tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80094012075143318532024-03-05T18:35:14.753+08:00Bratty MommyBratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-26070708107970529242011-11-10T11:27:00.000+08:002011-11-10T13:51:44.767+08:00Recommended Picture Books for 1-4 year old kidsBelow are some books that were a hit with my son before he learned to profusely use the word "No." <br />
<br />
My criteria for choosing a book for him? One, book should have beautiful illustration. Why? Imagine bedding Ugly every night. Nuff said. Two, the story should delight even me. Darn it, I'll be reading it to him over and over. Might as well buy something that amuses me, too! There are of course other wonderful picture books not listed below that I tried to 'force' my kid to like, but the kid's just stubborn (takes after his dad, I've decided) and had his own opinion. <br />
<br />
Some books in the list might be a bit expensive, but the investment has paid off for me - my son learned to read at an early age, he talks like he's already 30, and he still continues to use these books (sometimes as racetrack for his Hotwheels) now that he's 5. You are welcome to add to the list!<br />
<br />
<u><b>A few months old to 2 years old</b></u><br />
1. <i>Pat the Bunny</i> (touch-and-feel book by Dorothy Kunhardt)<br />
2. <i>Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See</i> (Eric Carle)<br />
3. <i>I'm the Biggest Thing in the Ocean </i>(Kevin Sherry)<br />
4. <i>From Head to Toe</i> (Eric Carle)<br />
5. <i>One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish </i>(Dr. Seuss)<br />
6. <i>Click, Clack, Moo Cows that Type </i>(Doreen Cronin)<br />
<br />
<b><u>2-4 years old</u></b><br />
1. <i>Pumpkin Eye </i>(Dennie Fleming)<br />
2. <i>Outside, Inside</i> (Carolyn Crimi)<br />
3. <i>The Very Hungry Caterpillar </i>(also <i>Count with The Very Hungry Caterpillar </i>both by Eric Carle)<br />
4. <i>In the Tall, Tall Grass</i> (Denise Fleming)<br />
5. <i>The Very Busy Spider </i>(Eric Carle)<br />
6. <i>Harry and the Terrible Whatzit</i> (Dick Gackenbach)<br />
7. <i>All Join In</i> (Quentin Blake)<br />
8. <i>My Friend Rabbit</i> (Eric Rohmann)<br />
9. <i>How Do Dinosaurs Clean Their Rooms </i>(and the other <i>How Do Dinosaurs </i>books all by Jane Yolen)<br />
10. Rosie's Walk (Pat Hutchins)<br />
11. Dr. Seuss books: <i>Green Eggs and Ham, </i><i>Fox in Sox, </i><i>The Cat in the Hat, </i><i>Hop on Pop, </i><i>Oh The Places You'll Go</i><br />
12. <i>The Wind Blew </i>(Pat Hutchins)<br />
13. <i>The Day the Babies Crawled Away</i> (Peggy Rathmann)<br />
14. <i> I Spy Christmas: A Book of Picture Riddles</i><br />
15. <i>My Book About Me</i> (Dr. Seuss & Roy McKie)<br />
16. <i>The Giving Tree</i> (Shel Silverstein)<br />
17. <i> Oh Say Can You Say Di-no-saur? </i>(The Cat in the Hat's Learning Library)<br />
18. <i>Clown</i> (Quentin Blake)<br />
19. <i>Piggybook</i> (Anthony Browne)<br />
20. <i>Diary of a Worm </i>(Doreen Cronin)Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-16964949404189019382011-11-07T23:18:00.000+08:002011-11-08T10:53:50.722+08:00Tantrum QuantumMy baby threw a tantrum, and I was there to catch the darn thing.<br />
<br />
It's 1 pm. The usual time for his afternoon nap. But today, he wanted to get his way. So the brat decided to act out. He is a genius in the art form. He has no qualms in using this weapon when it helps achieve the end for which he thinks he was created: to piss off his parents. The Jesuits follow the same principle. <i>Tantum quantum.</i> In so far as it helps. My, my. Kid's just 5 but he's already on the road to sainthood.<br />
<br />
"Nap time!" I told him. "No!" he snapped. "No TV," I threatened. He glared at me before marching up the stairs. Score 1 for mommy. Baby - 0. He lay down on his bed, but refused to stay still. He kept tossing and turning, tossing and turning, while I inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, certain that in about 20 minutes he'd grow tired of his game and doze off. He didn't. Time to change tactic, I decided. So I started rubbing his back, while singing his favorite lullaby to lull him to sleep. He started mimicking me, but making a rap version of my song. "Stop that!" I told him. "Stop that!" he echoed. "If you don't stop it, no TV!" I retorted, smelling my victory already at hand. For a split second, defiance was written allover his face. <i>Ha, ha! Who's the bigger brat now?! </i>Then all of a sudden, the floodgates opened. He just needed to turn on a switch, the brat. The wailing and flailing began. The way he did it, the whole neighborhood would believe I'm physically abusing him! I ordered him to shush. He ignored me, and added stomping to his repertoire.<br />
