Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Missing the Point Entirely

Yesterday, Little Man and I were driving to the pediatrician's office for Tiny Man's one-month check up (side note: Not-So-Tiny Man went from 6 lbs 5 oz four weeks ago when he left the hospital to 9 lbs 8 oz yesterday. Who the hell manages to gain 50 percent of their body weight in four weeks? What are my boobs producing? Lard fried in bacon grease?).

As we were driving down the road, I suddenly spotted some poor guy dressed up in a dog costume on the side of the road, holding a promotional sign and waving at the cars passing by. I pointed him out to Little Man, who was quite perturbed by the scene.

LM: "Why is he dressed in a dog costume outside? It's cold outside! And he looks silly!

Me: Well, that's his job. See, this is why it's important to study hard in school and learn to read and write, so that you don't have to have a job standing on the side of the road in a dog costume. (Side note: Yes, I've turned into that mother. I swear I was cool, once upon a time.)

LM: Don't worry, Mama. I won't dress like a dog. I'm going to wave at cars dressed like a race car driver when I grow up."

Well, I can now sleep at night.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Boob Stories

It seems Little Man is a boob man. This is not news to anyone who reads this blog regularly. Here are two boob stories from yesterday. This seems to be our daily average.

Boob story #1:

At the mall, while sharing an ice cream:

Little Man: "Oh man, do I ever need to pump, I'm leaking milk like crazy."

I have no idea where he would have heard this before...

And is it disturbing that the kid still believes he's producing milk for his baby brother? If I catch him with Tiny Man pressed against his chest, I guess that's when I'll need to put a stop to this.

Boob Story #2:

While playing pretend doctors with me:

Little Man: "You're very sick, Mama, I'm going to need to give you a shot. Don't cry.

- Oh, doctor Little Man, please don't give me a shot, I might cry.

- No, no crying. (grabbing my hand) Just hold on to your boobie."

I know that always makes his dad stop crying, but I didn't know this was something men thought from such an early age.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

This Marks The Day He Officially Knows More Than Me

Little Man's school had a festival on Friday where each class performed. Last week, I asked Little Man if he was learning a song for the performance and he looked at me funny and said "what are you talking about?" Yup, he's turning into his father.

The other night, while I was tucking him in, Little Man suddenly started rattling off presidents "George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison." I knew that his class had been studying presidents. When I came back downstairs, I told Sweetie Pie that Little Man had been rattling off presidents' names and I thought he might have been saying them in order. I then asked Sweetie Pie "was Zachary Taylor a president? Because he's one of the people Little Man mentioned." Sweetie Pie thought for a minute and said "He might have been, yeah." I'd like to remind everyone here that I'm Canadian, so I have every excuse in the book not to know this crap, but my beloved is born and raised here, but was too busy fighting his Baptist heritage and drinking to learn this stuff.

On Friday, all of the other classes come out and perform cutesy Thanksgiving songs about turkeys suffering a horrible death in the name of a national holiday. Then comes Little Man's class, and apparently, his class is where all the smart kids were recruited, because instead of learning a song, they spent the past few weeks being brainwashed and the audience is told as his class takes their place that they will be reciting all 43 presidents of the United States.

And they begin "George Washington... John Adams... Thomas Jefferson... James Madison..." And so forth. Around the 10th President, Little Man gives up and begins just opening and closing his mouth, like he's still actively participating in this activity. By the 24th or so President, he begins to yawn a lot, as if he's really, really bored by this whole mess. But he did come back strong and joined in for the "AND BARACK OBAMA!"

The video is terrible and includes me cursing under my breath because Little Man's very large teacher keeps coming to squat right in front of him, so I have to keep trying to move, when I have Tiny Man strapped to my chest and the chairs are close together.

So I decided instead to reenact this at home with Little Man. Which he promptly refused to do. So I figured I'd pull up the presidents on the computer and see if we could do it that way. I'd like to point out that although he didn't name as many as he knows, he can name any president if you give him the first name, sometimes even the first syllable. And the kid is only three years old and two months old.

Two things I need to point out:

- When in doubt Abraham Lincoln is Little Man's go-to dude. Followed, very strangely, by Van Buren.

- I had to stop the video sooner and skipped right to the "And Barack Obama" part, since Tiny Man started flipping out. Which confused poor Little Man.


The Presidents of the United States from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.

