Canadian Thoughts in Texas

Thing 1 and Thing 2

2010-03-18T14:19:00.004-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman

True Love

2010-03-16T14:26:00.002-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman

The Story of an Envelope

2010-02-18T09:08:00.002-06:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

The Giggle Monkey

2010-02-10T10:50:00.003-06:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman

Because I'll Forget If I Don't Write Them Down

2010-01-08T15:39:00.002-06:00

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.

"Nope.

- 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.

Love,

Catwoman

A Letter to The Terrorists

2010-01-05T17:32:00.003-06:00

Dear Terrorists,

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,

Catwoman.

A Recap in Bullets

2010-01-02T08:08:00.004-06:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman

Who Is This Person I've Become?

2009-11-11T10:37:00.002-06:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Conversations with Santa

2009-11-08T16:50:00.005-06:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Typical Conversation

2009-11-03T12:53:00.003-06:00

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?

(pause)

- 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.

Love,

Catwoman.

The Faces of Healing

2009-10-29T15:32:00.004-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Like a Really Bad Comedy About a Gypsy Curse

2009-10-19T11:57:00.002-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Doing Everything That a Spider Can

2009-10-07T14:18:00.003-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

It Only Hurts When I Think About Him

2009-09-28T14:18:00.002-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Showing His Competitive Side

2009-09-24T13:50:00.003-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Forty-Eight Months: My Letter to Little Man

2009-09-09T11:35:00.008-05:00

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,

Maman.

A Typical Conversation in This House

2009-09-03T06:02:00.002-05:00

"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."

Pause.

"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."

Love,

Catwoman.

Is It Just Me?

2009-08-28T13:52:00.002-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Warning: This is About to Get Good

2009-08-26T08:57:00.000-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Nine and Ten Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

2009-08-24T09:40:00.005-05:00

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,

Maman.

A Letter to Satan's Insects

2009-08-21T15:35:00.004-05:00

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.

No love,

Catwoman.

Clearly a Well-Thought Out Strategy

2009-08-17T15:38:00.004-05:00

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?

Love,

Catwoman.

Things That Might Have Been Said During a Fancy Event Last Night

2009-08-14T09:22:00.004-05:00

"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.

Love,

Catwoman.

I Heart Canadian News

2009-08-13T07:50:00.004-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Written on a Train Between Quebec City and Montreal

2009-08-12T14:17:00.004-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

What My Facebook Status to Say if My Boss and Mother-in-Law Hadn't Friended Me

2009-08-07T14:41:00.002-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sweeter than Chocolate-Covered Cotton Candy Dipped in Icing

2009-07-30T12:02:00.003-05:00

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.

Forty-Six Months: My Letter to Little Man

2009-07-20T13:51:00.006-05:00

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.

A Futile Argument

2009-07-08T14:23:00.003-05:00

"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.

It's Official

2009-07-07T10:40:00.004-05:00

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.

Eight Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

2009-06-29T10:48:00.004-05:00

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,

Maman.

In Case You Were Wondering What That Sound Was

2009-06-22T16:20:00.002-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Understanding Octomom a Little More

2009-06-15T08:22:00.002-05:00

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.'

Love,

Catwoman.

What Living With a Stoner Must Feel Like

2009-06-10T10:22:00.003-05:00

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Forty-Five Months: My Letter to Little Man

2009-06-03T10:43:00.004-05:00

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,

Maman.

Taking Life By the Balls

2009-06-01T11:17:00.004-05:00

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...

Love,

Catwoman.

Evil Has a Face, and It Is Mine

2009-05-29T16:10:00.002-05:00

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?

"Unless...

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.

Love,

Catwoman.

Seven Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

2009-05-23T09:55:00.004-05:00

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
- Me
- Your favorite teacher
- Daddy

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,

Maman.

The Awesomeness of Having Two Boys

2009-05-21T15:11:00.002-05:00

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!

Laughing Boy from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.

Love,

Catwoman.

Proof My Three Year-Old is More Advanced Than I Am

2009-05-13T10:54:00.002-05:00

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?

- Wh-what?

- 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?

Love,

Catwoman.

Forty-Four Months: My Letter to Little Man

2009-05-02T21:17:00.010-05:00

So I am so beyond late with this newsletter that I'm guessing I'm out of excuses. But in my defense, the last two weeks have included complete madness at work, the death of our cat, a diagnosis of diabetes for our dog and a family emergency. Oh, also? You and I have been very busy couponing.

You're just about as obsessed as I am. You know which stores have the best carts, you can now read the names of all of our favorite stores whenever we pass another location, and you even bring papers in the car, because you can't leave the house without your own coupons, now can you?

You've said so many funny things this month, that it's been hard to keep track of them. Like after you took a sip of V-8 Fusion juice for the first time: "I like this juice, it smells just like donuts."

If V-8 Fusion needs a new spokesperson, I'm thinking you could make them gazillionaires with that tagline.

The other day, I walked into the bathroom to wipe your behind and I caught you wiping the floor with toilet paper.

"Little Man, what are you doing?

- Poop fell out of my butt onto the floor."

Of course.

After getting your first taste of cookie dough: "I like the mushy cookies. We should have these for breakfast."

Does this mean I don't have to buy frozen waffles anymore?

When I told you we were going to have lunch at Chick-Fil-A:

"How come? Do you have a coupon for Chick-Fil-A?"

Shockingly? I didn't. But I appreciate the fact that you assumed I must.

I always let you sleep in my bed when your dad's out of town. On one Saturday night when he was gone, I told you that it was time to go to sleep.

"Are you coming to bed too, Mama?

- Not right now, I've got a little more work to do.

- If you want, you can use your computer next to me, but don't wake me up, ok?"

You started Tae Kwon Do this past month and you love it more than just about anything else. I never know how you're going to react to these things, but you took to that class like a fish to water. In fact, you take it so seriously that the teacher has mentioned to your father numerous times how smart you are. And you are. But you're not only smart, you are one of those strange creatures that refuses to act like a normal three-year old. Goofing off? Unheard of! While your friends purposely fall down or focus their attention on other things, you stand their, in front of your instructor, alert, ready to act on any of her commands, a look of concentration on your face the entire time, because perfection is what you expect of yourself.

I taught you how to play Tic Tac Toe this month and you are now striving to become world champion in the sport. Any paper and pen you find is an opportunity to practice your new skills. You liked Tic Tac Toe so much, that I've now bought you your first Uno game and you've obsessively played with me hand after hand after hand. I can't wait until you're old enough to learn the intricacies of a great Backgammon game. I foresee many nights of you and I slumped over boardgames, laughing as we try to destroy each other.

You're the best big brother I've ever met. No one can make Tiny Man laugh harder than you and the look of adoration he bestows on you takes my breath away. It reminds me of how my own baby sister used to look at me so many years ago. I was not a good big sister, and her and I took many years to heal many years of pain. I want to say we're finally there now, but so many years were wasted on misunderstandings and pain and hurt feelings. I hope you and your brother don't experience this, and I'll make sure that I do everything I can to grow the budding friendship between the two of you.

I love you, my Little Man,

Maman.

Everyone Deals With Grief Differently

2009-04-29T11:01:00.002-05:00

This morning, I walked into the garage to get dog food and my 19-year old cat was lying in a strange position very stiffly.

She passed in her sleep last night.

In some ways, this is a relief, because she'd seemed off the last couple of days and last night, Sweetie Pie told me that I needed to call the vet today, that it might be time to have her put to sleep since she didn't seem to be doing well and he'd had trouble rousing her when he got home last night.

When he said this, I didn't even respond to him, because it's something that I just haven't been wanting to do for a long time. I've put pets to sleep, too many and the idea of doing it again, this time to a cat I've had since I've been 14-years old, a cat who knew me when I was awkward, acne-covered and a virgin, it just seemed like too much to bear.

I came into the house after petting my cat's dead body, her body stiff with death, the life that had been in her clearly gone, found Sweetie Pie who was under the shower and cried. I cried for the cat I had lost and cried with the relief that I wouldn't have to make that horrible decision once again, wouldn't have to sit holding another animal as the life left its body.

Sweetie Pie made sure to remove the body from the garage to take it to be cremated. So that I wouldn't have to see her again and Little Man wouldn't have to see her, not that he'd even know what was going on.

I grappled with telling him and then thought that I needed to.

This morning, as we had breakfast, I told him I needed to talk to him.

I explained to him that people and pets get to be very old and eventually their bodies get to be too old and when that happens they die and go to heaven. He looked at me confused and said "why?"

Clearly? I was unprepared for this discussion and should have probably waited until I'd googled "talking to three-year old about death" before having this conversation.

I began to cry softly and told him that it's just what happens when people are too old. But that in heaven no one hurts and that she was now chasing birds and meowing and happy and she could walk as fast as she wanted again (since her arthritis got bad the last couple of years).

Little Man pointed at me stunned and with a grin on his face, he yelled "YOU'RE CRYING!!!!!"

I guess, thinking about it, he's never seen me cry before, as I'm not the type who goes around bawling every two seconds.

I told him that I was sad, and that I missed Old Cat. I then asked him if he was going to miss Old Cat.

"No, she didn't play with me. I miss eating waffles for breakfast though."

Uhm. Right.

Love,

Catwoman.

The Light Shade of Green Comes From His Texan Father

2009-04-22T09:38:00.003-05:00

I'm an environmentalist, for the most part. I'm not perfect by any means, hell, I do drive a Jeep Liberty but totally will at least seriously consider a hybrid of some kind when my Jeep dies (because it's paid off, and I intend to drive this puppy to its grave).

Sweetie Pie, on the other hand, didn't even own a recycling bin until I moved down here. But he's gotten better in the past nine years, partly because he knows I will withhold loving if I find a recyclable item in the trash.

I should totally run the EPA. I could totally make America the greenest country in the world just by having all of my hot chick friends work with me and threaten to withhold sex. No one would even think of going to the grocery store without reusable bags then.

This morning, Meredith Vieira reminded me that today is Earth Day. I turned to Little Man and said "It's Earth Day! The day where we remember the importance of taking care of planet Earth!"

Little Man: ?????

- Like for example, we need to remember to turn off the light when we're not using it."

Little Man's face lights up with understanding

"Yeah! And Mama, we need to remember to turn on the light when we need to use it."

Love,

Catwoman.

Six Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

2009-04-21T04:34:00.006-05:00

If I can summarize this month in two words, it'd be drool and screaming.

The drool was yours. And continues to be. You have drooled so much this past month, that I think they've called an end to the drought, despite the fact it's rained maybe twice in 2009. You could have filled all of the pools of North Texas with all that drool, but instead you chose to smear it on me, your father, your brother and anyone else willing to get close enough to your drooliness.

All that drool is clearly caused by your teething, and I swear to you, if those freaking teeth don't show up in the coming days, I'm going to get in there and yank them out myself, because dear Lord, how cruel can teeth be that they've been causing you to shove your fist in your mouth with the force of a hundred gladiators for almost two months now.

Yet, you remain in good spirits, smiling at anyone who remotely makes eye contact with you. You charm everyone who has the pleasure to be graced with your presence. Last Friday, I took you into the office, since your freaking teeth caused you to have a fever. If you look this up, the Internet will tell you that teething does not cause fevers. Tiny Man, there's a lot of things the Internet is useful for. It's great for finding coupons and porn, for example. However, it is very, very wrong about teething and fevers, because your brother always had a fever right before his teeth came in, and you seem to follow suit. So the Internet can shove it.

Because you had a fever, you couldn't go to school, since they have rules about this sort of thing, teething or no teething, so we dropped off your brother at school and I dragged you into the office, figuring I'd get some work done while you napped in my cubicle. You always fall asleep in the car on the way to school. ALWAYS. But that day, you decided to make an exception, because why wouldn't you make my life a little more exciting? So I brought you into the office wide awake, running late and half listening to a conference call. As soon as one of my coworkers spotted you, she literally kidnapped you and proceeded to take you around the building.

For the next hour and a half, I was stuck at my desk on a conference call, your empty car seat the only reminder that I'd brought you into the office. Ever so often, I could hear your excited squeals down the hall, but I was unable to fetch you due to the damn conference calls. When I finally came to get you, you were surrounded by a legion of fans, all of them having bestowed gifts of stuffed animals, makeshift rattles and other toys upon you and when you spotted me, you smiled at me with a "hey! There you are! Have you met my new friends?" look on your face.

