Once upon a time, I was semi-cool. At least I was in my head. But lately, I've found that I've become a mom. One who is forced to say insane mom things. I mean, really, what self-respecting cool person would say any of the following?
- "We don't grab our penis while we're cooking dinner."
- "Stop hitting your brother with that chair."
- "The dog is not a step stool."
- "Don't use the dogs for target practice."
- "Stop running and the dogs will stop chasing you."
- "If you take the dog's bone right out of his mouth, you can't be surprised when he tackles you to get it back."
- "Take that shoe out of your mouth." (note: said to child, not dogs)
- "You have to wear pants to school, end of story."
Once upon a time, I was semi-cool. Maybe if I repeat that enough, I won't forget.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Once upon a time, I was semi-cool. At least I was in my head. But lately, I've found that I've become a mom. One who is forced to say insane mom things. I mean, really, what self-respecting cool person would say any of the following?
Sunday, November 08, 2009
I took the kids to get their holiday pictures taken (and Tiny Man's one-year pictures, slightly late, but not horribly bad by second child standards). When we entered the mall, we were shocked to find that Santa Claus had already arrived. I mean, really, you'd think the man would have too much to do to prepare for Christmas to spend two whole months at a mall in North Texas, but you'd be wrong.
Here's the picture, and below my interpretation of what was said by the parties in the picture.
Little Man: "I asked the old smelly stranger for my Spiderman toy and sat on his strange lap and kind of smiled at the camera. This better be f'ing worth it. I better get a freaking life size Spiderman who feeds me gold-covered candy all the time for this."
Santa: "Hi Little buddy!"
Tiny Man: "Who the fuck are you, and why am I on your lap? You come any closer, and I'll fucking cut you."
I'm Catwoman, and I like to pretend that my 12.5-month old is a mafia dude with a potty mouth.
Reason #182 I'm not a good person.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
In the car this morning, on the way school.
"Little Man, I've noticed that you're always starving when I pick you up from school in the afternoon. So you end up filling up on a snack in the car and then you're not hungry for dinner. Would you like me to start sending you with a lunch box afternoon snack so that you have something else to eat in class besides the goldfish crackers they give you?
- I'd like that, I'm always hungry.
- Well, that's because you play a lot of sports at school and it's a long time before lunch and dinner.
- So what's in my lunchbox for snack today?
- Uhm, well, I don't have one for you today, since we just decided this now...
- What? You forgot my lunchbox with my snack? I can't believe you forgot it!"
Of course, this is the same kid who tells me all the time "remember how you kept hitting cars every day?" And because I fell down on Saturday while carrying his brother (no one got hurt, thanks to my
quick thinking being used to always falling down), he keeps saying "be careful when you hold my brother, because you're always dropping him."
It's like living with my mother.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Last Wednesday was a hard, hard day emotionally for me. My baby was turning one (yes, I know, way overdue with his 12-month letter, and let's ignore the fact I never wrote one for his 11-month birthday. Hello, second child syndrome!) which means that I will never get to hold a newborn again, at least not one that spent nine months inside my tummy. I was missing my dog tremendously, more so than any other pet I've ever lost. I knew I always had a sweet spot for that dog, but never realized how truly special he was to me until he was gone. And damn I miss that dog.
But even more than me, there was Little Man, who worried about Old Dog going hungry in heaven, since it had been his job to feed him twice a day. And then came the talks of how he hoped that our car would get in a horrible crash and we all died, that way we'd all get to go to heaven and be with Old Dog again. Nothing says 'I miss having a dog' like a four-year old with crazy dark thoughts.
So on that fateful Wednesday, I decided that we all needed an outlet for our puppy love. And began to contact breeders of Brittanys in Texas.
And it was freaking hard. Because the whole time, the guilt of 'replacing' my dog, was eating me alive. And I cried in my blue cubicle. A lot.
One of the breeders who contacted me back was one of those rare breeders who holds the interests of the breed above the business side of it. The kind of person I was looking for, because the last thing I'd ever want is to fuel a puppy mill, thank you very much.
She told me that they were not planning any litters for the next six months and maybe beyond, due to the state of the industry and the economy. She then told me that unfortunately, most breeders don't have the best interest at heart, and to please let her know if we decided to buy a dog from someone, as she could tell us what that breeder's reputation was like. She then asked me about rescuing.
We all might remember our incident with Cujo, a.k.a the cocker spaniel who was inbred and had Spaniel rage and mauled Sweetie Pie twice, the second time being so horrible, that my husband's body went into shock. And then of course, there was Satan's Dog, the worst dog that ever lived, who was just rotten, until he mauled Old Dog.
I told this breeder that if we didn't know the parents and their temperaments, we wouldn't take a dog in. Which excluded rescues.
On Friday, I received an email from a woman with the Brittany Rescue Association. Wouldn't you know it, two puppies were available for adoption about 40 miles from us! And the breeder had suggested us as parents.
And I told her no way, not going through that again, I have children to worry about, they come first. No parents, no rescuing from us.
She had me on the hook. She emailed me back and said these puppies were actually from a divorcing couple, the kind of divorce where no one can agree on anything and it gets so nasty that they just get rid of everything and start fresh. Which included the dogs, mom, dad, and three puppies.
And then she told me she'd sent me pictures.
And did she ever.
17 megabytes of pictures later, my inbox blew up, and I had fallen in love.
As soon as I emailed the pictures to Sweetie Pie, he made it clear that we could meet the puppies, but we were getting
only one. Which I agreed to.
On Saturday, the rescue group came to the house for the mandatory home visit with both puppies and there they were, in our yard, running around with those little puppy legs, sweet as can be, wagging their tails at us. After a good half hour, a decision had to be made.
And I couldn't do it. Picking one over the other felt too much like a Survivor tribal council, and neither puppy had given us any reason to have their torch snuffed out and tell him too bad, so sad, but you can't be part of our tribe, because your brother's slightly cuter?
We couldn't do it.
So meet Thing 1 and Thing 2. They've already brought a lot of joy to our house. And have been so have been a lot of help around the house, like when they decided I had way too many gift bags in my closet and helped me declutter by shredding a couple. Or how Thing 2 feels that Bounty paper towels' stock needs a boost and piddles in the house to make sure that Bounty's sales can increase.
Most importantly, they're helping heal my broken heart.
Monday, October 19, 2009
I'm not superstitious. I don't believe in Feng-Shui. I'm agnostic.
In other words, I'm just here, living my life and don't believe that anything I do is going to cause me bad ju-ju.
Except that I'm now convinced that a gypsy curse has been set on me.
And I've been terrified to blog about it, because I thought I might make the curse angrier and then something heavy would fall on me. Or that I'd end up climbing into my parents home made hot air balloon and fly away, since apparently all of the cool kids are doing it.
Let's rehash the past three weeks, shall we? Of course there was the death of my beloved dog, which I've blogged about here and won't bore you with my grief again, even though I thought about him on my way into the office today and the pain gripped my heart so hard that I thought I was going to pass out. I've put four pets to sleep now, but none of them I have missed this much. And stopping now before I write another depressing post.
In the midst of losing my dog, I was also embroiled in a security investigation. I'd like to say that I was the one doing the investigating, but I wasn't. Instead, I was being investigated by my company for potentially developing and releasing a malware virus into the company. At first, I thought the whole thing was a joke, because me? Really? I may work for an IT company, but I'm actually the Tweedle Dee of technology. In fact, when the investigator asked me if I backed up my laptop, I paused and then asked "doesn't it do it automatically?" Hell, when Blogher contacted me to ask me to shrink down my header, I asked them if they'd mind doing it for me, beause I? Have no freaking clue how to do it. My job here is to look cute and make people laugh. Not to know IT, yo.
I've been cleared and I'm sure they now realize that even putting me on the list of suspects was ridiculous, although I sure hope the person who had to go through my work laptop enjoyed the 10,000 pictures of my kids that I have saved on it, and they obviously now know that I would never think of using my work laptop for personal use. Cough, cough.
Since I was being investigated, I was told that I would not be provided with a replacement laptop and would instead have to use my personal computer. Which is totally awesome, except for the fact that I don't own one.
