie Pie and I have known each other since January 18, 1999. Since then, we've gotten married, twice, actually, because marriage isn't like chicken pox, you didn't become immune to it the first time. We've had one baby. And now we have another one on the way.

Most people on the outside would think we'd know each other pretty well. But most people would be wrong.

Most of you reading this haven't known me that long. And the large majority of you have never even met me in person. And yet, I think it would be fair to say that most of you, through reading this blog, know that my sense of humor usually involves me saying shocking things that are clearly not true. It's a sense of humor I share with my ass, who lets out the most nauseous gas attacks, and yet only means to maim, not kill other people in the office.

Yesterday, Sweetie Pie and I are talking and of course, Little Man gets brought up, because seriously, how could anyone go two minutes without talking about the amazingness that is our child.

I mentioned that when Little Man is playing in the gym when I pick him up, he's been running like such a mad man, that his hair is all soaked and he's thirsty when I get in the car, but luckily, I usually have a cup of milk for him.

"How do you have milk for him in the afternoon?"

Me, without skipping a beat "Well, in the morning he usually finishes his breakfast in the car, and he hardly ever finishes his cup of milk. So I just leave it in the cupholder in the car so that he can finish it after school."

Cue Sweetie Pie giving me the most horrified look in the world and mentally trying to figure out if he can remove my half of the genes in the new baby.

Good thing I left out the part about the moth infestation in my car and how I serve the moths I catch on crackers to Little Man for a protein-packed on-the-go breakfast.



Tuesday, May 06, 2008

Oh to Be Two Years Old Again

I think I'm jealous of my son. There, I've said it. The truth is out. I mean, first of all? He's way better looking than me. He's got huge blue eyes, I've got teeny squinty eyes. He's got this awesome blonde surfer dude hair that women of all ages love to run their hands through. No woman ever tries to run their hand through my mousy out-of-control hair.

But most of all? I'm jealous of the fact that my son, at two years old, can make any crazy request he damn well pleases, without anyone thinking he's insane. I, on the other hand, am told that "it's your crazy pregnant women hormones acting up again."

Maybe it's not the hormones, maybe I just want weird stuff and ain't afraid to ask for it, ok?

Here are some of the things Little Man has asked for in the past week.

On the way home from work and school one night: "Mama's driving? How about Little Man's turn to drive now?"

One night when I served chicken and asked him if he wanted ketchup: "No thank you, just chocolate on chicken please."

Last night, in front of the television, when he decided he wanted something sweet to eat after dinner. "I want a treat, in a baggie, in Daddy's truck."

After we finished his Home Depot kids' workshop project, which is supposed to be a Mother's Day present. "This isn't for Mama. It's for Little Man. Little Man made it, not Mama."

In case anyone's wondering, I want a unicorn. And for Doritos to bring back their hot wings and blue cheese flavor. Also, I really would like Paul Walker to show up at my house wearing nothing but a smile.



Friday, May 02, 2008

Thirty-Two Months: My Letter to Little Man

Today, you turn 32 months old. And if I were to tell you this, you would ask me for cake and candles, because cake is what you live for these days and you have this OCD thing where no restaurant can have candles on their tables, as you have to compulsively blow each and ever single one of them out. Did I mention that waiters love you?

A couple of weeks ago, we came back from Hawaii. I like to call this the saddest day of all of our lives. The day where we had to come back to the concrete jungle of Dallas and leave the laziness of Hawaii behind. I was particularly nervous about the eight hour flight, even though I knew you were a good flyer, I figured that being pregnant, I wouldn't be able to get drunk should you decide not to be good. But you were kind as always, once you took over your aunt's window seat, since the airline had the gall to stick us in the middle of the plane, where you couldn't see out the window, which is a little like telling you that there's a dog laying there, and you can't do a belly flop on him.

The one flight where you acted up was on the last leg of our very long return flight. As your father and I had barely slept on the Hawaii-Denver flight, we both ended up falling asleep a few minutes after the drink cart had come by. I must have been asleep maybe 15 minutes when the flight attendant shook me awake to tell me that you had spilled a drink.

