A Futile Argument

"Dada!

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

- Dada!

- No, you see, 8 months ago, I was sliced open like a fish, and then you were removed from my body. I still have the cool scar to prove it. I'm Mama.

- Dada!"

Love,

Catwoman.

It's Official

There is no better age than 8 months old.

Eight months means that sleepless nights have long been a thing in the past.

Eight months involves crawling and being able to sit up independently and being independent enough that one can entertain oneself for a few minutes.

And when I look over at this oneself, and eye contact is made, I get smiles, big gummy smiles.

And then? I get applause.

Just for making eye contact.

I don't care what anyone says.

It doesn't get any better than this.



Love,

Catwoman.

Eight Months: My Letter to Tiny Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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