Grit

I was a roller skating fiend when I was a kid. Skateland in Kanawha City was my favored hang out. They had a beautiful, large wooden rink with handrails around one side. The rental skates had just the right amount of stinky-foot aroma and Queen's Another One Bites The Dust along with The Village People's YMCA were on constant rotation. During the halfway mark of my almost-weekly visits, I would hit the concession stand for a Whatchamacallit candy bar and an Around-the-World drink (made especially tasty because of the grape soda). I would skate forwards, backwards, shoot the duck, fall, spin, everything. I loved it.

When my kids were invited to their first roller skating party, I was all over it. I lugged my white 1970s ice skates/turned roller skates out of the bottom of the closet. They're scuffed and old, but they have purple wheels, white stoppers, and sparkly purple laces. I showed up, got the kids in their skates, and was ready to follow them around, picking them up off the floor, and helping them learn how to skate.

But wait, what's this? Walkers?!? WHA? Supposedly, the new thing, are these PVC pipe-walker-looking things. They're on wheels and the kids hold onto them and skate around. When you watch little kids skate in the 21st century, the rink looks full of a bunch of 4-foot-tall senior citizens. On wheels. SCARY! So, OK. Here are your skate-walkers. And... GO! My three sped around the rink, having fun, but not really learning how to balance on their own. J-man just runs on his stoppers while Bubba and Miss-Miss are legs-akimbo, constant motion from the waist-down. I put on my own skates (the only adult to do so - sad) and zipped around, re-gaining my skate legs.

We've done this several times, during summer break and for different birthday parties, all with the same results. The kids use the skate-walkers, zip around, and I follow.

Until this past Saturday. I did the usual skate/walker rental, put on my own skates, and followed. It was chaos. There were about five different birthday parties happening and kids were everywhere (as were the spectator adults). My daughter walked onto the carpeted area, left her skate-walker near our table, got a drink of water, went back, and her skate-walker was gone.

My three kids are all very different. When J-Man has hurt some part of his body or his feelings get hurt, you know it. Instantly. He wails as if he's been run over. Every time. Bubba will cry if his feelings get hurt or if he hurts a part of his body badly. So, he doesn't cry as often, but he will still wail.

Miss-Miss on the other hand, doesn't cry all that much. She's a bit more stoic. Is it the oldest child thing? Or the only daughter thing? Or chromosomal? I don't know. But even when she's really hurt (physically or emotionally) she keeps that stiff upper lip and loudly proclaims, "I'm OK, Mama! I'm not hurt! I'm fine!"

When she discovered her skate walker was missing, she slid/stumbled over to me and said, "It's OK, Mama. I'll just skate without one."

And she did. She fell, slid, stumbled, wobbled, all of it. She would hold my hand for a few minutes and then say, "I'm OK, Mama. I can do this." And she did.

J-man lost his skate walker and cried and demanded a new one. Bubba refused to let his go. Meanwhile Miss-Miss was balancing and learning and adapting.

It's just a little thing, just roller skating, but I can already see the future. I can see a smart, independent, thoughtful young woman, full of grit, doing whatever she needs to do to, even if it means falling and failing, to get where she wants to be.

Eight

Eight years ago, I was a bewildered, scared brand-new mother. My family had lurched from two individuals to a family of four. In math terms, that's two-squared. In psychological terms that's too-scared.

I briefly held my twins, just a few scant minutes, and then they were taken to the NICU. Weighing in at just 4 lbs. 6 oz. (Amelia) and 4 lbs. 10 oz (Heath), my sweet twins were tiny and not yet ready to go home. It took them 20 days to gain weight and learn how to take in eight bottles a day. Even then, when given the OK to come home, they were still wearing preemie clothes and diapers.

Amelia at just 21 hours old.

Sweet Heath, also 21 hours old.

During those 20 days, I was panicked that I wasn't spending enough time with them. I had convinced myself that just a two-hour daily visit wasn't enough and I knew that they wouldn't recognize me, my voice, or my scent. I had brainwashed myself into thinking that these precious twins would come home and not want me.

OK, seriously? Somebody should have knocked me over the head and told my inner drama queen to shut the hell up. Because these are the sweetest, most loveable kids and those 20 days? Smaller than a blip in the grand scheme of their lives.

