Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Because It's Been Weeks Since I've Posted Something Inappropriate

So here's the thing. I'm pretty damn pregnant at this point. I'm exactly 10 days from hitting the 8-month mark. And overall, I feel damn good, I feel like I could be pregnant for another 8 months, because I'm lucky enough to be one of those women whose body greatly enjoys pregnancy. Well, that is until I get to the 38-week mark and body decides to shut down like a Tickle Me Elmo with bad batteries. Hello, HELLP Syndrome!

But that's not to say that I'm not walking around with this gigantic beach ball strapped to me and the idea of having marital relations is just not even something I want to ponder. So Sweetie Pie and I have become 14-year old kids who fool around a lot but stop at third base.

Because I'm a freaking rocking wife, I've given Sweetie Pie what I call a girlfriend. His girlfriend is rubber, she's a tube with a hole in it and she's temporarily taking over for me and I'm very grateful for her. Plus, she doesn't make any comments about my cellulite, so we get along famously.

Last week, after washing the girlfriend and letting her dry, I put her back on our nighstand.

Little Man is completely obsessed with baseball and my in-laws got him a little baseball glove for his birthday, which he has slept with on more than one occasion, because toddlers like to sleep with stranger things than even drunk college students.

One night, Little Man got his bat and baseball out and promptly asked where his baseball glove was. I told him he had left it on our dresser, which apparently is not a term we use a lot around our house, because, of course, you know where this is going, but Little Man comes back into the living room and his hand is firmly shoved up the girlfriend's love hole.

Little Man is frowning as he enters the room and says to me "This is not my baseball glove."

Well no shit, Sherlock.

Clearly, my son is a man, perfectly capable of stating the very obvious.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Minus One Month: My Letter to Tiny Man

Exactly one month, four weeks, 30 days and fewer than 720 hours from now, I will be holding you in my arms. The mystery of your face, blurry in the multitude of sonograms I’ve had, will finally be revealed. Will you look like the puffer fish that you seem to be in the sonograms? Or have you simply been storing nuts in those cheeks of yours, worried that the outside world would be a place without food? Will you have a full head of hair like your brother did, or will I kiss your bald head, cherishing its warmth and smoothness? Will your tiny hands lay in mine, all tiny with piano-playing fingers, or will I try to swallow chubby hands whole? Thirty short days.

Yesterday, I took your brother to his sibling class at the hospital, and there he learned to feed you and change your diaper and a myriad of other things that knowing your brother, he will fully intend to do when you arrive. When I was packing today so that you and I could leave for San Francisco, our last trip together as one, your brother got excited and asked “are we going to the hospital?” The last thing you can say is that no one wanted you around.

The last two sonograms have shown that you continue to grow at a steady rate, by the next sonogram, I expect that they will find that you are bigger than your brother was at birth. During the last sonogram, taken only a week and a half after the previous one, it was revealed that you had gained almost a full pound. I jokingly said that you needed to lay off the French fries, but the truth is, I know exactly what’s behind your growth. And that would be La Madeleine’s tomato basil soup. I seem to be slightly obsessed with it and you and I consume a large bowl of it for lunch at least once a week. Most people would think tomato basil soup sounds innocuous, but the truth is, Tiny Man, that this is no ordinary soup. This soup’s first two ingredients are cream and butter. This soup probably offers us the same amount of fat as a Big Mac would. It’s our weakness and one that you lovingly kick me in return when we consume, as its warmth spreads to our extremities and the vitamin C awakes all of our senses.

Last week, you and I had a minor scare. I say minor, because I always knew everything was. You see, you might as well find out about this now, but your Mama is one clumsy lady and last week demonstrated it. Your dad and I went to the hospital for a tour and I managed to slip and fall. The hospital offered to check me out and I agreed and they found out that I was contracting. I knew you weren’t really ready to come out, so I wasn’t worried, but it meant that you and I had to stay in the hospital for 24 hours while they figured out what was going on and how to ensure you stayed in the safety of my tummy a few weeks longer.

They hooked me up to monitors, one which listened to your heartbeat, the other one monitoring the contractions, and I laid there, in that hospital bed, the only sound to keep me company was the whooshing of your heartbeat, strong and reassuring, and my favorite sound in the whole world, beside your brother’s laugh.

I have to ask you for a big favor. No matter what you do, don’t decide to come during the next four days while we’re out of town. A lot of people didn’t want me going on this trip, your father included, but I’m very excited about it and with your cooperation, we’ll get to San Francisco and back with some great memories, a little more tired and ready to face the next chapter in our lives.

