It seems I haven't talked about the dogs for a while. You might remember, that a few months ago,
we I made the decision to take in two puppies instead of one. In the same way that someone makes the decision to whack themselves in the head with a hammer.
I think of myself as a smart person. And then I go and do things like this. The dogs are great, fantastic furry smelly creatures, they truly are. And if you asked me today to pick only one, I couldn't do it. They both have their faults, but they also both have their benefits.
The main problem is that there's two of them. Who knew that one puppy plus one puppy equals terror? Every day, Sweetie Pie and I tell each other that they are six months away from being good dogs.
Because anyone can survive six months, right?
The biggest problem is that the dogs are twins. And therefore they act like twins. As in they fight. All. The. Freaking. Time.
If my kids behaved this way, I think I would go completely mad.
In their fighting, they regularly take down at least one kid with them, which means there have been tears, lots of them. And there has been a lot of yelling.
And yet I love those stupid dogs and couldn't imagine life without them.
When we let them in when we get home, I always have to put the kids up on the couch, so that they're at least protected from the excitement of the dogs. Otherwise, if one of them is standing/sitting/laying on the floor, they will be tackled, stepped on and then fought on top of as both dogs disagree who should get to lick the powerless child first.
Part of me wants to commend them for their enthusiasm and their ability to love that much. Part of me wants to strangle them.
And then there was last night. When I opened the door, both dogs trotted in calmly and went to their food bowl, where they ate. Then they gingerly entered the living room where the kids were and quietly walked over to them, sniffed a hello and then laid nearby them. Once the kids were in bed, the dogs quietly laid on the couch with us watching TV.
And the whole time I worried. "Do you think they're sick?"
Sweetie Pie hissed at me that I would jinx the whole thing.
Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe tonight, one of my kids will be pushed into the fireplace again.
Or maybe, just maybe, we've turned the corner.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
It seems I haven't talked about the dogs for a while. You might remember, that a few months ago,
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
This is my last baby. This I know. I've sold off the big baby items, the swing that rocked my baby to sleep, the Jeep walker that entertained both of my babies for brief enough stints that I could go pee, the infant tub that cradled my babies during their baths. Letting go of these things was one of the most difficult part of grieving the babies I will never have.
I'm lucky, because despite some pregnancies that could have resulted in heartbreak, I was lucky enough to carry two babies to full term and avoid the wrath that HELLP Syndrome can bring to moms. I'm one of the lucky ones, this I know. And despite my body shutting down at the end of pregnancies, I will forever be grateful for the fact that my body can hang on until week 37, giving me the two greatest boys in the world.
And so every single minute with Tiny Man is that much sweeter. Bitter sweet in some ways, because each first is also a last for me. The last first step. The last mastering of the shape sorter. It's all the last. And there are times, the wind gets knocked out of me and I wonder if I'll ever be ok with it.
But this is the face of true love. I love this kid so much that every bone in my body quivers. I love this face, this smile, this crazy hair, those chubby feet so much, that I can't believe I ever went through life without them and thought I was happy.
Here the picture of perfection. My kid, he says "oh who" instead of uh oh. If that's not the freaking cutest thing ever, then you have no soul.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
It was a plain white envelope in my mailbox. One with a see through window, with my name and address showing through. One that stated in the left corner that it was from our municipal courts.
I'm not an American citizen, only a permanent resident, which means I can't vote (not that my vote would matter, since I live in Texas, the capital of Republicanland) and I can't sit on a jury.
And as I stared down at that envelope, my blood went cold. I was being arrested for something. I just knew it. The problem is, I didn't know what. I clearly didn't remember killing someone, or even assaulting them. I had no outstanding parking tickets, but what if I had gotten one, didn't know about it because it flew away with a gust of wind, and now I was going to be thrown in jail for it.