Heath, P., Amelia, B., and Jarrod. PARTY TIME!

They play hard, love fully, laugh loudly, and drive us crazy. But we wouldn't have it any other way.

We love you, Heath and Amelia! And, no, I'm not at all freaking out how fast these eight years have flown by and that it's only another eight years until you're both driving. Nope, I'm cool.

(Please? Someone? Get me a drink!)

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!

The Forest Quiet

It's Spring Break and we're spending it in the quiet and still of the north Georgia mountains. I don't know if it's the slower pace, the higher altitude, or the muffins my mother-in-law makes, but I find myself drifting through the days. In a good way. There's no rush or need to be anywhere, do anything.

I. Just. Am.

A typical day finds me responding to my kids OK, but just for a minute or Mama doesn't have time right now or Can you give me a sec, sweetie? The constant ebb and flow of the busy suburban life wears me down like the coral at ocean's edge. But here, in the cool north of the 13th colony, all is quiet. Life is like that burbling creek, slipping through the smooth rocks with a cool hush.

Miss-Miss and I dipped our feet into that hush today. She and her brothers built a little dam in the creek and I calmly watched, not worrying about the dizzying passage of time or the way we hurtle through space each second. We just... were. There was no news of the outside, no FYI of the latest world tensions, or which presidential candidate is jockeying for votes. It was all flowers, breeze, and a lush, mossy carpet cushioning our feet.

For right now, we are calm on this crazy rock, just watching, without a care, as the universe goes by. And I like it.

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.

Dialog, Part 31

OR

YEP, IT'S MY 39th BIRTHDAY

Miss-Miss: Let's play I-Spy! OK. I spy, wiff my little eye, somefing purple!

Me: Hmmmm, the pillow?

Miss-Miss: NO! The sunroom!

Me: OK. My turn. I spy, with my little eye, something pink.

Miss-Miss: My shirt! *Giggling* I spy, wiff my little eye, somefing gray!

Me: *Puzzled* Huh. OK. *Looking around.* The TV?

Miss-Miss: NO! Your hair!

Me: *Facepalm*

Yeah, I'm getting older. As of this moment, I have entered the final year of my 30s. There are only 365 more days left to be as close to "Young and Hip" as I'll ever be. All too soon, I'll be knocking on the door marked "Old Fart."

Being on this cusp is weird. There's a constant inner monologue going on that I, at times, wish would shut the fuck up. Moments when my brain screams Run that extra mile, woman! It's good for you! and my knees and hips reply Oh, sure. Go right ahead, honey. But we'll make sure you pay for it all next week. My brain and body seem to be going their separate ways, constantly. Like, for example, my brain screams Oh! YEAH! Feel that rhythm! Dance, baby! and my ears scream Turn that crap down! Do you think the entire neighborhood wants to listen to that garbage? I swear, it's like I'm a psychic medium but the only spirit I'm channeling is my father. And finally, there are those moments of watching the neighborhood kids play kickball in our cul-de-sac, using our driveway as home plate, when I think Oh, looks like they're having a great time! and yet I find myself clamping my hand over my mouth because all it wants to shout is Get off my lawn you pesky, good-fer-nuthin' kids!

I don't get it, this dichotomy of getting old. My brain is convinced, absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I'm 19*. But I know when others look at me, especially those who truly are 19, that I'm not. I see it in the mirror when I look at those gray hairs that so prominently stand out to Miss-Miss, and I feel it when I do run that extra mile.

I don't like it. But, I'm going to fight it, every damned step of the way. I will not age gracefully. I will age fighting.


So, happy birthday to me, dammit, and my ability to be 39 in body, but 19 in spirit!

* I would have to say that looking back at all of my ages, 19 was my favorite. I was out of the house, away from the parents, in college, had a bunch of friends, and was having the time of my life, all still with a happy view of the world. Yeah, 19 was the best.

The Kids Have Got It, Part 2

So, finally, here is part two of showing off my three hoodlums beautiful children. In this installment, Miss-Miss tells a story. By the way, she had about a three-minute warning that she was doing this and I think she did swimmingly!



If you can't see the above video click here to watch it directly on YouTube. And if you missed part 1, where Bubba teaches us how to talk like a Valley Dude, then click here or 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.