I suspect girls aren't going to want him just for his surfer boy good looks.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

One Month: My Letter to Tiny Man

So I guess I never said this officially here, but welcome to the world, my Tiny Man. Exactly one month ago, you were kicked out of my tummy and you came out screaming and pissed off. And I'm not sure you've gotten over it yet, because although you don't cry very much (which, please keep doing that, ok?), you do look pissed. all. the. time. You spend your days glaring at me, at your brother, at the dogs. Anything that comes within your one-foot radius. This makes your brother and I laugh a lot, which only leads you to glare more. I can't help but think that behind those serious, angry blue eyes of yours, your brain is plotting evil schemes to take over the world.



You decided to celebrate your one-month birthday by sleeping more than five hours straight. Do you know how much I think that's the best birthday present ever? I mean, I can't really complain, you only wake up once or twice a night already, but five hours instead of three to four? Well, I feel like the luckiest Mama in the world, that's how I feel.

And you know what? I am the luckiest Mama in the world. You're freaking adorable, first of all, even if you are sporting a combover worthy of Donald Trump this week as you wait for your permanent hair to come in. But also? You hardly ever cry, reserving your tearless screams for important times like when you're clearly starving to death and I'm taking a whole 30 seconds to pour my milk into a bottle for you. Damn me and my lack of superhero lightning fast moving. Why were you cursed with a human mother? Because life is freaking unfair, Tiny Man. Even more unfair than the fact that I can only move at a human pace? The fact that you'll be forced to watch whatever your brother likes until you are capable of making a compelling argument. And right now? That big brother of yours is obsessed with a horrendous show named Imagination Movers, about four men who live in some warehouse with a horribly designed puppet named Warehouse Mouse. And for that, I apologize.



You're a snuggler. Oh, how you love to snuggle. If you had it your way, you'd happily let me hold you all day. This morning, we had an event at your brother's school, so I put you in your Bjorn baby carrier for the first time and you slept there, against my chest the entire time, happier than a pig in mud. When I first put you in it, you woke up slightly and whined, but when you realized that this contraption was strapping you to me! Your favorite human! You decided that you would never, ever make another sound, with the hope that I would forget about you and keep you there forever.

And I would hold you forever if you'd let me. You're warm and when you don't smell of spit up, you smell amazingly sweet, the way I think sunshine would smell in heaven. You're amazingly warm, like me and your brother, and I'm always thinking that they need to figure out how to convert our heat into usable energy, because seriously? The three of us could power a fleet of cars.



I'm so glad you're here, my Tiny Man. During the past month, it feels like you've already doubled in size. In fact, you are already outgrowing your 0-3 months onesies, a feat that I never thought any child that I grew in my womb would accomplish by the one-month mark. This leads me to think that all those croissants I've been consuming are the reason you're growing so well. You know what this means, right? I get to eat more croissants. And for that? I thank you again.

Also? I thank you for making me smile. I thank you for letting me kiss you excessively. I thank you for that little round-mouthed look of disapproval you give me when I put you down to make dinner. I thank you for being my munchkin, my little monkey, my pooper, my love. Never did I ever suspect that I could be all-consumed by a little 7-pound lump. But I am. I adore you the way I adore your brother. All of my worries and concerns evaporated the moment you were born. Here you were, this little stranger, but the second I saw you, I knew that I loved you more than anything else in the world. Just like I do with your brother. I can't imagine life without you, and I'm thankful every day that I don't have to.



I love you, my Tiny Man,

Mama.

A Christmas Miracle

Little Man might as well have been the inventor of the Stranger Danger concept. There is only one thing that Little Man hates more than strangers, and that's being told he's doing something wrong.

For three years now, I have been unable to get the traditional Santa pictures. I got Easter Bunny pictures when Little Man was six months old and too young to know any better. Then I got one more when Little Man was 18 months old. The 18-month picture shows a red faced Little Man screaming his head off. I figured that there was no point in me spending 25 dollars to get pictures of my child screaming. I can get those at home for free just by telling Little Man that Little Einsteins died in horrific crash aboard Rocket.

This year, I was planning on skipping the Santa pictures again. I figured by the time Little Man was nine years old, he'd get over his fear of the bearded man and really, is it the end of the world for us not to have any Santa pictures? Surely Little Man will be in therapy for other reasons, like that time his mother posted a picture of him with a breast pump.

As Christmas approaches, we've been talking about the holiday and its significance. Not the Baby Jesus part, because that would mean we're good parents, and why should we start down that path now? (Note: In all seriousness, all things religious are Sweetie Pie's department. He's the Baptist who went to church and church camp and Sunday school. I'm the heathen in the relationship, my area of expertise is underage drinking and fart jokes.) So I've talked to Little Man about Christmas trees and lights and presents and Santa Claus.

