Yearly Archives

2009

love bites

What men really want

May 28, 2009

The husband sent me this pic with a giant header that says “This has to appear in your blog”, so I’ve decided to be all nice and obliging since Superdad has been saving my ass the whole of this week. And who doesn’t just LOVE a life-sized remote control with all the buttons for dudes to control women.

I’m all done with my bra-burning days, so hello, Stepford Mom.

I love that all the needs of a man can be filtered down to 3 simple words – sex, food and beer (in that order). All the others are inconsequential.

Take work for example. The whole point of working is to earn a bunch of dough so that they can buy food and beer and a fancypants sports car, which will lead to some smoking hot sex in the sports car. Or outside the sports car so the fancy upholstery wouldn’t be all ruined which would mean the end of all future prospective hot sex, cos the only sex they’ll be getting with a crummy, beat-up junk is from a toothless transvestite who just had a hair transplant.

And married men (especially fathers) need the remote more than their bachelor friends, since their only hope of having any food or hot sex (forget the beer) is if they cleaned up the house, fed the kids, bought some diamonds, gave me a bubble bath and a nice massage, by which time I’d be sleeping like a baby, except on good days where I’m not pregnant, or having PMS or feeling too fat.

I say it’s tough to be a dude. Problem is, most guys who don’t get the sex end up eating more food and guzzling down more beer to try to fill that giant void in their lives. But then they (i’m still referring to men here) end up looking like they’re 7 months pregnant and that also eliminates all hope they have for getting any sex in the foreseeable future. Vicious cycle.

Men are, in fact, the weaker sex. Hey, read the news.

So take it from a chick. It’s far easier to do the housework and run the bubble bath. At least there’s a chance (however slim) it might just be your lucky day.

by Daphne

kids inc

Slumber Parties – bring your own mommies

May 27, 2009

Photo from inmagine.com

My friend’s kid (Tru’s new best friend) had a sleepover at my place over the weekend. I’ve got no idea what eight-year-old girls are into these days (I was a real geek back then), so we got the Nintendo Wii and a bunch of board games to keep her occupied. I can’t imagine why she’d want to hang out with a couple of old fogeys, but I guess it means we’re still relatively happening.

I think Tru’s got his first crush though. (I told you he’s advanced for his age) He’s besotted with her and the whole time she was here, he would giggle hysterically at everything she did. Mommy has been displaced now that he’s found a new friend to play with.

I’ve brought him on many play dates with kids his age, but he isn’t as enamored by them. He’ll grab their toys and tolerate their presence, but with big kids, he seems to know that they’re much cooler and a lot more fun.

I hope it doesn’t become a trend when he grows up. I mean, older women are great, but I’d recommend someone closer to his age. (See, mothers worry about all kinds of unnecessary trifles. It’s like a disease. I’m taking medication for it.)

We had intended to stay up to play all night, but since I’m way past the age of pulling an all-nighter, we called decided to call it a night at 12.30. It’s the responsible parenty kinda thing to do anyway. It was all good until bedtime, when our little sleepover friend decided the sudden drop in adrenaline from the day’s excitement was too much to handle. Which resulted in a bad case of mommy-sickness. It was a good thing she stayed 5 mins away, so we could rush her back home at the drop of a hat.

The thing about mommy-sickness is that there’s only one cure – your Mommy. I think it’s the smell or the feeling of being held and snuggled which makes everything better. Totally psychological, like how kissing a boo-boo works wonders. Someone else’s mommy doesn’t work cos it’s just not the same. As it turns out, a reassuring chat with mommy over the phone seemed to do the trick, and two bedtime stories later, she was out like a light.

It was all really sweet actually. I was also hoping Tru would miss me like that when he grows up and has his first slumber party. But somehow boys seem to have an immunity against mommy-sickness, or they’re just too macho to admit it. Good thing I’ve got a girly girl on the way.

by Daphne

kids inc

Strike 3, you’re out!

May 26, 2009

Tru had a bad case of the runs all of yesterday. Two packs of poop a day is standard fare for him (a huge one after his morning milk feed and a mid-sized one during, yes DURING his lunch) considering how much food and non-food items go into his system.

But yesterday, he gave mama 4 packs of funky poop to spice up my otherwise boring Monday.

I put him down for his afternoon nap after getting him all fed and bathed (2 packs of poop – check) and as usual, he was performing his daily battle cry in his cot for a good 20 minutes. I didn’t think much of it, having drowned out his shrieks as ambient sound, but this time, the shrieks got increasingly loud until until it started sounding like a siren.