Jail. As soon as my mind thought of the word, my mind went into over drive. Would Sweetie Pie bring the kids to jail to visit me? How often? How would the kids do without me? Would Sweetie Pie be able to figure out how to use the cloth diapers on his own? Or would he give up and use Huggies again, adding to the billions of diapers in our landfills? Would the kids eat McDonald's every day?
And my job. I love my job. Would they let me come back after my jail sentence? Or would I lose my job.
And then my mother entered my brain. I couldn't go to jail. My mother would kill me before I served a day in jail. I would be dead to her. The lecture I would get from my mother would be 1,000 times worst than a lifetime in jail.
All these thoughts crossed my mind as I tore the envelope open.
It was a jury summons. Apparently, the city doesn't know that I'm not a true American. They didn't get the memo. I'm not going to jail.
When I told Sweetie Pie all of these thoughts that went through my head, he looked at me like I had grown a third boob. Clearly, he said, it's a jury summons.
But I'd never gotten one. And I just hoped that Dateline or 20/20 would visit me in jail and tell the story of the mom who was thrown in jail for no good reason.
Unless it was because I've been rooting for Canada in the Olympic games, which I'm sure is a crime against the United States in all of the South.
My name is Catwoman. And I'm slightly overdramatic.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I know he's my kid. But I can't watch this video without laughing so hard that my tummy hurts.
I love how easily amused 15-month olds are. It's things like this that makes me wish he wasn't my last baby. But then he starts his incessant screeching, and my uterus pulls the shutter down and a 'closed for business' sign up.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Little Man still manages to amuse, entertain and amaze me every day. His logic and smarts are amazing, and yet, I am reminded that he is still only four-years old in some of the things he says.
Here are some of my current favorites, and translations where necessary:
- "I magicianed it": I made it disappear; said about objects he hides under a blanket or food that he's eaten.
- "Just put it on the kids' chanimal": said instead of channel.
- "I'm fixin' to...": This is clearly a Texanism rather than a Little Manism but it drives me bonkers (no offense to my Texas readers). For those of you from outside of Texas, it means "I'm about to (do something)", as in "I'm fixin' to go to the potty." I don't say this. Just like 'ya'll' probably won't ever roll off my tongue. And yet my child says it. Part of the whole nurture vs. nature thing, I guess.
- Yesterday, Little Man was playing with his Mr. Potato Head. He asked me what Mr. Potato Head was even for. I told him that it was just a fun toy to use your imagination. Tiny Man, a.k.a. Godzilla, comes along and begins to try to rip off body parts of Little Man's Mr. Potato Head, which resulted in Little Man screaming "stop it, Tiny Man, you're ruining my imagination!"
- Little Man was telling me this story about how his teacher has begun handing out stickers to all of the kids who completed all of their work. I asked him if he had gotten a sticker.
- How come?
- I didn't finish my work.
- How come you didn't finish your work?
- I just didn't want to."
Alrighty then. Apparently stickers are not the way to my child's heart.
- The other night, upon finding out that I was making Mac & Cheese (the kind in the box, don't judge me, yo. In my defense, I make the organic boxed kind, so they're organic weird ingredients.)
"Yay! I love your mac and cheese!
- Well, I'm glad!
- Yeah, you're the best cook, I also love your hamburgers and your hot dogs!"
If Iron Chef over heard this conversation, I'm guessing they won't be calling anytime soon. For the record? I also make some pretty great fancy stuff. But apparently, none of that has made it on my four-year old's top three favorite recipes list.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
I'm writing you this letter, because I assume that you read my blog faithfully. You do, don't you? Surely you need funny stories about bald eagles and baby poop in between stupid plots, don't you?
The reason I'm writing you is that I wanted you to know that I've officially decided that I hate you. I mean, it's not like I really liked you before, what with your only mission in life being blowing innocent people up, but if you ever thought I was on the fence before, well, let me clear it up for you. I. Hate. You.
