I just realized that I'm about a week away from the three month mark of going on maternity leave.
Holy freaking crap.
You know what this means, right?
This means that in 3.75 months, I will be woken up every two hours by a baby who wants to eat and the other alternate hours, I will be woken up by my small-bladdered toddler who needs to pee.
I will never freaking sleep again.
But on the plus side, have you seen how cute and tiny 0-3 month clothing is? They're really, really tiny and cute, and anything that fits in clothes that small can't be that bad, right? RIGHT???
I'm heading off to yet another doctor's appointment now. I'm sure this is the one where they'll schedule the glucose test of death. When you don't like sweets when you're pregnant and you're forced to drink what feels like a gallon of pure sugar, it ain't quite as fun as a day at Six Flags, I'm just saying.
Monday, June 30, 2008
I just realized that I'm about a week away from the three month mark of going on maternity leave.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
I've posted before that this pregnancy has been crazy, and by crazy I mean I poop more than a pet rabbit.
I've literally had to get over my aversion to pooping at work, simply because I do it anywhere from five to six times a day.
I'm not freaking kidding you. If you work in my building, on my floor and use the same bathroom I do, you must be calling facilities complaining of the constant poop smell in there, thinking that maybe some decomposing body is stashed in one of the maxipad garbage cans.
But there is no such gruesome discovery to be made. It is only little moi and my unborn child who apparently thinks poop is so disgusting, that he forces my colon to empty itself the second it has a speck of poop in it.
I swear, at this point, I must have the cleanest colon this side of the grand canyon (I figure those celebrities and their love of enemas probably means I can't lay claim ot the whole US of A for my crown).
Last night, I went to happy hour with some colleagues, where I downed glass after glass of tap water with three limes, my new drink of choice these days, and I've obviously got a problem, because I had three glasses within a two hour time frame and yet still drove home. When we know that at any time, my need to pee could have caused me to swerve into uncoming traffic. I'm obviously very irresponsible.
At this particular place, they serve you the most awesome bean dip with their free chips. This bean dip is unlike anything I've ever experienced anywhere else. It's hot and soft and is a little like eating a kitten whole, but without the irritating meowing. I enjoy this bean dip so much, that I literally drooled over my work keyboard most of the day as images of me enjoying the bean dip popped into my head.
And this is where I become ashamed.
Because I have to admit to you, my loyal readers that I ate eight bowls of that bean dip by myself.
Yes, you read that right. Eight.
But it's all the damn waiter's fault. He kept bringing more. I would freaking inhale the bowl and before I had a chance to pick it up to lick it clean, he'd bring me a whole new one. Which I would promptly down. And suddenly, it became like a battle of wills, of who would tire first, him of bringing it, or me of eating it.
I can't say for sure who won, because I think halfway through the eighth bowl, my brain exploded from all the warm gooiness.
And then I spent the rest of happy hour sitting in that chair moaning in pain, as my swollen belly stretched my maternity silk skirt to a painful level.
I won't get graphic here, because of course, we all know that this is a family-friendly blog (BWA HAHAHAHA! OK, I'm done laughing). What I can tell you, is that when your body likes to poop and your entire dinner consists of three pounds of bean dip, you better have a damn strong sewer system.
Luckily, I've discovered that we do.
I think no one is more relieved than Sweetie Pie.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Well, you asked for it. And now that I've come through, you'll probably think to yourself "dear God! We had no idea what we were in for and totally regret it now," kind of like that time when I was in Barcelona when I was 18 and I dared an Irish boy that I could drink him under the table. I've yet to understand how I didn't require entering the Spanish health system that night.
Anyway, since you've asked (some of you repeatedly), here is a picture of my belly.
I know what you're thinking right now. You are thinking "wait, she's not hitting the five-month mark until next week, and this picture looks like it belongs to a woman pregnant with twins who is entering her 8th month."
To which I tell you to bite me.
And just so I can scare you even more and so that I raise the stakes enough for you all to leave me alone, I've also included a belly shot with no shirt on. I know, this blog is officially not family-friendly reading. I must warn you to get your sunglasses on before scrolling down, as I will not be legally responsible for any retinal damage the whiteness of my belly causes.
I have to say, my ass looks pretty damn good in those jeans. Although, not as much when I've got my shirt hiked up. Next casual Friday at work, I'm totally keeping my shirt down all day, now that I know this.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Last night. Our house. I'm in the bathroom, brushing my teeth while Sweetie Pie watches Nashville Star, which he Tivoed.