I dragged your feverish ass back to my cubicle to change your diaper, give you a bottle and let everyone get back to work, and after doing so, you finally fell asleep, more than two hours later than you usually nap. A mere 45 minutes later, a couple of coworkers who'd heard through the grapevine you were in the building came to see you. As we chatted, you opened your eyes with a "what? there's a party going on and no one told me" look and you proceeded to go to Act Two of the Tiny Man charm act, smearing drooly fists all over their faces while giving them the world's biggest gummy smiles.

Where do you come from, little one? I'm sociable, but you? You? You have future president of the United States charisma. You've never met someone you didn't like and you're the kind of person who walks into a room and people think "thank God! The party can get started now!" You have an aura about you, an energy that make people do things for you. There's this curmudgeon at work who hates children. But the story goes that he met you, you smiled at him and he reached out to hold you. If you can make children haters change their minds, could you bring world peace? The end of racism? Or maybe you can just continue to make our lives a little brighter, as you have for six months now.

Your squeals of joy at everything sound like a teenager's screams at a Jonas brothers concert. No longer can I do conference calls with you in the room when I'm at home, as you squeal the entire time, which honestly, I'm good at my job, but not good enough to deserve squeals for hours at a time.

I spoke of screaming earlier, and you probably are assuming that I mean your squeals, but you'd be wrong. Because as much as I love you, as much as I think that you might be the best thing I've done since your big brother, you do have one fault.

The flipping over to your stomach. Dear lord child, you will make me go insane with your flipping over. It started a month or so ago. I put you on your back for floor time with your brother, went to get myself a kleenex and walked in to find you on your stomach grunting. I assumed your brother had flipped you over, but he denied it, and since you seemed to be unable to flip over to your back, I helped you.

Since then? I've helped you approximately 8,000 times. Because you can't seem to remember how to roll over from front to back, even though you reached that milestone three months ago and it's the easier way to roll over.

But you? You seem to have forgotten this skill and no matter how many times I've tried to re-teach you, you get a 'tude like "whoah lady, you can't teach an old dog new tricks!" And really? If you're this set in your ways at this age, I'm really hoping I won't be around when you're 80 years old.

The whole rolling over fiasco is especially annoying when I put you down in your crib. And you decide you're unhappy to be there and you roll over. And then you proceed to scream while you flop around like a fish out of water. But if I give in and go up to flip you over, I barely have time to close the door before you've flipped onto your stomach again. And really, life is short, I'm not willing to spend it flipping you over for the next 18 years, so can you please figure this out and soon before you drive me to insanity?

We play tag with your brother all the time on my bed and it's a favorite game for both of you. I basically hold your little body under your armpits and make you "run" after your brother and swing your body up so that you tag him with your feet. You both always end up in hysterics and during those times, as I watch the two of you together, I always think that I could literally be struck by lightning at that moment and killed, and I would die perfectly happy. The joy of watching the two of you together and the bond you're developing makes the pounds I still have to lose totally worth it.

You can now sit up fairly well with a little support, so the other day I let you ride in your brother's 'train' which is really just the pillows in our bed put in a row. You sat behind your brother, holding on to the wall to support yourself. And as he made choo choo noises, you sat behind him the entire time grinning ear to ear, like you couldn't believe that you were finally big enough to participate in his crazy imagination games, rather than just be an observer.

Soon, you'll be able to crawl and you'll grab things from your brother and the fighting will begin. I just hope that during those times, when I'm ready to sell both of you to the gypsies if I have to listen to fighting for one more minute, that I'll remember this period in your lives where everything was perfect and at peace.

Yet, I can't believe you're already six months old. I feel time is slipping away from us, your babyhood running away from me and already you seem so big when I hold you, your feet laying past the arm of the rocking chair where I hold you a little too long every night, futively trying to hold on to your infancy a little longer. You're my baby, and yet, already you're more than two-and-a-half times bigger than the day you were born. Your wispy hair is longer and I love to feel it against my neck when you're burying your head against me when I pick you up at school, in your version of a hug.

You're growing up too fast little one, and some nights, when I hold you, tears prick my eyes, as I'm already missing the baby that I still get to hold, knowing that before too long, you too will be a gangly toddler, your thigh rolls erased by the cruel hand of time, your gums filled with teeth, your baby cheeks replaced by the face of a boy. And despite the fact that I will love the boy you will soon become, I will miss the baby I currently hold.

Stay little for me just a little longer, will you? Let me continue to rock you too long in the silent night, the darkness that envelop us broken only by the softness of your night light, while the craziness of the world seems so far away. Those are the moments that I know I'll look back on when I'm taking my last breaths, and I will know then, as I do now, that you and your brother will have been my greatest joys.

I love you, my Tiny Man,

Maman.

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Secret Dreams Exposed

2009-04-20T10:26:00.003-05:00

Last week, Little Man's school had a Scholastic book fair, which is basically this mobile bookstore that moves into the school and sells books at supposedly a lower price, when you're charged the price on the back of the book, just like you would be at Border's or Barnes & Noble. However, a portion of the sales goes back to the school who, despite getting more money from us every month than the mortgage company does, apparently needs more.

Last week, in an attempt to boost sales, each child was brought to the book fair and told to choose four or five books that they wish their parents would buy for them. This is a little like telling Little Man that he can have candy for breakfast and I'm sure they had to pick him off the floor from the shock of being told he can pick anything he wants.

That night, Little Man gave me his list and I laughed at it so hard, that I practically had my lung collapse.

Choice #1: Thomas the Train -- Track Stars: This totally makes sense, Little Man loves Thomas the Train, and for almost a month straight, I was forced to read the horribleness that is Gordon Gets in Trouble, which my Sister-in-Law gave him for Christmas. Dear Lord are those books ever horrible.

Choice #2: Froggy Gets a Bicycle: Once again, of course Little Man would pick this, his love of frogs is well-known by the stuffed frog that he carries almost everywhere, and a story about one who rides a bike, well shit on me and call me Harry, that sounds like a fantastic time.

Choice #3: Sleep Black Bear: A random choice, but sure, whatever.

Choice #4: Learn to Draw Fairies: Of course, Little Man, has an artistic side, so it makes sense that he'd want to learn to draw. Wait? What? He wants to learn to draw what? Fairies? Let's ask Little Man what prompted this choice.

"Hey, Little Man, so why did you pick a book about learning to draw fairies?

(shoulder shrug) "Fairies are pretty."

Translation? My son just wants to draw hot chicks.

Love,

Catwoman.

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As My Fourth Anniversary as a Parent Quickly Approaches

2009-04-15T09:12:00.005-05:00

There are many things that I've learned from being a parent. And I thought that it might be time for me to post some of them, so that should I have some kind of accident and wake up in a sitcom where I've forgotten how to do everything, I've got it here:

- A large wad of spit up in one's hair is not enough of a reason to wash one's hair.

- The fastest way to get over your queasiness of vomit is to have a three-year old who is clearly about to toss his cookies on your couch. Suddenly, you will use all appendages of your body as a vomit shield without giving it a second thought.

- Once covered in vomit, you'll be thrilled by the vision of your vomit-free couch and not care that you're wearing close to a pound of bodily fluids.

- Even if you've only been asleep half an hour, the whining of 'I need to go potty' by a newly potty trained two-year old will see you sprint up to the second floor in 1.2 seconds.

- The number of times a mother has been peed or pooped on is directly correlated to the number of times she has tried to dress up and look nice.

- When you give a three-year old gum for the first time, you can never tell him too many times that he is not to swallow it under circumstances and that you'll take it from him when he's done.

- You should not be surprised when the three-year old tells you his gum is in his tummy, despite the fact you told him 342 times not to swallow it.

- You will resolve to tell your three-year old not to swallow gum 343 times next time. Or just wait until he's 18 to him gum again.

- When your three-year old tries to use the system to his advantage by crying out in the middle of the night, knowing full well you'll throw him in your bed and he'll get to sleep with you, do not try to break him of the habit by telling him that he's acting like a baby and that you'll put him in a crib if he ever does it again for no reason. You might be exhausted with it being the middle of the night and not thinking clearly, but you are simply ensuring the child has more fodder to use against you with his future therapist.

- A two year old with a deadly fear of mascots, Easter bunnies and other characters will still be deadly afraid at three-and-a-half. However, a three-and-a-half year old's screams are much louder than a two-year old's and trying to force your child to sit on the Easter bunny's lap despite his fear makes you look like that mom, the one with the psycho screaming child.

- Despite knowing better than to smirk at that mom, you'll learn that next time you see her, you should buy her a martini.

- A three-year old who decides to wipe his own butt can manage to smear poop on the toilet seat and clog the toilet in under 30 seconds.

- A three-year old who throws a hard toy at his baby brother's head because he wanted to play catch with him will cry harder than the five-month old who got bonked. When you ask him why he's crying, you'll figure out that it's because he's heartbroken by the fact that he was a bad big brother, despite his parents telling him that he's three years old and that he's finally acting like a normal child.

- The best part of waking up in the morning is walking into a five-month old's room and being greeted with the world's biggest gummy smiles, as your heart melts into a big pile of confection sugar goo. And then to have said heart explode as you hear his squeals of delight at seeing you.

Love,

Catwoman.

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Mothers' Addictions Do Impact the Children

2009-04-13T09:51:00.003-05:00

So, this couponing thing? It's getting out of control. I'm completely and utterly addicted to free and cheap stuff. No, I'm totally freaking serious you guys, I have been known to loiter the aisles of my nearest Walgreen's and CVS and pounced on the free stuff as soon as they put it on the shelves. Every single cashier at both stores know me and my kids and I'm sure they feel sorry for my poor kids who get dragged around, when each visit consists of two, three, sometimes even six transactions.

But Little Man? He loves it. Not quite as much as me, because no one does, but he has grown to love the thrill of the hunt. While his father is out hunting turkeys (no, I'm not making this up, it's turkey hunting season here in Texas, and it does not involve shooting them in their pen like I first thought when we started dating. There are turkeys. In the wild. Who knew? Even crazier? They didn't escape from Old Macdonald's farm.), Little Man is out hunting for bargains with me. Whenever I load him and his little brother in the car for a run, I always warn him how many stores we're going to hit. I do this so that he can track how close to done we are done if he gets bored, but also, because I always promise him a treat at the end of our shopping runs, and he can keep track how close he is to chocolate.

Once we get to a store, I always tell him how many transactions we're going to need to do. For example, I'll say "we're at Walgreen's, and we'll need to go to the cash register four times."

I see some of you are confused. And there's no simple way for me to explain this to you. Except to say that Walgreen's and CVS have these items that spit out a coupon for the full value of the item when you check out. I apply that coupon to my next transaction, which is for another item that gives me another coupon for the value of that item. That way, I spend as little money as possible. It's a complicated dance, a little bit like the tango, except that it requires zero coordination, therefore way up more my alley.

Little Man now tells me when he sees the Walgreen's sign, "there's Walgreen's. Let's go in, Mama, and go to the register five times, ok?" This is his way of asking for chocolate.

Even more disturbing? He's now asked me if someday, when he gets married, I can teach his wife to shop. So that she can buy him chocolate too.

I believe that if Pavlov hadn't been around, I would have figured out his theory myself. Except in our household, coupons are what makes my child salivate.

Another example of the impact of my latest craze? Little Man has begun lining up the pillows on our bed and getting between them and the wall. He calls this his train. The other day, he asked Sweetie Pie if he'd like to ride in his train. When Sweetie Pie boarded the train, he asked Little Man where the train was going. Little Man said to him "We have to go to four stores today... First Walgreen's, then Albertson's. And at Walgreen's we have to go four times, ok?"

Love,

Catwoman.

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Forty-Three Months: My Letter to Little Man

2009-04-03T09:39:00.007-05:00

Oh what a month it's been my Little Man... With the low lights definitely being your lice infestation and the stomach virus that have left you looking like a child those Christian organizations always want me to adopt for less than the cost of a cup of coffee a day.

Your head had to be shaved. Twice. You've mastered the art of throwing up in a toilet without any of it splashing you in the eye, which means I've filled out applications to the top party colleges already, because you're way ahead of me on that one and surely, that counts for more than those stupid SAT scores.

But there were good times, too. Like how you got to spend a whole week with your Mamou and Dadou (as did your pet lice) and you went to a different fun place every day, which means that last week, after going back to school for four days you asked "when are Mamou and Dadou coming back? How about Friday? Because that works for me."

Not that you didn't show your stubborn side to your grandparents too. You decided that you didn't want to see the monkeys, no matter how much Mamou and Dadou tried to convince you it'd be fun. And then you decided that they shouldn't go see them either, because if there's one thing you like to do, is ensure that if you're not having a good time, then no one's allowed to have a good time. Some might say that this is a fault of yours, but the way I see it, it means you'll be middle management by the time you graduate from college.

