Mother's Birth Day

Seven years ago today, I became a mother for the third time, which was amazing because just three short years before, I was convinced I would NEVER be a mother. Here, I tell J-man about the day he was born. Thanks, Britt!

Happy birthday to my sweet, crazy boy! I love you and I love that every few years we share a special day.

Dialog, Part 34

J-man: Bubba and Lolli! Sittin' in a tree! K-S-S-S-I-N-G!

(Writer's note: Lolli is a little girl, in Bubba's class, on whom Bubba is crushing. He says he's going to marry her. I say I'm going to have to go talk to this little girl's mother. And have me a stiff drink.)

Me: No, that's K-*I*-S-S-I-N-G.

J-man: I SAID THAT! K-S-S-S-I-N-G.

Me: No. Sweetie. K-*I*-S-S...

J-man: Extremely frustrated. I. SAID. THAT!

Me: No, you didn't. Ksssing isn't a word. You spell kissing with an *i*.

J-man: I know that, Mama! I said *i*! K-S-S-S-I-N-G!

Me: Did you just hear yourself? There aren't three s's in kissing! Just two! And two i's!

J-man: Shaking his head in a condescending manner, much the way Neil deGrasse Tyson does to all the evolution haters. Mama. I spelled it with two i's. You didn't hear me right.

Me: I REALIZE YOU ALL THINK I'M A DAFT COW, BUT I KNOW YOU JUST SPELLED KSSSING! AND THAT DRIVES ME BATTY!

Ya'll, I'm dead serious. If you'd like to get in touch with me, I'll be in the local psych ward, trying to convince myself that ksssing spells kissing and that 2 + 2 really does equal 5.

Happy 7th Birthday Bubba and Miss-Miss!

Today, my dear sweet twins turn seven. For a less-abbreviated story that is tl;dr, click here.

If you would like to actually see the newly-minted 7-year-olds in action, with a special appearance by J-man and a photobomb courtesy of Ty-man, then look no further.

Happy Birthday, sweet twins! Love you both with all my heart!

Mama! I'm a Whole Handful

Dear J-man,

Did you know that you were born five years ago today? It all started four days after your Bubba's and Esha's first birthdays when I stood in the kitchen, starring down the barrels of three (count 'em, three) positive pregnancy tests. I couldn't believe it, but the proof was staring me in the face. My body, my screwed-up, wtf-do-you-mean-I'm-supposed-to-ovulate? body had finally figured out this whole cycle thing all on its own and you came into being.

For those first few months, I was plenty-nauseous and annoyed by the whole affair. How the heck was I supposed to raise twin one-year-olds and keep house if all I wanted to do was lie on the couch and moan? But then? Then, you moved. And I felt you. And my heart sang.

Our doctor decided to induce our labor two weeks early since my blood pressure was elevated. I must say, I was so happy to meet you earlier than expected. The hospital called very early on Friday morning, May 11, 2007, and informed us they were ready. The pitocin was administered, my epidural was good to go, and I waited. Lucky for me, there was a Roseanne marathon showing on a local channel. As I settled in for a several-hour stretch, I shifted in bed and realized that even through the epidural, something felt different. I called the nurses' station, they checked your progress, and just three hours after the start of our journey, you were there, ready to make your entrance.

When I first saw you, I thought you a mix of your Bubba and Esha. I saw a little of my father in your face and you were just precious. At first, I didn't want to hold you too much because I didn't want to spoil you, but by the time we came home two days later, I gave in. You were too cute not to cuddle 24/7 and to this day, you're a cuddler.

Dear J-man, you're a sweet boy who is constantly off the hook. You talk non-stop, chase after your Bubba and Esha, and drive them crazy. You also love them unconditionally and make all of us laugh until we gasp and snort.


I love you. Happy fifth birthday little man! You are growing up too fast and before I know it, I'll have a second Ty-man running around the house. And you know what? That's going to be awesome!

Disney Madness

Two weeks ago today, we were in Orlando and recovering from our first day at Magic Kingdom. We hadn't originally planned to spend the kids' spring break at Disney, but our previous plans fell through. So, we decided to brave the Florida heat and spring break crowds for a piece of the mouse action.

Wow.

I have never, NEVER, seen so many strollers in all my life. Never. Not even from past trips to Disney with just me and the Ty-man do I remember so many strollers. They could have changed Disney World's name to Stroller World and it would have been entirely appropriate. The heat was bearable and I only melted down twice that first day (once on the Small World ride which, I thought, was called for) and the kids melted down five, carry the two, divide by six... about twice each. So, all in all, it was pretty decent.