Sweetie Pie: "Holy crap, that guy's name is (mumbles something, which I don't completely understand over me spitting out toothpaste).
Me: Did you say his name is Cockfee?
SP: No, I said his name is cohfee. (another pause) What the hell is on your mind?"
The ears hear what they want, right?
Monday, June 23, 2008
Last night, Sweetie Pie gave Little Man his bath. I don't know what it is, but being left alone during that time with my thoughts makes me all hot and bothered. Don't tell Sweetie Pie this, because if he found out, he'd probably decide that he will take on bathing of the children duty full-time and I will spend the rest of my life walking like I've been riding on a horse with no name.
By the time Sweetie Pie came downstairs, the dogs had been kicked out to the yard and I'd changed into something that made it obvious that I wasn't interested to watch Next Food Network Star (I did Tivo it. I was h0rny, not temporarily insane).
The kind folks at KY Jelly had sent me their new K-Y Brand Yours + Mine.
I guess they figure with my being a hornbucket these days, that I would enjoy it. And they were right, because the commercials totally had me ready to run to the store to get some.
First, let's talk about the packaging. When you open it, the lube consists of two test-tube looking containers that are connected with a piece of plastic. When I opened it, Little Man shrieked with excitement and screamed "binoculars! You got me binoculars!"
Which is really, really kind of awkward, because how do you tell your 2 and a half year old that you didn't get him binoculars, but in fact, this is something for Mama and Daddy to get their freak on. I emailed Super Nanny and she assured me that you don't clarify, you just steal back said "binoculars" when Little Man goes to sleep and hope he never remembers them.
So Little Man spent the next two hours playing treasure hunt with his binoculars, which Sweetie Pie and I found way more amusing than anything on television. Right there, that totally would have been worth the purchase price. And yes, I know I totally should have caught this on camera and included a picture here. But it kind of seemed so wrong to post a picture of my child in a naughty post. Call me a prude...
Anyway, despite having the K-Y in our home for a few days, I have not been in the mood. Yes, I know, this is a little like me saying that I totally don't feel like chocolate right now. I can't explain it, ok, these hormones fluctuate. If Sweetie Pie can deal with it, you can too.
But last night was the perfect time to try some Yours + Mine. And so I was careful to apply the right tube to the right parts. Sweetie Pie's (the Yours) smelled minty and made me totally miss being able to drink mojitos. When I put it on my hands, they got really warm and I think that the Yours would make for an awesome massage oil (hint, hint, Sweetie Pie. Since he doesn't read this blog (or know about it), one of you should feel free to drop the hint for me. OK, AFF?)
Mine (the, uhm, Mine) didn't have a smell to it. I put it on and here's the thing. I didn't really read the directions. So I may have gone a little heavy with it, because sistah needs all the help she can get and we go through lube like a Hummer owner goes through crude oil.
Plus, it doesn't say this in the directions, but I'm guessing that if you have some, uhm, butt itching, you probably don't want to use this until all butt itching ceases. Because holy freaking crap, I felt like Paris Hilton, because I totally had fire crotch going. Except that my fire crotch was a little further back.
And then when we joined together, the chemical reaction between the two made it even hotter, to the point that I thought our smoke detectors might go off.
But after about 15 seconds or so, my body adapted to the third degree burn and then it was fun. Lots of fun.
And even better? The fun was much shorter, because it was a lot more fun for Sweetie Pie too, who is not about the quickie, because I'm guessing he figures he doesn't get it that often, so when he does, he wants it to last. Which is really funny, because if he'd just get it done with, I'd probably want it a lot more often, because I've got a short attention span.
Anyway. My point is that I need to get me to a pharmacy ASAP and get me some Tuck pads and get rid of the itchiness once and for all.
Then once I'm officially healed up, then, I will definitely try the Yours + Mine again and I think that it would totally be worth its price of admission.
And once the two containers are empty, I totally intend to send Little Man to my mother-in-law's with his 'binoculars', just for giggles.
Because I'm fun like that.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Around the time you will be three months old, you will get to discover like your big brother before you the greatness that is American Idol. I say this a little sarcastically, because a deep part of me doesn't care for the show and the fact that some barely talented kids are forced to sing motown hits. But another part of me gets sucked in by the show, and ever since your brother was born, it has gotten worse, simply because it was the only thing that would stop his incessant wails when he was a very young baby with an attitude problem.
