Friday, January 30, 2009

Kind of Like the Scent of a Whore on a Businessman

Today is an especially crazy day at work. I literally have been in meetings non-stop, except for the half-hour I schedule for myself to pump every morning. I managed to run down to the cafeteria to grab some lunch since I forgot mine again today (in the fridge this time, it never even made it to the counter). There was a hot dog special going on today, with these big fat wieners that would make Random Mommy horny with their suggestiveness and a condiment bar that made me miss the Toronto hot dog vendors.

I inhaled my hot dog at my desk during the first few minutes of a conference call. It's now an hour later and I've yet to get to escape my cubicle again, since I haven't had even 30 seconds between calls.

I just scratched my nose and the scent of hot dog, mustard and sauerkraut just attacked my brain.

And reminded me that Jillian Michaels would totally kick my A double S for cheating on my diet. Good thing she can't smell me all the way from LA.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Slammed

So I've sucked as a blogger. And the thing is? I'm not sure when it's going to get better.

This having two kids thing? It's totally kicking my ass. Especially with going back to work. I seriously thought I knew what the hell I was doing before I had Tiny Man. And I do, I guess. For the most part.

However, what I failed to realize is that two kids? Twice as time consuming as one kid. I have a newfound respect for all those of you who have more than one kid and manage to blog regularly. I'm thinking you must not ever sleep. This is what my day looks like in a nutshell.

4:30 a.m. -- Woken up by Tiny Man. Change diaper, feed Tiny Man.

5 a.m. -- Pump

5:20- 5:30 a.m. -- Finish pumping. Realize that since I need to wake up in half an hour anyway that there's no point in going back to bed. Take shower instead and spend extra time making hair look like it belongs to a human and catching first few minutes of Today Show when it comes on at 7. Prepare diaper bag with Tiny Man bottles for the day and double check that changes of clothes, etc. are in it, make lunch for Sweetie Pie and I and 50,000 other things that need to be brought to daycare or work.

7:05 a.m. -- Wake up Little Man. Put him on the potty, brush his teeth, get him dressed, threaten him with never being allowed to date on the days where he's grumpy and doesn't get a move on.

7:15 a.m. -- Make breakfast for myself and Little Man. Inhale breakfast.

7:20 a.m. -- Feed Tiny Man again.

7:30 a.m. -- Pump. Again.

7:45 a.m. -- Threaten Little Man that if he doesn't put on his coat right now, I'm taking his penis away.

7:50 a.m. -- Load up kids in car. Forget car keys, return inside house in a panic to figure where the hell keys were thrown the night before.

7:55 a.m. -- Leave the house.

8 a.m. -- Realize that I forgot my lunch and/or my giant water jug on the kitchen counter. Figure that it's better that I starve and die of dehydration than have forgotten one of the kids.

8:30 a.m. -- Drop off kids at daycare. Curse myself for being freaking late again for work.

8:40 a.m. -- Leave daycare. Figure it's pretty much impossible for me to get to work by 8:30, no matter how hard I might try.

8:50 a.m. -- Get to work.

9 a.m. -- Go get coffee. Since, you know, I'm such a dedicated on-time employee.

9:10 a.m. -- Work my ass off.

10:30 a.m. -- Run down to lacation room to pump.

11 a.m. -- Return to desk. Continue to work my ass off.

12 a.m. -- Break for lunch. Wonder what the hell I'll eat when I've left my sandwich on my kitchen counter.

1 p.m. -- Return to work. Work my ass off.

3:30 p.m. -- Pump. Again.

4 p.m. -- Work my ass off.

4:50 p.m. -- Decide I've had enough. Pack up, retrieve milk from fridge so that it doesn't accidentally get used by someone in their coffee the next day.

5:10 p.m. -- Pick up kids from daycare. Threaten Little Man numeous times with letting the mascots of every baseball and football team eat him when he refuses to leave because he just got on one of the computers in the library and is engrossed in the Dora educational video game.

5:20 p.m. -- Drag out a pouty Little Man and a pissed off Tiny Man who I had to wake up to load him in his car seat out of the daycare. Wished I'd stayed at work or gone somewhere to get drunk.

5:50 p.m. -- Arrive home. Unload everyone and everything. Begin to make dinner.

6:30 p.m. -- Eat dinner.

7 p.m. -- Pump while Sweetie Pie empties dishwasher

7:30 p.m. -- Play Wii with Little Man

8 p.m. -- Pour baths for both kids. Tiny Man gets last feeding from Sweetie Pie while I take care of Little Man.