My most intense memory of the week, though, was the day we trekked over to Epcot. We happened upon Pixie Hollow and while the Ty-man held a place in line FOR AN HOUR (the man is a trooper) to meet Tinkerbell, I took the kids over to meet Vidia and Rosetta. I figured I would usher the kids over, step away, and take some gorgeous pictures of my sweet babies and the cute fairies.

Um, not so much.

J-man instead tried to re-insert himself into the womb (Shy, much?) and refused to even show his face to the two gracious ladies standing in the heat in ridiculous get-ups. I stood there, uncomfortably, trying to allow my other two kids to have a Disney experience without Mama in the middle. Meanwhile Vidia and Rosetta (probably named Prudence and Bunny IRL) were carrying on the most interesting of conversations about flying and fairy races while my youngest attempted to reverse the birthing process.

Let's just all say Thank God for Disney PhotoPass!



That's as far away from my girlie bits as the J-man got. Meanwhile, that look on my face? It says (between clenched teeth) O.M.G. Get me outta this frakking picture. NOW!

Thankfully, after being completely intimidated by Vidia and Rosetta, J-man figured it out with Tinkerbell. I mean, HELLO!, who wouldn't smile like that when confronted with the cutest fairy in all of Pixie Hollow?



Damn skippy.

Weiners vs. Clams*

As all of you, my dear readers know, I have three kids. Irish triplets, if you will. This means they're practically the same age (and two of them are). Of course, the other thing you may remember about my kids is that I have one girl and two boys.

When you have three children of practically the same age with a mix of boys and girls, then you've also got a mix of toys. Thomas the Tank Engine is racing alongside a Strawberry Shortcake RC car. Meanwhile, Barbie and CPT Kirk are discussing warp engines and tutus next to Dora riding atop a Hot Wheels Battle Force 5 Buster. Seriously. This house is a gender-bender of gigantic proportions.

Bubba has spent many days wearing his sister's headband. Miss-Miss has been known to tear up the front yard with a toy bulldozer. And J-man? Well, that boy has run around this place dressed up as Tinker Bell more times than I can count. But? At the same time, they will pop back into their "proper" gender spaces just as quickly.

What's the point of all this rambling? I'm getting there. Simmer down, people. Typically, when a woman is pregnant with her first baby(ies), she receives gender-specific clothes and toys. Girls get pink and princesses while boys are the recipients of blue and baseballs. Why are we doing this to our kids? Why are we limiting our children's toy/clothes/life choices based on what's in between their legs? Now, before some of you get your panties in a wad about You're raising your boys to be drag queens!/Your daughter's going to be a butch construction worker! just wait a minute. I have no idea of my children's futures. I don't know who they will love, what they're favorite clothing will be, or where they'll work. And you know what? I don't care. What I do care about is that they will be happy, loved, and satisfied in their lives.

The great thing about mixing up gender-specific toys for your all-girl/all-boy house is that your children, I think, will end up a bit more well-rounded. When Miss-Miss is confronted with a Thomas the Tank Engine table at Barnes & Noble, she knows the score. She can identify all the trains by name and go on adventures with the little boys playing at the table with her. She's socializing and the little girls standing around not knowing what to do are wondering where their Cinderella dolls are. And when Bubba and J-man arrive at the Livingston home (Mom+Dad+2 little girls) for April spring break in a couple of weeks and find themselves surrounded by a plethora of pink and princesses, then they'll have a blast and even be able to relate to the Livingston daughters when talking about the pain associated with wearing Cinderella's glass slippers (read: clear plastic shoes with light-up heels).

My advice for new parents out there? Just raise your kids. Don't worry that one Matchbox car or that one Barbie doll will mess up your child for life. If your son shows an interest in a pink tutu, let him wear it around the house. If your daughter wants a firetruck, then splurge. Look at it as a way of broadening their horizons and giving them a good dose of empathy and understanding for the opposite sex.



*With a nod to my friend Chip who comes up with the most interesting euphemisms for genitalia. He could write a thesaurus.

"Perfect" Timing

Our youngest has impeccable timing. And by impeccable I mean shitty.

Remember? When J-man broke his nose? Ty-man and I were driving to Savannah for our 15th anniversary trip. Now, I know, I know, I'm the worst mother in the world for implying that when he broke his nose we was trying to screw up our trip rather than all of that being just pure chance, which is not what I'm saying at all. Allow me, though, to point out two more instances of his near-psychic ability to sense when something is about to happen and to slam that fork in the road in order to change our direction.