Which meant I had to borrow a crappy laptop from someone and work out of my Yahoo account, because nothing says very important person like working out of your Yahoo account and having half of your emails go into people's junk folders, because their email thinks you're trying to convince them to use potions to grow their penis size.
But worst of all? Is my almost impeccable driving record (if you don't include the incident in March 2001 when a car full of people driven by a 16-year old girl went through a red light and slammed into me) has now been ruined. Huge props to GEICO, who might be the best insurance company ever, since they've yet to cancel me even though I slammed into the back of two vehicles in three weeks. Because one fender bender, just isn't enough.
The first one was totally not my fault. Some old lady stopped in the middle of the parking lot in front of me for no reason, and chose to do it right when I was hanging Little Man a piece of paper to throw out his gum. I slammed on the brakes when I realized what was going on and the impact was at such a low speed, that I was certain I'd stopped 0.0002 inches from her bumper, since I felt no impact. But when she got out of her little Miata looking pissed off, that's when the "oh crap" thought entered my head. The paint damage on her vehicle was pretty minor, but my Jeep Liberty acted like it hadn't even hit anything.
The second accident might have slightly been more my fault. I was waiting to turn right to get on another street, and there was another car in front of me. I was looking to the left, waiting for my chance, and there was a huge opening, that I assumed (which is the key word here) that the car went. At the next opening, I slammed on the accelerator (hello Nascar? I'm available anytime you want me) only to slam into the rear end of the vehicle in front of me, who I guess was waiting for an invitation to go.
It was a Honda CRV, which apparently is a car made of tin foil and paper, because his trunk? Let's just say it was practically kissing the back seat and my Liberty does not have a V8 engine.
But the worst part of accident number two in three weeks was that the poor guy still had paper plates on his car. And from the expiration date printed on those temporary plates, it was pretty clear that he'd had his brand new car about three days. Welcome to the real world, SUCKER!
My Jeep, on the other hand, took it like an Ultimate Fighting Championship beast/man hybrid and except for a crack in the plastic around the license plate holder and a few missing paint chips on my bumper, which give it some character, if you ask me, my Jeep is otherwise intact and ready to take out anyone else who gets in our way.
Both times, I was driving my children around, because let's face it, I'm rarely without at least one backseat driver nowadays, and the second accident, as I sat there freaking out trying not to say curse words, but unable to hold in the "OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod" verbal diarrhea, Little Man spoke up from the back seat and said to me "Don't worry, Mommy, it's just an accident."
And this is where it's proven once again that my son is a better person than me. And when he's a teenager and backs up into a pole with my Porshe (because surely, I'll be driving a cooler vehicle by then, yes?), I hope that I return the favor and tell him the same thing.
Except for the fact that I'm not a good person, so I know I'll end up going ape shit on him. But hey, knowing your own limitations is a sign of maturity, right?
This week is a new week. As an eternal optimist, I feel like that maybe, just maybe the gypsy curse has run its course. This weekend, I spent way too much money investing in something I will probably only need for another 12 months to 18 months. I got the houndstooth pattern, which clearly ups my cool factor by 10 points all by itself. I think the sheer coolness of that bag coming my way soon has broken the curse.
And now good things are coming to me. I know it. I opened 12 fortune cookies before being told so.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
A few weeks ago, Little Man decided that when he grew up, he wanted to be Spider-Man.
I have no idea where this came from. Kid's never seen the show, kid no longer watches any TV really, and the once a month he'll ask for something, it's a recorded show from a network with no advertising. And yet, there it was, someone at school must have preached the greatness of Spider-Man, and now my kid's decided that putting on some weird costume and flying from building to building taking out bad guys is a fantastic career path.
I told him that superhero as a career choice wouldn't pay the bills, and that he'd need a day job. Little Man settled on police officer by day, Spiderman by night. Not exactly the most family friendly path, because exactly when will he handle midnight feedings if he's out wrestling with the Green Goblin? But whatever, I'm not his wife and until she sets her foot down, I'm not interested in crushing his dreams.
We're currently in Ottawa visiting my parents, and Little Man accompanied my dad on a golfing excursion with some buddies of his, one of which is a cop. The cop asked Little Man what he wanted to be when he grew up, and Little Man gave him his usual answer of cop by day, Spider-Man by night. The cop told him that he was actually a cop as well, and Little Man's eyes lit up with excitement and he asked "And you're Spider-Man at night?"
"Nope," the cop replied. "At night, I sleep."
Little Man later told me that his grandpa's friends are extremely lazy.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Once upon a time, we had four pets. Two dogs and two cats. Sweetie Pie and I were like the Brady bunch, I came into the relationship with the two cats, he came with the two dogs, and when we moved in together, we made everyone learn to get along.
Eventually, we lost Sweetie Pie's lab to cancer, a horrible disease that meant that I had to hold that big yellow head on my lap, whispering how much I love him as the vet injected him with poison to stop his heart and his suffering.
Then, a year or two ago (time seems so fluid to me since I've had children, where the years all seem interchangeable and the only change is how big my children are getting), my younger cat (then 8 years old), suddenly disappeared. Either he headed for a better home where he'd be fed filet mignon every day, or he was snatched by a coyote who's first name was definitely not Wile E. since this cat, albeit fat, was quick.
Then there was Satan's Dog, our first lab's replacement and the dog that still can not be spoken of without dismay, the dog who loved with all his heart, when he wasn't leaving a path of destruction. The dog that I finally got rid of when he attacked our Old Dog so badly that the poor old dog was left missing a piece of his lip. And I became frightened for my children, my toddler and my then brand new baby, because if the dog was willing to turn on his best friend who he adored, why wouldn't he do the same to one of my kids? So I made the devastatingly difficult to give the dog up to a non-kill shelter, who looked for a new home for him without kids or other dogs.
Earlier this year, my old cat, the one I'd had since I was 14, the one who saw me through gawkiness and acne, the slutty years and let me feed her hot dog when we were stranded in Atlanta on our way to moving to Dallas, the one who saw me grow up and then saw my children be born (not literally, obviously, I don't know of any hospital who'd allow a cat to serve as your doula).
And then there was one. His name was chosen by me, and I'd known him since he was this little fur ball of a few months, a little ball that would lay on my lap, his head tucked between my chest and my arm. He was sweet, he was loving, he was quiet, and I loved him to pieces because despite being a dog, he had the personality of a cat. He didn't need to be in your face all the time, he was perfectly content laying in the same room as you for company. Or not, as he often chose to sleep on our bed while I worked in the living room.
Old Dog didn't care about most people, really, not disliking them, per se and greeting them so that they would know he was a dog, but he just rocked, is all. When I brought Little Man home, Old Dog, every time I'd let him in would run right for the bassinette, climb carefully with his front paws on the window sill and look in the bassinette to make sure the little human was ok. Once, Little Man had actually accepted to sleep in his crib, and when the dog ran in and saw that the child was missing from the bassinette, he practically freaked out and ran over to make me aware that the baby was missing. I think this might be the one and only time he pulled a Lassie move. It was unlike him and reminded me that he cared more than his aloofness would let on.
When Tiny Man came, Old Dog didn't care, as he'd long learned that infants grow up to be children who love to throw bouncy balls at his head. Tiny Man, however, was completely enamored with the dog, his whole little face lighting up, grabbing the dog's nose, ears, fur, whatever was in reach while squealing in his ear to show his love and adoration. Not once did the dog growl or even sigh as he was tortured by the baby. He considered it his duty to be a baby punching bag apparently, and he did it so well.
A few months ago, the dog began to have issues. He would pee all the time, sometime couldn't wait until he got outside and he would drink like crazy. A trip to the vet found him to be diabetic. I learned to give insulin shots, he was put on a special diet and life went on. Then in August, while we were in Canada, the dog, while staying at the vet's had three seizures. The vet asked me if I'd seen him having a seizure and I felt horrible, thought maybe I hadn't been observant enough, since really, I hadn't noticed anything. The dog was put on an epilepsy drug as well, and life went on.