The reason I bring up American Idol, is that this season was the best season yet, because of the sheer brilliance of David Cook, one of its participants. I know no child ever wants to hear this, but David Cook made your Mama want to throw her bra on stage at him and want to have his babies. One performance in particular turned me into a big pile of blubbering mess, to the point that your big brother became concerned that I was hurt, and that was when David Cook covered "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face".
I've always loved that song, but a few years ago, a company that created the first 3-D ultrasound machine used it in one of their commercials, and the song took on a different meaning.
Earlier this week, David Cook's version of the song played in my head, as I had an ultrasound at the perinatologist's office, and her top-of-the-line machine allowed us to see your features just clear as day, including your little pouty lips, the curve of your nose, the way you sucked the fingers from your left hand. There you were. My sweet, sweet boy, cozy inside of me, not a care in the world and no idea that in a few short months, you will be part of a world insane enough to have almost let David Archuletta win American Idol.
A part of me wants to cradle you like this forever. Keep you inside of me so that you can't get hurt, so that you never have to shed a single tear when you discover how cruel the world can be, where tables you bend under don't move when you get back up, or dogs steal your popsicles when you don't look. Ask your brother, and he will tell you that it's tough out here.
But another part of me counts the days until your appearance with great anticipation, knowing that soon, I will get to cradle you in my arms, and show you off to the world and inhale your baby scent and feel skin softer than the wings of butterflies. And I can't wait for you to meet your big brother, because I really do think that as far as big brothers go, you have got yourself a really good one kid. One who is funny, sweet and who will probably try to force feed you mint chocolate chip ice cream within a week of your birth, because he really is good at sharing.
One concern though. It seems that you have decided to go and pick from the gene pool some genes that have not been used by generations. And those would be the tall gene. In case you're not aware of this, we're a fairly short family. Your dad's only 5'9" and I tower with my 5'3 1/2". Your brother was in the fifth percentile for height and weight when he was born, so that he wore preemie-sized clothes the first three weeks of his life. His newborn-sized going home outfit made him look like a little malnourished orphan.
But you are somehow striving on my diet of string cheese and soy milk and you were 15 ounces at my 20-week ultrasound. I was in shock and told the doctor that I'd read online that you should be around 10-11 ounces at this stage. She nodded and said "yup, he's just a big boy." And then came the kicker: you are currently in the 97th percentile. Do you realize this means that only 3 percent of kids are bigger than you? And I'm assuming they are all either the spawn of the Incredible Hulk or basketball players. Just where did you come from?
Are you going to be as big as your brother by your first birthday? If so, I pray that you are as sweet as him so that I don't have to go through band aids for him at an even faster pace, because seriously, I would like to retire some day.
It seems ironic now that your chosen nickname has become Tiny Man, because it seems that you will be anything but. I guess I only have to wait four more months and then all of your secrets will be revealed.
Can I tell you again that I can't wait?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
I've written before about how Little Man sometimes likes to be the one who tells a bedtime story, instead of having his Daddy or me do it.
Last night, when I was putting him to bed, Little Man told me he wanted to tell me a story, and asked me what I wanted to hear a story about.
Since he often requests stories about the baby in my tummy, I thought I'd let him take a crack at a story about his baby brother.
Little Man: "Once upon a time, there was a baby in Mama's tummy. And the baby went 'waaah waaah waah' (said with fists balled up in front of his eyes in best baby imitation). Then baby went into a forest. And a lion saw baby and went 'ROAAAAR!' And then lion eat the baby."
Me: "What??? No! The lion doesn't eat the baby! That's not a good story!"
Little Man: "Yes. Lion eat the baby. The end."
I'm thinking the novelty of the baby brother is already starting to wear off.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
For the past few weeks, I have become slowly obsessed.
This isn't anything new for me. I'm one of those addictive personalities, who if I'd hung out with the wrong people would probably have turned into Amy Winehouse. Once I try something and I like it, it become all-consuming and I must have it until I OD and my family ends up calling that A&E Intervention show and tries to get me to quit the Coffee Mate French Vanilla creamer cold turkey, because I've started swigging it directly from the bottle and foregoing that annoying necessity known as coffee.
My latest obsession has seen Sweetie Pie be brought down with me. I think originally, he was just humoring me and figured it was just a phase.