This past summer, I was packing up the kids for dinner at friend Toni's house. Our close sorority sisters were coming with their kids, as well, and it was shaping up to be an evening of catching up and much revelry. As I called to the kids to put on their shoes and load up in the minivan, J-man tore around the corner of the kitchen counter and caught said corner with the top of his head. I suppose he was trying to disprove that electrons repel and actually go through the counter rather than be stopped by it. It didn't work. And instead of going to Toni's house, J-man and I went to the ER (no stitches necessary but OMFG the blood!) while Bubba and Miss-Miss stayed behind with my mother.

Then, there was just this past Thanksgiving Day when I dressed the kids in matching red and green, told the Ty-man that he would wear red or else, and we all got gussied up for our Christmas card picture. We went to the home of Ty-man's brother for a beautiful family meal and gathering. As the turkey digested and the afternoon quieted, the kids wandered outside to explore. After watching them for 15 minutes and realizing they were in a great mood (read: PICTURE TIME!), I quietly exited stage right to retrieve the Ty-man and his brother (a.k.a. our photographer). As I grasped the door handle, J-man screeched. It wasn't a "he stole my toy" screech, it was an "I'm in pain!" screech.

Yeah. My son decided to get into an argument with a rose bush and guess who won?

This is our Christmas card picture:


And this is the J-man's face enlarged:


My sweet little boy is, I admit, a walking accident and five minutes after the whole ordeal, he was ready for his close-up. He was smiling and laughing like nothing had happened. When we walked by the rose bush my brother-in-law asked him, "Did you get into a fight with that rose bush?" J-man answered "Uh-huh. I lost."

Naw, you didn't lose, sweetie. You won. Because you're smiling and that rose bush? Well, it's just dead and ugly until next summer. So, there!

I wonder what next year's picture will look like?

The Kids Have Got It, Part 3

Yep, even J-man got in on the action. Here's the video of our youngest beginning his career as the Stig starting my minivan.



If you can't see the above video, click here to view it on YouTube. If you missed Valley Dude-speaking Bubba then click here, or if you want to see Miss-Miss tell a story check her out here!

The Anti-Nobel Prize for Motherhood

J-man brought home a rather large red Nerf ball from his grandparents' house.

The first thing I announced, really loudly, so that even the neighbors two houses down the street could hear, was DO NOT THROW THAT BALL IN THE HOUSE! Because even though it's a Nerf ball, it's plenty big and heavy enough to knock something off a shelf that would, in turn, crack a skull.

Of course, since I announced the Nerf-ball-throwing-moratorium to the entire block, that meant it was a free-for-all in our house.

Yesterday, Bubba finished his dinner first so he hopped down from the table and disappeared into the toyroom. A few minutes later, I heard a noise very similar to the noise a heavy-ass Nerf ball would make if it was thrown at a shelf-full of toys. I proceeded to ask him what he was doing.

Typical. Little kid. Silence. With the big Who. Me? eyes.

I stared him down and said menacingly kindly Don't. Throw. The Nerf ball. Please.

I returned to the kitchen to make sure Miss-Miss and J-man were eating and not painting the walls with yogurt and heard the Nerf-slapping-toy-shelves noise again.

So again, I asked him if what he was doing involved the ball and again, he gave me the blank I-can't-understand-you-because-I-speak-Inuit stare.

Because he wouldn't give me a truthful answer (or an answer-period) I sent him to timeout. Now, allow me to explain. Timeout in this house is in the toy-free living room. Bor-ing. I typically send the offending child into timeout for the number of minutes corresponding to his/her age (5-years-old gets a 5-minute timeout) with a discussion when it's all said and done about why they were in timeout, what they did wrong, how to avoid timeout in the future, and that I love them.

Bubba slowly walked into the living room, head down, and I returned to the kitchen to wait for Miss-Miss and J-man to finish their dinners. Ten minutes later, they were finished and began to play. Meanwhile, I nursed a nasty headache I had acquired that morning. J-man and Miss-Miss were occupied and the next ten minutes were peaceful. Then, through my headache-haze, I realized why the previous 20 minutes had been so very quiet.

Something I've learned about having three kids is that odd numbers of children create lots of strife. When one child is playing alone, all is well. When two children are playing together, they get along swimmingly. When you add that third child to the two-child mix, then you get screaming chaos. There hadn't been chaos for 20 minutes because my sweet, quiet Bubba had been sitting in timeout, waiting for me to give him the go-ahead to play.

Twenty minutes, people. He's not supposed to be in a 20-minute timeout until he's a surly, drunken college student siphoning my money to text books and frat party keggers.

Hello, Ms. Dorkwad! I'm Helga Funkquist with the Nobel organization. We're debuting a new prize to the Nobel family. The Anti-Nobel Prize for Motherhood! Bonehead mothers like you will be receiving this prize every year! But, instead of an all-expenses paid first-class trip to Stockholm to receive your precious metal medal alongside the rich and famous you'll receive your plastic Anti-Nobel in the mail. Encased in a dirty diaper. That's been wrapped in a bio-hazard bag. Because you're an idiot. Buh-bye!