In case I don’t remember to tell you this after you come, I want you to know that I’ve loved being pregnant with you, as much as I loved being pregnant with your brother. I’m one of those lucky women who loves being pregnant so much, despite the worries that come with it, that I’d happily do it 50 times if my body allowed me too.

Maybe I’m cherishing every moment with you now because I know that you are likely to be my last baby. You are truly a miracle baby, some that people had told me I shouldn’t even dream about. But we’ve proven them wrong, you and I, haven’t we? We’ve made it this far thanks to a great doctor and our stubbornness to make sure that you would come into this world safely.

I can’t wait to hold you in my arms and stare at you until I’ve memorized every feature of your face and body. Until then, you remain mine and only mine, your movements, your kicks and punches, your hiccups my entertainment alone. In 30 days, the world will welcome you with open arms, just like I will, my little boy.

I hope you’re ready. Life is one hell of a roller coaster. And if you’re half as blessed as I have been with my life, I know that you will be one happy person. I love you already with every fiber of my body, and soon, all of those around us will have the chance to hold you as well and they too, will love you as much as I already do.

I love you, my Tiny Man,

Maman.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Showing Ignorance and Telling the World About It

With Little Man's move to the bigger kids' class, it means that he now has Show and Tell every Friday.

Which sounds really cool, until you realize that you've got to come up with some item for your kid to bring to class every week and it can't be a toy and it has to be tied to the month's theme.

This month's theme at school is the Presidents of the United States. Which really? Makes it difficult for me to come up with crap.

Here's how September has gone so far for us and Show & Tell:

Week 1: Being the rock star mother that I am, I totally forgot about it, which means Little Man got to show off his new Ralph Lauren polo that I got him for 4 bucks at the consignment sale. Which really, if you think about it, shows great economics which means that I'm doing better than the current president's economic policy.

Week 2: Realized that it was Show and Tell day the morning of. Panicked, ran through the house looking for something presidential. Fished out a penny and a nickel from the coin jar, put them in a sandwich baggy that I labeled "Little Man's Show & Tell" so that his teachers didn't think he was supposed to buy something with that money after school. I then proceeded to teach Little Man that one was called a penny, the other a nickel and who was on each coin.

So we start the teaching process 4 minutes before departure time for school and work: "This is a penny. It has President Lincoln on it." Little Man nods. I quiz him "what is this?" "It's money!" So we start again. And again.

Finally we have the penny down, with one minute to go. I move to the nickel. "This is a nickel. And it has..." Shit. I don't know who the hell that white dude with the ponytail on the back is. Who is that? Little Man waits. I remember my trusty new iPhone and promptly Google "who is on the nickel." And find out that it's just a really bad picture of George Washington, making him unrecognizable to Canadians like myself. I mean seriously, can't you people just put the queen on all of your coins like we do?

Whether Little Man retained any of this information by the time he did Show and Tell, I'll never know. And whether he showed up with the lamest Show and Tell ever, well, I think that yeah, maybe he did.

Week 3, a.k.a. today: Yesterday, I brainstormed over lunch with some coworkers and they being as confused as I am since none of them have children, we settle on a picture of Mount Rushmore. I promptly forget about this until Sweetie Pie is leaving for ninja class last night. Sweetie Pie prints out a picture from the Internet of Mount Rushmore this morning and so in the car, I begin teaching Little Man to say "this is Mount Rushmore." And I say to him "Look! On the left is George Washington and President Lincoln!" Yes, Lincoln also has a first name, but have you tried to teach a 3 year old who is just 17 days past his birthday how to say Abraham? So yeah, President Lincoln it is.

Little Man points out Washington and Lincoln from the picture and all is good. Problem solved. Until he notices that there are two other heads. And asks me "who's that."

I stop the words "Two white dudes who refused to let women vote so they died" from coming out of my mouth. Truth is? I have no freaking clue who that is. I mean, what the hell? My kid's not even in pre-K yet, how the hell do I keep getting stomped with these school projects? Can't I just send him to school with a French crueller donut and have him talk about the greatness of Tim Horton's and the history of basketball and how it was created by a Canadian? Or a Canadian flag and have him explain the two red stripes represent the two oceans that surround Canada? (See, I bet you none of you knew any of this, so we're even).