The other day, I was running through a store with the two boys in tow when Little Man saw something that sang to him and made his toddler brain explode. And he, who hardly ever asks for anything begged me for it. The last time this happened, he wanted an Aqua Globe. Why a three-year old needs a glass tube that waters plants, when I killed our last houseplant almost a year ago is beyond me. But the kid would not stop asking for it and would remind me as such every time one of those annoying commercials would be on TV. This time, however, the object of his desire was more appropriate, albeit totally unnecessary. It was a Little Einstein bath toy, as seen here.

I told Little Man that if he wanted, he'd have to ask Santa for it. Little Man looked at me confused. I explained to him again that Santa brings gifts to good boys and girls, but that he has to go sit on Santa's lap and ask for it. Little Man didn't seem to like that idea very much.

Yesterday, on our way to the mall for family pictures, Little Man reminded me again that he really wanted that Little Einstein toy. I told him again that he needed to ask Santa for it.

LM: "You ask Santa for it for me, Mama.

Me: Sorry little dude, I can't do that. Santa only takes requests from children directly, not from their Mamas.

LM: But I don't want to sit on Santa's lap. I'm going to stand and tell him.

Me: Well, you need to sit on Santa's lap to tell him, because it's like you're telling him a secret.

LM: How about I sit in my chair and Santa sits in his chair?

Me: (laughing)

LM: It's not funny.

Me: Well, what if there's only one chair? Then you're going to have to sit on Santa's lap.

LM: Then Santa's going to stand and I'm going to sit in the chair."

Right then.

We get to the mall and happened to walk in where mall Santa was. I hadn't planned on this, but since we walked by, I pointed SAnta out for Little Man. Santa waved and Little Man began whispering under his breath "I want the Little Einstein toy, Santa."

I told Little Man that Santa was hard of hearing and asked him if he wanted to go talk to Santa. I really expected to be told that no toy was worth speaking to the scary man.

But Little Man got out of the Sit N' Stand stroller and walked over. He stood in front of Santa and said "Hi Santa, I want the Little Einstein toy."

Just like that.

I then scrambled to get a sleeping Tiny Man out of the stroller, Santa convinced Little Man to climb in his lap and here you go.



Santa's elves and I tried to coax a smile out of Little Man, but his face clearly says "don't freaking push your luck, morons, I'm doing this for the greater good of humanity a toy."

So I got a Santa pick. Neither kid is wearing what I'd want them to wear for a Santa pic, but I had a tiny window and I smashed through it like I was in some Jean-Claude Van Damne movie.

This morning, I ordered the Little Einstein toy. Because I know better than to mess with my Little Man. If Santa were to not bring him that toy, next Christmas, Santa would find himself with a sharp kick to the shins from one pissed off shy boy.

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 17, 2008

That's Dedication

Little Man is apparently under the impression that there's a Big Brother of the Year award, and he is determined to get it. Here is evidence that he will go to any lengths to get it. I present to you, Little Man using my breast pump to get milk for Tiny Man:



To which Tiny Man just had to make his WTF face:




If there is no such thing as Best Big Brother of the Year, I'm totally ordering a trophy for my Little Man myself. Whether Tiny Man agrees with me or not.

Love,

Catwoman.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Best Baby Picture Ever

I present to you, Tiny Man's "I'm taking a big dump face."

My only regret is that I was too sleep deprived with Little Man to get his picture mid-poop, because now I'll only get to embarrass one of them in front of his girlfriend in 15 years.



Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Guilty Conscience

So I have it really good at work. I've said that before. I'm extremely lucky and blessed, where I have had the same job for two years now and I'm still happy and content there. I'm loved and appreciated to the point of ridiculousness. Hell, when my admin threw me a baby shower last month, more than 80 people were invited and more than 50 of them showed up or sent gifts, to the point that it was completely overwhelming and I got to go on the shopping spree of my life, with more than 600 dollars worth of gift cards.

Although my job isn't the most exciting in the world, I'm respected, my opinion matters and people respect me and think I'm nifty. I also get to show up late and leave early without being questioned, I can work from home with a sick child without anyone batting an eye lash and I can come and go completely unmonitored and I'm not micromanaged in any way, which is the best way to keep me happy. I'm also well paid and I have good benefits.