<br />
Usually, it's a fight to the death between us. Me hurling more threats, him crying louder. But it has been a long week. I was tired, and menstruating. I just wanted to be alone in my bedroom and figure out a way to get past 23 flags in <i>Plants & Zombie, </i>survival endless mode. <i> </i>So I did what any mature woman would do in that kind of situation. I threw in the towel. "Wanna watch <i>Disney Junior </i>with <i>ate?" </i>I asked politely.<br />
<br />
He stared at me for a few seconds, and almost immediately the crying stopped. Then he flashed his impish grin. He knew he won. <i>Damn, he's good.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Well...he may have won this battle, but not the war, certainly not. I may have retreated, but only temporarily - it's the cramping that did me in I know. I'll be back with a vengeance, he'll see. The li'l imp better watch his back.<br />
<i><br />
</i>Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-40309634310770159712011-11-01T20:57:00.000+08:002011-11-07T10:36:47.359+08:00Our DIY Christmas Tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEkPbtd-dWBxBgcrzMaqBn8_WXm5ZjeGUo_Wv5K8LDmxEyu0GbzP3711qfEhQ8WqCvTi9AXn-ZchOmWN8JEB2b9YT9lvS3mQwlLdYIeGPI03NIFVlwbarGCS9YLT0lfpV9pjNM8fvhKQb/s1600/P1070508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEkPbtd-dWBxBgcrzMaqBn8_WXm5ZjeGUo_Wv5K8LDmxEyu0GbzP3711qfEhQ8WqCvTi9AXn-ZchOmWN8JEB2b9YT9lvS3mQwlLdYIeGPI03NIFVlwbarGCS9YLT0lfpV9pjNM8fvhKQb/s320/P1070508.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
My son has been asking for a Christmas tree since 2009. Didn't want to buy a traditional tree which costs around 5k. It's the Ilocana in me, I guess :-). Plus I really don't have space to store it once the holiday season is over. So I looked around the house for stuff that we could 'recycle'. All I needed: lots of books, lots of hand-me-down xmas decors (thanks to my sister) and lots of free time. Ho-ho-ho!Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-14628091381359846692011-10-20T14:33:00.000+08:002011-10-20T15:49:16.208+08:00Happy Meal, Happy MeHow much to make my kid happy? Just Php99. Seriously.<div><br /></div><div>Aside from his smile, that price includes a 1-piece chicken with drink, and a Batman toy made in China (lead-free, of course...I hope...).</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, I know. It's fast food. High in calories, fat, sugar, high in everything - except the price, just want to emphasize. But eating junk once in a while won't kill him (now stressing too much over the food pyramid, on the other hand, might). Besides, it's good for the soul. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- ">My soul, at least. Because my </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- ">heart </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- ">expands at the mere sight of my son giddy with excitement, eating his Happy Meal in his happy place, and completely engrossed with pulling out the limbs of his platic toy. Ahw. <i>Love ko 'to.</i></span></div>Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-44435316408413464862008-02-11T15:05:00.000+08:002011-11-01T21:38:55.405+08:00It Takes A VillageFour adults take turns in raising my 1 year old son. I tried to do it on my own after he was born. Breastfed him, bathed him, cleaned his crap while hubbie was at work. I didn't go crazy. My husband did, though. I bit his head off every time he came home from work. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hey, it's no joke staying at home the whole day just watching the baby and Lifestyle Network! </span>I admire women who find genuine joy in just being housewives, who can just ogle at their babies the whole day and experience nirvana. Unfortunately, I ain't that kind of girl. Two months after giving birth, I hired maid #1 to cook, clean, wash dishes and to help me with the baby. A pair of extra hands didn't seem enough though. Two months after, I hired maid #2 to help maid #1 with her job. With my husband, that makes 4 people taking care of Phoenix 24/7. But at the end of each day, why am I still tired? Why are the four of us exhausted? <br />