Seriously, why is it you have to try to do something on a plane every time I'm out of the country. There was the time Sweetie Pie and I were in France and one of your buddies tried to light his shoes on fire. Yeah, it was really fun to fly out of the same airport two days after that. Oh, and for the record? Now my kid's light-up shoes practically caused the terror risk to be raised to red, because wires in shoes look mighty suspicious now. The good news is, his anal cavity is squeaky clean now.
So now, you go and decide that lighting up underwear is the way to go. Which means that my 7:45 a.m. flight was delayed by almost two hours, because it was taking people more than three hours to get through security.
And this is where I want to tell you you've messed with the wrong bitch, you little fundamentalist bitches. I had to get up at 4:20 in the morning to make that flight. In case you don't know this about me, I'm not happy at 4:20 in the morning.
I then had to go through security with a cranky husband and two young children, an ordeal that took 50 minutes, and it was that short because we were in the express lane for families with babies. Express my ass, is what I say.
And then, because of you, my children weren't allowed toys, blankets, nothing for the last hour of the flight. You clearly don't have children you fuckers, because if you did, you'd have enough consideration to not make the air safety people come up with the kind of rules that will make any mother try to smash her way through that tiny little airplane window.
Do you know how my kids ended up entertaining each other for about 30 minutes of that last hour? By beating the crap out of each other.
And since I was beyond caring at that point, I let them, I'll admit it. I let my kids just beat the shit out of each other because they were laughing and I figured there was bound to be a doctor on board, I know this from my flight attendant years.
So you see what you've reduced me to, you stupid terrorists? Probably one of my worst moments as a mother, and the bar wasn't even open for me to pretend I was somewhere else.
So how about you morons quit it and leave us travelers alone, ok? Because the airlines can barely keep their planes working, the weather is always plotting to shut down airports and there are about 100 other reasons for flights to be delayed. Last thing I need is you to freaking jump in the madness.
I hope you die in a pool of your own vomit,
Saturday, January 02, 2010
I promise that as part of my new year's resolutions I will be posting more, but I'm hearing the kids make noise over the baby monitor, so my time here is very limited today.
1. We went to Canada for Christmas. It was cold and snowy. But yet, it still doesn't feel as cold to me as a cold day in Texas. Yes, I realize this is all in my head, when we had -10 in Canada and 'cold' in Texas is 38.
2. Tiny Man has been so grumpy during the past two weeks, including the past week when I've been off work and home with both kids that when he shoplifted a crayon last week, I seriously considered turning him into the cops, just so I'd get a few days of peace and quiet without a toddler robot following me around the dirty house screaming 'MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMMAMA!"
3. Little Man made a joke about me making frogs for dinner the other night and I told him that he is half-French and that French people do eat frog legs. The look of horror on his face was so funny that I seriously wish that I'd had the Flip camera.
4. Speaking of Flips, I got one for Christmas from Sweetie Pie and holy freaking crap, am I ever in love. Why didn't I get one of these 10 years ago? And any of you moms out there who don't have one, trust me, return all of your other gifts and trade them in for a Flip.
5. And to have one more bullet about the Flip, I shot a video of Little Man and I tubing, and pointed the camera down the slope so that you'd get our perspective flying down the thing. When I played it back at the bottom of the slope, I realized that I'd never been on the tube, that my mother was the one riding with Little Man. Or I should say, my half-terrified laughs and screams sounded just like my mother. Scarier than any horror film I've ever seen.
6. I learned that payback's a bitch. After making fun of my pregnant sister's unmaintained bikini line, referring to it as the heart of the jungle, and blaming her lack of grooming for the fact she couldn't get pregnant (seriously, if you saw that thing, you'd be convinced her husband's sperm got lost on their futile mission to the egg too), she was with me in the bathroom and saw my bald eagle, and proceeded to tell everyone in the family I look like a 10-year old girl. I admit that I deserved that.
Hope everyone is ready for 2010. Tiny Man resolves to look like this all the time.
Because the rest of the time, he looks more like this.