Sorry, Bubba. Next time I send you to timeout, fuss and cry about it. You're too danged quiet! And I'm too danged distracted!

The Beach

OR

WHY I WAS AWOL FOR A BUNCH OF DAYS

The ocean is such a visceral part of humanity. The sound of the waves, the salt air, the grit is something every human should feel during their lives. I can remember visiting North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, every summer of my childhood. I had happy memories until the dysfunction of my mother's family came to light and those early sights became somehow tainted.

It was because of this that I knew I had to replace my not-quite-right remembrances with new ones. Memories filled with giggles, squeals, laughs, and chatter. Last week, we made introductions. Atlantic Ocean, meet Miss-Miss, Bubba, and J-man. Miss-Miss, Bubba, and J-man, meet the primordial soup from whence you came.




With initial introductions over, we got down to the nitty-gritty.


I do believe that's the first time I've ever seen a sand angel, much less two of them.


The Ty-man, who hates sand, who would rather sit pool-side, made sand castles every day. God, how I love that man.


You can't tell by this picture but Miss-Miss should be on a Coppertone ad. If you even just say the word "sun" she gets as brown as chocolate milk.


And who can say no to beach-side ice cream with a Nana photobomb?


There were lots of beautiful beach sunsets.


And "Real, Live, Dead Fish" on sale at the Gay Dolphin.


Roasted marshmallows.


And twins who turned five years old. Sixty months. 1,826 days. 43,824 hours. 2,629,440 minutes. 157,766,400 seconds. Times two. I can't believe they're half a decade old.

Thank goodness for precious memories.

A Perfect Storm

There are times during this motherhood of mine when I'm all Seriously?!? Where the frak are these kids' mother? Cause I'm over this whole 20-year babysitting gig. I mean, I love my children more than my own life. But when they get low on blood sugar and sleep, they aren't children... they're animals.

Allow me to deconstruct.

The director of the kids' Montessori school resigned two weeks into the school year.

Yeah.

I mean, she was the whole reason we put our kids in that school and now she's gone to some other school 21 miles away. I'm not dissing on the elementary Montessori teacher (Miss D) who's going to teach both the elementary and primary lessons and yadda, yadda make it work blather, blather rearrange the classroom blah, blah you paid $30 for yoga mats for afternoon yoga that I'm not going to do because I can't get my old bones down on the floor to do the yoga with the kids but no worries because you, dear parent, can volunteer to cut out tons of laminated construction paper lessons to replace lessons the previous director took with her to the new school even though you did that shit for four years in college because all of your sorority sisters were early education majors and couldn't cut that crap out themselves but when you asked for help on your physics labs they just laughed at you yammer, yammer but you're not bitter.

('Scuse me. Jeremy Clarkson just said a funny on Top Gear. Must listen....... OK. Back to writing this train wreck of a post.)

In addition to being the kids "new" teacher, Miss D's also a chatterbox. A sweet, older chatterbox, but a chatterbox nonetheless. And when she gets going? Woo-doggies you can't shut her up! For the first two weeks of school, I picked up the J-man at 12:15PM, raced home at 5-mph over the speed limit, chucked him up the stairs, visited the loo, changed him out of his school clothes, and could pretty much throw him in the bed by 12:30/12:45. He would get a good hour of sleep before picking up Bubba and Miss-Miss at 2:15 and all was peachy-keen.

Yesterday? At 12:45? I was still standing in front of the school listening to Miss D yammer on and on and on.... And I get that she's excited about running the whole shebang and getting construction paper cutting help and that she needs hangers for the gently-used uniform sale, and ZOMG! don't forget about the box tops! *Pant pant* but I NEED TO GET J-MAN DOWN FOR A NAP OR IT'S THE APOCALYPSE!

I think my youngest got about 15 minutes of sleep. You see where I'm going with this?

After picking up the twins from school, we headed off to WalSchmart. Maybe not immediately. Maybe after school and before WalHell we had to go home, change out of two more sets of school uniforms, put two more kids on the toilet, give kids a snack, and check myself in the mirror to make sure I wasn't going to end up on People of Walmart. (I'm finally figuring out that motherhood is just a long, endless multi-tasking session during which you take one step forward and five-thousand steps back.) And after the 90-minute WalShart fiasco (a fiasco because getting three kids to follow you through WalFart is like herding cats across the open plains), I informed the Ty-man that if he wanted something to eat, he was going to have to take me and the kids somewhere, dammit. Because me + kitchen was an unprovable equation. That also meant languishing at home until Papa came home from work. Ish.