You were, however, fascinated by the elephant. Which sounds sweet, of course. But you were fascinated by the giant mammal only because there was the largest pile of poop you'd ever seen in your whole life, and as the elephant walked around his pen, he came dangerously close to stepping in the poop!!!! Which is your equivalent to the most. dramatic. rose. ceremony. ever. to me. And if that Bachelor reference isn't dated by the time you read this and I'm still obsessed with the show, then Little Man, I grant you permission to have me committed.

Which speaking of poop, I can no longer keep track of how often you bring up poop in a typical day. I don't know how it's happened but I freaking live with a boy now. How the hell did this happen? How in the world did you go from this mature two-year old who would discuss Obama and the other Presidents with, to this three-year old who giggles while asking for the umpteenth time "Mama, how do you spell 'poopie head'?"

When you were sick for two days, you were so lethargic and silent, it broke my heart. There you were, all gangly and skinny and pale, laying on the couch by me while I worked. Then that night, I put you to bed, and in the morning, you'd turned back into your normal self. Except that you had all. these. words. pent up in you, that you hadn't used from not talking for two days and you had to get them all out. And so you talked. and talked. and talked. Just this verbal barrage of words. and more words. and even more words. I felt like no amount of sandbags could stop your flood of words and eventually, my brain folded up into itself to get away from all those words while we were driving in the car. But as soon as you'd notice, you'd yell at me "I'm talking to you, Mama! You need to talk to me!" And then you'd continue, just word, after word, after word.

I have no idea where you get this from.

Ok. I do. This is where someone would make a lame mention of an overused analogy about apples falling and trees.

Your father shaved your beautiful hair off. I guess buzzed is the proper term. Either way, your gorgeous hair? It's gone. We had to, because of the lice, so just be grateful you aren't a girl, because your life at school would be a lot more difficult right now if you were born the opposite sex.

There are no pictures yet of the new haircut, simply because it was horrid. Your father and aunt tried cutting chunks of hair out that had nits before settling on buzzing it, and so for a few days, you looked like you'd gotten into a fight with a weedwhacker.

Have I told you lately that we're still kind of new to this parenting gig?

Your relationship with your brother has blossomed these past few weeks. He's in total awe of you, and you love nothing more than to make him laugh. The other day, we were at the pharmacy, Tiny Man in his car seat in the cart, you walking along us. At the cash register, you asked me if you could play with Tiny Man, so I took his car seat and put him on the ground. You began making funny noises and he laughed, which made you laugh, which made him laugh again, until you were both laughing at each other so hard, that the whole store turned around to watch the two of you. It was one of those perfect moments, the kind you want to bottle, the kind that for a moment, made the world a brighter day. My heart swelled, and I watched the people around us, and their faces brightened up, their step seemed a little lighter, and it was all because of the two of you.

In a world, that can be filled at times with sadness and heartbreak, you and Tiny Man continue to bring joy to everything you touch. You've both made my life so much better and every day, I should wake up and thank you for that.

So thank you.

I love you, my Little Man,

Maman.

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At Least I Have a Plan In Case of a Lay Off

2009-04-01T09:09:00.003-05:00

If there's one thing that's come from this blog, is that I've become the source of obvious tips for clueless parents like myself. Things like don't get out of your car when it's still in drive, when your child is strapped into the back seat.

To most people, this would seem obvious. But I'm thinking if it's not to me, surely there are other parents who would appreciate my wisdom and the things I've learned along the way, right?

And I've got a new chapter for this book now. It'll be called (and don't commit me to this, it's still a work in progress) If You Have Cream-Colored Carpets And a Preschooler Who's Vomitting Every Fifteen Minutes, You Shoudn't Buy the Bright Red Pedialyte.

Because I'm thinking there have got to be other parents who go to the pharmacy, see all the different flavors of Pedialyte and think the non-flavored clear kind? That doesn't sound too tasty! But cherry flavor, yum! That must taste just like a melted snow cone, let's go for that!

Damn me and the fact I think like a five-year old, rather than the 33 year-old woman I am.

Also? When I was in college? I never thought that 15 years later, I'd still be patting someone's back as they're bent in half over a toilet. I'm just saying.

And if I didn't outgrow that, where the hell are the hot 20-year old boys I was making out with then? Because I should at least get the benefits too.

Love,

Catwoman.

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In 15 Years, I Will Marry That Boy

2009-03-30T15:44:00.003-05:00

I never thought I'd be a cougar. Especially since I'm married and all. But last compliment I got from Sweetie Pie probably involved me not stinking up the bathroom.

Which he better change, and fast. Because Little Man's best friend? Who's all of three and a half? He's one smooth operator.

On Friday, with Tiny Man on my hip, I walked into Little Man's classroom, where he was busy working on puzzles with his best friend. Little Man's BFF glanced up at me and asked "Is that your little sister?"

Now some people might have gotten offended that someone thought their baby was of the opposite sex.

But me? Well, me, I was just freaking excited that the best friend assumed I was way too young to be a five-month old's mother.

Even though he always greets me with a "Hi, Little Man's Mommy!" And Little Man is three years older.

But I'm a cougar. And I don't need logic to get in the way of true love.

Love,

Catwoman.

Testing the Theory That No One Likes a Bragger

2009-03-28T15:28:00.004-05:00

So I've pretty much got this couponing thing down.

All of this?

I bought it for $27, including tax. Now, I know that's not as great as that woman on the Today Show who got $100 worth of groceries for 25 cents. And the Target lady wouldn't give me my 9 bars of kids' soap, which I was supposed to get for free, because my coupons were for a dollar, and they were on sale for 97 cents, and supposedly they can't adjust the value of the coupon anymore. Because or else? There would totally be nine bars of soap in front of this pile.

For the record? The diapers alone are worth just over $30 before tax. That means that it's like I got everything else in the picture for free.

Total savings, in case you're not that impressed yet? $54. That's right, baby. I got $81 worth of stuff for $27.

Also? To make your life easier, here's a widget where you can get your own $2 off coupon for the Snuggles Creme fabric softener. I've done everything for you but the shopping!

Love,

Catwoman.

Five Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

2009-03-24T21:56:00.005-05:00

I've been putting off this letter. This is the latest I've ever been for one of these letters and if you're thinking that it has to do with you being my second child, you're totally right. This has everything to do with the fact you're not my first. But it's probably not for the reasons you think. I haven't made this letter a priority, for the same reason that I keep slipping up and telling people that you're four-months old, when that hasn't been accurate for a few days now. The truth is that five-months old can't be right. You're my baby. And my baby can't already be four weeks away from being halfway to his first birthday. Because this would then mean that the time is getting away from me. That I'm about 29 weeks away from no longer having a baby.

And that truth? Is one I'm not quite ready to accept. Already, you're too big to fit on one of my arms when I'm rocking you. Your legs stick out past my torso, proof that all that eating you've been doing is totally starting to seriously affect your weight. I mean, I'm not going to call you fat, or anything, but seriously? Three rolls per thigh? Isn't that a little excessive?

I'm just saying, maybe if you stopped drinking milk like every bottle could be your last, maybe, just maybe you could remain a baby longer. You'd get to wear onesies longer, and I'd get to keep my baby longer. And everyone wins, right?

You now speak dolphin fluently, which should come in handy, should we ever be stranded at sea. Your high-pitch squeals have you clearly convinced that you are actually communicating with us. And you are. Because anyone with your enthusiasm and zest for life can always get his point across even if it's with sentences that sound like "baawaagaaawaa, EEEEE!"

We started you on solids this past month, and you've yet to meet a food you don't like. OK, that's a lie. It's something every mom says, but in your case it's not true. You've met the enemy and her name is oatmeal. I don't know what it is about oatmeal, but every time I try to feed it to you on its own, your entire face contorts itself while your entire body shudders.

I guess this is where your ressemblance to me shows itself, like me, your reactions border on over the top for everything. Which I guess I'll have to take because, really child? Could you look any more like your dad?

I'm serious, more and more, you look like this shrunk down version of him. Literally, when you're sitting on his lap, I think that if I suddenly developed depth perception issues, I totally wouldn't be able to tell the two of you apart.

You just figured out how to roll over from your back to your tummy. I'd left you on the floor the other day with your brother, and I walked back in and you were on your tummy making those pissed off grunts of yours that mean "shit, I'm stuck here, a little help please?" I asked your brother why he'd put you on your stomach, while trying to figure out how he was able to accomplish such a feat when you're more than half his body weight, but Little Man stated that you'd done it all by yourself. And when he said that, you lifted your head up, looked at me and beamed, while you were clearly telling me telepathically 'hell yeah I rolled over to my tummy, and as soon as I remember how to roll from front to back again, I'll totally put them together and roll over to places I shouldn't and your life will never be the same again.'

At this rate, I expect that you'll be swinging from the fan to see if it can propel you all the way to the refrigerator by next month.

You've also begun scooting around your crib, which means that on the video monitor, I rarely get to see your sleeping face. Now, I usually get to watch a sleeping arm, or foot, or a diaper. Which for the record, it's really hard to tell if a diaper is actually sleeping, so cut it out, will ya?

We also need to talk about your TV obsession. If there is a television set within two miles of where you are, you will not only notice it, but you will stare at it with this look of awe on your face.

Another thing you stare at in awe? Me. Which I have to admit, you're awful good for my ego, kid. I love working from home and having you watch me while I'm on conference calls, because I feel like the smartest person in the world with you staring at me, your eyes wide as saucers, as you drink in every word I say, every single one of my movements. And when our eyes lock, your face breaks out in the biggest smiles, smiles that you still refuse to let me catch on camera.

That's ok, no worries. Those big goofy smiles of yours can just be our little secret.

I love you, my Tiny Man,

Maman.

The Post That Confirms What a Terrible Mother I Am

2009-03-24T21:18:00.003-05:00

There are many things I do right.

I can't think of them right now, because I've had two beers, and considering that I've spent the last 15 months either pregnant or nursing, that's enough alcohol to make me buzzed, giggly and make my memory as malleable as room-temperature butter (mmmmm.... butter...).

My parents were in town last week, which I don't have any good stories for that, because it all went well, which means that maybe something shocking happened when I had Tiny Man, maybe, just maybe, I became mature enough to let my issues go. I just farted right now, to ensure that I don't lose what makes me who I am.

Anyway, my point is that my mother noticed that Little Man was scratching his head. And mentioned it to me. But it's Little Man, and he develops these weird tics all the time, because he's fairly high strung in his way. Like that one time he developed a two-pack a day habit. So I told my mom that it was probably just a nervous tic, like the way he's constantly scratching his stuffed frog's neck, to the point he's now managed to make a hole in the frog's throat, so that it looks like it had one of those heavy smoker tracheotomies (can you tell I'm totally craving a cigarette right now? No, seriously, I will kiss the first person with tongue who shows up to my hotel room with a cigarette and a light).

A week later, my mom mentioned to Sweetie Pie that Little Man really was scratching his head a lot, and Sweetie Pie, being my complete opposite, called Little Man over and looked at his head.

And guess what? My kid? Who I give a bath to every night, and whose hair I wash practically every day, because he's such a sweater? His hair, his thick, beautiful mass of hair, was infested with lice.

I'm talking live bugs. And eggs, dear God, the freaking eggs.

And you can tell me until you're blue in the face that lice doesn't just happen to dirty kids.

I don't care! Lice shouldn't happen to my kid! Especially when he's three!

And since it was late at night, and that we couldn't go buy anything for it (also, we thought he had fleas, since none of us, including my mom the teacher, had ever seen lice), we washed his hair with the dog's flea shampoo.

I might be the worst mother who ever ever lived.

Some day, Little Man will tell his therapist how his mother let him walk around with lice in his hair for a week and didn't notice. And his therapist will totally give him a free pass for robbing 10 banks.

Love,

Catwoman.

A Bright Future as a Dallas Meteorologist

2009-03-19T12:25:00.003-05:00

When I first moved to Dallas, one thing that amazed me was the self-importance of the weather people. In Canada, the weather person is on for maybe two minutes and says "hey, it's going to be cold in Toronto today, tomorrow and for the next six months. Also, it's probably going to snow." The end.

But in Dallas? The weather guys and gals get two segments per half hour newscasts, and not only that, but they go into excruciating details, telling you what the current temperature is in every suburb so that it sounds like this "In Dallas, it's currently 78, in Addison 79, in Plano it's a balmy 80, but ooh, look! In Allen it's a cool 77."