Except that it didn't. The dog began to have more and more seizures. The medicine was supposed to take two weeks to regulate his system, but at week three, he was having multiple seizures a day, pooping in the house, having issues with his back legs and my husband demanded answers from the vet, but none that could be provided without spending $2,000 in full body scans. Money that we didn't have, nor were we willing to spend on a 10-year old dog.
This morning, I came home from dropping off the kids at school and found the dog tangled in our swing bench in the backyard. His collar was caught on a rod and he was howling in pain or from an epilepsy attack. His whole body was wedged between two parts of the bench, his paws caught in different parts. As I tried to free him, I either hurt him or he got scared, and he bit me. But even at his worse moment in life, my sweet, sweet dog didn't even bite hard enough to break the skin. I somehow freed him and he began to flop like a fish, a horrible sight that will remain burned in my brain for a long, long time. I rushed inside the house and called Sweetie Pie in hysterics, who jumped in his truck to head home. I called the vet to make them aware of the situation and then headed back out to be with my dog, who was now laying in the grass, panting heavily and whining in pain, his back legs stretched out in a distorted manner.
I rubbed that dog's head, a head that I've rubbed and kissed probably 10 thousand times during the past 10 years. I told him how sorry I was that I put him outside, because I'd done so to prevent yet another accident on my cream carpets. I cursed myself for my selfishness and cried. And then I held him some more. When Sweetie Pie got home, we placed him on a blanket and carried him to the truck. When we got to the vet's office, they brought my sweet dog to the back and I could see them testing his reflexes, and I could see his paws not responding. When I saw this, my brain knew that it was over and my heart broke in so many pieces that it will be a long time before it's whole again.
The vet confirmed the paralysis for us and told us that either the dog had a severe seizure that caused it, or else an undiagnosed spinal tumor is the cause of everything the dog has gone through these past months.
He then told us it was time to let the dog go. And I cried some more, and Sweetie Pie, for the third time in all of our years together cried too. I told the vet I needed to be with Old Dog when he died, because no matter how much it hurts, I cannot have one of my pets die alone on a cold veterinarian table.
And so they brought him in and he wailed in my lap and I told him that he was a good dog and sorry I was that I couldn't take his pain away. I told him how much we loved him and how much we'd miss him. How much he lit up my children's lives and how grateful I am that they got to know him.
Today I grieve. I grieve for my favorite dog. I grieve for the fact that I'm writing this in a pet-free home,something I haven't know in 25 years. I grieve for the fact that his collar is the only thing I have of his. I grieve for the fact that I need to explain to my four-year old that he's lost yet another pet. I grieve for Tiny Man who's too young to understand what happened and will more likely look for his dog when he gets home tonight.
But most of all, I grieve because tonight, there won't be a giant ball of fur with the softest ears ever made laying in my spot in bed. There won't be a dog there for me to snuggle, who'll just sigh and get up to leave because he doesn't like to snuggle.
I miss you Old Dog.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
This month, Little Man began chess classes at school. Even though this will make some of you snicker that I'm guaranteeing that my son will get beaten up in middle school and high school, I assure you that I'm cancelling out the nerdiness with Tae Kwondo classes so that anyone who does make the bad decision to mock my son's nerdiness will probably stop when they end up in the hospital with broken bones.
I wanted Little Man to start taking chess since research shows that mastering chess works out the parts of the brain that help with math and science. And since I always struggled with math, I figure any advantage I can give my child aren't a bad thing.
Little Man has only taken three classes at this point, and it's unclear as to whether he's really learned anything except for the fact that there are black and white pieces involved.
He came home with an assignment, a paper where he had to figure out how to get check mate in one move and after Sweetie Pie had it all figured out, he decided to break out the chess board to demonstrate the problems to Little Man.
"So, Little Man, do you know what the point of chess is?
- Yeah. It's to win.
- Uhm, actually, it's to get the opponent's king.
- No. The whole point of chess is to win."
I know I've been known to be so ultra-competitive at Pictionary that people have refused to play with me, but I'm thinking the competitiveness gene? It is mighty strong.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
So here we are. Four years old. I'm not sure what happened, maybe I sneezed or blinked, maybe I even turned my head for a second. Whatever it was, all I know is that suddenly, you've become a child. One who's big and plays T-ball and states his opinion about everything and obsesses about signs and what they say and doesn't. ever. stop. talking.
Oh the talking. I know I've mentioned the talking before, but I could never talk enough about the amount of talking you do. If you were a cartoon strip, I would get smothered by your conversation bubbles in two frames flat. You can out-talk me, my child, which is freaking unbelievable, because I swear your father thinks I deserve a world record for my talking. And yet, the talking gene mutated when you were created and turned into this monster talking machine that favors the word 'why'.
My dreams are haunted by the why question. Hell, so are my days. I can't answer anything without you asking 'why?' as a follow up and there are days where I'll whip my head around to you in exasperation and you'll sigh and say 'ok, no more questions, Mommy.' Which by the way? How'd you get so great at making people feel like shit after you've practically given them an aneurysm from your endless questions? That's talent, right there! I always feel horrible when you say that, like I should prompt you to interrogate me for another 30 minutes, just for hurting your feelings.
Your love for your brother now knows no bounds. You've moved in with him, because you claimed you missed him too much at night to be away from him for that long. You continue to pepper him with kisses and in his eyes, you are the most amazing being there ever could be. Which is a pretty true assessment of you. You are amazing, smart, perceptive and hilarious when you choose to be.
You're so funny, that you have been most of my status updates on Facebook this past month (do they still have Facebook when you're reading this? Or are you shaking your head thinking about how embarrassing it is that your mother is infatuated with archaic techology like Facebook and the driven car). Some of my favorites include:
When asked what you wanted for your birthday: "I just want a present that when I open it, I go 'wow, that's really awesome!'"
About your little brother: "When is Tiny Man going to learn to get stuff for me?"
After all your friends left your 4th birthday party: "Well, I'm almost five now."
Me: "I'm keeping my fingers crossed."
You: "I can see your fingers, and they're not crossed.
- Well, they're crossed in my mind.
(sigh) - You don't have fingers in your mind."
You: "I'm going to marry (name of best guy friend from school) when I grow up."
Me: "Well, you live in Texas, where they say that a man has to marry a woman.
- Where can I get married then.
- You can get married in Canada.
- Fine then, me and (best guy friend from school) will go to Canada. And we'll get married in Canada. Will you come to my wedding?
- I wouldn't miss it for the world.
Although, you absolutely despise people laughing at your jokes, as you take everything so personally, to the point that I once yelled at you "WILL YOU FREAKING LIGHTEN UP? YOU'RE NOT EVEN FOUR YET, STOP ACTING LIKE AN 80-YEAR OLD!"
Your father says that you and I, we're like an old married couple, we bicker all the time, and yet it's obvious to anyone who knows us that there's a deep love and respect there. And that's probably true. And if I have to bicker with you for the rest of my life, then I'm ok with that, because every night, I kiss you goodnight and you squeeze me so hard, that my heart practically implodes.
You're an amazing child. We were at CVS the other day (no shocker there, we go to CVS so much, you practically know the aisles by heart) and the cashier that day, who is fairly new, said to me "You look like you're a good mom." The truth is? I'm not the good one. I'm just lucky enough to have you for a first-born. You make it look easy, kid. And I love that you make me look good. I hope I make you look good too.
One morning, you were watching me fumble with my eye shadow and you said to me "can I try?" I figured, what the hey, that's why they invented make up remover, right? Your first attempt was exactly what I expected: I looked like a clown with a black eye. I thanked you for your services. The next day, you came back in the bathroom and asked me if you could try again. Once again, I sat on the floor and let you have fun, my small attempt at imagining life with two girls would be like. You frowned and carefully applied the eye shadow with much concentration and then you nodded and told me you were done, and that I could take a look. When I looked in the mirror, I stared at my reflection stunned. You'd done a better job than I do.
And that's you in a nutshell. It doesn't matter what the activity is, if you try hard enough, you'll not only master it, but you'll master it better than the person you watched. It's no wonder your brother and I are so awed by you.