When I went in to check on him, I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or bawl. The little guy got his thighs stuck between the poles of his wooden cot and his legs were sticking out, flailing wildly. (note: he’s been eating TOO MUCH FOOD!) And thanks to his incessant wriggling, his diaper had gotten loose so the crap was smeared all over his mattress and there he was, looking all helpless sitting in a pile of poop.

It probably sounds hilarious now, but right there, I felt like I had utterly failed as a mother. I would have taken a photo, but it would break your heart, and I might get hauled off to prison for child abuse.

So I cleaned him up and hugged him real tight and apologized like a million times. I felt so bad that his poor thighs were all red and sore, but he started giggling and held my face, which made me feel even worse cos he was such a sweetie-pie for consoling me after I left him stranded.

Strike 1 for mommy.

Then in the evening, I was at the library tutoring my student so Superdad had to take over the night duties. 10 minutes in, I got a call saying that Tru was SCREAMING uncontrollably, and he refused to drink his milk (IMPOSSIBLE) and could not be pacified at all. Apparently Superdad lost some of his powers and also his sanity, and my two boys were in a frenzy of panic together.

Great, a mother’s worst nightmare.

I wrapped up my tutoring session and flew back as fast as I could, beating 3 red lights on the way back (I’m a totally safe and law-abiding driver, serious).

Anyway, back home, Tru was alternating between kneeling down and squatting on the bed wailing so Superdad had a stroke of genius. It’s probably his ass that hurt. When he opened up his diaper, the poor boy’s bum was all red and swollen like a baboon’s bottom. Actually it was covered with brownish-green poop, so he couldn’t really tell at first, but my little trooper who has a bum of steel was screaming for dear life, so it was pretty obvious he was in real pain.

A quick wash, a generous dollop of diaper cream and a lot of hugging later, he finally fell asleep.

Strike 2 for mommy.

All in all, not the best of days.

by Daphne

love bites, milestones & musings, motherhood, pregnancy

Mommy time is good for me

May 25, 2009

Photo from media.sheknows.com

Being alone is awfully therapeutic. Walking around with headphones plugged in, blasting angsty music and looking all cool and sullen, without the shackles of motherhood. It totally brings me back to the days when I was in fact a troubled teen.

Except that my alone time used to be out of necessity, since nobody liked being around an ornery person all the time. To make my time-outs more bearable, I perfected this apathetic, don’t-give-a-crap-about-anything look that I thought was so cool back then. Man, I miss those days. Can’t wait till my kids are old enough to pull that stunt on me.

But now that I’m a mom, I’ve come to relish all the little breaks I like to call “Mommy time”. I get to go for walks, go shopping, do my hair, grab a cuppa and actually read a nice book that is not parenting related. An afternoon off alone can do wonders for my sanity. Not that I hate being around my kid, but when he’s around, everything seems to revolve around him. It’s feeding time, then play time, then nursery rhyme time. Even meal time becomes a frenzy of shrieking and hang-banging.

Tru has a policy when it comes to food. No one else can eat unless he gets a share. Even after he’s had a full meal with 2 rounds of dessert, he’ll still scream for more food the moment he sees us eating. So I either have to hide in a corner and gobble down my food or feed him with more stuff. I should start bringing out celery sticks to feed him, so he doesn’t end up obese.

Anyway, yesterday, I had some time off to check out the Crocs warehouse sale and grab a cuppa while Tru went home with Daddy for the afternoon. I was like a death-row inmate who just got out on parole – I did my trademark victory jig and skipped (ok, it was more like a lumber) all the way there and back. I didn’t have to lug around a kid, a stroller and a whopping diaper bag. Just me and well, that it. It was awesome. Seriously.

I came back with a truckload of stuff (RETAIL THERAPY WORKS!) and enough gumption to last me through the week.

by Daphne

kids inc

Flatout the best bear ever

May 22, 2009

Buying soft toys for Tru is like trying to strike the lottery, which is why I don’t do it. He’s extremely picky when it comes to soft toys and there is a club started for all the stuffed animals he has since banished to the far corner of his cot. Whenever he gets a new toy, he examines it thoroughly for a few minutes and gives it a look of disdain before tossing it away like its infested with lice.

To date, no soft toy has managed to make it into his good books, and he insists on carrying this huge blankie everywhere he goes (which I wanted to cut up into little pieces, but decided against in case he hates it and I’d have to sew it back together like some mutilated patchwork quilt). To save myself the hassle of lugging it around, I’ve tried to replacing it with many alternatives, only to have them all meet with the same fate.