Really? Is this necessary? Is the fact that it's one degree cooler where I live going to impact my whole day, like damn it, I was going to wear a sun dress, but I'm not going to actually BE in Plano where it's 80, so I better wear a parka instead.

And Little Man must have decided that he must report things obsessively too, just in case the national weather people's association is keeping tabs on him. Like this morning, when he went to use the bathroom and called me in because he'd pooped and needed my wiping services (not available to anyone I haven't birthed, I should add). I walked over and made the mistake of asking if he'd pooped.

"Yes. I pooped two times. One is big, one is small. Also, I peed. Not a lot, but enough and now the water's yellow. Also, I tooted. Twice. That's two times. You can't see my toots though, but they're in there."

He then proceeded to remind me to take my parka if I was going to head to Allen.

Love,

Catwoman.

The Long Overdue Catwoman Changes Your Life Post

2009-03-17T15:22:00.003-05:00

So I didn't share my secrets in my post about how I've been saving money.

And the comments and the crazy number of emails I received were pretty pissy about how I teased you all with all my free stuff and didn't share.

Which hello? How long have you guys been reading me? I'm a bitch residing in a post-baby body. You're just figuring this out now?

It's not that I'm a bitch though, it's mostly, I didn't want to write a post that seemed like a commercial for a paying site.

But since you guys are mad at me, fine. I'll tell you my secret.

So first? If you guys aren't getting the Sunday paper? The one with all the coupons? Start getting it.

If you are getting it? Start buying a second one. Trust me, the small investment of two bucks will save you loads of money each week.

Second? Start stealing folders or large envelopes from work. Or just go buy a pack at a store. Also worth the investment.

Now, every week, you'll grab a large envelope (I recommend an envelope instead of a folder, stuff less likely to fall out and stuff) and write that Sunday's date on the front. Now stick the flyers of coupons in the envelope. Do not cut them out. (once again, trust me and the system, will ya? I'm a professional, people).

Next, go to The Grocery Game. Spend the dollar to get the 4-week trial. Seriously, trust me, it's worth the dollar. And it's worth the $1-$2 a week you'll spend for a membership after that. (Side note: feel free to use me as a reference when you sign up, email address is catwoman.in.texas at gmail.com)

Basically, the grocery game is this awesome system that tells you where to buy stuff and when to use your coupons. If it's not on the list, you don't buy it, simple as that.

This past week? Because of the system? I got six bags of free cat treats (sure, my cat will be 19 years old in a month, and this is probably a lifetime supply for her, but hey! FREE!), three bottles of Frank's red hot sauce, deodorant for 50 cents, Ken's salad dressing for 50 cents a bottle (or maybe it was a dollar, hard to remember, it was cheap) and mucho, mucho other things. In fact, I got more than $232 of groceries for just under $100. I'm not making this up. You should see our pantry. Food is falling out of it. Same thing with our freezer.

In fact, I have so much free or dirt cheap (think 20 cents) bottles of shampoo and soaps, that I've started a large grocery bag where I'm putting the excess now. Once the bag is full, I'll be bringing it to the nearest battered woman's shelter for their clients to use. So not only am I getting free stuff for my family? But now, I'm also giving back, something that has me excited.

The Grocery game is your best bet to get started. I'm now past my trial period and am happily paying them $20 for three stores worth of lists. Because holy hell, have they continued to save me a small fortune. No more store brands for my family, becauase literally? The name brands are so much cheaper for me now.

Then there are some other great sites that you should get to know, that will teach you how to get free stuff and cheap stuff at other places.

Here are some of my favorites:

I Heart CVS: I haven't really gotten into the CVS shopping, because it seems the nearest one to me is out of everything even when I show up at opening time on the day the circular deals start (WTF by the way, CVS...), but people swear by it.

I Heart Walgreen's: I've gotten three free rolls of aluminum foil and a year's worth of free shampoo thanks to this site.

For those of you with Rite Aids in your areas? The sites above have a I Heart Rite Aid site linked on their home pages.

The Centsible Sawyer: A great site that'll tell you how to get cheap or free stuff at a number of stores. She does weekly cheap Target, Walmart and many other stores posts. Another great one to start with.

Surviving the Stores:Another one that's now in my blog reader. Today's post has links from other couponing bloggers for stores around the country, so you can probably find your local couponing experts on the post!

The Freebie Blogger:I think this is the site Texas Mama told me about? So thanks Texas Mama! (And if it's not, well, just take the credit for it anyway!) This site is awesome for free promotions! I've downloaded free songs thanks to this site (yesterday? I got Taylor Swift's "Love Story" for free, which made the 13-year old in me very happy. Two weeks ago? If I'd known about it? I could have downloaded Kelly Clarkson's "My Life Would Suck Without You" for free instead of paying iTunes for it.) Also? I'm now cancelling my Netflix membership, which will save us $10 a month, since there's a redbox free rental code every week on Freebie Blogger, and I'll just rent a fre movie, watch it on Monday night with Sweetie Pie and we'll just Tivo our Monday shows and watch them on Saturday night, our usual movie night.

So there you go. My secrets. I've shared them with you. A few tips for you newbies:

- There are three kinds of coupon flyers: Redplum (also called Vasalias or something like that in other regions), Smart Source and Procter&Gamble. All coupon sites will tell you what coupon to use by listing the coupon flyer by one letter (example: S or SS for Smart Source) and the date, so R 3/15 would tell you to look for the coupon in your Redplum flyer from March 15th. This is why you want to keep your coupon inserts whole and have them in an envelope or folder with the date on them. Some people believe in cutting out all the coupons, sorting them in baseball card holders or coupon organizers, but you know what? I find that I never find any coupons that way, because I can't remember if I've got toilet paper coupons in paper or in toiletries and how the hell do you know what date it's from then? Trust me, do it my way.

- You'll need to figure out your individual store's coupon policy. One of my grocery stores? Only doubles or triples your first coupon for an item. I use the self-check out, so that way I can split my shampoo into two or three transactions if I have multiple coupons for it that I'm using that day. Another one does it for three, so keep an eye on your bill on check out the first time, so that you'll know for the future.

- In Texas, coupons only get doubled to 50 cents. I'm highly jealous of those people in the North East would get coupons doubled up to 99 cents. Do you know how much free stuff I could get then?

- Figure out what produce and meat is on sale where and fill your fridge and freezer the first couple of weeks with the basics like ground beef and chicken. Then plan your menu for the week based on what's on sale. It'll save you mucho, mucho money and you won't have meat in the freezer for two years. You want to use what you buy.

Questions? Post them in the comments, I'm happy to teach you everything I know, young grasshoppers. Unless you start clearing the aisles of my grocery stores because you live near me, and then I'll kick your asses, because I was here first!

Love,

Catwoman.

Little Lady Comes to the Big Easy

2009-03-11T10:02:00.002-05:00

So I mentioned in another post that I'm in New Orleans, something I was nervous about what with this being the murder capital and all.

I like to think I'm street smart, but that theory held its own until I lasted exactly three days when at 18 and in Barcelona for the summer, I was mugged at 3 a.m. In a dark alley. And then proceeded to fight with my attackers in an attempt to get this drunk American boy's fanny pack back. Who I barely knew and probably wasn't that cute, since I was sporting some thick beer goggles.

Somehow I managed to not get myself raped or killeda miraculous feat. But, if anything, that experience taught me that being raised in the tough streets of Suburban Ottawa, Montreal And Toronto might not have made me as street smart as you would think.

So whenever I travel to cities that have high crime rates, I don't trust myself.

And Monday once again proved to me that I shouldn't be allowed out of the house without adult supervision.

Upon landing in New Orleans, I made my way to the taxi stand. I always demand a cab that takes credit cards, so that I can use my corporate card instead of forking out the cash and waiting to get reimbursed.

The guy manning the taxi line pointed me to a gray cab with a man standing by the trunk. I walked over, smiled, said hi, and he opened the trunk for me a little bigger. I put my suitcase which contained my BREAST PUMP! And toiletries in it, and upon seeing him grab the handle of my carry on, which amongst other things (like all of my clothes) held my work laptop. I headed to the back passenger door and climbed into the cab.

And there, in the driver's seat was another man, who was clearly the real cab driver. As we drove away, I sat there, stunned that I had just given my laptop to a strange man, simply because he'd been standing near a trunk.

All's well that ends well, when we got to the hotel, both of my bags were there.

I guess strange trunk man decided I was too stupid for him to steal from

Love,

Catwoman.

Trauma

2009-03-10T13:44:00.003-05:00

I was planning on writing a post today about my stupidity yesterday, but that is being thrown out by my trauma of this morning. Now I must preamble this story with a warning that many of you will scoff at me, but just think back to the first time this happened to you, and maybe then you can show me the proper compassion I deserve.

So I was standing in the bathroom of my hotel this morning, doing my hair, which involves separating it into sections to be straightened one at a time, when I suddenly spotted something odd.

After some closer inspecting, it looked like a blond hair. Which doesn't make any sense, since I'm a brunette whose hair doesn't lighten. So I ripped it out. And that's when the world started spinning.

Not because I gave myself a gaping wound with the ripping of the hair, thank you for your concern, but there was no shedding of any blood.

There was, however some shedding of tears, when I realized that it was in fact my first white hair. Which led me to wonder if there were any others. And that's when I found my second white hair.
And since I can't see the back of my head, there could be a third one back there, hidden out of sight...

This morning, I woke up 33 years young. Two hours later, I was 33 years old.

I just need a little time to grieve the end of my life as I knew it, since I haven't colored my hair since my early 20s.

Love,

Catwoman

And It's Me Again

2009-03-09T12:18:00.002-05:00

So I'm writing this entire post from my iPhone. Which, by the way, if Sweetie Pie knew about my blog, he'd totally mock that last sentence, because he finds it hilarious that I always refer to it as my iPhone, rather than simply my phone. Which just proves how he's amused by just about anything and why we get along so well.

I'm currently on my way to New Orleans, which is sad for two reasons. First because I'm a couple of weeks late for Mardi Gras, and do you know how many beads I'd get with my giant breastfeeding boobies? I'd probably be the first person in the history of Mardi Gras to die under the crushing weight of beads. And two, because this is the first time I'm leaving Tiny Man for longer than a work day. The Man-Do-I-Ever-Miss-Them feeling is amplified that right now there's this tightening in my chest that feels a little like I'm weighed down by 10,000 pounds of beads. For two days, I won't get to hear his little piglet squeals of joy when he spots me, the dog, a speck of dust and just about everything else, because he's an indiscriminate squealer.

Little Man has been briefed as well, if not better than any of my executives, due to how hard he took my last business trip in September. I made him a makeshift calendar with three boxes and every day, he colors one in so that he'll know when I'm coming back.

Also? I have a beef to pick with talented menu writers. When you describe a chicken ciabatta sandwich like it's the second coming, ensuring that my stomach removes itself from my body, slithers to the kitchen leaving a trail of gastric acid in it's path to becoming one with that sandwich, I can't help but be disappointed when I bite into a rock-hard piece of bread with A dried out piece of chicken. I'm just sayin let's tone it down ok boys and girls?

And now my flight's been delayed. Something about a problem with the windshield. Like we need one of those. It's freaking 70 outside let's just roll down all the windows and enjoy the nice breeze. Where's the pilot from The Miracle on the Hudson? He'd totally fly our plane in as is condition.

Love,

Catwoman.

New Obsession

2009-03-07T17:57:00.003-06:00

So I need to let you guys in on something. Hope you're sitting down for this, because I'm sure it'll be a complete shock. So I know I'm not an economist, but I have to tell you that the economy? It ain't so good.

I'm sorry to have to be the one to break it to you guys.

And I'll be honest, I've never been the best money person. I am the stay-at-home mom who had to go back to work because whenever Little Man and I got bored at home, I'd take him shopping. And apparently, them credit cards? They don't pay themselves.

I know, I'm just full of new facts today.

The bad economy finally hit home for us, in the way of a paycut for me. And as I've told many a coworker, it's not like my company told me last year "hey, you know what would be awesome? Is if you went and had a second baby so that you'd have two daycare bills." Having Tiny Man was my decision, and I'd rather go underwearless and not eat than imagine a life without him.

But still.

Pay cuts suck.

And we were already living pretty thriftily, so there ain't much fat to cut. There is the cleaning lady, of course. But she is my sanity, and giving her up would be like slicing off my ears.

So I've found another way to trim back the old budget. And I must admit, it's turned into a bit of an obsession, as most things tend to with me.