I love you, my Little Man,
A rant by Catwoman at 9/09/2009 11:35:00 AM
Thursday, September 03, 2009
"Sweetie Pie, what do you think we should get your father for his birthday?
- I had an idea this year. We should get him an El Cunt."
"What the hell is an el cunt?
- You don't know what an el cunt is?
- No. I don't, how do you even spell that? E-L-C-U-N-T?"
Another pause to allow for Sweetie Pie to be revived by the paramedics from dying of laughter.
"What the hell do you think I'm proposing we buy my father? A Mexican whore? I said elk hunt!
- Oh. That makes a lot more sense. How much does that cost?
- Probably a couple thousand dollars.
- Yeah, let's get him the Mexican whore instead, then."
Friday, August 28, 2009
Am I the only person who's absolutely horrible with names? Like I have to meet most people two to three times before I remember their names?
And who can't remember most people if I haven't seen them in a few years?
Facebook is the worst invention ever, in my mind. About a quarter of my Facebook 'friends' are people who I don't even remember from my childhood. I know they really know me, because they're friends of people I know and their names sound vaguely familliar, but I've truly got no freaking clue who they are. No memory of them, no memory of their names.
Even worse? Yesterday, I thought 'hey, I should look up the guy I lost my virginity to!'
And then realized I could only remember his first name.
I'm not freaking kidding you. You could hold a gun to my head, and I still couldn't tell you his last name.
In my defense, I do remember his first name was Dale, and I tried to get everyone to start calling me Chip, because I thought it'd be cute. Little did I know that Chip & Dale is not just the names of two Disney chipmunks.
So yeah. I lost my virginity to some guy named Dale. Who, in my mind, no longer has a last name. And therefore, Facebook won't let me find out if he looks like poop now.
You know those commercials where they talk about the early signs of dementia and alzheimer's? No one will recognize those in me. I'm screwed.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
So guess what I did, children's?
I've gone and signed up for a pole dancing class.
I ain't making it up.
Me, the klutz who managed to trip and fall on a tour of the labor and delivery unit at the hospital.
Me, the rythmically challenged one who was once asked at a nightclub if I've been suffering from epilepsy my whole life.
Yup, that me.
That me will be swinging herself around some big metal pole.
Emergency rooms of North Texas, get ready. There will be blood.
Clearly, a post recapping the first class will be coming once I actually schedule my classes.
But it's a coming.
Monday, August 24, 2009
So yeah, you're getting a two-fer letter, since I'm so far behind that I'd never get caught up. And you can blame it on being the second-born, but I have to tell you that already, there are more pictures of your first 10 months than there are probably of your brother's first 18 months. As obsessive as I was with taking your brother's picture, I'm even more so with you. I know how fast babies change now and I have to capture every small change in you. You also don't help my obsession with pictures by looking so freaking cute.
There were a lot of firsts these past two months. First teeth, especially the five you sprouted in a three-week period. Man, I haven't seen crankiness that bad since I was pregnant with you and threw a dinner plate at your dad's head for disagreeing with me. For the longest time, you were our snaggle-toothed one, our little can opener. And I loved that tooth. I loved that it looked so out of place on its own, all by itself in your little mouth. One day, you had perfectly smooth baby gums and then, two days before you turned nine months old, there it was! A perfect little sparkling white tooth. And then a few weeks later, your mouth exploded, and now, as I write this, you have six teeth and considering you yelled at me this morning for not letting you crawl up the stairs (another first that you started a week ago. I? Am not amused by that one.)
There was also your first haircut, which I put off a long, long time, dude, because I love your hair a little bit too long and crazy. But you were beginning to look a little bit like a shaggy dog, and so finally, I took you to a children's haircutting place. And it, uhm, went well.
Until she cut that first piece of hair. And then you went ape shit on her, because apparently, you were just as attached to your hair as you were. You were so upset, that eventually I just had to get you out of that chair and hold you on my lap while the girl finished cutting your hair. Did I mention the whole thing was your father's idea?
Speaking of your hair, during the last few months, it's turned reddish. Which is the biggest genetic mystery ever. Your father is of Irish descent, but just where did those auburn highlights of yours come from? You've got the most interesting features, with your reddish hair, and your eyes the color of sea glass. Not quite blue, not quite green, I frequently find myself just looking into those eyes of yours, trying to decide what color they really are. And just when I settle on blue, the light in the room changes, and they suddenly become dark green. I suspect many women some day will spend hours pondering the same thing. I'll be at the door with a big stick chasing them off if you need me.
During the last two months, you've become quite the little ham. You always have been, to a certain degree, but now, as your personality is bursting at its seams, we can truly see how much you love to make people laugh. Nothing makes you happier than getting a laugh out of me, your brother, or your father. We've seen you smash your head into a wall after you covered your head up with your towel and when you hear us laugh, you peer over at us, snap your head back and let out this hysterical fake laugh, as your eyes light up with the joy of hearing us laugh. You've got it in you, kid, to be one hell of an entertainer. I can tell already that you'll grow up to be one of those people who loves to walk into a room and make people laugh. I can tell, because I'm one of them. Fewer things give me the thrill that having a group of people laughing at one of my stories gives me. And I can already tell that you have an innate gift for it, one that's already 10 times more potent than mine. I foresee many school reports that mention you talking in class too much or making the other kids laugh at inappropriate times. But don't worry, you'll have an ally in me.
In fact, you love to get just about any reaction from people. You love to lay your head down on random things and look over to us with a cute look in your eyes, just so we can make an "awwwwwwww!" sound at you. On more than one occasion, you'll lay your head down on something random, like a toy or the dog's tail and when we don't "awwwwww!" at you, you'll scream at us to get our attention and then do it again until you get the reaction you're looking for.
You're also amazingly sweet. You love our dog so much and get so excited when you see him. You're known for chasing him around the house, talking your little language to him, like you're asking him all about his day, because surely, that big furry beast must do all sorts of exciting things while we're gone right? You love to grab his neck fur to stand yourself up and squeeze him hard, and you feel bad that he has to eat alone, so you make it your mission to crawl over to his bowl while he's eating, grab his food and throw it around the kitchen. I have to say, you're awful lucky to have a dog this patient, kid.
This weekend, I had your father remove your infant car seat from my car. You are now 7 ounces from the maximum weight, which means that you'll probably outgrow it by noon tomorrow at the rate you're growing. I put you in your big car seat for the first time yesterday, and even though you're still facing backwards, you had this look of excitement on your face. You looked so small in that big car seat, that it brought me back to the day we brought you home, when you looked this small but in the infant seat instead. Hard to believe that in a few short years, you'll outgrow this seat too. You'll outgrow letting me rock you to sleep when you've had a rough day. You'll outgrow letting me kiss the back of your neck in public. You'll outgrow laughing at my jokes and funny faces.
But no matter how much you outgrow me, you'll still be that 7 pound-blog with the pitch-black hair and eyes so dark, we couldn't tell what color they were.
You're my baby. My last one. How about you take it easy on your Mama and slow down this getting big crap, ok?
I love you my Tiny Man,
Friday, August 21, 2009
Dear Fire Ants,
I'm from a place called Canada, I'm sure you've heard of it, since you have cousins there. Your Canadian cousins, are who I grew up with. They're much bigger than you, and fatter and they know that real beer does not have the word "Budweiser" on the bottle. They're also friendly, and having encountered hundreds, if not thousands of these cousins of yours over the years, I can assure you that each enounter was a friendly one, where said cousin crawled on me, tickling me slightly, and then was placed back down to me as I marveled at the amazingness that is nature.
You, however, might be the bitchiest bastards I've ever met. Now, I do realize that you might have taken my plopping myself down in the grass yesterday to possibly be a terrorist air attack. My boobs do look like missiles in my fantastic Victoria's Secret boulder holders. And sure, I did rest my right wrist right on top your nest, but let's be honest, your signage? Not exactly obvious. Nowhere did it say "DANGER! Approaching fire ant nest, approach at your own risk" or "Welcome to our nest!" or "You bitches going to die if you get any closer to our nest."