There was some instability earlier this year, and there actually still is, but my job is safe, my new responsibilities for when I come back in January have already been determined, so really, all's good.

Out of curiosity, I look at job postings once in a while, more to reassure myself that there are still other jobs out there should something happen to mine, but I haven't considered applying to a single one of them in a very long time.

On Monday, I opened my email and found a message there from a Web site that's like Facebook, but for professionals. The message was from someone I didn't know, who somehow found my profile and his company, one that I've been interested in previously and applied to on at least two occasions during the past 9 years has an opening that he thinks would be a good fit for my experience.

I'm a slut. If you tell me I'm hot and perfect, I will smile at you and talk with you.

So I emailed him back. Told him I'd be interested in talking. Because there's no harm in talking, right?

We played phone tag all of Monday. Yesterday, I went to the office to introduce Tiny Man to everyone. Almost 100 people showed up. I was five minutes late and there was a group of people waiting in front of the door impatiently. I was hugged so many times, I couldn't tell you how many hugs I received. I was asked repeatedly when I'm coming back, because apparently I'm very missed. I was reminded of how much I'm loved and how lucky I am to work in an environment where I'm surrounded by such awesome people.

This morning, my phone rang again, and it was the other company. The HR man scheduled a phone interview for me for Friday. And he asked me if I was interested in the position.

I said yes.

And my heart broke. Because I am intereted. And yet, I'm not. I'm married to my current company. I'm happy. Why would I even look at another company? Why would I betray them like this? For more money? For a better title? Is it really worth it?

Sweetie Pie has already made it clear that he doesn't even want me pursuing this. He says I've got it way too good where I am and that we don't need the extra money. That my happiness is more important than any dollar figure. Part of me agrees with him.

And yet, part of me thinks "sexier company!"

And that part of me thinks "we're only talking! Nothing will come of it."

But the truth is? That my batting average in interviews is extremely high. It's homerun derby high. Actually, it's higher than that. There are many things I can't do well. I can't sing. I can't dance. But in interviews? I can sing and dance and blow the socks off anyone. I'm charming, I'm sharp, I'm smart. In interviews, I shine, I always have. Part of it is that I taught interview skills to other students in college.

So what happens if I do well?

What happens if I land the job?

I've got two months left of maternity leave. I don't intend to work before January 15th. My priority right now is Tiny Man (says the woman who just rocked him back to sleep in his infant carrier so that I could finish this post in peace. Where's my mother of the year award?) and whatever happens, this new job would have to wait for me, that's non-negotiable.

Also non-negotiable? The insane amount of money I will demand. And the flexible schedule I will demand. And the work from home at least two days a week I will demand.

Maybe if I play my cards right, I will manage to scare them away and then I can go back to my perfect job in January without a doubt in the world that I'm doing the right thing.

So why do I feel so freaking guilty?

Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Because I Can't Help It

I have a confession.

There's something I've been withholding from all of you.

It's not something I'm proud of, but you can't control your emotions, especially when you're me.

So I'm in love.

Complete and utter love. And I almost ran off to be with my lover, because this is not an acceptable affair, since my lover belongs to someone else, mainly, my father-in-law. And unless you're on Jerry Springer, it's not acceptable to run off with a lover who is your father-in-law's.

Here she is, in all of her naked glory.





And I wuv her. But I did the right thing and gave her back, because I'd hate to be taken out of my father-in-law's will. But my plan is that I will have my own lover for Christmas. We will be together. And I will fondle her for hours on end and lick her lens and do all sorts of dirty things to her.

Because when your lover gives you this:



Or this?



Or even this?



How can you not be in love?

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Snippets of Funny

In Canada, when someone has a baby and is on leave, we call it maternity leave. Here, in the US, it's also called maternity leave, but you're paid through Short Term Disability. This makes me laugh, because seriously? I'm now considered disabled because I have a child? I guess I am disabled when it comes to drinking, since I have to time glasses of wine just right so that I don't have to pump and dump, since I'm only producing enough breast milk that Tiny Man only gets six to eight ounces of formula a day, this stuff's like gold, and I'm not willing to waste a drop, thank you very much.

Anyway, my short term disability provider feels the need to mail me letters every few days to let me know that they will be paying me. Which is nice. I like getting mail, especially mail that promises me money to sit at home and snuggle with Tiny Man.

What I do have an issue with is that every single on of those letters reads the following:

"Dear Catwoman,

Re: Your STD status"

So now, not only am I disabled, but a pregnancy is also considered to be an STD? I can kind of see their logic here, since after all, Sweetie Pie did cause this and there was nookie involved in the conception of Tiny Man, I ain't going to lie to you. But Tiny Man is way cuter than a herpes outbreak, thank you very much.