Hello, my name is Catwoman and I'm an extreme couponer. I've got 10 sites now that I track like a hawk that tell me who's got a sale on what and what coupon I need to use when so that I can get craploads of stuff for as little money as possible.

Sweetie Pie laughs at me, because before one of these trips to the store, I'm totally giddy and I tell him "I'm going to go rob Target/Walgreen's/the grocery store."

I must pause here to welcome any new readers who found me from googling "how to rob Target."

So here's my spree from yesterday. This was one of my better trips and I must say that I'm still glowing from the thrill of it.

You know how much I paid for all of that (just for the record, it's two large packs of Huggies wipes, three Renuzit air & fabric deodorizers, 1 carton of Silk soy milk, 3 packs of Mott's apple sauce, 6 cans of condensed chicken noodle soup and a box of Milkbones).

I got all of it for $7.70. That's including tax.

I know, right? There are people who shoplift and spend more money than I do.

So I know I'm a terrible blogger. And I'm a terrible blog reader. But this new hobby of mine? It's really a lot of fun!

Today? I dragged Tiny Man to Walgreen's for dirt cheap diapers, three bottles of free conditioner and two free Glade air sray thingies.

So to summarize? Me hate pay cuts. Me love free stuff.

The end.

Love,

Catwoman.

Forty-Two Months: My Letter to Little Man

2009-03-04T09:28:00.004-06:00

So a funny thing happened this past month. You turned into a three-year old. Which is both horrifying and a relief, in some ways. Amongst the three-year old traits you have taken on, the most visible one is your idea of a joke, which typically involve calling anyone around something that includes the words "poo-poo" and "head."

Why this is hilarious, I'm not sure, because I'll be honest with you kid, it's been a very, very long time since I've been three years old. But every day, when I pick you up from school and ask you what you did, you practically can't speak, because you're so busy recounting how you called your best friend a poo-poo head. Oh, the hilarity.

A few months ago, I mentioned that I tried to teach you how to tell knock knock jokes, a feat that I've discovered is extremely difficult to do, because how do you explain to someone that after you say "knock knock", they're supposed to say "who's there?" But silly me gave it another shot and this time went a lot better, I must admit. After a few rounds of me saying "knock knock" and you repeating "knock knock," you finally understood that you were supposed to say "who's there?" The small victories of motherhood. Next, I have to make you understand that the vodka should always be poured first into the martini shaker.

So you know the knock knock, who's there? Boo. Boo who? joke. And you tell it to me many times, and I have to act like I've never heard it before. Which would be a lot easier to do if you didn't go into a fit of giggles every time I say boo who?, which means that you never use the punchline. And then I'm forced to tell you that you haven't said the punchline, and each time without fail you tell me "then you say it." I'm thinking your future as a stand-up comic is pretty cloudy looking right now.

My favorite moment in the past month involved the following conversation:

Me: "Little Man, you're so good looking, you must have a lot of girlfriends!
- No I don't!
- You don't have lots of girlfriends? How many girlfriends do you have then?
- Just one.
- Just one? I'm shocked! Do you love your girlfriend?
(nodding) - I do! I love her very, very much.
- That's so sweet! And what is your girlfriend's name?
- Mama! My girlfriend is you!"

Cue me throwing pounds of M&Ms at you and promising you a Porshe for your 16th birthday. Keep it up, kid, because flattery will get you everywhere.

You've also discovered tattling this month. This is not exactly your best side and we've tried beating it out of you. And when I say beating, clearly I mean literally using boards with rusty nails on them, not the figurative manner. I only clarify this so that you have something to blame us for when your therapist doesn't understand where all of your issues stem from. You regale us with stories about how so and so at school did this and so you told on them and this girl said "sunny" and that's a bad word (really?!?) so you told on her. You tell me about things Daddy does and you tell Daddy when I give you candy before dinner.

Then, of course, there's the comment you made to Daddy one day when you were by yourselves in his truck. As he sped up to pass a car, you said "Daddy, are you going to drive fast like Mama now?"

Now that you're halfway to your fourth birthday, I've discovered you no longer forget things. Like the other day, when you decided you were finished with your dinner and didn't eat your piece of yummy garlic bread (with cheese!!!). You excused yourself from the table, and left to play. Your father and I promptly split your bread and chatted while we finished dinner. Unfortunately, a few minutes later, you showed up in the dining room, climbed back in your spot and promptly noticed that your break was gone. The look of shock on your face was pretty hilarious, I have to admit, and you looked at your father and then at me and said "you ate my bread?" like you couldn't believe we could do anything so cruel. We explained to you that you'd told us you were done and excused yourself from the table, but you continued to look incredulous. But even worse, every day since then, at some random time during the day, you'll say to me "remember how you and Daddy ate my bread the other day?"

So let's see then.... Steel trap memory + a love of tattle taling + skinniness = teachers who've probably called Child Protective Services to report abusive parents who eat their skinny kid's food.

This morning I swung by Chick-Fil-A for breakfast for the both of us. You only ate half of your hash browns and told me you wanted to keep them for tomorrow. As you handed them to me, you eyed me suspiciously and said "you're not going to eat them, are you?" I told you they were going to get soggy and that hash browns don't keep. Your eyes narrowed to slits and you stated more firmly "I'm going to eat the rest tomorrow. You're not going to eat them, are you?"

Amazing how convincing someone who's roughly 37 inches tall can be.

I love you my Little Man,

Maman.

Four Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

2009-02-20T14:16:00.009-06:00

With a new President in power, it seems the onus is on what the first 100 days of his presidency will mean for the country. I mention this only to see if the mention of a Democratic president will make you twitch nervously like it does to your dad, but also because I just realized that 24 days ago, we reached the 100 day milestone of havig you in our lives.

What did we do to mark the occasion that day, you ask? Couldn't tell you. But I'm sure it involved the usual, which is you smiling, me feeding you repeatedly, you smiling some more, you filling diapers, you smiling some more, me trying to swallow you whole, you smiling some more, you yelling at me for not putting you down for a nap. Because this is what I've discovered about having a second child. The neglect is absolutely horrible, as when it came to your brother's infancy, his naps were this sacred event, never to be disturbed by anything. The house could have been burning down around me during your brother's naps, and still I would have refused to go anywhere. But you? You, my poor second born, are stuck getting toted around places, so that you are forced to nap in car seats and bouncy seats. And when we are home for naps, because you are still not on any kind of daytime schedule, you'll play with us until you can't play anymore, and then you'll yell at us to let us know that you need your freaking sleep, people! And we'll put you down in your crib, where you'll usually let out a sigh of relief that your demands were met.

However, the nights, oh the glorious nights, are a completely different story. You usually begin rubbing your eyes and asking to go to bed around 7:15. At 7:45 on the dot, I pour your bath and we play this game where I try to take your shirt off and you fold your arms while grinning ear to ear so that I have to tug the shirt while rolling you side to side to get it loose. This always makes you laugh and I love that laughter comes so easy for us. In your bath, you'll happily sit in the tub for hours if I'd let you. And then comes my favorite part, where I cover you from head to toe in moisturizing cream, since you started getting eczema this month. And your favorite part is when I rub your feet. While I'm putting cream on your face, you hold both of your feet up as high as you can, grunting at me, smiling at me. And I grin at you while putting cream on your shoulders. And you sigh at me, your feet raised even higher, your grunting even louder. When I finally get to putting cream on your feet, you pump your chubby little arms so hard, that I often think they're just going to fly out of their socket. And so I rub cream on those little feet, your little toes curling around my fingers as I do it. The truth is that as much as you enjoy it, I enjoy it 10 times as much.

When I put you down in the evenings after your last bottle of the night, I always turn on your little musical sea horse and once you go to sleep, that's it, you sleep through the night, never to be heard again until 7 the next morning. Yesterday, in fact, I had to wake you at 7:15, because I had to get you ready for school. Of course, I say this, but today, a Saturday I should mention, you decided to wake up at 5 a.m. and would not go back to sleep even though we promised you a pony and Ferrari if you would. For the record, most people on their birthdays like to sleep in. I figure I'll get even with you the day after you 21st birthday by waking you up at 5 a.m. No really, no need to thank me.

Now I know every parent thinks their child is brilliant, but the thing is? I know for a fact that you are. Because I'm not sure there are any babies your age in this world who can not only self soothe when they wake up, but do so by scooting themselves around their crib so that their feet are close enough to their sea horses. You see, my brilliant child, you do this so that you are able to kick start your sea horse's music again, therefore getting yourself back to sleep. A few times this month, your father and I were awoken to the sounds of a lullabye and when we'd get up, there you were, fast asleep. One night, right before we went to bed, you woke up, grunted and your father and I watched you on the monitor, clear as day, moving around to be able to start your toy. To say we were impressed would be a clear understatement.

You go to daycare three days a week, and your teachers always talk about how long you sleep when you're there. I'm not sure if this is because they swaddle you like a white boy burrito, or if it's because you're so exhausted from having to be in a house of inconsiderate ingrates who won't put you on a good daytime schedule, that daycare has turned into your personal spa.

You seem to know when we're getting ready for school. I'm not sure if you spot your diaper bag or if you notice that I'm showered, hair down instead of in a pony tail and have mascara on. Either way, you always let out these squeals of delight, like you're saying "holy crap! I'm going to that place! The place with all the girls! The place that actually puts me down for naps without being asked!" This makes it easier for me to drop you off in the morning, because I know you're happy.

Of course, with your happy temperament, I could probably leave you at the pound every morning, and you'd still be happy. In fact, it's difficult for me to come up with anything that truly makes you unhappy.

You look so much like your father. So much so, that your nickname at school is Little Daddy. I think this secretly makes your dad happy as hell. Oh, who am I kidding. There's no secretly about it. Every time somebody tells your dad you look like him, his head gets just a little bigger.

This month you've discovered your feet. And not only have you discovered them, you've fallen madly in love with them. Socked feet are fine, but bare feet, oh the pleasure of bare feet, when I uncover them for you, right away, you snatch both of them in your hand and shoot me this look that probably means "if you take them away from me again, I'll make sure every single poopy diaper leaks."

Your personality is erupting right now, which is just a joy to watch. Even though you've only been with us just over 100 days, it feels like you've been in my heart a lifetime. I'm so glad you joined our family.

I love you, my Tiny Man,

Maman.

Considered Child Abuse in Eight States and Canada

2009-02-20T11:38:00.004-06:00

Somewhere out there, Tiny Man's future girlfriends and wife are smiling, knowing that when the moment will be ripe for major embarrassment, I will pull out this picture.

Unfortunately for Tiny Man, it had to be done. Because three years ago, I did this to his big brother.

The most obvious thing here, besides the fact there is zero doubt these two kids come from the same gene pool, is the fact that Little Man? Had zero shame and would totally be game for anything, no matter how embarrassing. Tiny Man? Always has this WTF look on his face and is clearly thinking that someday, he'll get to pick my retirement home and will totally get even with me. Or he'll cut the brake wires on my old lady scooter and leave me at the top of that giant hill in San Francisco.

Love,

Catwoman.

Confession

2009-02-18T10:43:00.000-06:00

So I have to admit something to all of you. I don't like children.

I know, this is a little shocking coming from a mom of two.

But I've never really liked children. This was the reason that during my 20's, I really thought I'd probably never have kids.

Then, and I've told this story many times before, when I was barely 29, I saw a Johnson & Johnson commercial with a smiling baby splashing in a sink and I bawled my eyes out. Or my uterus made me bawl my eyes out, not sure which. I turned to Sweetie Pie, told him I wanted a baby and that was it.

Little Man came along and I loved him more than anything. I loved that baby in a primal way, where I knew that if it came to giving my life up for his, I would without a moment's hesitation. Never, ever before had I felt that way about a human being.

And now that Little Man is a child, I still love him that passionately, even on the days he irritates the crap out of me. Because even at his worse, he's one of the best things in my life.

But on Monday, I discovered that I? Still don't like children.

Little Man and I planned a play date on President's Day and had a Piggies and Paws artist come so that I could get handprints and footprints done of Tiny Man and get a couple of prints that would have both kids in them. I collect art made from my kids' prints the way some people collect Picasso's.

The playdate became like something in a movie. Screaming children everywhere. Little Man's toys being hurled around, many of them on the brink of breaking under the abuse of out-of-control children.

And glued to a wall, eyes as big as saucers, staring in shock at the unfolding scene, were Little Man and myself, Tiny Man spared from the insanity because he wisely chose to go down for his nap minutes before the madness began.

