Thursday, July 30, 2009

Sweeter than Chocolate-Covered Cotton Candy Dipped in Icing

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.



Love,

Catwoman.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Forty-Six Months: My Letter to Little Man

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,

Maman.

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

A Futile Argument

"Dada!

- You calling me Dada is very cute, albeit incorrect. I'm not Dada. I'm Mama.

- Dada!

- 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.

- Dada!"

Love,

Catwoman.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

It's Official

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.



Love,

Catwoman.