-----------------------------------

And now I leave you with a Little Man funny.

Catwoman to Sweetie Pie: "When I was little, I never dreamed that I'd grow up to do PR for something so unexciting, and yet I love it and I miss it.

Little Man: "When I grow up, I want to be a tractor."

Love,

Catwoman.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Thirty-Eight Months: My Letter to Little Man

Dear Little Man,

For 12 days now, you've been a big brother. And I have to say, you took to it better than I ever could have dreamed. But that's kind of our pattern, you and I, isn't it? I worry about something, and you make me look like a freak by blowing my expectations way out of the water. For 12 days now, not a day has gone by where you haven't asked to kiss your little brother, but even more touching, not a day has gone by where you haven't touched his little face and told him you love him. And you've done it completely unprovoked.



Your sweetness is one of the things that I've always loved best about you. But to see you, my first born be so gentle and loving towards others, well, it's all I can do not to dance on rooftops and shout your praises to the world. Which I guess is a little what I do here monthly on this blog, but yet, it feels like it's not enough, because you are truly a gift to this world. When I look at you and your brother, I think to myself that I should have 20 more kids, because when the world seems to be a dark place, full of mean bullies and dumbness, surely I'm doing the world a disfavor by not repopulating it with greatness like you and Tiny Man.

I'm amazed at how much you know. Facts come out of your mouth constantly, like when you told me this morning that there are 365 days in a year. Seriously? Why does a three-year old even know that? Or the fact that you know the name Barack Obama. This morning you were talking about him, and since we're two days away from the election, one that many people consider to be historic because we'll have either a black President or a female Vice-President (which, for the record? Canada had a female Prime Minister almost 20 years ago now, but no need to rub that in anyone's face, we already do enough bragging with our universal healthcare and lack of litter), you and I had a conversation about politics this morning. I showed you pictures of Obama and John McCain, the Republican Presidential candidate, and you asked me what their names were. After I told you who they were, I asked you if you knew who they were. You said "yeah, he has brown boobies, and he has white boobies." Seriously? All political pundits should be three-year olds, because I think the world would step off of its soap box a lot more that way.



You are a 90-year old man trapped in a three-year old's body though. The other day, we were in the car and Eminem's "Lose Yourself" came on the radio. I turned it up and began to sing and bop to the music, until you shouted at me "I don't like that noise." Stifling giggles, I told you this wasn't noise, it was the greatness of Eminem, the only great white rapper who ever lived. You rolled your eyes at me and said "It's just noise, and I don't like it." You also yell at me whenever I decide to turn the radio away from the Oldies station. I think you might be the only three-year old in the country who thinks The Carpenters are the best new band ever and that The Beach Boys will never get old.



Besides getting a baby brother, this month was also marked by Halloween, and this was the first time that you really appreciated the whole concept. This was also the first year that you wouldn't let me pick out your costume for you, and you picked your own in a catalogue. And I must say, it was one of the ugliest costumes in there, but no matter how hard I tried, you were adamant about being a race car driver. I figured that Halloween was still weeks away and that being three years old, you'd change your mind. (See how I just did that again? I expected you to act like any other three-year old. Yeah, I don't learn, and the faster you figure that out, the better for both of us.) Enough to say, you didn't. So you were a race car driver. I have to admit, that as much as I hated the costume, once it was on you, it actually looked cute. I'm now convinced that you're one of those people who can wear anything and make it look good. Tomorrow I'm sending you to school wearing nothing but an unraveled roll of toilet paper to really test my theory. Unless it's raining.



When it was time to put on your costume, you flat out refused. You told me you wanted to go trick or treating in the clothes you were wearing. No amount of pleading, begging or threatening would change your mind. And then suddenly, you did change your mind. And when you went trick or treating with your father, I expected you guys to be back 15 minutes later, but you were gone almost an hour and a half, with your little spider bag filled with candy, and your father carrying a grocery bag more than half full as well. And yesterday, when it got dark, you turned to your dad, a look of excitement in your eyes and said "Daddy! It's getting dark, it's time to go trick or treating!" That's when I had to break the news to you that there are 364 days left before the next Halloween. But if you love Halloween, just wait until you get to celebrate Christmas. Kid, I swear to you, it's going to make your head explode!

I love you, my Little Man,

Maman.