Once everyone finally left and the house was back to its state of quiet, Little Man and I picked up all of his toys. Then we hit the mall to heal our souls with a couple of Nestle Tollhouse fresh cookies from their stand.

As we watched the figure skaters on the skating rink (I know, right? At a mall! In freaking Texas!!!!) silently, Tiny Man asleep in the stroller, I said to Little Man "I'm lucky to have you and your brother. You're not normal children."

Little Man grinned at me and said "I know. And you're not a normal Mama."

Ain't that the truth.

Love,

Catwoman.

The Face of Sunshine

2009-02-13T13:59:00.003-06:00

If Sunshine had a face, this is what it would look like:

This kid won't stop smiling.

Yesterday? I gave him cereal for the first time. Kid got so freaking excited that when he farted, UV rays came shooting out of his ass and he blinded the dog.

On Monday, the Picture People will be photographing my ball of sunshine in a Cupid outfit. This mortification is mandatory only because I did it with Little Man at the same age, and I have to be fair and humiliate my kids equally.

And yes. The picture will be posted here for the world to see.

Love,

Catwoman.

Proof That Hidden in There Is a Three-Year Old

2009-02-11T09:25:00.002-06:00

I've always treated Little Man like he's a very short adult. I've always dressed him in cute clothes, but they've always been shrunk-down versions of grown men clothes, mainly jeans and polo shirts or t-shirts. Burgh Baby would be the first to say that I'm no AFF, as our beloved AFF would dress her son in jon jons until he's 20 if he allowed her to.

Please wait a second while I duck to avoid the heavy object my favorite AFF just threw in my direction.

Anyway, my point is, that Little Man, partly because of his personality, partly because I treat him like he's 20 years old, acts like a grown up regularly.

Last Thursday night, my faithful breast pump decided that it was tired of the abuse of being strapped to my giant boobies five times a day and stopped sucking. There are many things I wish would quit sucking, like Grey's Anatomy for example, but my breast pump is nowhere on that list.

I proceeded to do what I do best, which is freak out.

Then I proceeded to do the second thing I do best, which is to live in denial. So I turned off the breast pump, figuring it would magically repair itself, and that I'd try again at bedtime, my usual last pumping session now that Tiny Man is SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT!!!! (I figure I need to all caps that, because whoo-hoo, mofos! Kid is sleeping through the night two months sooner than his brother did! Can I get a whoop-whoop! Crap. Now I have to duck to avoid the heavy objects from the parents with older babies/kids who aren't yet sleeping through the night).

Anyhoo, despite the usual success of my living in denial strategy, for some reason it didn't work this time. So when I turned on my pump at 10 p.m., it still wouldn't suck.

Which led to me freaking out for real, Sweetie Pie calling Walmart to see if they carry Medela (they don't) and me having to plan a stop at Target the next morning on the way to work with the kids.

When I woke up Little Man on Friday morning, I told him that we needed to hurry, because Mama's breast pump is broken and we need to go buy a new one at Target.

When we got to Target, I threw both kids in the cart and raced in the store with boobs that felt like they could blow up at any time and arms that I could no longer lower because I was in so much pain from not pumping for 16 hours (thank you Tiny Man for refusing to take the milk directly from the cow).

As we're racing through the store, Little Man begins to say in a not-inside voice "Mama, are we getting your breast pump (emphasis his, not mine) now? Are the breast pumps in the back of the store? Or are the breast pumps in the front of the store? When we get your breast pump, can I hold it in the cart? Can I play with your new breast pump in the car Mama? What color is your new breast pump"

It was a little like some invisible frat brother asked my child to say the words breast and pump as many times as possible in a 30-second time span.

I proceed to smile at Little Man and tell him there's no reason to speak so loudly.

But it's like I'm not there and he continues this string of questions. How big is your new breast pump? What if the store has no breast pumps? Does Tiny Man want to hold the breast pump too?

Once we get to the baby aisle, I grab the breast pump and throw in the cart with Little Man, which causes him to shift into exclamation mark mode. "Whoo-hoo! We have a new breast pump! Wow Mama, I love your new breast pump! I want to open the breast pump box now! Let's go pay for your new breast pump now, Mama!"

When we get to the cash register, Little Man finishes by telling the cashier "Look! My Mama has a new breast pump!"

Seriously? Kid's been shopping with me about 10,000 times in his life. Never has he felt the need to narrate one of my purchases before.

This is why the world has three-year olds in it.

So that you can go through Target and become so embarrassed you end up laughing so hard you pull a muscle.

And for blog content.

Love,

Catwoman.

Forty-One Months: My Letter to Little Man

2009-02-02T07:39:00.006-06:00

I just realized that we are quickly approaching the half-way mark until your next birthday. Which means I can no longer deny that you are a child, one who is honest to a fault ("well, actually Mama, I don't like this food you made"), who won't let me skip bath time ("but I'm dirty!") and who has figured out how to bring any conversation back to his penis, which means your man card should arrive in our mailbox any day now.

Your seriousness continues to crack me up. You've renamed the game room and have declared that we should refer to it as your office. You'll regularly tell us during dinner that you can't go to bed yet, you need to finish your work. Of course, your work hardly ever involves cleaning up after yourself when you're done, but hey, one step at a time, right?

You love your brother, I've said that in many posts before, but now, you've discovered you have much power over him. You have the power to make him laugh and, even better, you have the power to scare him into filling his diaper. Which, like any older sibling, you find to be an awesome power to have.

This month, you're learning about the bones of the body at school, like any normal three-year old does, because who needs to learn about things like the sounds animals make or itsy bitsy spider in Spanish when you can learn about the skull or the humerus. This has resulted in interesting conversations with you, like you always test us asking us if our nasal cavity is hard or soft, or like the time you hit your shoulder and said "ow, I just banged my clavicle!"

These past weeks, you've developed this habit of making a kissing noise when I tell you goodnight and that I love you, as I'm walking out of your room. I always respond with my own kiss noise, which results in a kiss off that lasts until I'm halfway down the hall.

You've become obsessed with the sports games on the Wii and can bowl a really mean game. Like me, you hate losing and get frustrated when you're not naturally good at a game. The other day, you beat me at tennis, fair and square, and the pride on your face at that moment made me want to lose every game for the rest of my life to you. I always want you to feel like you can take on the world, like you can beat anyone. And yet, at the same time, I want you to be able to shake off defeats and develop a thick-enough skin that you can still have the confidence to succeed, even when you aren't the best at something.

I love you so much. I love your wit, your spirit, your zest for life, your curiosity, but most of all, I love what a good human being you are. Your kindness, your sensitivity and your sweetness amaze me every single day. Don't ever, ever let the world take that away from you, my darling boy. The world can be a mean, dark, angry place and if anything, it needs more people like you.

I love you, my Little Man,

Maman.

Kind of Like the Scent of a Whore on a Businessman

2009-01-30T13:24:00.003-06:00

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.

Slammed

2009-01-29T09:15:00.002-06:00

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.

Three Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

2009-01-21T22:27:00.000-06:00

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.

A Montage of Tiny Man

2009-01-05T07:56:00.001-06:00

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.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

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

Forty Months: My Letter to Little Man

2009-01-02T12:55:00.004-06:00

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.

I Stand Corrected...

2008-12-26T08:47:00.000-06:00

Amongst the many gifts Santa brought Little Man yesterday, one of them was a play doctor's kit, which he's been playing with most of the day. Which I bought for four dollars, when most of his other toys cost 10 to 15 times that amount.

At one point, Little Man was playing in the living room trying to hear his heart beat.

Me: Are you a doctor?

LM: No, Mama, I'm not a doctor. I'm pretending to be a doctor.

Love,

Catwoman.

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-25T07:07:00.000-06:00

Well, after many, many horrible travel experiences, all of my family has finally made it in. I expect that none of them will ever want to return to Dallas when it has meant getting stranded in all sorts of places and having to buy new tickets because Air Canada acts like it is the airline of a Third-World country, rather than the greatness of the country that turned me into such a fantastic human being somehow.

But 'tis the day where Santa comes bearing gifts for Little Man, and he can FINALLY get that Little Einstein bath toy that he has been hoping and wishing for the way I've wished for thinner thighs.

So on this day of peace, love and feasts a plenty, I give to you my boys.

Santa actually doesn't need to bring me anything this year. I've got all I could ever want.

Love,

Catwoman.

Sweetness

2008-12-22T11:15:00.000-06:00

Little Man can regularly be caught being sweet to Tiny Man. He does it very naturally, not because it's expected of him, just because that's just who he is, down to his core. I don't know where he gets it from, neither his father nor I are particularly nice people, but Little Man somehow defeated the odds and has this wonderful soft spirit and I intend to ensure the world doesn't crush him and harden him.

A few days ago, Tiny Man was going berzerk in his bouncy seat, demanding his next bottle and Little Man started singing to him. By the time I'd gotten the camera out, he was done singing and had begun humming, but I still love this video, because it's typical Little Man: unfazed, sweet and caring.

And for the record, at the end of the video he is not attempting to smother his little brother with the frog.

Brotherly Love from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.

Love,

Catwoman.

Two Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

2008-12-21T08:09:00.001-06:00

So we've got smiling! And one night where you slept for six hours straight! I'd say your second month was a good month, except there were those three nights of hell when you caught a cold, and since you're a man, you behaved like you were going to die if I didn't hold you all. the. time. and you refused to do anything ressembling sleep when the sun was down, instead, you chose to whine and complain and do the whole 'woe is me' routine that millions of men befor you perfected. May I remind you that a happy home starts with a happy Mama? I'm just saying.

I guess it goes to show that when you're spoiled like we have been with you, the second we get a taste of what dealing with a normal newborn would be like, we can't handle and choose to go the whine and complain route. It's the same reason that I get cranky when your brother actually behaves like a normal preschooler, because it's just not something I've had to deal with before.

You lost most of your newborn hair this past month, which meant that for a while, your father thought you looked like something from Deliverance, which if you don't get that reference, Tiny Man, don't worry, it only means you're not ancient like your father. You have started to regrow hair on the side of your head, but are left with a longer strip on top, making you look really tough and punk-like. It also means you're three years too late to look like you're copying Maddox Jolie-Pitt, but hey, I've never been good at following trends either.

You've begun to smile, although it's yet to be a regular occurence. Your brother and I try so hard to get you to smile. We'll put on puppet shows for you, have funny face contests, make high-pitched sounds that send the dog cowering under the bed, until we're giggling so hard that he gets the hiccups and I can't breathe. And during this entire time, there you are in your bouncy seat, your brow furrowed, like you are so disgusted with us and can't believe we think this simpleton humor is supposed to amuse you.

If someday you sit down and compare your brother's "My First Year" scrapbook to yours, and you wonder why there are no pictures of you smiling yet, that would be because trying to get you to smile is a little like trying to give a pissed off dragon a throat lozenge. It just ain't happening. One of your aunts thinks most pictures of you ressembles paparrazzi pictures of celebrities, where they look midly annoyed all the time. Although, in your defense, a couple of nights ago, I was holding you after you'd finished your bottle, and you were looking around the room, when suddenly, your face broke out in the biggest grin I've seen on you. We're talking corners of the mouth reaching your ears, mouth open wide enough to fit our entire house in it, tongue sticking out in the way only new babies get away with. I was stunned for a second, and then it occurred to me that this huge smile wasn't even for me, that it was at some random thing that you spotted in the room. I'm unsure as to what this thing is that caused you to smile so big, it could be a stocking, could be the lights on the trees, but really, it doesn't matter, because seriously? Are you aware that you should be clamoring for a larger share of the will and smiling at the person who carried you for nine months, the one who had to give up alcohol and sushi for that long (270 days, in case you can't do the math). Despite all of that, you smile at random objects? Oh how you break my heart little one...

You are so cute and squishy though. You've spent this past month getting fatter, and I love how your entire body has these nice big fat rolls on it, giving you all sorts of places to hide lint, dog hair and other treasures you seem to collect. You've outgrown most of your 0-3 months clothes, a feat I never thought a child of mine would get done long before his two-month birthday.