<br />
Maybe because of the Daily Grind? The Daily Grind: the 2 maids cater to his needs (aside from catering to our needs): morning walk, down and up three flights of stairs. Baby Einstein video. Breakfast. After-breakfast crap. Running around the condo unit, around the furniture, under the furniture, sometimes attempting to go through the furniture. Bath time. Nap time. Diaper change every 2 hours. Lunch. Replay of all activities after lunch. Mommy comes home from 8-hour job to find yayas exhausted. Mommy caters to his needs, primarily his need to be carried and hugged (he's almost 30 lbs, that brat!) Daddy comes home after his 10-hour job and finds mommy and yayas exhausted. Daddy caters to his needs, too, primarily his need to be in perpetual motion even at 8 p.m. When the baby falls asleep at around 9, my husband and I try to have time together, you know, just to chat, relax, have a little somethin'-somethin'-wink-wink. The operative word is TRY. Many times, we just succumb to our primal need to sleep on clean sheets.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I am tempted to have the yayas take care of him more so I can have my "artist day" or more time with my husband. But they also need a break from the brat. My husband and I do, too but hey, he's our kid, not theirs. I'm tempted to call in for reinforcement and ask my mom to stay with us. But she's in another village, helping to raise my precocious 4-year old niece.Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-38718305204894792922007-11-09T20:56:00.001+08:002011-11-01T21:26:40.175+08:00OH, BLESSED YAYAS!It’s my son’s first birthday tomorrow. My husband and I just wanted to spend the whole day playing with him, that’s it. No party, no gifts. What for? He won’t remember a thing anyway.<br />
But his 2 yayas had other ideas. One of them confronted me: “Shouldn’t we at least put up a “Happy Birthday” sign on the wall?”<br />
<br />
The idea of decorating the house for a one-year old came from this yaya who, when told to buy a newspaper at the nearby Mini-Stop and to also prepare my mom’s 3-in-1 coffee, looked at me, perplexed and asked, “Ate, san po nabibili yung 3-in-1 na dyaryo?” This was the same yaya who,upon seeing me clutching a book when I was about to get in the car, asked me innocently, “Ate, panu po kayo nakakabasa habang nagda-drayb?” Because of the seeming naivete or simplicity in the way she thinks (or maybe because of the stereotype I have of maids), I I did not take her seriously. I suppressed a chuckle and was about to tell them not to bother ‘cause it will just be a waste of time when both yayas did not even give me time to reply. They quickly volunteered to do the decorations. It was already 8 pm, they’ve been up since 5:30 a.m., cooking, cleaning the house and taking care of my li’l Tasmanian devil, and they still wanted to do this for my son?! By this time, I was no longer amused. I was so touched.<br />
So while my son was sleeping, my yayas, my husband and I transformed our spartan unit into a McDonald’s-ish party place. Hours before the celebrant’s 6 am meal, the “Happy Birthday Phoenix” banner had been put up; already dangling from the ceiling were the buntings, paper boats and airplanes all made from old newspaper and phone directories. I was, surprisingly, getting excited; I could picture Phoenix’s face light up when he sees the paper buntings that he could pull and destroy. The decorations were simple, but I guess the gratitude I felt for my 2 kasambahay made everything look...magical. I still think my baby will not remember a thing about his first birthday. But I will. Every detail and much, much more.Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-66603255926598614072007-09-28T22:02:00.000+08:002011-11-01T21:40:32.171+08:00What A DragI'm not a smoker. I'm not addicted to nicotine the way I am with caffeine and Starbuck's brownies. I smoke twice, maybe thrice a year, purely ceremonial really, to mark a highlight in my life like, say, surviving a flood that destroyed my precious book collection or finishing a Sylvia Plath novel without slashing my wrist. <br />