But now, I'm sad to say that I think he is just as hooked as me. And the few times I forget about getting my fix, he's the one who gets all of the necessary tools necessary for us to be taken to our happy place together.
This does not make me a bad mother, for the record. I didn't use to understand mothers with addictions, because how could you let something become all-consuming at the expense of your child?
But in our defense, Little Man is in a different room when we get our fix, and although I haven't discussed it with my doctor, surely it can't harm Tiny Man too much, I mean, he's almost half baked at this point.
I'm embarrassed to admit what I have an addiction to, even though I know that it's probably the most important step in the recovery process.
I guess, what I'm saying is that I don't know if I want to recover. Because I'm happy, and in a better place.
And really, isn't that all that matters.
My name is Catwoman. And I am completely and utterly addicted to The Bachelorette.
And Sweetie Pie, who is totally not ready to admit this, is addicted as well.
We haven't missed an episode of this season yet. We watch it, and pause it regularly and make fun of the goofy guys on it, and I swoon for my favorites (go Jason!).
I'm not sure how I got so addicted, because I'm actually not that crazy about The Bachelorette herself and her excessive blinking that leads me to think that she's trying to send us morse code like "OMG! He's a total dork!" Or "I totally want to nail that hot piece of a$$ Graham."
Sweetie Pie and I discuss and analyze The Bachelorettes dates the way Sports Center can discuss one basketball play for hours on end.
And whenever Little Man pops his head in, we bribe him with M&M's and let him watch The Backyardigans pirate camp episode again, just so the child won't speak over crucial scenes of the show. I mean, it's not his fault, he's only 2 1/2, he couldn't possibly understand the subtleties of this Earth-shattering program.
Should I talk to my doctor about this problem?
Monday, June 16, 2008
So none of you had as good of a Father's Day as Sweetie Pie did, you hear me? None of you. Except for maybe all of you men who either got laid or got a bj, because I was too tired after all the cleaning I had to do yesterday, since my in-laws were coming for dinner. Plus Next Food Network Star was on, and it's rude to get it on while I'm trying to decide who is least cut out to be on television.
Other than those millions of men, Sweetie Pie had the best Father's Day ever. You know why? Because first of all, he didn't get one school project like I did for Mother's Day. Oh no, Sweetie Pie, he got two. I guess Montessori schools feel that being a sperm donor is much more important of a role than cradling another human being in my tender womb for nine months, leading me to sacrifice any chance I had to have a career in adult films (fine, it was never a goal of mine, but that's not the point, the point is it's nice to have options, people). But I'm not bitter. It's not like I display my child's art work on every square inch of my cubicle walls, including some that I suspect might just be left over napkins from toddler lunches of pizza.
But most of all, Sweetie Pie was the luckiest man yesterday, because I gave him an LCD HDTV. Which is an acronym that makes every man swoon the way the words Paul Walker and naked make any woman with a pulse swoon.
Yeah, I got Sweetie Pie his dream TV. Which we already had one in the living room. A big one. Not the biggest, because he's married and therefore not allowed to have what he wants, but one that was as wide as our TV armoire.
And since I'm such a good wife, I got him something that I thought was frivelous and unnecessary. Another high-definition television for our bedroom.
Totally unnecessary. And yet, I knew it was going to make him happy.
And it did. And then he spent the next three hours hooking it up and playing with all the features and not getting fresh with me so that I had plenty of time to
play on Facebook clean the house.
And to top it all off, when Sweetie Pie got up, I had practiced with Little Man to wish him a happy father's day. As soon as Little Man saw his Daddy, he yelled "Happy Mother's Day!"
Who says I don't always win?
Friday, June 13, 2008
Have I told you lately how much I love you? I haven't? Well, I guess that I assumed that the fact that I lick your front door in appreciation every time I come was enough to get the message across, but if it wasn't, I have to tell you now that I love you, and that if you weren't so big, I would totally kick Satan's Dog off the bed and let you share my body pillow instead.
Being around makes me happy and brings out the best in me. When I'm visiting you, Target, I feel like I'm a better mother, as Little Man and I always have the best time at your store. We're both relaxed, and happy and he lovingly pushes your beautiful red cart and points out items on the shelf and I think that someday, Little Man will look back on his childhood and he won't remember that time we took him to Sesame Place and Cookie Monster tried to steal his corn dog and made him poop himself, but he will remember all those visits to your dollar bins, where he's allowed to pick out anything he wants, and then has to be talked out of the adult size 9 American flag flip flops he lovingly picked out, and distracted with a Nemo magic marker board instead.