I can understand that you thought my intent was to destroy your nest, after all, my five-foot three height would probably make me appear to be as large as Godzilla to you.
But seriously? Did it ever occur to you to ask before maliciously throwing your army on me and biting me so much, that my wrist ballooned up to the size of my calf? I mean, most people would say 'hey, dude, this is my home over here, you mind moving before you crush my new plasma tv? Much obliged!' I guess your Queen never taught you manners, did she?
And I guess you and your friends aren't most people, are you? Most people wouldn't make my wrist look like I have leprocy or am going through puberty, because my wrist has close to 30 pustules today that look like giant white heads. And this? Is not the professional image I'm going for, especially when my underwear was sticking way out of my jeans on Wednesday, and I'd managed to tuck my shirt in said underwear at the last trip to the bathroom. At least everyone was aware that all of my good underwear was in the wash that day. The point is that you suck.
You're mean, you're vicious, and I'm pretty sure that out of all the ants, you have the worst BO.
What's made you so angry anyway? Project Runway's back on, there are many more days of summer left and the world has found out what a creep Jon Gosselin is.
At least I should thank you for staying away from my baby and taking all of your anger out on me. But seriously? Next time I see any of you little bastards, I'm setting your f'ing nest on fire, I'm not even kidding you. You want war, you little six-legged punks? I'll give you war. I spit on you and your stupid little venom. Trust me, you don't want to mess with me. I'm French, we eat snails and cow tongues. Don't make me name you the next thing on the national French menu.
Monday, August 17, 2009
A few weeks ago, Office Max had a 24-count crayon box on sale for 1 cent. I thought they would be perfect for Little Man's school goodie bags, since I'm a cheap mofo, yo. And I spent big money on his real party goodie bags, and am not willing to do the same for 22 kids I don't really know.
Only problem is that Office Max had a three/person limit. The first day I went in with Little Man, handed him 3 cents and told him that he was going to buy three on his own, so that I would start off with six right off the bat.
But the cashier said that it was a limit of three/family, since apparently Office Max believes that children are not people. (Where the hell is PETA when you need them???)
Since I don't argue with cashiers, I instead hit up Office Max every day on my way home that week, until I had all the crayons I needed.
The moral of the story is, if you're a little person of three feet, bad news, you're not a person at Office Max.
Actually, the real moral of the story is that I went to Office Max so much that week, that Little Man knows the store very well now.
And regularly asks me when we're going to Office Max again, like he does for CVS, Walgreen's, and the four grocery stores I hit up in order to stay within my new $50-$60/week grocery budget (now with organic/natural meats y'all!)
Yesterday, Little Man was thinking so hard in the car that my radiator almost heated up again.
I asked him what he was thinking about, and he looked down at his stuffed frog, Max, the one that he has carried everywhere, the one that I keep telling him that when he turns four, it needs to remain on his bed, because I WILL NOT HAVE A BOY IN COLLEGE WHO CARRIES A STUFFED FROG EVERYWHERE, and said: "I was just thinking that Office Max should change their name and just be 'Max.' That way, I could buy all the Maxes I want and never have to worry about losing this one."
Which really, the stuffed frog market has got to be a booming one, especially in this down economy, right?
Am I the only one with an almost-four year old who ponders retailers supply management strategy?
Friday, August 14, 2009
"I need to go potty."
(giggles around the table)
"Give me a break! I'm the Mom of young kids. I also call sex 'Mommy and Daddy time.'"
"You should be up there for the award picture!
- Nah, I had nothing to do with his success, I just pack his lunches and put out ever so often."
"You know what this event needs? More boobs."
Why yes, those were all things said by me. After a few beers, a few cocktails, a few glasses of wine and 3.5 shots.
Even better? This is an event for a company I used to work at 10 years ago, the company I was the PR girl for, that I met Sweetie Pie through because he's a dealer for them. Now 10 years later, he was invited to their fancy event in Montreal where he was awarded some big plate thing for his awesome sales record last year. And five of the people attending from headquarters are people I worked with back then.
I'm sure these people think I only improved with age.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
On the Canadian National news this morning, there was a story about three boys who were accused of chasing and beating a baby moose to death.
Clearly, the entire country is outraged, because damn it, we love our moose so much, we put them on our quarter!
One of the dads, in defense of his son, said there was no way his son and his buddies could have beaten the moose, because at that time, they were busy vandalizing a church.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
So I'm on my way back from Montreal after a mini-anniversary trip to Quebec City with
Paul Walker Sweetie Pie.
Here is what I've learned from this trip:
1. Working while riding Business Class on Via Rail is the best way ever to work. Because they give you lots of beer and wine. Writing a press release buzzed is the best way to write a release ever. Because surely no one in the approval process will have an issue with my quote for the VP that states "You bet my big hairy balls this is the best thing ever." Clearly, my writing gets better the more buzzed I am.
2. When your room is right over a patio restaurant and it's too warm to close the windows, you are going to be paranoid that your wild aniversary loving noises will cause some diner to choke on his garlic butter snails.
3. Quebec City might be one of the cleanest most beautiful cities in the world. If you have not been there, you need to go. Half of Japan was there, so clearly, they know where it's at, and you don't.
4. After 7 years of marriage, and 10.5 years together, I still really, really, like my husband. And he's very hot. Despite that crazy ear hair he's suddenly sprouted.
5. Brazillian bikini waxes are totally worth the agony. Trust me, shell out the 75 bucks. You'll thank me, after you regain consciousness from the pain long enough to have wild crazy animal passionate loving.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Catwoman is wondering if the cafeteria is still open. Ice on her freshly brazillian waxed coochie sure would feel good just about now. And hubby complains I never do anything for him.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tiny Man learned his first baby sign this past weekend, a huge accomplishment because, now the child can begin to communicate his needs to us instead of using that incessant screeching he was using before which sounded a little like a car alarm had mated with a dolphin.
Little Man now signs more, which is not really that necessary of a sign, because, when it comes to food, the kid always wants more. Nonetheless, signing 'more' is much better than the screeching I've already mentioned.
But Tiny Man is already of the mindset that you can never be too clear in your commands. So after pounding his little chubby fists together to say more, he takes one of his fists and punches it against his mouth repeatedly, so that he's in fact telling us "MORE! IN MY MOUTH!"
I know I'm totally being a mom when I say this, but this face? Isn't just adorable. It's also the face of sheer brilliance.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Yes, I know. This letter is so late that it's practically time for me to write your 47-month letter. I'm just writing this letter this late to confirm that you are totally in the right about being paranoid and thinking the world is out to get you. Because it is.
If I had to summarize last month (two months ago?) in one word, it'd be drama.
I think you've always had a flair for the dramatics, albeit in a quiet way, but this past month has been a culmination that has resulted in you being convinced that the entire universe is out to sabotage you. You're a klutz, we established this practically in your first monthly letter. But now, you don't consider stubbing your toe against the coffee table an example of your klutziness. Oh no, instead, it's now an obvious attack. "THE COFFEE TABLE HIT ME!", you'll shout at me across the room, as the coffee table glances at me, stunned and shrugs its shoulders to say "dude, I'm a table, I was totally just sitting here, trying to not crumble under the 10,000 pounds of magazines you've yet to read, and really, just throw out that Parenting Magazine from 2007, because YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO READ IT!"
Other inanimate objects that have attacked you include your bed, the toilet lid, many of your toys and I'm sure I'm forgetting many others, since, you know, I'm 18 days late with this letter.
Your dramatic flair has not, however, stopped at blaming inanimate objects. You also like to mutter these exagerative statements under your breath, some of them so absurd that I want to take you on one of the talk shows, because surely they would be the only ones who can sympathize with your plight. Like this one time your father got you breakfast instead of me, because I was giving your brother a bottle. Your father gave you a bowl of cereal, but forgot to give you a glass of milk with it. Any normal human being would have simply stated "hey, you forgot to give me a glass of milk." But not you. Instead, you sat there, the weight of the world on your shoulders and simply muttered "no one ever gets me a glass of milk with my breakfast and I'm going to be thirsty forever."