So I tell Little Man "don't worry, we'll call Daddy. He knows everything." So I ask Sweetie Pie who the hell the two white dudes are, and ends up that my American-born husband, educated by the Texas public education system doesn't know either. To which I say ha ha! Because I'm a bitch.

So Sweetie Pie proceeds to Google it and finds out that it's Jefferson and Roosevelt. Which I'm thinking this Show & Tell thing would be much easier if I'd just focus on easy names like Bush and Reagan.

I tried to explain to Little Man that Mount Rushmore was carved out of the mountains by people, but of course, I know really nothing about the place, just that it's in South Dakota (right?), so I'm sure poor Little Man will go into class, recite what he remembers, twist half of it in that way toddlers tend to do and his teachers will ponder calling child protective services again.

So help a bad mother out, people. What the hell do I send him to school with next Friday for the last freaking President Show & Tell?

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Pride

I'm a big believer in telling Little Man that I'm proud of him. I know that he knows that I love him and that I'm proud of him, but I'm a big believer that you can't hear it too much. And so even though there are things that I feel he should freaking be doing anyway, like sleeping in his own bed, when we go through two nights of him sleeping in our bed but willingly sleeps all night in his own bed on the third, I'm sure to tell him how proud I am of him on that third day. And then I let him have a cigarette for demonstrating that he's such a big boy.

I myself am a craver of compliments, and the fastest way to my heart is to give me genuine compliments on something I do. Fastest way for me to despise you and lose all respect for you is for me to work my ass off on something, despite being nauseous and 8 weeks pregnant, making a project so successful that the Wikipedia people are calling for my picture to put next to the word "successful" and you don't bother telling me "good job." But you do to the idiot who did absolutely nothing and who you complained to me about during the entire project.

That last example, of course, is completely hypothetical.

The other night, Little Man and I played base ball for almost an hour, alternating pitching and batting, although he was happy to do all of my base running for me, because at this point, the only thing I'm willing to run for is the ice cream truck. And Tom Brady naked.

Eventually, Little Man managed to tire himself out, which is a little like telling you that McCain and Obama were caught making out behind a dumpster, it just doesn't happen.

Little Man requested an episode of The Backyardigans, and since the Biggest Loser was on I agreed, since I am a big loser, but in a different way and love to sit on the couch and watch people sweat until they vomit. Because really? I so couldn't work out four hours straight normally, let alone 7.5 months pregnant.

I went to turn on the television in the bedroom for Little Man and he asked for a specific episode, but since I was distracted, I kept putting on the wrong one. After three tries, I finally got the right episode on and I let out a satisfied "There!"

Little Man nodded at me and said "Good job, Mama. I'm so proud of you."

So we can add to the list that I'm raising my son to be one hell of an appreciative VP some day. His minions better shower me with gifts, is all I'm saying.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Clearly Under a Monday Curse

So last Monday? I go into a hospital and proceed to fall on my face.

This Monday? I left work at 6 p.m., which is a rarity that I can literally count on one hand in the two years I've been here, because one, my job rocks and two, I want to spend some time with Little Man every day and there's no way I'm willing to compromise on that.

I get to the parking lot, get in my trusty Jeep Liberty, start it and it promptly dies.

Puzzled, I try again and am rewarded with this horrible 98-year old man smoker's cough type sound. That's when I panic. Because the daycare? It closes at 6:30. And I know that Sweetie Pie is probably sitting at home right now, exactly 30 minutes away. And the last thing I need is my child considered abandoned by the daycare and child protective services called.

A security guard on campus comes to give me a boost and I'm grateful, hopeful that it's just the six-year old battery and that I can at least get home and have Sweetie Pie buy me a new one as a belated anniversary present.

While we wait for the battery to be juiced up, the security guard decides that we must converse. Which, normally, I'm all for. Except that the conversation he chose to have was the following.

"So, when are you due?

- The c-section is scheduled for October 21st.

- Oh, a c-section? That's really too bad!"

Uhm, thanks for the judgement dude, but one, I'm fine with having a c-section, and two, it's medically warranted in my case, not that it's any of your business. But I'm polite and I smile and nod.

"So you must be excited to be having twins."

Really? You must do this when I'm down? When I'm thinking to myself that Murphy's Law is totally biting me in the ass, because after years of loyal service, my Jeep Liberty has finally acted up, and it has chosen to do so on the day that the final car payment has come out of my bank account, which means that I now own the thing outright, it just doesn't freaking work!d

Once again I smile and I say "Actually, there's just one in there." And then because I feel like this guy is doing me a favor by trying to bring my car back from the dead, I add "but they think he's a big boy."