As an early birthday present, my sis got him the coolest bear ever, a Flatout Bear, which is get this, made from 100% sheep skin. The husband was all up in arms against the idea. “Some poor sheep got killed to make a bear?” I do see the irony, but SHEEP DON’T HAVE TO DIE FOR THEIR FUR. Or skin. Or wool. Or whatever else you call it. They have to suffer the humiliation of prancing around au naturel for a while, but it sure ain’t dying.

So this bear which was originally a sheep, is the latest accessory carried by all the celebrity tots. There’s Matt Damon, Hugh Jackman (Wolverine has got a soft side after all), Jennifer Garner and Nicole Ritchie’s kids all seen with the FOB.

And aunts are supposed to splurge on ridiculously frivolous presents anyway, so Tru received his FOB yesterday. (My God, it’s SOFT!) I’m not kidding, it’s the softest bear I’ve ever touched and without the artificial synthetic feel. I thought of stealing it from him and rubbing it against my face (which i totally did when no one was looking).

It seems to have made it to top of his stuffed toys list, and he’s been carrying it around ever since. It still hasn’t usurped the Blankie’s stranglehold throne, but it’s getting close. By the time his birthday comes around, it should become top dog / bear.

Unless of course, I decide to keep it for myself instead.

p.s. To the makers of FOB: I should be paid for this, so if you’re reading this and decide to reward my efforts, I’d like one in each of the colors. Or a life-sized one would be nice.

by Daphne

pregnancy

Pain, pain, go away

May 20, 2009

With 8 weeks to go, all I can think about now is giving birth. I’m not looking forward to the birthing process per se, seeing that I’m terrified of needles and I’m averse to any sort of pain whatsoever. I have the pain threshold of a 3-year-old child, and the slightest bit of pain sends me hyperventilating.

I’ve got very vivid memories of Tru’s delivery after the anesthesia wore off and I was screaming the hospital down for morphine. Totally unglam on retrospect, but pain turns me into a raging maniac.

Suffice to say, I’m dreading the labor and delivery, but the final weeks of pregnancy is like being in Siberia. It sucks. There’s nothing I can do except twiddle my thumbs and wait for water to trickle down my legs (not pee, ok). I can’t remember what it feels like to run and skip without a care in the world. Just the other day, I thought I was going to pass out after 5 minutes of brisk walking, and I had to sit down for the next 30 minutes to recuperate.

There’s also a new ailment which didn’t show up during my first pregnancy. Recently, my crotch feels like there’s an elephant sitting on it from the inside, and any slight movement sends a wave of numbing pain (akin to a bruise) into the joints. Evidently, it’s put quite a damper on the romance and passion this time around.

On top of it all, I’ve been having unexplainable throbbing pains on various parts of my body. The husband seems to think its hilarious, but there’s really nothing funny about it when I’m on the receiving end of some ancient voodoo curses. I remember this scene in one of the Indiana Jones’ flicks where some tribal witches were performing a curse on a voodoo doll by stabbing it, and the pain would somehow be felt on the real guy. It freaked me out then and still haunts me till this day. I have also since stopped watching Indiana Jones. It’s evil.

seriously, it hurts. Stop it!

A couple of days ago, the pain started in my hands, like someone was stabbing my wrist every 10 minutes. After searching the net for possible explanations, the best advice was to leave it alone and lo and behold, it just went away the next day all by itself.

Now it’s moved to my left ear and it’s getting unbearable. It’s so bad that I can’t even swallow or think without wincing in pain. Unless some insect crawled into my ear and died there, I’m pretty sure it’s caused by some venomous Mother, Inc haters.

Whoever you are, I’ll hunt you down and may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.

Ok, seriously, please make it stop. I’ll do whatever you say.

by Daphne

kids inc

La Fête de Le Petit Prince (en Anglais – Truett’s 1st birthday party)

May 18, 2009

The first kid’s first birthday is usually a massive affair accompanied by all the usual pomp and circumstance. The kid probably doesn’t have the faintest idea what the hullabaloo is all about, but for the parents, it’s almost like a rite of passage to signify the fact that we’ve made it past the first year.

With Tru’s birthday just around the corner, I’m scrambling to get the party all sorted out. It’s tougher than I thought – the venue, card, decor, guest list, food. The last time I had to go through something like this was for my wedding, and I had a very competent wedding planner who made sure all I did was give orders and rest.

I wanted to go the whole nine yards, with a marching band and fireworks, but I realized that Tru will probably not remember a single detail of his first birthday. So I might as well save it for a couple of years down the road where he’ll be begging us for a marching band.

For now, it’ll just be a smallish (a matter of perspective) affair.

by Daphne

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