<br />
Lately though, ever since giving birth, I've been smoking more often. It's growing on me. On days when I am overwhelmed by the roles I have to play (wife, lover, mother, teacher, daughter, sister, yaya trainor and part-time couch potato), I smoke. On days when I am consumed by guilt because 2 yayas, instead of 1 mommy, are taking care of my son, I smoke. <br />
On days when trying to be just a decent mom is chocking me, I smoke. <br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. I love being a mom. Most of the time. There are low moments though. It cannot be helped. Like when I realized that the next time I will ever get a decent night's sleep is when my 10 month old turns twenty (Coz while still young, he'll be waking me up in the middle of the night. And when he becomes a teenager, he'll be waking me up in the middle of the night to let him in). Or when I watch, helplessly, fragments of my life-prior-to-having-a-kid floating far, far away from me. So long, size 2 denims! G'bye, pack-and-hit-the-road-in-just-a-moment's-notice-who-cares-where-our-feet-will-take-us-ladi-da-da urges! Yes, yes, time to light up a stick. Because when I puff--or more precisely, when I inhale killer fumes--my world turns dreamy and it's just me and my cigarette smoke in total embrace. Nothing else in between. <br />
<br />
Smoking, I've read, kills brain cells. I think that's why I smoke. So I don't have to think so much. Even for just a few minutes.Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-87374369742476125572007-09-27T23:04:00.000+08:002011-11-01T21:41:08.775+08:00The Skinny on JeansI have a beef against Levi Strauss and his lot. They're anti-mommies and pro-liposuction. <br />
<br />
Last weekend, I decided it was high-time I should reward myself for being such “a great mom” (My son’s words, not mine. And he doesn’t talk yet. Go figure).<br />
<br />
So off to Shangrila mall I go a-hoppin’ to buy meeh-self a nice pair of jeans! The last time I bought a pair was two years ago. Turns out two years is a loooong time to be out of the fashion loop. 'Cause I was really surprised (and the surprise spiraled into a 10-minute depression, tops) when I saw what the "in" thing was in jeans: skinny jeans. “Skinny” meaning “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but just your skin will do so do leave your skeleton in your closet, thank you for understandin’, ma’am, appreciate it.” They're barely there. They're tIght (tighter than Matt Damon and Ben Afleck). And low. I tried one on and it barely covered the bikini cut (aka My Guy Smiley) I got when I gave birth last year. The zipper rubbed against M.G.S. His smile is a bit crooked now. The denim seemed to be glued to my legs. I suppose that's meant to keep my cellulites all snug. Tight on the crotch area, too. So no air would pass through? Why, Levi and Co. must be smart ‘cause I remember in my Science classes that warm air goes up and causes early menopause or something. So, thank you boys for preventing that to happen. So thoughtful. Appreciate it. They even knew my bums were gonna just fall off any sec that’s why they made ‘em oh-so-tight on the behind. No air can pass through. In or out, doesn't matter. It used to be that my pair of jeans act as a girdle. Because of the thickness of denim, I didn’t need to hold my breath in to hide my beer belly. But now with this low rise skinnies, the stretch marks on my stomach just hang grandly like the gardens of Babylon. Who’d want to buy jeans that make one look like a hooker, anyway?<br />
<br />