Your aisles are so nice and wide, Target, and filled with treasures and bargains and non-chemical natural cleaners. Have I told you how much I love your Method products and that I would drive to the ends of the Earth to buy your Method brand hand soap? Oh how I love it so, I would drink it if I weren't afraid of drowning in a sea of bubble farts inside my cubicle.
And then yesterday, Little Man and I ate your frozen barbecue chicken pizza, and neither one of us are proud to admit this, Target, but between my pregnant ass and Little Man's underwear clad hiney that can't hold his pants up, we ate the whole thing. And then we collapsed on the couch with a happy sigh, because seriously, what do you make that pizza with, cocaine or prozac? Because it was the happiest eating experience I had since the Tex-Mex buffet I had for lunch on Wednesday.
I love that your cashiers actually seem to like working for you and that they always talk to Little Man and treat him like he's the greatest thing since sliced bread, because he obviously is and people who don't recognize this have no soul. It makes me happy to spend obscene amounts of money in a place where the employees have a soul.
Oh and I need to talk about your store-brand hummus too. I'm not sure what heaven's like, but I'm pretty convinced at this point that it's filled with clouds covered in your hummus and I will spend all of eternity with pita chips just trying to scoop up all that creaminess.
I want to thank you for having two locations within 10 miles of my house and two locations withing six miles of my work.
I can't imagine ever wanting to not visit you. In some ways, you are my first child, the first one I loved the moment I laid eyes on it. When I first discovered you upon moving here, my mother came to visit me about a month after I had arrived to Texas. In the three days of my mother's visit, I believe we stepped through your doors a total of five times.
When my mother returned to Canada and was asked what Dallas is like, all she could say is "I don't know, all I saw was Target." Which she now understands that really, this is all there is to see in Dallas.
Right now, I'm wearing a yellow maternity shirt that I bought from your pregnancy section a few weeks ago. I believe I will wear out this shirt before this baby even arrives, as I wear it the second it has been washed. It's bright and airy and is fun and makes me feel like a sexy goddess of love, even if I have a soccerball attached to my midsection. When I wear this shirt, I feel like I glide everywhere and look happy.
So in case I don't say it enough, I love you Target. I love everything about you. I love your ads with their breathy version of "Hello, Goodbye" by the Beatles and their funky bright visuals. I love the shade of red you've chosen, and would happily paint a red bullseye around Old Dog's right eye to make him look remotely like your mascot.
Your biggest fan after Kellie,
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Last night I wasn't in the mood to watch Extra and get my fill on the fight between Brad and Angelina and what the nursery should look like, since as a normal non-millionaire person, Tiny Man is just inheriting Little Man's baby room.
Instead, I put it on Wheel of Fortune and was amazed to discover that Little Man is even more into the show that I am. As in, he actually clapped everytime they spun the wheel and felt bad for the contestants when the buzzer told them there were no "C's" in Mount Rushmore.
During one commercial break, Little Man was so excited that he began to jump up and down because he just couldn't wait for more wheel madness.
"I love my show!" he exclaimed, his whole face lit up.
"Oh, really," I said, feeling snarky. "This is your show now."
- Yeah! It's my show! I love to watch my show!
- So, if this is your show, what's it called then?"
Little Man ponders this for a split second begins to jump up and down and screams "It's called AAAAAMEEEEERICA!!!!!!"
Of course, this is also the kid who asked me for ranch dressing with his strawberries the other night, something no French or Canadian person would ever be caught dead doing.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Things that I love about this pregnancy:
- I actually look pregnant this time, and strangers ask me if it's my first baby, something that never happened with Little Man, because I just looked like I had a giant beer gut.
- I'm in the second trimester, the best time to be pregnant, when you don't feel too big, the morning sickness is gone, birds are singing and rainbows come out of my butt.
- I get to wear a maternity swimsuit, the muumuu version of the bathing suit. So this summer, I don't have to be at the beach sucking in anything and feeling vulnerable. I'm more covered than an Eskimo in the dead of winter.
- I can make requests and people rush to save me. Like on Saturday, I was at a work event outside and I felt too lazy to go figure out where the water bottles were, so I just got on the radio and asked that someone bring me water. Within two minutes, three people had come to rescue the dehydrated pregnant woman. This must be how J. Lo. feels every day of her life.