And my security guard friend adds "That must be a really big boy."

Seriously dude? I'm going to guess you're single.

All of that emotional abuse to find out the battery won't hold the charge and it's probably the alternator.

Next Monday, I'm in San Francisco for my last hurrah/a trade show. My new gay BFF is supposed to take me to all of his hot spots during my four-day stay, with my promise that I would not embarrass him by having my baby in one of these hot bars.

Expect a post next Tuesday about how Tiny Man was born in San Francisco's hottest gay bar and got his first feeding out of a shot glass that says "I'm queer and I'm here."

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

One Way to Get Blog Fodder

The other day, I complained about being a crappy blogger and blamed it on my lack of blog fodder.

Apparently, I need to go buy The Secret today, because I have the power to make requests of the universe, and it will respond.

On Monday night, Sweetie Pie and I were scheduled to participate in the monthly tour of the hospital where Tiny Man (who still is unnamed, thank you very much) will be born. Sweetie Pie had complained that this was unnecessary, that we didn't tour the hospital for Little Man (simply because he was an emergency c-section and he wasn't even supposed to be born in the hospital, he was supposed to come in the peaceful homelike surrounding of the birth center three blocks away, but whatever), but I wanted to see the place and I had one important question: do they have Wi-Fi? Because three days without plurking would seriously affect my Karma. Plus, AFF's in charge of posting for me the day of the birth with all of the gory details, and I need to make sure that her post mentions how I looked so hot in my backless hospital gown that three Dr. McDreamys asked me to leave Sweetie Pie.

The tour was scheduled at 7 p.m. and since I was with Sweetie Pie, we showed up at a very early 6:40.

It was raining hard that night, which hasn't happened in about six months, so my Steve Madden wedges were wet. I walked about three feet into the hospital lobby, asked the front desk where the bathrooms were and proceeded to slip, fling my opened purse halfway down the hall revealing all of its non-exciting contents, and landed like a cat on my hands and knees.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Michael Phelps of the pregnant klutz Olympics. Or maybe the Nastia Lukin, it's hard to say really, because I clearly have Phelps' abs these days, but I'm obviously demonstrating the grace of Nastia and sticking my landings.

As Sweetie Pie helped me back up, a nurse rushed over and told me I needed to sit down, which I simply replied to her, too embarassed to want to stand here another second that I just wanted to pee. I mean, priorities people! Nothing's broken, let me go pee.

She told me I'd done a good job protecting that baby (which I'd like to say that of course I did, but I don't know if that was actually from sheer dumb luck or if my cat-like instincts and years of falling down practice were responsible for it) and when I came out of the bathroom she asked me if I was really ok. I told her yes. Because if there's one thing I am, is stupidly a non-troublemaker, even when I should be.

The hospital where I'm delivering is a small hospital, so the word quickly spread that a pregnant woman had fallen.

When the tour was about to start, another nurse pulled me aside and asked me if I'd like to get checked out. As the past 15 minutes, my brain had been consumed with worries about detached placentas, I gratefully told her that yes, it would make me feel better. She told me to stay behind after the tour and that they'd check me out.

Sweetie Pie and I proceed to visit the labor and delivery rooms, see the nursery, see the recovery rooms and all is swell. I find out that they do have Wi-Fi and that I can happily Plurk with my newborn in my arms (and hopefully properly latched to my boob this time)

The tour ends and I send Sweetie Pie away, because I have a three-year old to worry about now and he's at my sister-in-law's and needs to go to bed. I assure Sweetie Pie that I'll call him on my way home and he hesitates for a second, and then leaves.

The nurse tells me that they'll hook me up to monitors and watch me for an hour. No problem, no concerns.

I call Sweetie Pie and tell him I'll be at the hospital for an hour or a little more than that, but not to worry, and I'll call him on the way home.

Half an hour into the monitoring, the nurse, who is the freaking coolest chick ever, by the way, walks in and says to me "Ok, you've been having regular contractions for almost half an hour now, and we need you to quit it."

Wh-what?

Contractions?

I tell her I don't know what she's talking about, that I don't feel a thing. But as I glance at the monitor, there they are, clear as day, and most of them are off the chart contractions, which I'm thinking "wow! look at me, earthquake contractions, no drugs and no pain! Totally could have done the natural birth thing like I thought I could."