9 p.m. -- Both kids finally asleep. Collapse on couch. Watch a show. Realize when commercials come on that I've got to get stuff ready for the next day.

9:30 p.m. -- Pump for the last time of the day.

10 p.m. -- Get ready for bed. Watch news and then pass out cold at 10:30.

So yeah. I suck at blogging. Because in that schedule? Not much room for blog writing or reading. Plus my brain hurts so bad from being so tired.

Will things go back to normal? I'm not sure. So if I'm not on here as much, if I don't comment on your blogs, I'm sorry. I promise that I read all of them during the weekend, I'm just so behind that I don't have time to comment. But I love you all and I miss you.

Love,

Catwoman.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Three Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

I don't know how babies typically celebrate their three-month birthday, but you decided to mark the occasion by peeing on your head. Are you reading this mortified right now? Really? That's funny, because this morning, when it happened, you thought it was the funniest thing you'd ever done. Here you were, laying on the couch, I had taken off your wet diaper when your brother said something to me and distracted me for a split second. Suddenly, there was this gushing sound, and when I whipped my head back to you, there you were, a puddle of urine in your belly button, and half of your head soaked on one side. And that signature grin of yours lighting up your face. And for the record? Most people wait until their 21st birthday to end up with some kind of bodily fluid in their hair.



It's official. You are the happiest baby I have ever met. This past month, you've taken smiling to a whole new level. All I have to do is look at you, and your whole face explodes in the world's greatest smile. It literally turns me into teeny tiny puddles, the way your eyes crinkle, the way your tongue peers out from your gums slightly, the way you bring your fist to your face, like you want to make sure your face hasn't fallen off from all that smiling.



You are my ball of sunshine, my monkey, my goofy boy, my lovable baby. You have completed our family in ways that I couldn't even imagine when I was pregnant with you. You make me want to have a million more babies, just so the world can be populated with the joy that you radiate.

Last week, you started day care. My heart was heavy as I dropped you off, even though I knew you were too young to know the difference. When I picked you up that afternoon, you were asleep and when I lifted you up, you woke up and your whole face lit up when you recognized me, like you were saying "holy crap! I remember you! Where you been? D'you go to the bathroom or something? I sure am glad to see you again."



A part of me is always amazed when I feel your eyes on me. Because I know that the second my eyes lock with yours, your whole face will light up. I don't think I've ever had that effect on someone else before. And I'll be honest with you, it scares the shit out of me. Even know I feel I'm more comfortable with you than I was with Little Man, I still grapple with the guilt of not being a good enough mother to both of you. You're both such perfect little creatures and you love me so much that I want to make sure that I'm always worthy of that love.

Have I mentioned your cheeks yet? Those cheeks that could hold a few pounds of nuts each and are covered in the softest skin. Those cheeks that I regularly try to fit entirely in my mouth because they just beg to be eaten. Those cheeks define your entire face, and yet I know that as you grow up, they will slowly disappear, erasing all signs of babyhood from your sweet face. And I can assure you right now, that I will miss grabbing those cheeks with both hands and smooching them against my face. Already, I feel like time is getting away from us, that soon, you'll be whining that you're 16 years old and too old for me to carry in an infant carrier.



You've finally decided that your brother is pretty cool. This is a good thing, because trust me, as a big sister, I can assure you that the fastest way to get older siblings to like you is by sucking up. Now, when Little Man sings you songs, you stare at him in complete awe, until your face breaks into one of your signature smiles and you let out this baby gasp that never ceases to make your brother laugh. I hope the two of you will forever be friends. It took me a long time for me to become friends with my sisters, and I just hope the journey will be a smoother one for the two of you.



This past week, you've been all about the milestones. On Saturday the 17th, you laughed for the first time, which might be one of the greatest laughs of all times. It's hearty, it's goofy and the sound of it makes me laugh so hard, that I end up in tears every time I have laugh offs with you. Then yesterday, you decided to celebrate the inauguration of our first African-American President, which is an incredible historical event that both you and your brother are too young to understand, by rolling over from your tummy to your back.



I'm assuming this means you were a Republican who finally saw the light and rolled over to the good side. Yes, that dig is in this letter just to drive your father nuts. Some day, you'll understand that we are a very divided house politically. Only because your father refuses to grow a heart, which makes him a Republican by default.

I'm typing this as you sleep in my lap, content, sighing, not a care in the world. For you I wish that you can sleep this contentedly no matter how old or how big you might get. Also? I wish you'd keep those fantastic back fat rolls. Because surely they'll be as cute when you're 30, right?



I love you, my Tiny Man,

Maman.