My grandfather was a pisser when he got hungry. Each summer during the late 70s/early 80s, my extended family would travel in a convoy to the beach. This was before cell phones which meant each car had a CB radio to stay in touch. And when Grandpa Simeon got hungry? The grouchy, whiny, ill-tempered crap coming out of that man's mouth would have made Chris Rock blush. Seriously. Have you ever seen a pissy, whiny, pitiful 60-ish man? I did, every summer. And my grandfather's name became a verb in our family. If you were hungry with a side of petulant, all while digesting your muscle mass, then you were totally going Simeon.

My youngest is a 3-year-old Simeon. And when he's running on a 15-minute nap? He's Simeon-squared. And last night, during our dinner out, he was Simeon-squared. He was so Simeon that his dinner didn't even satisfy the inner grumpy grandpa and I'm pretty sure the other dining patrons were calling their ENTs and making appointments for ear drum replacement surgeries.

Tonight! On CNN! Why are cochlear implants flying off the shelves in suburban Atlanta? Our report at 11!

Where's the frakking chocolate?

Schoolin'

They didn't cry.



They smiled, chattered, laughed, and constantly asked When are we leaving? School is no longer an unknown entity.


Their teacher isn't a stranger, she's a best friend.


And the school room is as familiar as their own home. They gleefully ran toward their first day and didn't look back.

I'm simultaneously proud and catatonic.

Hold me?

Wounded, Part Two

J- man is recovering and on the mend. His nose is returning to normal and he's no longer bruised and bloody. Thank goodness because I was getting tired of kids and adults staring at his mangled face. The nose bone isn't broken, his cartilage is still pushed up but correcting itself, and the swelling will take six months to a year to completely go away. The doctor said to treat this injury as a plastic surgery, that we must wait a long time for his face to return to normal. At this point, though, there is no surgery in his future.

As far as my recovery after the whole affair? It's been surprisingly swift. I've had no choice because despite my son's injury, my job as a mother has continued. I still have two other children who need attention, all three who must be fed, laundry washed, toys put away, and on, and on, etc, etc, ad infinitum. On top of that, I still have the J-man who is in a constant struggle with Sir Isaac Newton.

I've noticed something about my youngest child; he either disagrees with the laws of physics and feels he shouldn't be restrained by something as piddling as gravity or he has inherited my klutziness. I hope it's the former and that I am mother to a future astronaut but I fear it's the latter and that I'm actually mother to a young boy who will one day try out for football only to end up in the hospital and later join the chess club.

In the 17 days since his fateful meeting with a stone wall, the J-man has done the following:

• Tripped over his brother's feet and nearly met the pavement in a Target parking lot.

• Tripped on the step up into the kitchen from the garage and nearly met our hardwood floor.

• Been smacked on the nose by Miss-Miss during a dispute over who was crowding who on the bed during morning cartoons.

• Been walloped on the nose with a toy car, by Bubba, during a dispute over who was going to play with said car.

• Watched his sister somersault backwards off the arm of the couch and onto his face.

• Careened down our cul-de-sac on his tricycle and spectacularly crashed said tricycle in said cul-de-sac, resulting in several scrapes and my neighbor Jodi rushing out of her front door declaring that she was going to buy him a foam suit and helmet.

So, yeah, after the second brush with earthly forces, I went back to the normal nonchalance regarding my youngest child's track record with the laws of the falling apple. I'm now the mom who is all Oh, he fell? Please. I've seen worse. And who then bandages up my child with nary a second glance while simultaneously cooking dinner, vacuuming carpet, and reading the latest Janet Evanovich.

I'm there, people. I'm finally there.

Wounded

When Memorial weekend dawned on Friday, we thought the biggest stumble was that our customer had flipped us off and chosen another contractor.* Ty-man shot into work, fired off a reply, and demanded more information pending a possible protest. So, it's probably going to get us nowhere but at least we'll make the customer sweat a little.

We attempted to put this rejection behind us as the kids made their way north to the Georgia mountains for a grandparent weekend and the Ty-man and I drove south toward Savannah. It was to be a quiet four days and a celebration of the fifteen years we've been married.

It wasn't to be.

We only made it as far as Marietta when Ty's father called to say that J-man had tripped while running in the driveway, fallen nose-first onto a low stone wall, and broken his nose. They were at the hospital in Dahlonega and before I could blink, Ty-man arrowed our car toward our sweet little boy.

So many emotions went through me. Panic, anger, sadness, chaos, calm... it was all there. I was near insanity and, for the first time, experienced the verge of what would end up being a nine-hour long panic attack. I sat on the precipice for those nine hours, looking over, waiting to fall into a full-blown freak-out. But, for me to get there, I had to see my little boy first.