And then comes the realization of "oh. shit. I'm only 32 weeks and I'm so not ready to have this baby."

The nurse proceeds to tell me that we don't know if I'm just contracting because that's what pregnant women do, contract. Or if it's caused by the fall. And that she needs me to drink 48 oz (1 liter) of water in the next 20 minutes, in case that they're dehydration contractions. And that they're going to keep me another hour to get to the bottom of things, but they don't believe I'm in pre-term labor.

So I call Sweetie Pie again, and tell him haha, guess what, so I'm laying here and I'm having contractions, but supposedly it's not that big of a deal, they think it's all fine. Sweetie Pie sounds worried and asks if he should come back to the hospital. I tell him he's being silly that we've got a three-year old asleep upstairs, that there's nothing he can do here, and that I'm not having this baby tonight, and if I am, it won't be instant and I'll keep him posted.

More time goes by, I'm still contracting, so blood is drawn, a urine sample is given and after some more time lapses, cool nurse comes back in and says to me (and I swear I'm not making this up) "so, your urine looks like absolute shit."

And I'm in love with this woman. Because seriously? Anyone who can talk to me like that in a hospital setting while I'm hooked up on monitors watching World's Most Dangerous Job, totally deserves to be my new best friend.

So ends up? I have a bladder infection. And had no clue. And that the infection is probably causing the contractions, but that they're now going to keep me for 24 hours observation and start me on antibiotics just to make sure.

So guess what I did all day yesterday? I got to lay in a hospital bed (the one in the room that we toured) and watch day time TV.

And while others on the tour got a one-hour quick walk through, I decided to be extra thorough and test the monitors, meet the night and day shift nurses, try the breakfast and lunch menu and figure out that the pillows at this hospital? They suck ass and I will be bringing my own.

Long story short, all is good, my Steve Madden wedges have been raised to legendary status by the hospital staff (I ain't kidding, the ultrasound doctor, upon walking into my room said "where are these legendary shoes I've been hearing about all day?), I got another ultrasound that showed that this kid has gone from about 3 lbs 11 oz on Friday a week and a half ago to 4 lbs 8 oz yesterday (it's like, kid, lay off the French fries!) and I got a souvenir giant water jug with straw! to take home.

Also? I got to find out that watching daytime TV for six hours straight is really, really boring when you're not also on the computer or busying yourself with something else.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, September 08, 2008

Yes, I'm Alive

So I've been a sucky blogger lately. This I know, for the bible tells me so.

Well, ok, not the bible per say, that song just popped into my head is all. This is what happens when your mother-in-law gives Little Man a book of bible songs that he has designated as his pooping book and therefore we sing the one version of "Jesus Loves Me" that appears in the book. Which Sweetie Pie tells me I'm singing all wrong, since I've never actually HEARD the song and can't read music. I know Sweetie Pie sang it the right way to me once, but I didn't retain the melody and in fact, I thought my version was much catchier.

Which of course now means that Little Man has learned the melody wrong. And should his father decide some day that our heathen ways must end and that our children (and I guess me by default) must be dragged to church, then poor Little Man will be in Sunday school singing bible songs wrong, and people will wonder why each one sounds like a cheerleader at a pep rally. This, people, is what happens when a semi-catholic raised by catholics who lean more towards the agnostic side marries a Baptist. My son is a direct product of our quirks. But man, he sure is a good-looking heathen, isn't he?



Anyway, as always, I'm way off track. So, where have I been during the past week? In meetings. Non-stop meetings. And on Scrabulous with a certain Burgh Mama. And on my new crack, Plurk. And if you're not on Plurk, you should be, although don't you dare join without asking me for an invitation first, because I'm one friend away from the icon where one happy face beats another one over the head with a chair, and do you know how much a pregnant woman can use that icon???

So Saturday was Little Man's birthday party. Which of course, my $65 birthday cake totally rocked the universe. You know how wars around the world stopped for a few seconds, and global warming slowed for a moment and baby seals were hugged instead of clubbed for a brief moment in time? It was all in honor of Little Man's birthday cake.

Which I have a picture of, just not here. Since I forgot my camera at home and didn't get around to uploading my pictures this weekend. But I will post a picture of the cake soon, I promise.

There's much more to post, but since I'm so thin on blog fodder these days, I will tell you more tomorrow. And give you pictures of the cake.