Monday, January 05, 2009

A Montage of Tiny Man

I guess my hormone level ain't back to normal just yet, because I've only been able to make it about one third of the way into this montage before I began to tear up and snot starts pouring out of my nose.



For 10 weeks and 6 days now, I've had the honor of calling this perfect baby mine. I'm blessed. I'm the luckiest woman in the world. Every day, I wake up and I want to shout from the rooftops how much I love this 10 pounds of love and smiles that I call my son. He spends all his days smiling at me and his nights mostly sleeping. I admit that when I was pregnant with Tiny Man, I couldn't imagine loving him as much as I loved Little Man, who is the apple of my eye. And yet... And yet... Tiny Man has propelled my ability to love to a whole new stratosphere. I can't imagine that anyone in this world loves two people as much as I love my two boys. And yet, I know that right now every mother reading this understands how I feel.

Love,

Catwoman

Friday, January 02, 2009

Forty Months: My Letter to Little Man

There are many nice things I've said about you during the past forty months. I've talked numerous times about how gorgeous you are, how smart you are, how funny you are. And all these things are true. One thing I don't think I tell you enough though, both in these letters and to you is how beautifully behaved you are the majority of the time. You make parenting a preschooler look like a walk in the park. Sure, you get mad when you don't get your way, but even your temper tantrums are the easy kind, consisting simply of silent pouting or your entire body crumpling silently to the floor. When I watch every other parent at the store deal with screaming, kicking, demon-possessed children, I know how blessed I am to be the one pushing the cart with the pouty child.



A few weeks ago, we went to our annual fancy restaurant Christmas dinner with your grandparents. That dinner ended up dragging for close to two hours. During what could have been a painfully long dinner, you chatted with us, you colored, you raved about the flatbread with the poppy seeds, that you declared the best bread in the world, because it had "sprinkles on it!!!" When we got up to leave, I was stopped by a couple at the table next to ours. I expected them to ask how old your brother was, but instead, they inquired about your age. I told them you'd turned three in September, and they proceeded to tell me that you were the best behaved three-year old they had ever seen. Someday, you'll hopefully have the chance to be a parent, and only then will you understand how close my heart came to exploding with pride. I don't think I've ever felt prouder in my entire life, even though the fact is that you being so well behaved has hardly anything to do with me. That's all you, my little buddy. So even though I can't take most of the credit, the fact that you are my child and that strangers admire you makes me feel like the luckiest person in the world.



I know there will be days when you let me down. I'm sure there will be dark days where my disappointment weighs heavily on your shoulders. I know this, because once upon a time, I was the perfectly-behaved child too. And when I tired of the role, I sometimes hurt my parents deeply. Hopefully, my experiences growing up can make your road a little easier to travel. But should it not, I want you to know that no matter how much you might feel like you've hurt me, I will never, ever stop loving you. And I will never, ever stop being proud of you. You are the essence of me, and yet, you are an improved version of me at the same time. You're smarter. You're funnier. And already, you are much, much wiser than I will ever be.

There is, of course, room for improvement. Like your ability to share. Your cousin was here for Christmas, and although you'd been talking about her visit for months, from the moment she arrived until the second the door closed behind her when she left, almost every toy of yours she touched was met with the comment "you're too little to play with that." Of course, almost as soon as she had left, you kept saying how much you missed her.



I weighed you yesterday, and despite the fact that you have grown in the past four months since your 3-year check up, you still weigh the same 29 pounds. I'm now convinced that you will be in a car seat until you are 15 years old. But you're healthy and growing and that's all that matters, and since you are already showing signs of having your father's bird legs, I expect that I'll probably outweigh you too as an adult. If that's the case, may I recommend that you marry a woman who's five feet tall and 100 pounds? Because outweighing your father my entire second pregnancy has not exactly been good for my ego, you know? And if I can do anything for my future daughter-in-law, it's to save her the traumas I've been through.



You've begun to drop your nap this past month, to the point that I can now get you to sleep in the afternoon approximately once every three days. Some people might say "so what? He's an easy kid!", but the thing is, Little Man, that I need my alone time, just like every Mama. And it's hard for me to just chill out on the computer, or write you these monthly letters when you're constantly tugging on my sleeve telling me I need to chase you and take the basketball from you. But more than my alone time, I miss the fact that you are only a happy go-lucky child until about 6 p.m. After that, you turn into this whiny child with dark circles around his big blue eyes who sits bleary eyed on the couch like a zombie. And who freaks out when I tell him that this is why we need naps.

So just start taking your naps again, will ya?

I love you my Little Man,

Maman.