Posts from — May 2008

First, if you haven’t weighed in on yesterday’s post, go do it. Now. I’ll wait.

Ok, second, I just looked at this picture again and realized that Bug looks like he’s standing on thin air. I guess he’s decided to use his magical super powers for Good instead of for Evil. That’s a relief.

I wonder if he’d levitate over to the Dairy Queen and get me an Oreo Blizzard?

Hug it out, bitch.

Wednesday was my 16-week check up, and things are humming along. Bug has now decided the baby’s heart sounds like a “train chuggin’ down the track” as opposed to a race car. I’d back him up on that claim.

And after the 16-week check up comes the 20 week check up, otherwise known as the Can You See a Penis check up. Otherwise known as the check up where I almost throw up from nerves. I tend to feel like this during Moments of Great Importance in my life. Unfortunately.

But. HERE, INTERNET, IS YOUR SHINING MOMENT OF GLORY.

Because I believe that this blog is an omnipotent, omniscient being greater than myself, I will ask you now to comment and tell me here:

Is it a BOY? Or a GIRL?

Now, I don’t want you to comment and say what you want it to be. That’s crap. I want you to meditate, recite incantations, throw salt over your left shoulder, mix Drano with your pee, consult your chicken bones, and then tell me what your GUT tells you.

And we’ll just see if you’re right.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I for the first time yesterday had an inclination of what this baby might be. It hadn’t happened yet in this pregnancy, but last time I knew Bug was a boy about 2 or 3 weeks before the ultrasound. I just felt it in my bones. This was just a split second of surety, but now I really wonder if I’m right. And I wonder if you’ll be right.

ONLY THE BLOG KNOWS…..

Let the predictions begin.

P.S. You don’t have to identify yourself with your real name. In other words, NOW IS A GOOD TIME TO DELURK YOURSELVES, LURKERS.

I have to confess something – I don’t love cats.

I know, I know, I’m an unfeeling, cruel person with a large slab of SPAM where my heart should be. But in my defense, I’m also allergic to them. This comes in handy, because I have an acceptable excuse for not petting Whiskers McMuffinpants when over at a friend’s house. It makes me kind of feel sorry for people who don’t like children, because it would be pretty hard to convince someone that you can’t really talk to their little Timmy because of the throat closure and the uncontrollable sneezing and all. I mean, it’s a rock solid cat cop out, that one.

Anywho, there’s a ragamuffin cat who roams our neighborhood whose scruffy orange tail we catch glimpses of in our backyard occasionally. A few days ago, the cat, whom I will call Mr. Scraggles for the sake of this story, decides to take his afternoon nap atop our car in our carport. Bug, seeing this, takes approximately 12 nanoseconds to get from the dining room window to the side of the car, all the while yelling “Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!” This rouses Mr. Scraggles, who to my surprise, leaps off the top of the car and ambles directly over to Bug’s side.

“Mama, can I play with the cat?” he says and I can already see the cat hair attaching itself to his pants and in between his toes.

“Uh, I guess so. But be careful – he’s an outdoor cat, so he may not be used to people petting him much.”

“Ok!” Bug says, already clutching the cat around his middle and trying in vain to wrench him up to hold him.

I feel a bit of trepidation about just leaving Bug out there with Mr. Scraggles because a.) who knows what diseases this cat may have b.) Bug doesn’t really have any experience with animals and c.) I may have already mentioned this, but I don’t like cats. But I was in the middle of painting swatches of “Georgian brick” and “Moroccan red” on the dining room walls, and I could see him right out the window, so I decide to go back inside and just keep a watchful eye out.

Bug comes in. “I’m getting a soft toy for the cat,” he says as he runs in and gets Fock the Elephant, who of course sleeps in his bed. I’m imagining all the heinous symptoms of Roaming Neighborhood Cat Disease like pustules. Or lice. So I intercept and say, “Hey you know what, Bug? I think cats really like balls! Like this old one you play with outside! It’s ok, just brush the mud off.” Luckily, he is happy with this trade. I go back to paint sampling.

Second time in, Bug says, “I think the cat is hungry, Mama. We need to give him some food.” Crap, I think. He’s going to be one of those kids who turns our house into an animal clinic, nursing injured chipmunks back to health and leaving his dinner leftovers out for the poor starving rats that live under our house.

But, ok, I confess I kind of like this about him. I mean, you want your kid to care about other living things, right? I’ve heard this makes them better in relationships later on or something. Watch out ladies. This boy pets kitties and loves his Mama.

So I pour a little milk into a saucer and set it outside. I want to film myself doing this so that I can show it to all the people in my past and future who think I secretly want to put cats in freezers. (I DON’T.)

I go back in, and I’m mentally awarding myself the medal of honor from the ASPCA. “She was so kind to that cat,” the presenter is saying. “So much so that she gave him skim milk, not wanting to compromise his sleek street cat physique and potentially hurt his chance with the lady felines.”

Then I hear Bug scream.

I drop my paintbrush like it’s hot and run out the door to see Bug limping up toward the steps, mid cry. “He was biting me, Mama! All over my legs!” He also has scratches on his arms.

What I yelled at that cat I will not write here as not to incriminate myself, but let’s just say the chances of me winning any ASPCA award are now firmly back down to the slim-to-none range.

I take Bug back inside and check him over, and having decided that no skin has been broken, I get him a snack and sit with him on the couch as he tells me what happened. A few minutes later, he starts crying again, and I say, “Bug, what’s wrong? Don’t worry, that cat’s not going to get you any more. I won’t let it.”

But it turns out that isn’t the problem. He’s sad because the cat ran away. He missed the damn thing.

I’m glad, I suppose. He didn’t get my Cat-Indifferent SPAM Heart after all. His luck with the ladies will increase tenfold and maybe he’ll cancel out all my bad cat karma. It’s a win-win.

But Mr. Scraggles? You better believe from now on, it’s NO MILK FOR YOU.

Said to me earlier today, in front of several people, as I bent to pick up a toy:

“You know I didn’t notice before, but I think I can finally say that you’re getting a big behind!”

And then I melted into a tiny puddle of horrified embarrassment and died. The End.

I’m a little concerned about the level of grown-upedness in this house over the weekend. We ate out ONCE. Only one time. And I’ve been known to throw around the excuse “cooking on the weekend is against my religion” fairly consistently. And the meals we made were balanced. Like, involving vegetables. We made a list of things we needed to accomplish and crossed over half of them off. Lorso mowed the grass. We went to bed early one night. We went to church. And to top the whole shebang off, I exercised. TWICE.

Frankly, it’s freaking me out. Is this nesting? Are the pregnancy hormones making me do this? Is it (shudder) permanent?

I’m turning thirty this year, for Pete’s sake. I’m too young to go to bed early and eat my vegetables! Where are the shenanigans? Where is the tomfoolery? WHERE ARE THE CHEESEBURGERS?

I was having such a complex about this that I did the only logical thing I could think of.

I called a family meeting and we ripped those gaudy-ass grapes right off the wall*.

*Alright, alright, we HAD PERMISSION, okay? We’re straightlaced! We’re squares!

Screw it, I’m getting a tattoo.