- My lactose intolerance has gone away, just like it did with Little Man. Hello breakfasts consisting of a bagel with cream cheese and four string cheeses.
Bad things about this pregnancy:
- I poop approximately 8 times a day. I have taken regularity to a whole different level.
- My belly is getting to the point where it's too big for me to sleep on my stomach. Do you know how much I love to sleep on my stomach?
- People's freaking elbows. Why is it they all seem out to get my Tiny Man?
- I'm at an all-time high with my weight. Not surprising, considering I started this pregnancy five pounds lighter than when I delivered Little Man. Damn you toddler food leftovers...
- I have gased myself almost to death numerous times in our enclosed shower.
- My butt hole is constantly itchy. I'm serious, you have no idea how freaking itchy that thing is.
Monday, June 09, 2008
For the past few months, after reading a book or two to Little Man at bedtime, Sweetie Pie started the tradition of telling Little Man a story in the dark. Usually, the story teller asks Little Man what the story should be about, and his answer has been anything from "A story about the little red train with yellow stripes on it," to "Spiderman."
Last week, Sweetie Pie was putting Little Man to bed while I was watching the first part of the Top Chef finale (which OMG! Lisa made it through, what the???). Sweetie Pie came down and told me how Little Man ordered him to lay down in his toddler bed, because he wanted to tell his father a story.
The next night, I was putting Little Man down, and again, he decided that he was going to be the story teller that night. As I laid down in his toddler bed, he asked me what kind of story I wanted. I told him that I would like to hear Elmo learns his ABC's, a story that Little Man has asked for many times and that Sweetie Pie have expanded on and added twists and turns to over the past months so that we wouldn't try to rip our own cerebellums out.
Little Man launched into a rousing version of the story, one that included Elmo singing the ABC song. And as he gets halfway through the song, Little Man pauses and says "and then Elmo crapped, crapped, crapped."
My brow furrows and I go "wait, what did Elmo do?"
- Elmo sing and then he crap, crap, crap.
- Uhm, where did you learn that word?"
Little Man looks at me and sighs, like he is so freaking tired of having to dumb everything down for his old mother.
"You know, he crap, crap, crap!" And as he says it for the third time, he begins to emphatically clap his hands.
I muffle giggles into his pillow.
"OH! You mean he clapped!
- Yeah, that's what I say."
Uhm, no. If he had, I wouldn't have interrupted the story and missed out on finding out whether Elmo ever got to the letter Z.
Friday, June 06, 2008
I was changing Little Man's underwear this morning, and he says "Look, Mama, it's my pen!s!
- It sure is! Is it a big pen!s?
- Nooooo! I don't have a big pen!s! I have a little pen!s!"
I totally made him walk right into that one, didn't I?
Thursday, June 05, 2008
So I've talked before of my car's moth infestation. I don't know where they came from, or how to make them go away, but every time I kill them, I get into my car the next time, and there are four more for me to kill. I'm sure this is how defeated Satan's Dog feels in his battle against my underwear, since for every pair he chews up, I'm forced to buy two more.
Worst of all, the damn moths are now turning Little Man into someone who's deadly afraid of bugs, which does not fare well for him to get married, since killing bugs? That's definitely in the husband's duties column, right along beg wife for some nightly loving.
But those moths, they seem to love to fly around Little Man's head and touch his exposed arm and leg flesh, making him screech "MAAAAAMAAAAAAA BUUUUUUUUUUUUGS! GAAAAAH!!!! THEY'RE SCRAAAAAA-TCHING MEEEEEEEEE!" And making me practically swerve off the road from the explosion between my ears caused by these supersonic pleas.
I've tried to tell him that moths are just another kind of butterfly, but I'm afraid that this will only cause him to fear all butterflies, which how can you be popular in high school, if you run away screaming every time you spot a Monarch 20 feet away?
And so this morning, in an attempt to appease him as yet another moth was attacking him and trying to suck Little Man's blood, I opened the back windows and told him that way they would fly out the window and leave him alone.
This seemed like a good plan for a long time, except for one thing. I drive a Jeep Liberty, so my trunk, is actually just an open space. In my so-called trunk, I had Little Man's inflatable boat and beach ball, both of which I'd forgotten to remove after our Saturday trip to the lake.
The winds this morning were insane. They are the kind of winds that make you feel like you should tie down the toddler, so that he doesn't get blown away during the next gust of 40-miles per hour wind.