Other "never" or "always" muttered statements overheard this past month:
- No one ever lets me play with my toys (when asked to clean up because it's bed time)
- No one ever lets me drive (when told to get out of the driver's seat and in yours)
- I always have to go to sleep (yes, we don't put you to bed once a day when it's dark, instead we expect you to stay in your bed for the rest of your life)
- I always have to go to school (dude, you're not even in kindergarten yet. This is going to be a long, long road at this rate.)
- I'm never allowed to play with matches (oh how did you end up with such cruel parents)
Don't get me wrong, this month hasn't been all bad, there was the time when you called me 'Babe', as in "Hey, babe? Can you get me a glass of milk, please?
- What did you say?!?
- I said please!"
Because clearly that was my issue with that statement.
I love you, my Little Man,
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
- You calling me Dada is very cute, albeit incorrect. I'm not Dada. I'm Mama.
- No, you see, 8 months ago, I was sliced open like a fish, and then you were removed from my body. I still have the cool scar to prove it. I'm Mama.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
There is no better age than 8 months old.
Eight months means that sleepless nights have long been a thing in the past.
Eight months involves crawling and being able to sit up independently and being independent enough that one can entertain oneself for a few minutes.
And when I look over at this oneself, and eye contact is made, I get smiles, big gummy smiles.
And then? I get applause.
Just for making eye contact.
I don't care what anyone says.
It doesn't get any better than this.
Monday, June 29, 2009
So I'm officially in trouble. The day before you turned eight-months old, you began to crawl. Even worse, you began to pull up.
Seriously, dude, how about you focus on some milestones that will let you sit still for long periods of time, like stamp collecting or the art of miming (you are half French, you know). Because you know what this means, right? This means that I will never be able to blink again, because when I do, you'll be halfway across the house trying to set the walls on fire.
At least you're not a quiet child, there's always that, you keep this continuous monologue going of "Ada? Ada?" Which I think roughly translates to "Is there anything in the vincinity that needs destroying?"
We no longer need a shredder, because we've got you now. And you can shred an entire newspaper in approximately 8.9 seconds. It's a pretty awesome skill to witness, actually.
Here's a riddle for you. What do you and puppies have in common? Answer: They both want to go for car rides. all. the. time. and will whine if they're not taken out at least twice a day.
I'm still working from home with you two days a week, but those days are now broken up with trips to the grocery store or the pharmacies to snatch extra couponing deals, just because it gives us somewhere to go without spending a lot of money.
I've now reached the same status with you as the Jonas Brothers have with tween girls. I can't walk into a room without my ear drum getting shattered by your squeals of delight. It's painful as hell, but it also makes me think I might be the most loved person ever. And some day, you'll yell at me that you hate me, and I'll simply close your eyes and remember those squeals of joy as your face practically broke from smiling so hard.
You're my squishy monkey and my snuggle bear. You never want to be held, and yet, regularly, when I pick you up into my arms, you'll rest your head against my chest or on my shoulder and the whole world stops during that split ssecond, where I inhale the smell of you and desperately try to memorize the feel of your baby hair against my face. And just like that, you're off again, and it's all I can do to keep up with you as you squeal as you crawl away.
I've begun selling the infant stuff you've outgrown and literally every offer I've received has broken has broken my heart a little more. The fact that I'm slowly accepting the fact that with you, our family is complete, makes your every milestone bittersweet. As I cheer each one of your milestones, my heart weeps knowing that this is the last time one of my children will roll over for the first time, or smile or laugh. All of these milestones remind me how blessed I am to have two healthy boys, and yet, you can expect the soundtrack of your first steps to be the sound of my sobs as I watch the last baby piece of you evaporate before my eyes.
My time with you is so precious and on a timer that flashes through my head as I realize that in 18 years, my home will be empty of the laughs of children and 18 years just seems like too short of a time to get my fill of baby head smelling.
I love you my Tiny Man,
Monday, June 22, 2009
That would be the sound of my heart breaking.
Because I just signed up Little Man for T-ball.
And no child of mine should be old enough for that.
Also? Tiny Man started crawling on Saturday, which means that he'll want to start dating next week.
I want more babies. And yet, I know that because of financial reasons, we are done.
Money hurts my heart. And my ovaries.
That is all.
Monday, June 15, 2009
I had this one terrible, terrible day at work last week. The kind of day where I came this close to ripping down the walls of my cubicle and hurling them out the window. It was a day where nothing was going right, I was yelled at by people who had no right to yell at me and my mood went from foul to beyond pissy.
Ends up I had PMS, which, thanks to my Mirena IUD, I no longer ever know when the hell's my period due (side note: Dear Mirena: You can suck it with your claims that I'll never have a period again. Not only do I have a period about every 2 1/2 to 4 weeks, but the last one was so heavy, that when I woke up the first morning, it was like a re-enactment of that Godfather scene with the horse head).
I left the office late to go pick up the kids and after I loaded them up, the car was eerily quiet, like the kids could feel that I needed silence.
About 10 minutes into the drive, Little Man suddenly said quietly "Mama?
- Yes, buddy?
- I like your dress. You look very pretty."
It took everything I had to not stop the car, put it in park, run to the back door and hug the crap out of that kid. Never in my entire life had I needed someone to say something that nice to me.
The thing is? In 10 years, probably less than that, if the same scene occured, I would assume he wants something or did something. The fact is, the only pure statements in this world come from three-year olds. It's the kind of moment that I wish I could bottle.
It's the kind of moment that makes me realize that these kids, who love me and adore me and make me smile and swell with pride every day will someday leave me. And the only way to keep experiencing this is by having more bebes.
I wonder if I can google 'how to remove your own IUD.'
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Sometimes living with a preschooler makes me think that this is what living with someone who's high must be like. The randomness, the focusing on really strange things, the fascination with making a sound over and over again. Makes me all crave a brownie.
This morning in the car, I was trying to get to the kids' school as fast as I could to escape Little Man's incessant talking.
I guess Little Man must have run out of things to say at one point, because he randomly yelled out to me "Mama! Look! I'm blinking!"
Well call the freaking media! This is breaking news!
I looked in the rearview mirror, and sure enough, there was Little Man, strapped in his car seat, opening and shutting his eyes with enough force to make his brother's comb over take off.
"That's great honey..."
"Yup, I've got to practice my blinking."
Yeah. And I've got to practice drinking first thing in the morning. Because this led to almost 10 minutes of his talking about blinking and why we blink and do dogs blink what about pigs what about monsters what about snakes why do snakes blink why do snakes have eyes do snakes have tummies will snakes eat me.
I slowed down in front of the school just enough that throwing the kids to the waiting teacher wouldn't cause anyone permanent harm and drove straight to Mexico.
The swine flu's got to be less painful than this phase.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
So the birthday countdown has begun. You regularly wake up in the morning to ask me if it's June yet, because as you say, after June comes July, then August then September, then October, then Newember, then December, and September is your birthday. Your need to mention all of the other months after your birthday, which I just praise the Lord that you weren't born in February, because my days would be filled with you rattling off the months of the year. So yes, your birthday is three months away, and already we've picked out the goodies for the goody bags, the theme and the games. The date's been set and so now, your excitement is palpable. Which means that the next three months are going to be really, really long for me.
Which isn't much different with how long the weeks are now that we've gotten a boat, where every day you ask me "are we going to ride the boat today?" and I have to remind you that we work and that we only ride the boat on weekends when there's no work or school. Your reply is always "is today the weekend?" which, I love you kid, but after a certain time there is only so much I can take explaining to you the concept of weekdays and work days, which quickly spirals into an extended episode of back and forths of you asking "why?", me answering, you asking "why" to my response, until it eventually results in me yelling something along the lines of "BECAUSE I NEED UNDERWEAR AND BEER!"
And every night, you like to remind me that "we didn't get to ride on the boat today," which, for the record? I KNOW THAT!
