Funny or So I think, Videos I dig

My kids are better than your kids

April 13, 2009

All mothers love to compare stuff. It’s just in their DNA. It could be something the pregnancy does to your brain during the nine months that makes you go all competitive and crazy, even before the baby is out.

When it comes to finding new stuff to compare, mothers are very creative. It can range from the size of the stomach, the heartbeat of the baby, the weight of the baby and the pregnancy symptoms they get, as if having it worse means you’re somehow a better mother because of the immense sacrifice you’re making.

Some do it subtly.

Mother 1: So which school will you be sending your child to? It’s such a dilemma. I’m considering between Julia Gabriel and Montessori.”

Me (with an obliging smile): I haven’t decided yet, but the public playschool down the road don’t seem so bad.

Mother 1 (affected laughter): Oh, public education! It’s just that some of the kids are a little rowdy, if you know what I mean.

Me: I suppose so.

Methinks: Yes, I know exactly what you mean. And I hope your little brat grows up to be every bit as shallow, self-obsessed and arrogant as you are.

It’s exasperating. I bring my boy for a walk at the mall and I can see mothers eyeing the kind of stroller I have, the clothes Tru’s wearing, the diaper bag I’ve got. And it’s the worst when a whole bunch of competitive mothers gather for a chat. It gets increasingly ludicrous as they go along. Kinda like these mothers on Goodness Gracious Me!

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3N7F-5zNVFI

I get that it’s a mother’s instinct to be unabashedly proud of their child, and I can’t help glowing when other people fuss over my kid. But there’s a line to be drawn as far as competition goes and it drives me insane when mothers go on and on about how brilliant their little geniuses are. (You know my 3-year-old boy just learnt to operate on his pet dog).

Get a life, woman! I’m sure there’s some kind of medication to curb those illusions you’re having. Or might I suggest a lobotomy.

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kids inc

Double, double, toil and trouble

April 10, 2009

Ever wondered where babies learn all their naughty stuff from? I’m constantly amazed by the kinds of nonsense Tru is capable of conjuring on a daily basis. He recites this motto every morning. “I solemnly swear that I will be up to no good.”

I thought it was a given that I’ll be able to preempt his moves, since my superbrain is like 10,000 times more powerful than his. But I’ll be honest. More often than not, I’m caught totally off-guard, gaping at his ingenuity. I’d like to take credit for it, but it’s certainly not from me, and unless a gnome is secretly having mischief lessons with him in the dead of the night, I’m completely stumped.

For example, whenever he does something naughty, he will laugh like this. “HA HA HA” (complete with mocking tone). It’s not a giggle nor a grin. It’s more like a cross between a smirk and a taunt, as if he knows he’s got the upper hand and he’s rubbing it in my face.

He’s also learnt to recognize locations. Whenever he’s at Grandma’s house, he knows he can get away with murder (as opposed to being put on trial at home). In the hierarchy chain, he seems to know that Grandma trumps Mommy and he’s got her all nicely wound around his little pinky.

Whenever he gets nagged at or scolded, he’ll take his tiny hands and cover the offending person’s mouth. Somehow, he’s worked out that the sound coming out from there is highly unpleasant, and he needs to put a stop to it.

And for his finishing move. When he knows he’s in deep trouble (the kind that will result in an ass-whipping), he’ll snuggle his head on your chest and hug you real tight as if to say “I’m sor-wee I was naughty, and I just want you to know that I love you so much.”

The baby discipline books all say the same thing. Laughing encourages bad behavior. Kids know that as long as parents laugh at their misdemeanors, they are less likely to get spanked. But it’s not that easy to remain deadpan in the face of such brilliance. I try to keep a straight face, but then Tru will suddenly burst out giggling like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and all my disciplinary efforts will be down the drain.

I think I’ll have to send him for obedience classes with Mickey the next time around.

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pregnancy

14 weeks and counting

April 9, 2009

I’m well into the third trimester of my pregnancy, and this is where the fun really begins. The first two trimesters are easy-peasy. You hardly even notice that you’re pregnant and you’re still able to resume around 95% of your normal activities (cravings notwithstanding). But now, all the pregnancy symptoms are in full swing and ALL I WANT TO DO IS GIVE BIRTH.

I don’t walk anymore. I have to get around by waddling, which makes me look like a fat duck. The stomach is getting heavier by the day, my back is breaking, my legs are cramping up, I’m retaining water (and fats) like a reservoir, my formerly-tight ass is ballooning out of proportion and worst of all, I am losing my ability to sleep. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There’s also incontinence, carpal tunnel syndrome, cellulite and stretch marks to deal with postpartum.

If you think about it, insomnia is one of the biggest ironies of pregnancy. I mean, there will be no more sleeping after the baby is born, so there should be some mechanism to allow the body to hibernate and store up on sleep just before the delivery. In fact, I should be retiring into a cave for the next 3 months and sleeping the winter away.

Last night was like the turning point. I was up at 2.30 in the morning developing ulcers watching Manchester United struggle at home against Porto. (GAH!) After which, I lay in bed tossing and turning till 6.45 waiting for Tru to wake up. I hate insomnia. The harder I try to fall asleep, the more awake I feel, and it’s so insanely frustrating. Besides, the whole counting sheep thing is rubbish. I reached up to 6,245,953 sheep before I decided that it was futile.

I’ve still got 14 weeks to go, and now that I think about it, it’s a really long time. Although, I suppose it would make it easier if I could just lie in bed all day with servants feeding me grapes and massaging my toes while I catch up on Grey’s Anatomy. (hint, hint)

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