And as we drove over the highway, Little Man suddenly screamed "MY BALL!" I was confused. His ball? "Yes, my ball! It fly out THE WINDOW!!! Get it, Mama! Get it!"
I thought he might be mistaken. Maybe his ball had just jumped back to the trunk, because I figured that the ball had to be bigger than the window, but like some science experiment gone wrong, the suction forces on the outside of the car, somehow managed to cause the ball to contract itself and make its big escape. I say this like I know what I'm talking about, but Madonna's "Four Minutes to Save the World" was on the radio at that moment, and I was too busy dancing and singing to really notice anything going on in my back seat.
Little Man proceeded to yell things out the window like "Come back ball!" "I miss you ball!" "Little Man loves you ball, why you fly out window?" All of which had me laughing so hard, that I couldn't breathe anymore, leading Tiny Man to kick me in the lungs in a panic.
I'm guessing they're going to take my Compassionate Mother of the Year Award away from me again, aren't they?
Since Little Man was not crying or throwing fits, I told him I would take him to Target tonight to get him a new ball. And to the people of Oklahoma, I say that I hope you enjoy Little Man's ball, since I figure with today's winds, it's got to be halfway up your state by now.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Sunday was very scary.
I didn't want to blog about it yesterday, because it was the day of Little Man's monthly letter. Also, I didn't really know if things were good or bad, so why blog when you don't have answers yet?
On Sunday, I went to the bathroom and noticed two spots of blood in my underwear. They weren't dark, but I knew it was blood nonetheless. I stopped breathing right there and then, closed my eyes, willed those two spots away, but they were there, no matter how much I wanted them to not be.
I peed, and when I wiped,there was a pinkish tinge on the toilet paper.
I called the doctor on duty, who wasn't my doctor, but was the one I asked you, bloggy friends, month ago if I should go with, the new young doctor from the practice, who was just out of her residency.
She asked me if I'd had marital relations that morning or the day before, and ironically, I hadn't done anything in a week. I told her that our Saturday was very hectic, and that I ended up hauling my 30-pound Little Man more than I normally do.
She advised me to get on the couch and stay ther for the rest of the day, after she made sure I wasn't cramping in any way. She told me that should the spotting turn to bleeding, or should I begin to cramp, to call her on the way to the emergency room.
As the day progressed, the spotting got lighter and lighter and I was relieved. But not completely. Was this a sign of trouble? Was there something wrong?
I didn't sleep much that night. I thought I didn't sleep at all, but Sweetie Pie assured me that his cell phone rang at 3 a.m. with a wrong number and I didn't even stir.
On Monday morning, I called the doctor's office and decided to move my Wednesday check-up to Monday, just so I could have peace of mind again.
They scheduled me for an afternoon appointment, including a sonogram. I told Sweetie Pie to drop everything and meet me, because if the songram technician could figure out the sex of the baby, this Mama was finding out, husband or no husband present.
The technician began the sonogram and looked, silently, measuring things, my heart pounding the entire time, but I was too afraid to ask if everything was ok, unsure I wanted to hear the answer until he'd checked everything.
Eventually he nodded, smiled and said that everything looked great. Everything is where it should be, the placenta was well attached, the cord looks good, and my little trouble maker is doing just fine.
I exhaled sharply, feeling more relieved than I think I have in a very long time. And then I asked him something that I wanted to know just as much.
He smiled. "It's not cooperating, but I'm pretty sure I saw what I needed to tell you the sex."
He put the ultrasound wand back on my stomach, jiggled the baby a little bit, until it slowly turned around and tried to kick in the direction of the ultrasound technician, who smiled real wide and said "yup, there it is, our money shot, it's a boy!"
Monday, June 02, 2008
I never knew that having a toddler meant that I would end up in deep existential conversations. One night, when it was just you and me at home, you suddenly said "just Mama and Little Man." And I said, "yup, just the two of us." "Just you (pointing to me) and me (pointing to yourself)." "Uh-huh, just me and you," I stupidly responded. That's when you shook your finger at me, something that I get at least five times a day these days, and you said "no, no, I'm me and you're you! You're not me and I'm not you!"
Uhm... Right. So I stupidly continued "Yeah, but to me, I'm me and you're you." You became very agitated at that point, like you couldn't even understand how I could get it so wrong and be so clueless. After five minutes of back and forth, I finally gave up and agreed that I was not, in fact, me, a throwback to my days as a teenager when I tried to act like I was actually not a geek who once challenged herself to read the dictionary cover to cover.