Well...I do. I did. Pretty Woman kind of hooker, though (I'm picky that way). In my mind, after giving birth to a 6 pounder, who's now four times his birth size, I deserve a reward. The illusion that I'm a a Hot Mama is good enough for me. So my pair of skinnies is there, hanging in my closet, waiting for me finish doing crunches. And dips. And laps. And lifts, 5 reps each. Maybe I should just call Jenny Craig.Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-57169766674522155942007-09-18T21:46:00.000+08:002011-11-01T21:47:28.464+08:00Wink-WinkI planned the perfect getaway last weekend. Just my husband and me, on a road trip to Tagaytay. Stopover at Petron for some Starbucks coffee and chunky brownies. Aircon off, windows rolled down once we pass the rotunda. Fresh, cool air gently touching our cheeks. Romantic dinner at Antonio's (or any bulalohan overlooking Taal lake). Conversation over more coffee (or beer, whichever's cheaper). And for our night cap, a little somethin'-somethin' (wink-wink). <br />
<br />
We've been talking a lot about having a break from parenthood, my husband and I. The past ten months saw us really tutok-barok, hands-on parents. We have 2 maids, but when we're home, we usually hang out with our son. Man, we just have one kid and we're tired, nay, exhausted beyond reason. How couples with so many kids manage, I can't figure out. With just this one kid I am convinced that I would rather not have sex for the rest of my life than have another Tasmanian devil in the house. <br />
<br />
I digress. So how was our weekend, you ask? Well, let me tell y'all, the gods were smiling at us.<br />
<br />
Yes, we did get our coffee plus my brownie square, but at the Shell station instead. Yes, we did feel the breeze gently touching our skin. The touch was damp, though; it was raining that afternoon we arrived. So no rolled down windows there. No matter. Upon reaching our hotel, my husband went straight to the bathroom to freshen up. I lay on the bed, just enjoying the crispy clean sheets. Ahh. Sheets that don't smell like baby powder or Nenuco. Or diapers with urine. It's been a long time. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the solitude and the silence. Man, tranquility. Been a loooong time. Ahh.<br />
<br />
When I opened my eyes, it was the next morning. <br />
<br />
And I was really hungry. Needless to say, there wasn't any romantic dinner. Forget romantic. There was no dinner, period. No somethin-somethin, wink-wink either. Sadly, even my libido couldn't raise me from the dead, este, bed. Imagine that. I shelled out PhP2,000+ for a romantic weekend, and the only thing that got wet was the road.<br />
<br />
The gods were definitely doing the wink-wink on us.Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-46215681068837257122007-09-09T21:36:00.000+08:002011-11-01T21:41:49.815+08:00The Break UpMy baby and I, we need a cool-off period. Like right about now. We’ve been together for 10 months. It’s been really great and all that. But we need some space, you know. To think things over. To see where our relationship is headed. Maybe spread our wings. Get a feel of the world outside us two. Maybe even see other people. <br />
<br />
The first three months, we were exclusive. Real tight, man. Couldn’t get enough of each other. A 24/7, joined-at the-hips kind of thing. My world revolved around him, his world revolved around...well...around my areola really. <br />
<br />
Of course there was the usual adjustment period, but that’s normal at the start of any relationship, right? I mean, he couldn’t expect a 35-year old, highly independent woman to be an instant expert in taking care of something so delicate, right? He couldn’t expect me to distinguish between his I-am-hungry cry and his hug-me-coz-I-feel-insecure-being-alone-in-this-crib-and-oh-incidentally-I-am-hungry-too cry, right? Likewise, I couldn’t expect him to immediately adjust to my quirks, like my need every morning to spend a few minutes away from him so I could relieve myself. I couldn’t expect him to immediately understand that it takes about 6 seconds to unclasp the flap of my maternity bra while carrying him, and that any delay in feeding him doesn’t mean I love him less, right?<br />
<br />
But we stuck it out, my baby and me. After a few more months, we had a feel for each other’s needs. I learned that I needed to hire a yaya to help me out; he learned to cry louder. So we’re still together, and why not? It was love at first sight after all!<br />
<br />