I turned to you in your window seat and right away noticed that you had tried to dump an entire can of apple juice, my glass of water and my large McDonald's (no longer hot, thank goodness) tea into one tiny airplane glass. And you'd done this with the glass perched between your thighs, so that you and the seat were both floating in what appeared to be gallons of fluid. You sheepishly grinned at me and said "I made a mess!" like you couldn't believe such a thing could happen and it was this proud moment in your life.

My favorite moment of the past month is when you made me cry. Isn't that the kind of thing that moms love to say to their children? But you did, you actually made me cry, big fat tears streaming down my face. Your father was at class that night, and you and I were dancing away to a Nickelback song on the radio. You were dancing like a mad man in front of the television set, your whole body hopping around the room. I was doing my thing from the comfort of the couch, singing at the top of my lungs. Suddenly, you looked over at me and your whole face lit up with love. You ran over to me and shouted "I have to kiss my Mama!" and then you planted a kiss on me that warmed me all the way to my toes. You grinned at me and said "I love you Mama!" and that's when I lost it. And for the record, I'm welling up again just at the memory. You looked at me, grabbed my face and said "Oh Mama, don't cry! Why you sad?" And I tried to tell you that I wasn't sad, that I was just happy, too happy and that you were the sweetest thing in the whole wide world. You nodded at me and said "Yeah, I pretty sweet."

And you know what? You're more than pretty sweet. You're like 29 pounds of sugar coated in chocolate with a layer of pure heaven. I never, ever imagined when I was pregnant with you that motherhood would ever be this great. I just figured, cool, we'll have a baby, and he'll be cute, and I'll dress him up in cute clothes and I will love him. But I didn't, in my wildest dreams, imagine that my life as a mother would be this mosaic of moments so intense and so magical that I would feel like nothing could ever top this happiness.

You're all about your friends these days. Even if you haven't seen one of your really good buddies in a month, you'll suddenly say to me "I want to play with I." Or "I want SD to come over." I think that you're like your father in a lot of ways. You don't talk about the kids at school very much, and I sometimes worry if you are making friends. Your dad, he has a few close friends and he figures his plate is full, he doesn't need to make any more. Me, well, I'm the sociable one of the couple we'll say. But I think that you, my quiet, thoughtful child take after your father and has decided that you have a few great friends outside of school, so no need to make more. Even if you do see those other kids five days a week.

You have been known for asking me left-field questions this month. A few weeks ago, you were quiet in your tub and all of a sudden you said "Mama, are you a cow?"

I stared at you for a minute, trying to figure out who you would have heard calling me such a terrible thing. Speechless, I finally just repeated your question "am I a cow?" You laughed uproariously and said "NO! You're not a cow! Are you a chicken?" And that's when I realized that no, you were just in fact playing one of those crazy toddler games that even the Game Show Network would pass on. This week, you asked me if I were a whale. Luckily, I now know not to get offended anymore.

You do like to point out on a regular basis though that you're little and that I'm big. "You're big! You're Big Mama! Are you a Big Mama?" And if I try to tell you that it's not nice to call people big, you tell me "but you're big! You're Mama and you're big! I'm little! I have little feet, you have big feet. I have a little belly, you have a big belly." Can we work on your women speaking skills before you turn 15? Because they don't have basements in Texas houses, so you really can't live with us after college, ok?

The other day I asked you if you wanted to talk to the baby in my belly. You said "sure!" and lifted my shirt up. You yelled "HI BABY!" into my belly button and then paused, looked at me and said "What Little Man say now?" I told you that you should say whatever you wanted to say to the baby. You said ok and then yelled into my belly button "Baby, why you hiding! You cute!" You paused and then said "Little Man cute too. And Little Man pretty sweet too." Which I figure, you might as well start the brainwashing early.



Thursday, May 01, 2008

I'm Just Wondering...

Why is it that I let out the world's most ginormous fart right when someone walks into the office bathroom?

Is that a way for my ass to mark its territory, to let the other ass know "I'm in here, and I'm not done, get the hell out?"

Because nothing says "Welcome! Make yourself at home!" like toxic fumes caused by a taco salad.