So you might have caught on a couple of paragraphs ago that I mentioned something about you finishing a bottle. And you're probably sitting there going "wh-what? I thought I was Maman's master breastfeeder." And about that? Yeah, you're not. In fact, you're so far from being a master feeder that there is no nice way for me to say it: you suck at breastfeeding. After the lactation consultant diagnosed you with Lazy Eating Syndrome, you and I were supposed to do hardcore breastfeeding bootcamp together at home. And I tried, I really did, Tiny Man. But it was hard, as things with the words bootcamp in them tend to be, and you and I were miserable and it just wasn't worth the heartache. So I took the easy way out(if strapping myself to a machine that reminds me of a vaccuum cleaner that violently sucks the milk out of me every three to four hours is considered the easy way out). Your father thinks this is the most inefficient thing I've ever done and considering how often I do inefficient things, that should really tell you something. But the way I see it, it's the best of both worlds, you get the breastmilk and I'm not repeatedly trying to latch an angry baby on only to have him get off because he's not getting anything, and switching positions every ten minutes and feeling frustrated. Last time I made an attempt at breastfeeding? You actually kicked me in the boobs. Remind me to warn your future girlfriends and tell them this story, m'kay?

The point is, we tried, but in the end, we were like those deluded American Idol auditioners, we just weren't any good. So I will do my part, for the next 10 months, to keep getting that milk out for you, and you just continue to do your part, to keep eating and getting chunkier so that I can keep attempting to swallow those chubby cheeks and thighs whole.

We're currently working on getting you to sleep in the Pack and Play by our bed, after you made it clear that the bassinette was so beneath you. There are only four places you'll sleep: your car seat (but only in the car and when the car is either moving or we are out and about, the car seat is not an acceptable place to sleep when we're at home, you've made that clear), your swing (but only if you're sleepy, or else you'll grumble forever about how you're not tired and how we need to get you NOW!), your bouncy seat and on my pillow next to me, which don't get mad at me for breaking all of the SIDS laws, you're the one who's decided this was where you like to sleep best. The last few nights, we've managed to get you to sleep the first half of the night in the Pack and Play and the second half of the night in your swing. To me, this is a success worthy of a Nobel Prize, because you are mighty, mighty stubborn, my Tiny Man.

You're also extremely active. I'm not sure if it's because you've watched The Biggest Loser with me every week and you share my crush on Jillian the trainer, but everytime I put you down on your blanket, you begin to pump your arms and legs and make these grunting noises, like you're getting one hell of a workout. You tend never to just lay there like a blob, the way I remember your brother doing, not you, you just pump, pump, pump, until you've pumped so hard that you managed to scoot yourself completely off the blanket. I suspect this is your way of trying to make a run for it, you probably think to yourself "DAMN IT! How did the woman catch up to me," every time I pick you up to put you back on the blanket.

I've spent many hours since you were born playing with your little fingers, your little toes, nuzzling your neck and cradling you on my shoulder. I want you to know that I've enjoyed every single lazy minute with you. I love that you're becoming more alert now and stay awake for longer periods of time. I love telling you stories and watching your brow furrow, as you probably think to yourself "I hear she's a Democrat, surely no woman who gave birth to me could be such a thing," because I'm more and more convinced that you don't just look like your Daddy, you're a hell of a lot like him too.

Which might not be such a bad thing, after all, I married the man.

I love you, my Tiny Man,

Maman.

Little Manisms

2008-12-19T14:55:00.001-06:00

So I've said before that this kid? Is the funniest person I know. Here are the latest examples.

After naptime, sitting on the potty:

"Mama, am I big enough for dangerous things now?

- What kind of dangerous things?

- You know, sharp knives and scissors.

- Nope, you're not quite big enough.

- When will I be grown up for sharp knives and scissors? When I'm five I'll be grown up?

- Sure, when you're five, you'll be grown up.

- Can I have beer when I'm five?

- No, you're French. You can only have wine."

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

On the way to the grocery store:

"Do you want to ride in one of those car-shaped carts, Little Man?

- Yes, and I'm going to turn the steering wheel!

- Are you going to drive really fast?

- Maybe..."

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

On the way to the pharmacy:

"Mama, why do we have to pay for things in the stores?

- Because it's not our stuff until we pay for it. If we take it without paying, that's called stealing, and people go to jail when they steal."

The entire time we're in the pharmacy, every time I'd put something in the cart, as loud as can be, when he's usually the quietest kid around:

"MAMA, ARE YOU GOING TO PAY FOR THAT SO YOU DON'T GO TO JAIL AGAIN?"

Yeah, I don't know where the again came from, for the record, I have never been convicted of shoplifting or anything else.

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

As I'm putting him in the car, when we're late going to my mother-in-law's.

"We've got to hurry, Little Man, Nonnie must be wondering where we are!

- We're right here!!!!"

Love,

Catwoman.

As Hell Breaks Loose Around Me

2008-12-18T14:37:00.003-06:00

So yeah, I've been missing.

I suck, don't I?

But as I write this, my parents and sister are less than 30 hours away from landing.

And can I get a holy crap, I'm so screwed. Because I thought they were arriving Saturday. And I really, really needed that extra day.

Do you have any idea how much there is left to do around here? Peeps, please send paper bag muy pronto. Because seriously hyper-ventilating here. On a positive note? I'm now two pounds away from my starting weight for my pregnancy with Tiny Man. Can I get a you rock, breastfeeding?

Let's ignore the fact that it still means I'm 30 pounds overweight. One mountain at a time, people. By my calculations, if I breastfeed for the next 8 years, I should be back to my ideal weight then. How many times a day will a third-grade teacher allow you to show up with a sippy cup of breastmilk for your child? And would even the La Leche hemp-wearing weirdos be freaked out then? Surely, even they must want to be thin?

So here's what I've done this week:

- Had hardwoods installed in dining room.
- Had carpets steam cleaned.
- Cleaned out fridge (why is it that this is one job that you can't hire someone for? Seriously, I would have paid a thousand dollars to not have to discover what I discovered in the way, way back of our fridge. I think I might have thrown some crime scene evidence, or something, because whatever that thing was in that tupperware, it was awful funky and seriously decomposed.)
- Spent money I don't have.
- Taken care of three sick men, including one who's just now 8 weeks old, all while having a head cold that felt like the Incredible Hulk was using my head as a stress relief toy. (Note: the fantastic breastfeeding that has caused me to be only overweight compared to my previous really overweight meant that I was only allowed to take Tylenol for relief. Oh Nyquil, how I miss thou)
- Labeled the fridge in a belated fit of nesting. No, seriously, I did. I need to post pictures of this.

See? I ain't lying. Who the freak does this???

All the people who know me in real life are right now thinking that the head cold must have fried my brain, because that? Is so unlike me. I blame stupid Oprah and her stupid decluttering episode. Damn you Oprah! Why does this paragraph feel like I've said something really blasphemous? (Oprah, I take it back. I think you are the Queen of the World. Please don't have me killed).

So I will go back to doing the 50,000 things left to do on my list, including wrapping 1,500 Christmas gifts, gah!!!!

On a positive note? Tiny Many slept from 10:15 until 4:15 this morning. And only woke up screaming because Sweetie Pie had a coughing fit that scared the shit out of him. Note to self: Have Sweetie Pie killed for preventing Tiny Man from potentially sleeping through the night for the first time.

I will be drafting another post right now with Little Manisms that will post tomorrow. That is my Christmas gift to you. I will try to post at some point next week, but with 11 people total in the house, I'm thinking I'll be too busy getting drunk to survive.

Love,

Catwoman.

And My Ego Was Never to Be Found Again

2008-12-08T09:11:00.004-06:00

Things have been a little rough around here lately. Maybe I live in my own little world, but I thought that considering I had a baby 7 weeks ago, I was looking pretty good.

Thanksgiving weekend, we had a birthday party to go to for a one-year old. Someone there hadn't seen me in a few years, she's the sister of our friend whose son was having the party (you still with me?). Sweetie Pie was upstairs, trying to get Tiny Man to take a nap in a strange crib, which Tiny Man was all WTF, this is a party and there might be booze and maybe even some dope, I ain't going to sleep, so it was taking a long time.

Our friend's sister came up to me and said "Congratulations! I heard the news!" And I thanked her, as new mothers are forced to do. She then proceeded to ask me when I was due.

Cue sound of pin dropping.

There was also the sound of my ego shattering, which was a little like the sound I imagine 100 lambs would make as they are being kicked by a really mean person.

Me being who I am, I was busy trying to figure out how to respond without making this person feel bad.

So I just said, "actually, he's upstairs." Meaning the baby, of course.

But this person assumes I mean Sweetie Pie, and says "oh, no, I'm not wondering where Sweetie Pie is, I asked you when the baby was due."

This leaves me with no choice than to go to Death Con. And go to embarrassing mode, where I tell her "Uhm, Sweetie Pie is upstairs trying to put the baby to sleep. The baby was born last month. (pause) And here I thought I was looking pretty good."

Cue to two days later, where Little Man tells me that he and his Daddy are going to ride on a tractor, but that I can't come, because I'm too big and I won't fit on the tractor. So I'm just going to stay home and watch Tiny Man.

Uhm, seriously?

Because things like this come in three, you knew there had to be one more. On Friday, I was buying myself some new boots, some black, buttery leather Nine AWest gorgeousness and I was happy and ignoring the fact that I was spending money I wasn't supposed to, when the cashier begins to compliment me on my two boys. She then proceeds to say "they are such different coloring! They obviously don't have the same Daddy."

Seriously? That's your first guess?

I guess I should feel happy that she thinks that even though my ass is huge, I can still get me any man I want.

Love,

Catwoman.

And It's Only the Beginning

2008-12-05T15:56:00.003-06:00

When you make the decision to have kids, there are many things to think about. Like are you going to be the kind of parent who sends your kids down to the corner store to buy you beer and cigarettes. Because they look down upon that sort of thing nowadays, those judgemental bastards.

The most important thing to think about though is that someday, you'll be expected to discuss certain things with your kids like sex. When you have these conversations, you'll be expected to be the adult in those conversations. I know, right? It's like what the hell?

I admit that this is not something I thought about before I put out without any protection. I guess I didn't have someone wise to warn me, the way you guys do with me. You can thank me by sending me massive piles of money so that I may raise goats and make goat cheese just for fun.

Little Man has been recently paying attention to things related to his body. Like he's noticed that when he gets out of the tub, his fingers get all pruny, which made him curious, so I explained to him that his fingers just absorbed some water, and that they'd be back to normal once they were dry.

Yesterday, Little Man was peeing, and he does it sitting down, something that I hope he does forever, because I'm not interested in living in a house full of men who miss the seat and leave it up. They will be trained.

Little Man suddenly looked disturbed. "Mama? What's that behind my penis? Is that poop hanging down?" I begin to giggle nervously. "Uhm no. That would be your scrotum." "My scrotum?" I giggle again. "Yes. Uhm, it holds your testicles." "Oh. Is that where I keep my toots?" And cue me laughing hysterically.

Later, this whole testicles deal was still clearly on Little Man's mind, because he asked me "Is my scrotum all wrinkled because there's water in it?"

When it's time for "the talk," I'm totally outsourcing it, because seriously? I'm not cut out for the parenting stuff that requires me not giggling like a 12-year old boy.

Love,

Catwoman.

Thirty-Nine Months: My Letter to Little Man

2008-12-03T06:16:00.005-06:00

This is one of the first times this letter has been late. I guess you can blame the fact you're no longer an only child on that. I realized last night at 10:45 p.m. that it was your birth day, and that I'd completely forgotten. Aren't you glad we got you that baby brother? You know, the one who can't do all of the things you ask me to let him do with you, like take a bath, have a sleepover in your room, jump in your bounce house or dance around with you to the Imagination Movers.

You're getting so big, that I wonder when you turned into a grown up on me. The other day, I kissed you as I was getting you out of your car seat. You shook your head at me and said "you can't kiss me anymore, Mama. I'm a boy now. You could only kiss me when I was a girl, but now that I'm a boy, you can't kiss me anymore." I'm not sure when you were a girl, but I sure liked it better than, when I could impulsively kiss you any time I wanted. Because this whole not kissing you thing? I thought I was in the clear for that until you were at least in middle school.

You are still extremely sweet though. Last week, I accidentally knocked over six ounces of milk I had just pumped. All that liquid gold for your baby brother was all over the counter and the floor, and I was so upset that I was near tears. You noticed and started patting my side saying "it's okay, Mama, it's okay. Please don't cry, I'll play my guitar for you." And you know what? You did make me feel better. You stopped me from crying. All three-feet of you and your crazy guitar playing.

Your new obsession is your avent calendar, which you refuse to call a calendar, but instead you call it "That Game." Because how can it be anything else but a game, when it involves the tearing of cardboard doors that hide a chocolate treat? For the past two nights now, you try to negotiate with me "how about we open three doors tonight, Mama? OK, how about five doors then?" When I told you that we were going to bake some cookies this weekend and deliver them to the nearest fire station as our "spreading the holiday cheer" project, you told me that you also wanted to bring That Game and show it to the firefighters, and then you told me you were going to open six doors with the firefighters, show them the treats and then eat them all. Merry freaking Christmas to you too, kid.