When we got to the hospital in Dahlonega, the terror on our faces must have been proof enough to the attending nurses that we were, in fact, J-man's parents and not some imposters. When I entered the room, there he was, cradled by his grandma. First, let me say this. Ty-man's mother is an amazing woman who managed to drive 30 minutes down a winding mountain road BY HERSELF with a 3-year-old who was bleeding and ready to fall asleep. She kept him awake (worried he might have a concussion), drove down 14 miles of steep, curving roads, kept herself in check, and even put together food for the twins before she left with J-man for the hospital. She's incredible and what happened to J-man? Would have happened regardless of who was there.**

My poor J-man. He was bloody and bruised, his eyes already black and dried blood all around his nose. His nose was all skinned up from hitting the stone wall, but what upset me the most was his right nostril. All of you, right now, take your finger and push up your right nostril, like you're imitating a pig. Now, go look at yourself in a mirror. See how that position has now crinkled your skin on the upper part of your nose, near your eye, and lifts your upper lip? Yep, that's been the J-man since Friday and he'll be like that until surgery is performed to correct it.***

I immediately held him and 15 minutes later, the ambulance arrived to transport us to Children's Healthcare of Atlanta. Why the transfer? Well, the CT scanner in Dahlonega was broken. Plus? The Dahlonega hospital wasn't all that great 16 years ago when Ty-man and I lived there and went to college. Sixteen years later? It's still not that great.

Friday evening was my first ride in an ambulance. They strapped me down to the bed and I held J-man. The medic riding in the back with us eventually saw my reflection in the back door window as I continually wiped the tears and snot from my face. He came around and we talked. He calmed me down and by the time we arrived at CHOA, I was slightly better.

Now, you know an injury is bad when the doctors and nurses at a pediatric hospital, who've seen it all, gasp and back up a step. J-man looked bad. His attending physician even asked to take pictures for training purposes regarding severe nose fractures.

Yeah.

J-man sat through his CT scan without flinching or crying. He held still and didn't move a muscle. Kid has bigger balls than many adults I know. When the results came in, it just confirmed what we already knew, that he has nose and facial (under his right eye) fractures and that our boy will have one heck of a story to tell his own kids. What upset me so much about the results was the fix. We won't see the plastic surgeon until Thursday, nearly a week after his accident, and surgery won't be performed until all the swelling is gone.

See, I'm an instant-fixer. When something or someone is broken, I want it fixed now, Now, NOW! I don't want to wait. And waiting for J-man to have his nose fixed is driving me nuts, because every time he hides his face from someone, every time he looks at his reflection in the mirror, my heart breaks. I just want to play the old game of "stealing" his nose. You know the game. The one when you pretend to steal the child's nose, but it's really your thumb in between your index and middle fingers. But, I don't want to pretend. I want it to be real and I want to trade noses so that he doesn't have to go through this hurt, this pain, the stares from others, and the inevitable questions that follow.

I don't want to be the mother who is emotionally strong, holding his hand through it all. I want to be the mother who can wave my hand and fix everything in the blink of an eye.

*Note: I cannot list the name of said customer here on my site, but suffice it to say that said customer can kiss my pale-white ass and go fuck themselves.

**Are you reading this Betty? I love you. Quit beating yourself up over this. Stop it, or else.

***I don't have any pictures of J-man's injury and I don't intend to take any. As I stated on my Facebook page, I don't want a visual memory of this weekend. I'll take a picture of him when he's out of surgery and recovering.

Three Years Ago Today

Dear J-man,

Did you know that you were born three years ago today? It all started four days after your Bubba's and Esha's first birthdays when I stood in the kitchen, starring down the barrels of three (count 'em, three) positive pregnancy tests. I couldn't believe it, but the proof was staring me in the face. My body, my screwed-up, wtf-do-you-mean-I'm-supposed-to-ovulate? body had finally figured out this whole cycle thing all on its own and you came into being.

For those first few months, I was plenty-nauseous and annoyed by the whole affair. How the heck was I supposed to raise twin one-year-olds and keep house if all I wanted to do was lie on the couch and moan? But then? Then, you moved. And I felt you. And my heart sang.

Our doctor decided to induce our labor two weeks early since my blood pressure was elevated. I must say, I was so happy to meet you earlier than expected. The hospital called very early on Friday morning, May 11, 2007, and informed us they were ready. The pitocin was administered, my epidural was good to go, and I waited. Lucky for me, there was a Roseanne marathon showing on a local channel. As I settled in for a several-hour stretch, I shifted in bed and realized that even through the epidural, something felt different. I called the nurses' station, they checked your progress, and just three hours after the start of our journey, you were there, ready to make your entrance.