In fact, I think we need to discuss your non-stop talking. You know I love you, right? You know that because hopefully I say it often enough that you're sick of hearing it, but most of all, I hope you feel it to your core, even when I'm mad at you. But child, I swear that you were put on this Earth with the sole mission to make me go batty. You talk and talk and talk and talk. And you know what else you do? That's right, talk some more. You talk so much, that I've told you once or twice that there is not enough tequila in the world for me to keep listening to you talk so much. Which only prompts you to talk some more, so I've learned to just sit there and sob quietly as the verbal diarrhea that comes out of your mouth just sweeps me away. Your father calls it sweet payback, for all the years I've followed him around, turning his brain to mush with my incessant talking. Did I mention your father's a jerk? Don't turn into him, ok?
Speaking of your father, hunting season is over, which means animals everywhere are breathing a sigh of relief, but it also means your father is now always here. You seem to resent this, a little bit, not because you don't have fun with your dad, but because it means that you never get to sleep in my bed anymore, because the rules are strict, you sleep in your bed, unless your dad's out of town and then we have a big slumber party, which your brother will join as soon as he's old enough to join. You'll regularly ask me when your dad's gone to run errands for what seems like an eternity in your three-year old mind "Is Daddy not coming back?", but you always ask with this hopeful look in your eyes. Evil me, this always makes me want to giggle, and I remind you that it's not nice, that some kids don't have dads and you should be happy to have a dad to play with you and teach you to play baseball. Which has led you to ask me "do the kids with no dads get to sleep with their mommies all the time?" Uhm, missing the point, kiddo.
You can make your brother laugh harder than anyone. In fact, you've taken to tackling him, gently, so that you don't hurt him, and it makes your brother laugh so hard, that I sometimes think his little head is going to blow up. Your brother doesn't love anyone more than he loves you. He is in complete awe of him, and I love how kind you are to him. You've given him almost all of his nicknames, and we now have this game where you say goodbye to him every night and you call him these random names like "good night pizza head!" and I'll make Tiny Man reply back to you "Good night tomato head!" and we'll go back and forth like that until you're laughing so hard, you weave out of the room laughing like a little drunk man.
After "buying" some aspirin at Walgreen's because they were free and a money maker for me.
"Is this medicine for me, Mama? I want to eat one.
- You can't, that's not for you. It's medicine for other people (since I'm going to donate them to a charity for the elderly).
- What's the medicine for, Mama?"
(after deciding that explaining that it's to help people with heart problems, since it's the baby aspirin kind, would be too difficult) "It's for old people.
- Are you old, Mama?
After giving you a cookie that had 10 pounds of shrink wrap around it that had been given to me earlier in the day.
- Mama, I can't open this cookie. I'm only three years old, you know.
You mysteriously began leaving your bed and your room in the past month, never in the middle of the night, but in the morning, when you wake up. What prompted you to do this suddenly is beyond me, when for almost two years now, you'd be terrified to even leave your bed to pee, and would wail at the monitor "I NEEEEED TO GOOOOO POOOOOTTTTYYYYYY!", but all of a sudden, I'll be in the kitchen, bleary eyed, trying to make myself a cup of tea, when I'll hear this quiet rustling behind me, and when I turn around, there you are, big blue eyes staring at me, your pet frog clutched in your hands. The first time you did it, I yelled so loud, that I practically scared you, but you have to understand that seeing a ghost in your place would have been less surprising. Because you? Are not a risk taker, in any way. Hell, you're the kid who for the longest time would ask me when I gave you any kind of sweets "can I eat it?", like if I would ever pull a cruel joke on you, like give you a cupcake, only to tell you that you can't eat it. I'm thinking that if we continue to have you break down walls of fear like this, by the time you're 21, you'll be willing to hug the mascot at our minor baseball team's games.
I know, I know, I'm talking crazy now. I shouldn't expect that to happen before your 30th birthday.
I just hope that this sudden rebellion doesn't lead you down a path of destruction that ends with you only wanting chocolate for breakfast. Because the worse thing that could happen to you, is to turn into me.
Well, maybe I didn't turn out so bad either.
By the way? This morning you told me you wanted to be a doctor. May I suggest plastic surgery? Mama could use a hook up for botox, I'm just sayin'.
I love you, my Little Man,
Monday, June 01, 2009
For the past year now, there's been some likelihood of me losing my job. This is true for a lot of people, in this crappy economy, but my chances were increased because my company was acquired and the CEO of the company that acquired us had said that about 15 percent of our workforce would leave to pursue other opportunities. You got to love corporate speak, don't ya?
Since I'm in PR, which is widely seen as a job than any blindfolded monkey can do (for the record? It's not. And all those who think that it's easy can bite my jiggly white butt), I figured that I was likely to be on the chopping block.
So Sweetie Pie and I did what anyone would do. We begin to cut back on expenses, scrimping and saving, no frivolous spending, the whole not fun stuff that won't help the economy get better. We paid off both our vehicles, got our savings up to the six-month emergency fund all the experts recommend, and for the past few months, we've been putting in our savings account the equivalent to our two car payments, so that hopefully, by the time one of our vehicles dies, we'll hardly need a loan to purchase a new one.
I've now survived three rounds of layoffs. I know there will be at least two more this year, so we're not at the end of the tunnel yet.
But we're in a position now where we've saved and saved and saved and how much more can we save, really? So yesterday, we on Saturday, we did the unthinkable for people who could lose half of their income: we bought a boat.
Not a yacht, exactly, it's a 13-year old 17-foot boat, but still I'm in awe that we bought it.
And not only bought it, but we freaking paid cash for the thing.
Maybe some will see it as irresponsible, but really? You only live once, right? And since we have no debt and that we've got more savings than 90 percent of Americans, why not live a little, right?
The reaction in the family was mixed.
Little Man was so excited about the boat, that if he wasn't potty trained, he probably would have peed his pants when he saw it in the garage, after Sweetie Pie brought it home.
Tiny Man couldn't have been any less impressed.
On Sunday, we took out the boat, something I expect that we'll be doing once a weekend for the rest of the summer and for many more summers to come, which is better than our old way of not spending money, which is sitting in our backyard staring at each other and wondering how much grass the dog will eat before he throws up.
Stupid me didn't take any pictures of the boat, but I did take pictures of my favorite boys, and this clearly shows their different reactions to the experience.
I haven't had this much fun being irresponsible since that summer I spent in Spain when I was 18 years old...
Friday, May 29, 2009
The other night was one of those rare Texas nights. One where it's in the 70's, which happens about 5 nights a year here. After dinner, I decided the kids and I should take advantage of the perfect temperatures and sit in the front yard while Sweetie Pie did the dishes inside.
Little Man wasn't wearing any pants (I know, shocker!), something he pointed out to me as we were walking out the door, but I figured hi shirt was long and he was wearing some kick-ass Grover underroos, so good enough.
Because I'm classy like that.
You might remember a year ago when I blogged about our policeman neighbor (in this incident that probably shouldn't be revisited as it shows that I am of the highest level of incompetence. In case you were wondering? Cop neighbor never did get any kind of cookies. And two months after he moved in? Sweetie Pie's truck got broken into in front of our house. Twice in two weeks. Should have made more cookies.)
As the kids and I were sitting in the front yard, said policeman neighbor pulled up to his house and began to back into his driveway, which confused Little Man. Since I couldn't provide an answer as to why one would back into one's driveway, I chose to point out, instead, that the man doing the backing up was in fact a policeman.
"Is he coming to get bad people?," Little Man asked.
I knew that I had to pick my words carefully here, to ensure that I didn't cause nightmares in my three-year old, since if there's one thing I like, it's my sleep.
"I don't think so, there aren't bad people around here."
And then I got this thought in my head. And I wish to God that someone had been around to just punch my lights out at that moment, because what the hell was I thinking?
Little Man looked at me intently.
"Unless what, Mama?
- Unless he's here to throw little boys who aren't wearing pants in jail."
Little Man got this look of horror on his face, but I smiled and told him I was just kidding, which for most normal people would be enough, but not my abnormal three year old.
Because the universe hates me, it so happens that day was our trash day, and policeman neighbor got out of his truck at that exact moment and began to walk in full uniform down his driveway to fetch his trash can.