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Thirty-Six Months: My Letter to Little Man

So here we are, my little buckaroo, on your third birthday. Can you believe it's been three years? I know, I know, to me, it feels like the blink of an eye, but I guess to you, it feels like a lifetime. We've been talking about this day for weeks now, maybe even months, me with much sadness, you with much glee. When I tell you you're going to be three, you like to rub it in by saying "yeah! And then I be four! And then I be five!" Which, ok, I get it! Eventually you'll also be 35 and wanting to date, but we don't have to talk about that either, ok?



But if we must talk about dating, I hope you know that I am fully grooming you to be the perfect husband. You love to cook with me, and the other night, when your dad was gone, you and I went all out and made quite the feast for each other. We started with shrimp cocktail, followed by tortilla-crusted tilapia with a red pepper sauce and some fantastic sides. You helped with the whole process and as we sat there eating together after all of our hard work was done, I said to you "you're going to be quite the catch someday! You're smart, good looking and you'll be an awesome cook!" You nodded and said "and I can hit balls really hard!" Which you obviously read in Cosmo Magazine that the ability to hit balls is the top requirement women have for their men.



So much has happened during the past year, that if I were to try to summarize the last 365 days, I wouldn't even know where to start. Yesterday, you and I were watching videos of you that I have on my computer, and some of them were almost a year old and the difference between the you on those videos and the you now is so staggering, that I can hardly believe that I'm looking at the same boy. The chubbiness of your cheeks, the rolls of your legs, they're gone now, leaving in their wake the face of a little boy and the legs of a runner. Your speech, which I thought was complex and advanced a year ago, is no longer comparable to the things you say now (my current favorite? "Are you kidding me?" Although, just so you know, it's cute coming out of a barely three-year old's mouth, but it'll probably be considered obnoxious by the time you turn five).



Today, you move to the big kids' class at your school. This morning, I walked you into the building, like I always do, holding your little hand tightly in mine, but this time, you were wearing a uniform and everything was different. Today, you begin to study reading and writing and working on a monthly science project and doing things that ensure that you will know more than me by your fourth birthday.



One major change during the past year has been what you call me. We started out the year with "Mama," a name I expected to have for a very long time. But sometime this year, I became "Mommy" and no matter how much foot stomping I did, you wouldn't go back to Mama. Then, a couple of weeks ago, out of nowhere, with absolutely no warning, you switched to "Mom." This is where I really lost it, because seriously? I wasn't expecting to become someone's "Mom" for at least 8 or 10 more years. I finally convinced you that unless you wanted to be taken out of the will right there and then, you'd better switch back to at least Mommy. And wouldn't you know it, hitting you in the piggy bank was the ticket, because if there's one thing you've inherited from your father, it's your love of money.



This morning, you blew out the first candle of your third-birthday celebration. I made you an Eggo waffle and served it with a big scoop of chocolate ice cream on it, because if you can't have ice cream for breakfast on your birthday, then when can you? (the answer to that, of course, is when you're pregnant. Which please choose to blame your father if you're mad that you'll miss out on that front, I'm sure you'll find plenty to blame on me as you approach your adult years.) I put a candle on that scoop of ice cream and you declared that this was a mighty fine breakfast indeed. When your Nonnie called to wish you a happy birthday, you told her you'd had ice cream for breakfast, which all I have to say about that is way to leave out of the story the vitamin-filled waffle, kid.



This will be a big year for you. A new class, a new baby brother, and by the time your next birthday rolls around, you'll have started pre-K at your elementary school. A part of me wants to hold you back and beg you to stay with me right here, in this moment. Let's snuggle forever, instead of just a whole lazy Sunday morning away together, or let's draw Daddy in chalk on the sidewalk 10,000 times or sing head, shoulders, knees and toes (and I promise I won't do the hand gestures, since you always yell at me when I try to jump in) 50,000 times, I'll do anything you want, just stop growing up so fast. I guess I'm learning that as a mother, I'm nothing more than your Velveteen rabbit. Some day, when you get hurt and cry out, instead of running to me and asking me to kiss it better, you'll shrug it off or curse under your breath.



You'll stop asking me "are you my friend?" when we're quietly reading books together. And some day, you'll leave me for good and I'll cherish every phone call from you, no matter how few and far between they might be and I'll remember that once upon a time, you were mine, even if it was ever so briefly. But just like the velveteen rabbit, I'll still be looking out for you, making sure that you're safe and loving you with every fiber of my being. And that, my friend, is something that I hope you never doubt, no matter where the road of life may take you.

I love you my Little Man,

Maman.