When I first saw you, I thought you a mix of your Bubba and Esha. I saw a little of my father in your face and you were just precious. At first, I didn't want to hold you too much because I didn't want to spoil you, but by the time we came home two days later, I gave in. You were too cute not to cuddle 24/7 and to this day, you're a cuddler.

Dear J-man, you're a sweet boy who is constantly off the hook. You talk non-stop, chase after your Bubba and Esha, and drive them crazy. You also love them unconditionally and make all of us laugh until we gasp and snort.

I love you. Happy third birthday little man!

Old School

I downloaded the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone yesterday and I can't stop taking pictures.



We went out, at the last-minute, to a local Mexican restaurant. Yeah. We're masochists that way. Fellow HOA-survivor Jodi and her family accompanied us and after consuming a small margarita (that knocked me on my ass), I was loopy and picture-happy.



The Hipstamatic app adds textures to your iPhone photos to give them that nostalgic look. Thirty years ago we were bitching about our shitty, washed-out pictures and now, suddenly, it's cool!



Personally, I love it. I think it adds depth and meaning to my photos. It's not just a quick phone camera photo of Ty-man and J-man, it's a photograph of a father and his son, spending a moment cuddling amidst the madness of a "everybody-in-this-neighborhood-is-plastered-and-entirely-too-loud" Cinqo de Mayo party. It's like the difference between visiting Paris for the weekend or backpacking through the French countryside. I love the nostalgia of it all.



Hell, even Andy got in on the action, complacently mugging for his own shot.

I guess, at the end of the day, I just like pictures. Period. They tell a story, show others our souls and the beauty beheld in our eyes. It's probably a bit contrived, but be prepared to see more of these retro photos on my blog, because I'm in love with a $2 app.

Breaking Spring

Yesterday, I ventured out. Oh, and so did the kids.


We hit up the Art Barn, a local farm where children can pet, tend to, and experience life with cows, horses, donkeys, sheep, goats, bunnies, chickens, roosters, and pigs. The kids can brush and feed the animals and even help scoop up the poo (woo hoo!). At the end of the morning, there's lunch, an art project, and a tractor ride thrown into the mix just for the heck of it.


I kept it a complete surprise for the kids because even though I reserved our spot last week, I wasn't sure we would go. Because I'm a clean-freak. It's taken a lot of effort for me to hold back and not bathe these little guys six times a day. I swear to Steve Jobs that the first day the twins came home from preschool, I rubbed them down with wet wipes. In my mind, if I used wipes instead of a washcloth, then it wasn't really like bathing them and I could get away with it. Yeah, I was that bad.


Yesterday was all about Look at that horse! and Can we pet the pig?* and I wanna give the bunny a hug! It was also about me, mentally repeating to myself Yes, Heather. It's OK. It's OK. Dirt is OK. Farm dirt is OK. Poo smell is OK. Holding a baby chick isn't going to kill them or you. Just. Frakking. Chill.


And as I slowly relaxed, I realized that, hey. I used to spend summers on my grandfather's cattle farm. I baled hay and gave cows their injections and fell into, YES FELL INTO, cow patties, and hugged, YES HUGGED, many a cow. And I loved it. And I didn't die from a bacterial infection. And there are babies in Namibia** who crawl around in the dirt and live to adulthood.


As the day progressed, I no longer saw the dirt. What I did see were my three kids, having a great time.


Petting the baby chicks!***


And blossoming.


And the best part? We washed our hands before we left and didn't even bathe before bed. I'm getting better all thanks to a little dirt.

* Seriously, ya'll. That pig? Up there in the 5th picture? I want one just like it. Yeah. I see a house pig in my future.

** This documentary looks beyond precious. Anybody want to go with me?

*** My sweet Bubba has a lisp and when I hear him shout that sentence? It just melts me into a gigantic puddle of AWWWWWWW!

Kids Say the Most F'ed Up Things

Setting 1: Ty-man is in the sunroom playing "traffic jam" with kids. This means they've taken all their collectible Chevron cars from Nana and have lined them up. I walk in.

Ty-man: Do you know what your daughter just said?!?

Me: What?

Ty-man: She drove her pink convertible up to this car and said, "Get out of my way, stupid lady!" I told her that isn't nice and not how we talk to people.

Me: Yeah. She got that from me. I'll own that.

Ty-man: Glowering

Me: Hey, I've really cleaned up my language. This time five years ago, instead of saying "Get out of my way, stupid lady!" I was screaming "Move your fucking ass you fucking cow!"

Ty-man: There is that.

Scene 2: We're in the car driving back to the house. It's evening and the stars are out.