Except that to my three year-old, it looked like said policeman in full uniform was walking down his driveway towards us.
And he proceeded to wail at the top of his lungs, big fat tears rolling down his face, "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO JAIL!"
Cue neighbor who has yet to ever meet me, since I've never brought him baked goods, looking in our direction with a very puzzled look and clearly wondering if my three year old was the meth lab running preschooler they've been looking for this whole time.
I giggled and yelled at our neighbor "He thinks you're going to arrest him for not wearing any pants outside!"
Dear policeman neighbor: we are not criminals. Simply partial nudists.
It took much coaxing to convince Little Man that he was not in fact going to be in a place where dropping the soap in the tub means his little brother is going to try to eat it.
Since then, anytime I mention going outside, Little Man says "this time, we're going to the backyard."
I believe I deserve that.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
So if there was ever any doubt before, the last month has confirmed that you are going to be my trouble maker. During the past month, you've mastered the art of sitting up, which is one of my favorite milestones because hurray! I can leave you on your quilt with toys long enough to do important things like run to the bathroom or pour myself another shot of Bailey's Irish Cream. However, with sitting up, you've also learn to propel yourself towards objects you must have, which means that leaving you unsupervised is a little like leaving an unattended torpedo. You've propelled yourself straight onto the fireplace, into the coffee table, onto our old dog (who I think is still nursing internal injuries from your crushing weight) and into a bush. Yet none of these things phase you, because you're super baby, made of unbreakable steel where no head injury will get you down.
I hate to admit it, but this month, you fell on your head. So if 18 years from now you wonder why you've only gotten into the University of Texas medical school rather than Yale, you can blame me. It was so stupid, really. I did something that as a second-time mom I should know better than do. I left you on our bed unattended. And those famous last words, it was just for a few seconds, just long enough to turn the bath off. But during those few seconds, you rolled over and when I glanced over, your legs were dangling over the side of the bed. I ran over as quickly as possible, but those 10 feet suddenly became the length of a football field and suddenly I watched you fall off the bed as your perfect little head smacked your father's nightstand on the way down. The noise still sickens me as it replays every time I think of that horrible moment. And to this day, I swear to you that it was my worst moment as a mother. Never before have I hated myself so much as that moment. I could only cradle your wailing body, too scared to look at you closely because the idea of seeing your head split open was more than I could bear.
I sat there for a second, holding you, but mostly trying to hold myself together. I whispered to your brother to go get your father, who was outside taking out the trash. I heard your big brother open the door and yell out "Daddy! Mama threw Tiny Man on the floor!" and still, the humor of the situation couldn't touch my devastated mind who was convinced that I had forever broken you. Although you are fine, completely fine, a small bump the only result of that incident, I still hated myself for days, the guilt all-consuming. I hope I never, ever forget that moment, because it's reminded me that complacency, even if it is just for one second, can hurt those I love the most.
You continue to have no teeth, which could be a result of that accident, however you continue to drool. All of your pictures of this month have you in wet shirts, so that you look like a drunk college girl on Spring Break or a miniature fat sweaty man. You stick your whole fist in your mouth on a regular basis and have gotten into the habit of smearing your drooly fist on anything of mine you can reach, my shirt, my hair, my face, anything that will help remove the drool off you. And honestly? I love you to pieces, kid, I mean, I've wiped more explosive atomic poops from your butt than anyone else, because seriously, there is no diaper on Earth that can hold some of your poops. But it doesn't mean that I appreciate having your drool smeared all over me on a regular basis.
Which speaking of poop? I need to mention the strangest incident that occured the other day. I was changing your diaper, and it was just a wet one, when I noticed something strange between your clenched butt cheeks. Only a mother would do what I did next, but I pulled out the strange object and looked at it. You're reading this mortified, and as a guy, you will never understand why I would do this, but trust me, kid, it's the mom gene and we must analyze anything found in the glutteus maximus region of our children. Anyway, the foreign object was an intact fruit puff. Which still confuses me to this day, because one, how the hell did it get there? Did you consume it and it came out intact? Because those things dissolve just from looking at them. Or two, were you just saving it for later? Because if that's the case, I must teach you Hygiene 101, which the first lesson is one does not keep food where one has poop smeared around on a regular basis.
Also? I need to address your hair-pulling issues. Seriously kid, I'm not some kind of vine for you to hang on to. It's amazing I have any hair left when you regularly remove entire clumps with your chubby little fists. But it's hard to stay mad at you when I yelp in pain as blood pours down the side of my scalp and you look up at me and grin. Of course, I must tell you that in about 15 years, if you continue to grin at people as you cause them pain, you will no longer be considered cute, you'll have crossed the line into psychopath. So your cute days are numbered, my little psychopath.
You're currently on a mission to become mobile. You've mastered the inch worm scoot backwards and can regularly be found multiple feet away from where I left you. And I've got to tell ya, I'm terrified. Because I already know that you won't be like your brother and that the basic childproofing we got away with the first time will be laughed at with maniacal glee by my chubby monkey.
You continue to adore your big brother, and if I had to rank the people in your life in order of preference, I believe they would be as follows:
- Your big brother
- The dog
- Your favorite teacher
Some mothers would be upset at coming in third place, however, I consider myself grateful to have come in your top five, because you are quite fond of all those people we meet at the grocery store, and you could easily decide you like them all better.
The other day, I lifted your infant seat out of the car and you were asleep as I was placing it in the shopping cart. The sun hit your face in such a way that you literally began to glow. Your beauty literally took my breath away. I stood there, in that parking lot unable to move, to breathe, to do anything else but watch you sleep in the sunlight, the wind playing with your wispy hair. That moment froze time and I'm unsure as to how long I stood there, but I wanted to stand there forever, just like that, because as much as I knew you were perfect, in that moment I could truly see that you are the most beautiful baby on Earth. Pictures can't seem to capture just how truly gorgeous you are. You have the face of an angel, the eyes of perfection, the softest skin I've ever been lucky enough to kiss. I don't know how I managed to create such a perfect little creature, and in case a day goes by that I forget to tell you this, please know that I don't ever forget how lucky I am to have you and your brother in my life. You truly, truly are the most perfect baby on Earth. I can't even begin to imagine what life would be without you in it. We are all lucky that you decided to join our family.
I love you, my Tiny Man,
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Since I won't have time to write Tiny Man's 7-month newsletter today (yes, I'm sucking worse and worse at this), instead, I give you the kind of gooey caramel-filled cuteness that is my life these days. If this doesn't make your ovaries hurt, than you're definitely single and in your early 20's and I say power to you!
A rant by Catwoman at 5/21/2009 03:11:00 PM
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
So my boss was in town last week. And since I'm me, it meant that having my boss in town sent me into the circus performer version of Catwoman. The circus performance version of me involves me being in especially hyper mode, where I do everything I usually do, except I speak even louder and I do cartwheels and I bow at random times. Also? It usually involves flaming hula-hoops and me jumping through them while spinning plates.
I always drive myself nuts when I go into circus-performer mode, but it's one of those things I just can't seem to stop myself from doing. Because I. Must. Impress. Big. Boss.
As part of my "Look at how fantastic Catwoman is" campaign during the Big Boss' visit, I regaled her with tales of my hard work, teamwork and bikini waxings.
I'm kidding on that last part.
At least I hope I am. I tend to get diarrhea of the mouth when I'm in circus performer mode, so there is the odd chance that I might have over-shared.
One tale I told her, in front of a random co-worker, was of how I took it upon myself to clean the office fridge one day a few weeks back.
"That fridge was disgusting!" I said. "I threw out all sorts of food, including pickles that expired in 2007 and string cheese that expired in 2009."
Random co-worker looks at me and says "So you're the one.
- I'm the one what?
- You're the one who threw people's lunches out.
(pause) - What do you mean?
Big Boss: - You do realize we're in 2009 now, right?
- You said you threw out food that was expiring in 2009.
(pause) - Huh. I wonder what the hell was going through my head that day.
- Uhm, you said it again right now, so apparently you still think we're in 2010.
- Huh. (pause) So how about them Mavs?