You also somehow landed a job with the Department of Motor Vehicles this month, because it's the only explanation I can think of for you bizarre attitude when I'm driving. No longer am I allowed to take a hand on the steering wheel ever. The second I do, you scream "TWO HANDS ON WHEEL, MAMA!" like you're going to write me a ticket if I don't comply.
No excuses are acceptable for the removal of hands from the steering wheel, whether I have something in my eye that is about to make me steer us into oncoming traffic, even if I'm sitting at a red light and want to change radio stations. I'm certain that if my shirt spontaneously combusted into flames, I wouldn't be allowed to beat the fire out, if I hadn't pulled over, turned the engine off and stepped out of the vehicle. You also like to remind me that I need to watch for other cars. Which is very helpful advice and better than my previous way of thinking, which was take out as many of the morons around us as possible.
You developed a deep love of band aids this past month, and I'm pretty sure that band aid's parent company is watching their demand go through the roof and are wondering why they can't keep Texas shelves stocked fast enough. I've put band aids on cuts and knicks and bumps and bruises. But I also put a band aid once on your hand because you had dried hot sauce on it. It seemed like a lot less work to just agree with you that you had a boo boo, rather than fight with you for 10 minutes. The next morning, when you woke up, the band aid had fallen off your hand, and you asked me, confused "where'd my band aid go?" And then you looked down at your hand, and the dried hot sauce had come off your hand overnight or been washed away by a hand washing and, stupefied, you said "where'd my boo boo go?" I think that incident only further convinced you of the magical powers of band aids.
You've grown by leaps and bounds this month it seems. I'm not sure if it's the potty training or some other factor, but you seem like such a big boy to me these days. And yet, you're still very much a toddler, one who begs me for popsicles for breakfast and donuts for dinner. Although this morning, you decided to throw me a curve ball when you demanded "fruits and vegebles" for breakfast. I was so confused, that I almost blurted out "you don't want a popsicle?" but luckily, I caught myself in time, figuring this was probably some toddler reverse psychology trick that one of your buddies taught you.
We had your first ever parent-teacher conference this month and I wasn't sure what to expect. I mean, it's not like I was worried or anything. I know that you're smart and bright and that you listen very well. And you're the best-looking kid in your class, so really, there's not much bad that could come out of this. But I worry about you. I worry that you don't have friends, or that you're too quiet, or that maybe you cry when I'm not there. And I was scared that your teacher would say something to me about those things that she would blame on my incompetency as a mother. When I was growing up, I never understood why my parents would get so upset when they got a negative report from a teacher about me (in my case, it was always that I talked too much, go figure!). "What's the big deal?," I'd wonder. But now that I'm a parent myself, I can understand it better, and someday, should you have kids, maybe you'll understand it yourself. Your kids are a reflection of you. Sure, they are their own personality and there's only so much control you can have. But when your child does well, the parents are congratulated as much as the child is. But when a child misbehaves or isn't acting in a way society expects it will, the parents feel like the disapproving look isn't just for their child, it's for them too.
But all my worries were for nothing. The teacher assured us that you were smart and helped her kick other kids' hineys in gear. That you helped others with their work. That you had friends, particularly a very quiet boy who spends all of his outside time digging dirt with a stick, an activity that you have begun to partake in with him so that he wouldn't be alone. She said that you were compassionate and sweet and funny, all things that parents dream of hearing that their child are when they're not around.
And then she said something about you that will forever change us. She said that you were the best cleaner upper in the entire classroom. I think this is the part your father and I fell out of those tiny toddler-sized chairs. We told her to check her files, that she was confusing you with some other child, because the Little Man we live with, takes out every single toy from his toy box and rolls his eyes at you when you even hint at him putting something away.
She smiled at us and assured us that nope, this was true, that you were living a double life as a neat child at school and a slob at home.
So now we're on to you. There were a couple of rough days there, where you chose to go to time alone six times in a row, rather than put away your stuff. Finally, you determined that I was serious and that there would be no getting out of this cleaning up crap.
And even though you're not as perfect as you are at school, you know what? Neither am I. And that's ok.
The fact that when you go somewhere with you Daddy, when you walk out the door you say to me "bye Mama! I love you!" in that sweet melodic toddler voice of yours. Well, I can deal with any mess because of that.
I love you, my Little Man,