Recently though, we haven’t been seeing eye to eye. He’s becoming more demanding, you see. Nowadays, he wants more than just milk and clean diapers. Now he wants me to make faces so he could laugh; to read “I’m the Biggest Thing In the Ocean” (Kevin Sherry) at least 4 times per day; to stoop down to hold his hands for long stretches because he wants to practice walking; to duck when he throws his spoon or his bottle; to endure my hair being pulled just so he can see hair being pulled; to carry all 25 pounds of him downstairs so he could have some morning sun and polluted air. I mean how much abuse can a woman take? I love him so much, but frankly, I desperately need a break from him.<br />
<br />
He probably feels the same way anyway. ‘Cause he used to cling to me with both hands. Wouldn’t let go, you know. But now, after discovering the use of his legs, he brushes off my attempts to hold both his hands. Like he’s saying, “I just need half your help now, mommy. I need only your one hand now to help me stand.” Soon, he would need none at all. <br />
<br />
Sure. No prob. A cool-off period would be perfect right now. I’ve been surfing the net for vacation packages anyway. So fine. <br />
<br />
Nothing that involves a plane ride, though. <br />
<br />
Or more than 3 hours by road. <br />
<br />
Or more than an overnighter. Not yet.Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-50583835857760033492007-09-07T22:46:00.000+08:002007-09-07T23:52:51.439+08:00Color CodedPink is for girls, blue is for boys. What's with the color-coding? <br /><br />A few days ago, I had my son wear a pink jumper. It's one of those Osh-Kosh hand-me-downs from my sister who has a daughter, now 4 years old. My husband reacted to the outfit. Eew. He looks like a girl. The neighbors reacted to the outfit. Eew. He looks like a girl. My yayas said, "Kawawa naman. Mukhang gerl. Oow." Say that again?! He's wearing Osh-Kosh, for gawdsakes! That's more expensive than the 3-for-250 shirts I buy in Greenhills! Hindi siya kawawa 'no!<br /> <br />What's wrong with pink on a baby boy anyway? Mababakla? Kawawa? Oh, pleaaase! <br /><br />First, do you really think gays are gays because their mothers put them in pink cribs and pink diapers when they were babies? Second, how can a pink jumper on a baby boy make him look pitiful? I didn't notice my baby covering his face in shame when I took him out that day for his usual afternoon stroll. He wasn't hiding from the other babies on the block for fear of being called Baby Bach-lash. HE DOESN'T CARE. Babies don't care about these color stereotypes that adults like Martha Stewart obsess over. <br /><br />In fact the day that my baby was wearing that pink jumper, I noticed he was more confident; there was a certain bounce in his usual unsteady, awkward first steps (I was holding his hands, of course). Hmm...I guess it's because the jumper matched his lavender bib and yellow stroller...Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8009401207514331853.post-80147565423321473162007-09-06T21:54:00.000+08:002007-09-07T23:49:17.711+08:00CreepyOne a.m. I woke up with a start. My 10-month old was NOT beside me. Panic. Felt like my balls--if I had balls--were stuck in my throat. I scanned the darkness. Saw his tiny silhouette standing at the foot of the bed. He was holding on to a pillow with one hand, for balance. First thought: Phew! Nobody kidnapped him, he’s not lying unconscious, a pool of blood beside him. Next thought: What the hell was he doing, standing at the foot of the bed at one a.m.?! I wanted to scold him, tell him he’s grounded till his first birthday, scream, “What the hell were you thinking you little imp, you?!”<br /><br />‘Cause it looked to me that he wasn’t just there to practice standing up or to wait for the sun to rise. It looked like he was on to something. Like he was planning to go somewhere. The bathroom? To try out taking a leak the way big daddy does? Next door to wake up his yayas? Oh me, oh my, not the stand fan, please not that! 'Just thinking of his tiny, tiny fingers reaching out for those blades...stop it! Stop!!!<br /><br />My God. Just 10 months and I'm certified paranoid. Breathe, mommy, breathe.Bratty Mommyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15095192159463807146noreply@blogger.com0