Ty-man: Look! There's Venus!

J-man: Where's the penis?

Ty-man and Me: Laughing so hard we can barely breathe.

J-man: Completely confused. Where's the penis?

Motherhood Is Stranger Than Fiction

Ever had that dream? You know the one. It's the dream where you're in a long hallway and you're running to a door/person/window/whatever and you can never get there because the hallway keeps getting longer and longer and longer.

That was my yesterday afternoon.

I picked the kids up from school and immediately told them We're going to swim lessons and then go home. As soon as we get home, Nana will be there to play with you while I go to the dentist. My explanation was met with a chorus of OKs and all was well. We got to the pool, suited up, swam for 30 minutes, and broke for the locker room to put on our clothes.

That's when it went all pear-shaped.

Honestly, toddlers confuse the hell out of me. For months, everything is going great, no deviations, all is calm. And then? For no reason? One of them will chuck a frakking wrench at my forehead and dance a jig of glee while I reel in confusion.

Yesterday, the wrench came in the form of poop. Miss-Miss, who has been potty-trained for nearly two years, who was the easiest to train, who has not shat/pee'd herself in nearly two years, wrenched me. I peeled down her swimsuit and there it was. Poop. Covering half her body. Holy shit seemed to be an improper (though perfect) epitaph at that moment, considering the swim shop's locker room is shared by a church in the same building.

The horrible things about all of this were 1) she poo'ed in a pool - Hello? Health department? Embarrassed toddler mom on line 2 who needs to explain why the local pool needs to be drained and scrubbed by Carl Spackler and 2) the showers in this locker room have no. hot. water.

Joy.

This building is rather cavernous so what the receptionist in the lobby heard was Miss-Miss wailing and shivering (Yep, I'm sure she heard the shivering. She was that cold.), J-man fussing (Yeah, he decided he needed to "go potty" while all this was going on), Bubba humming, and me mumbling under my breath the following:

Murphy can kiss my lilly-white butt. Nooooo, she couldn't poop in her suit Monday or Friday, but today. Murphy told her to do it today. Today. When I have to get to the dentist. And I have no soap. No washcloth. No hot water. And no control over my gag reflex.

Yes, I said butt in close proximity to a church sanctuary. I'm sure Jesus snickered.

Everyone was cleaned. I only gagged 1... 2.... carry the 6... a bajillion times, everyone calmed down, and we managed to get dressed and leave. Red-faced and clearly embarrassed.

In the car, I drove home as quickly as the law allowed and was nearly killed at least twice thanks to distracted drivers on their cell phones. Clearly, I'm the only one in the northwest Atlanta 'burbs who puts down the phone when the accelerator gets pressed.

I finally made it home, only to find my mother was running ten minutes late. GAH! She finally got here and all the way to the dentist's office it was school. bus. Hell. And there I was, cussing like a sailor:

Are you frakking kidding me?!? Those f-ing kids can run! Get off the f*cking bus! RUN home! Don't walk! Could you walk any more frakking slowly? Seriously, MOVE you little sh*ts!!!

(Yeah, by that point I was sort of desperate.)

When I finally made it to the dentist (late, of course), I looked at my hygienist and said Darlin', take your time. I had to run through poo, idiots, and slow-ass schoolkids to get here. I don't mind if this cleaning takes two hours and you have to fill a couple of non-existent cavities while you're at it.

Mr. Murphy's wrenches suck donkey balls.

My Kids Should Be Able To Fart Stars

Hypothesis: My kids are undercover county sherriff's deputies.
Observation: Every time I'm in the car, I hear the following from Bubba: Mama, drive slower! Mama, are your lights on? Mama, it's raining! Turn on your wipers! Mama! That car (pronounced caw) is too close to us!

Hypothesis: My kids are fish.
Observation: Seriously, ya'll. With just two months of lessons under their belts, they're swimming on their own. Sure, they're "doin' it doggy style" with backfloats strapped around their middles. But they're not holding on. To anything.

Hypothesis: My kids should be able to time-travel.
Observation: They have no concept of time. As far as they're concerned, Christmas is tomorrow, Halloween is next week, and they were, as Miss-Miss claims, little, tiny babies a long, long time ago.

Hypothesis: My kids should be able to create wormholes in the space-time continuum and travel where ever they wish instantaneously because they have no concept of distance.
Observation: The following dialog:
J-man: Mama, where's our house?
Me: In Woodstock
J-man: But why can't we see it?
Me: Because we're 5 miles away! It's nowhere near us!
J-man: Aw, but why?

Hypothesis: I should be President, negotiating peace with Iran/North Korea/the entire world.
Observation: I haven't skewered my children and in turn, they have not killed each other.