Speaking of negotiations, we've now resorted to something I never thought I'd ever do, and that's the requests for you to eat three more bites of vegetables and two more bites of meat. I always said I'd never be one of those mothers, because all of the articles state that this is the best way to raise a child to become an obese adult. But if I didn't do this, on most nights, you'd happily dine on just a glass of milk and air. I don't care if you've eaten well at school and had a good snack, you just can't go to bed without some food in your stomach, and the one night I decided to let you get up after not eating, you demanded food in your bath, telling me that you're starving.

So now, every night you take one bite of your food and then tell me you're done. And then we negotiate, which I must say is a ton of fun for me, because you're the worst negotiator I've ever met. "Little Man, eat two bites of meat and three bites of vegetables." "How about I eat four bites of vegetables and five bites of meat?" "Uhm, ok, you have a deal." I must sign you up for a negotiation class before you enter the adult world, because I'd hate for you to walk into a job interview and have this scenario occur: "Mr. Little Man, we'd like to offer you 200,000 dollars a year plus bonuses." "How about you pay me minimum wage and give me cookies instead of bonuses?"

You're probably wondering why so many of your pictures involve you not wearing pants. That would be simply because the second you get home, you tend to take your pants off. I have to admit that you probably get that from me, since I'm much happier without pants. However, as my mini me, you don't yet know the limits of pantlessness and have asked me if you could take your pants off in highly inappropriate places, like at your grandparents' or at the grocery store. We must work on this so that you don't end up arrested for public nudity by the time you're in college.

You love your baby brother so much that sometimes I can't believe how lucky I am. Your favorite activities right now include helping me give him a bath, and you're better at getting him to take his pacifier when he's upset than I am, even if you've given it to him upside down or sideways on more than one occasion. You give him these bone crushing hugs and tell him all of your secrets. When he cries in the car, you talk to him, trying to reassure him and it always brings a smile to my face.

You're one of the most caring, gentle souls I've ever met. I hope you never lose that, because every day, I wish I were more like you. You're extremely sensitive and lately, when you've been acting up and I send you to time alone, you sit on the stair wailing "I WANT TO BE A GOOD BOY!!!!", reminding me of Pinocchio and I have to admit, and this is where you realize what a horrible person I am, it makes me giggle every time.

And if you did know, I know you'd say to me, like you do at least twice a day "it's not funny, Mama." The thing is? You are funny. You continue to be the funniest person I know. And I don't foresee that changing any time soon.

I love you my Little Man,

Maman.

Missing the Point Entirely

2008-11-26T07:55:00.002-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Well, I can now sleep at night.

Love,

Catwoman.

Boob Stories

2008-11-24T19:06:00.003-06:00

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

Boob story #1:

At the mall, while sharing an ice cream:

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

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

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

Boob Story #2:

While playing pretend doctors with me:

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

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

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

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

Love,

Catwoman.

This Marks The Day He Officially Knows More Than Me

2008-11-23T09:58:00.005-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two things I need to point out:

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

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

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

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

Love,

Catwoman.

One Month: My Letter to Tiny Man

2008-11-20T20:07:00.003-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you, my Tiny Man,

Mama.

A Christmas Miracle

2008-11-20T12:40:00.005-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: (laughing)

LM: It's not funny.

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

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

Right then.

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

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

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

Just like that.

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

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

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

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

Love,

Catwoman.

That's Dedication

2008-11-17T16:39:00.006-06:00

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

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

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

Love,

Catwoman.

Best Baby Picture Ever

2008-11-14T11:13:00.003-06:00

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

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

Love,

Catwoman.

Guilty Conscience

2008-11-12T09:21:00.003-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I said yes.

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

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

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

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

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

So what happens if I do well?

What happens if I land the job?

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

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

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

So why do I feel so freaking guilty?

Love,

Catwoman.

Because I Can't Help It

2008-11-10T10:00:00.004-06:00

I have a confession.

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

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

So I'm in love.

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

Here she is, in all of her naked glory.

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

Because when your lover gives you this:

Or this?

Or even this?

How can you not be in love?

Love,

Catwoman.

Snippets of Funny

2008-11-06T09:40:00.004-06:00

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

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

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

"Dear Catwoman,

Re: Your STD status"

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

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

And now I leave you with a Little Man funny.

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

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

Love,

Catwoman.

Thirty-Eight Months: My Letter to Little Man

2008-11-02T13:15:00.004-06:00

Dear Little Man,

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you, my Little Man,

Maman.

Happy Halloween!

2008-10-31T13:25:00.002-05:00

I thought I should let Little Man practice trick or treating before the sugar extravaganza of tonight.

Happy Halloween! from Catwoman InTexas on Vimeo.

I believe he's ready.

Love,

Catwoman.

Match.com Profile

2008-10-30T13:20:00.003-05:00

Name: Tiny Man Ourlastname

Aliases: Baby Brother, Ruler of the Universe

Hair: Some, but will probably lose it. Currently brown, but may be a future hot blonde.

Eyes: Very dark blue.

Best features: Butt, when it's not shooting poop at Mama's hand; ear hair; kissable lips.

Heroes: Little Man and the inventor of the pacifier.

Hobbies: Nursing, sleeping, throwing gang signs, snuggling with my Mama, watching my brother play sports.

Interested In: Women who like to eat a lot, someone to take naps with, someone who'll hold the pacifier in my mouth so it stops falling out.

Love,

Catwoman.

I'm So Screwed...

2008-10-29T10:03:00.003-05:00

Here are some excerpts from Tiny Man's full horoscope. I know some people don't believe in this stuff, and I'm not one to read my daily horoscope in the paper, but Little Man's full horoscope, that takes all planets into place is actually very accurate. And so it's nice to get a peek into Tiny Man's potential personality. Either way, the point is, I'm screwed.

Exhibit A: "You are also very magnetic, especially to members of the opposite sex."

Exhibit B: "You have penetrating insight into people and a keen eye and ear for the hidden, unspoken, behind-the-scenes elements in life."

Exhibit C: "There is also a sexual quality in your manner which can be quite alluring, in a subtle way."

Exhibit D: "You express a spirit of cooperation and compromise and often achieve through charm and discretion what would have been impossible to achieve by a direct, forceful approach."

Considering that only 8 days after his birth, he's already got me wrapped around his little finger, because, and don't any of you dare say that it's gas, Tiny Man actually smiles at me. He looks me right in the eye and smiles when I make noises at him. And I end up throwing things at him that I think he might want, like chocolate, Ferraris and strippers.

I thought Little Man had me figured out, but I suspect that he's been giving his little brother lessons when they're in the backseat of my Liberty and I'm in the front rocking out to Pink's new song, completely oblivious to thir plotting.

And now, the horoscope tells me that in 14 years, I'll be fighting girls off with a stick all freaking day. Which will seriously cut into my scrapbooking and drinking time, damn it.

I guess I shouldn't be too surprised, since he also has this face, besides the animal magnetism.

Love,

Catwoman.

One Week

2008-10-28T09:31:00.003-05:00

A week ago, my doctor slit me open like a fish, pushed on my ginormous stomach, and out popped this amazing tiny human being.

Yet, I've only felt like a mother of two since Friday afternoon, when I left the cocoon of my hospital and came home to reality.

The weekend was rough, I won't lie. Tiny Man, who was brought to me only twice a night for feedings by the nursery nurses, suddenly decided that he. must. eat. all. night. long.

I couldn't put the kid down. Seriously, the second I did, he'd rouse, root and want to feed again. I suddenly became a human Las Vegas buffet. Except I didn't even charge $2.99 for all-you-can-eat shrimp cocktail. I fell asleep nursing more than once, and by Sunday afternoon, I was already so exhausted that during a diaper change, I put the dirty diaper back on Tiny Man, complete with dirty wipes in it, and didn't notice that suddenly Tiny Man had some serious bootyliciousness going on, until I noticed the new diaper still sitting on the changing table.

Yesterday, Tiny Man had a pediatrician's visit to get weighed, as he'd dropped more than 10 ounces during his first three days, bringing him right around the acceptable 10 percent limit that they like to see weight drop. For the record? I would have killed to lose 10 percent of my body weight in three days, but alas, my doctor ignored my pleas for a tummy tuck while she was stitching me up.

But this is about Tiny Man. Ends up that my non-stop feeder? Only gained an ounce in three days. So we're back at the pediatrician on Friday.

It's funny, I always thought that I'd be less stressed with baby number two, and about a number of things, I am. But when it comes to health stuff? I'm even more neurotic than with Little Man, because when your first baby is perfectly healthy, you almost think you're more likely to have something wrong with the second one. So when I noticed a lump on the bottom of Tiny Man's rib cage, I was convinced that the weight loss was a sign that he had something seriously wrong, the 'c'-word even entered my mind and I sobbed for a while.

Apparently? All newborns have that lump and apparently I was just too euphoric/sick with Little Man to notice his.

After the pediatrician's appointment, Tiny Man and I went back to the hospital for a follow-up visit with the lactation consultant. And that's where I came to find out that my master latcher? Is actually a pretty inefficient eater. And so when he's nursing for an hour? He's actually only taking in maybe an ounce of milk total, which means he's expanding as many calories as he's taking in, and by nighttime, he's starving.

So Tiny Man is now in breastfeeding bootcamp, I get to manhandle my boobs in ways that should mean that when I reach the six-week mark all husbands count down to, nipple clamps will no longer seem terrifying to me, because seriously, they've got to hurt less than the way I'm beating the shit out of my boobies.

Tiny Man is now cut off at the 40-minute mark and gets a bottle of pumped breast milk with some formula after every nursing session. We spent all of yesterday doing this and last night, Tiny Man went down at 10 p.m. At 2 a.m., I woke up because I had to pee and nearly peed myself right there and then, realizing that I'd gotten a full four-hours of sleep.

One good feeding later, Tiny Man was back down, and had to be woken up at 7:30 a.m. so that I could change him, feed him and get him in the car to take his big brother to school.

I woke up one freaking time. Do you know how momentous this is? Do you know how much of a skip in my step I have today? Do you know how if it wasn't for the fact that I'm not allowed to exercise and the fact that I don't know how to do a backflip, I would totally be doing backflips right now.

Don't get me wrong, my hormones aren't completely normal, like there was an incident yesterday afternoon, where I sobbed next to my sleeping newborn for an hour, because I couldn't figure out how to put the new shields that my lactation consultant had sold me on my breast pump. And I knew the whole time that I was being psycho, but I still continued to sob into my pillow, like the time I was 14 and Sebastian, who I was madly in love with, told me I looked like a monkey.

But today is a new day, my breast pump works, Tiny Man should have put on a decent amount of weight by Friday and when I weighed myself at the pediatrician's office, I'd already lost 13 pounds. Considering that I was 30 pounds overweight when I got pregnant, this means that I'm now 40 pounds away from where I want to be. One pound at a time, baby.

All is good. Because look what I get to stare at all day.

Love,

Catwoman

How to Scare a Three-Year Old

2008-10-24T12:31:00.002-05:00

Ever since he attended his big brother class, Little Man has been dying for the opportunity to give Little Man a bottle. Almost every day for the past month, he'd ask me "can I give baby brother a bottle today?" Which would put me in an awkward place and have me explain that Tiny Man was actually not born yet.

With nursing working out so great, Little Man watched me breastfeed his baby brother for the first couple of days, which led to many inquisitive questions from my favorite three-year old that basically meant "what the hell are you doing to my brother?"

On Wednesday night, after a day that was filled with way too much nursing, Tiny Man had literally sucked me dry and was angry because the gas pump was empty. I asked the nursery to bring me a little formula to supplement him, and figured that at the same time, I would let Little Man give him a small bottle the next day, thinking this would make him very excited and involved.

Little Man showed up yesterday and was excited to see me and Tiny Man and asked right away to hold him. I turned to him and said "guess what! You can feed Baby Brother today, if you want to!"

Little Man froze, stared at me, perturbed, and said quietly "I don't think he'll like my boobies."

Since I was waiting for my pain killers to be brought to me at that time, I can't even explain to you how painful that laughter was.

Once I stopped laughing hysterically, I told him that he'd in fact be using a bottle. Little Man's whole face flooded with relief and he simply said "oh, that's a good idea."

Love,

Catwoman