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.

Making Valentines 101

Or

How Little, Tiny Bits Of Foam Found Their Way Into Every Corner And Crevice Of My Home. But I'm Not Bitter.

I'm a masochist. I enjoy making things more difficult than they actually should be. It's a sickness. Case in point? The kids' Valentines they will exchange at school. There are 30 students in the Montessori program meaning each child will take 29 Valentines cards with them. Did I select Princess-/Cars-themed cars?

Nay.

I found these at Michael's:


Aren't they precious? Foam cut-outs. That look like doily hearts. With purple string. How creative! And I don't even have to do the cutting. Brilliant! Of course, there's 24 per box, not 29. It's like buying ten hot dogs and eight buns. Grrrr...



And here are the cut-outs in all their glory. This looks pretty easy, right? I only have to do 87... 87? Dang. OK.



Um, yeah. None of the doily-looking thingee hearts have completely empty cutouts. Obviously, the Chinese person who manufactured these hates me. Why? I have no idea. I've never done anything to China or the people who populate said country. Now? They can kiss my ass.



Shoot me. Now.



Done. Only 86 more to go...



Yes, Virginia, there is Advil. It exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Advil. It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias.*



Dear God, I'm going to be finding these little foam bits, all over the house, for months. They're as insidious as pine needles. Crickets. Dirty underwear.



And to top it all off, my dear, sweet, over-achieving Miss-Miss decided to immediately write her name on all 29 of her Valentines. At number 24, she did a swan dive off her chair (God-forbid a toddler sit still for five minutes) and landed forehead-first on the hardwood floor. Chaos ensued. Thankfully, the teething duck came to the rescue and instead of a blue-black baseball on the side of her head, we were left with a tiny bump.**



Wake me up when the holiday is over.

* With apologies to Francis Pharcellus Church.

** Photo staged and taken one day after swan dive. Guilt would have ensued had I taken her picture in the midst of tears and pain.

The Worst Sunday. Ever.

When I woke up yesterday morning, I figured I had just another day of toddler potty training to look forward to (That story coming soon to a blog post near you!). You know, poop and pee on every surface of the house except the inside of a toilet. The usual. But it ended up so much worse than that.

I've always been a cat lover, but I've never been lucky with cats. My first cat, Pounce, had a heart murmur and at the tender age of 8 we had him put to sleep due to complications from said heart murmur. Sulu, our second cat, died very young at 3 because of a lymphatic system that leaked fluid into his chest cavity. Pirtuk, as you all know, had himself a mental breakdown earlier this year, and decided the best way to deal with toddlers was to poop and pee in our basement. He's now happily living with two retirees in Decatur, Georgia. Andy is the only cat I've ever had that seems to be indestructible. He's never sick, never mean, never hurt anyone, and he's lived to be the ripe old age of 11 1/2 years. So, one out of four. Horrible odds, if you ask me. I should be banned from every adoption facility and cat breeder in the Southeast. Now the odds are even worse.

I gave my mother a cat nearly seven years ago as a Christmas present. Bandit was to keep her company and be her best friend. My mother wasn't dealing very well with the loneliness of widowhood and short of finding her a lonely senior citizen, I got her a four-legged fuzz ball. Mom and Bandit bonded instantly and were two peas in a pod. When Mom moved from West Virginia to Georgia four years ago, Bandit came back to his native state and decided he'd had enough of the solitary, sedentary life. So, he started destroying furniture whenever Mom left him alone to go work or go out with friends. See, Mom found something here in Georgia she never had in West Virginia: a social life. And that made Bandit a bitter cat. A month or so after we found Pirtuk a new home, Bandit came to live with us. He was a social cat who loved the chaos of our house and the never-ending attention from our kids. And we've been happy.

Until yesterday.

I always took pride in how much I paid attention to my pets. I knew when they didn't feel well. I could tell by the tail-angle alone how happy/sad/sick/pissed they were. If I didn't see the cat during the day, I went in search, sussing out every hiding spot to make sure said cat was just sleeping and not sick. Now? I barely have time to take care of myself much less my pets. They get fed and watered every day and I go "treasure hunting" in the litter box. But that's about it. My day is full of kids and the mundane tasks of a SAHM and housewife. I didn't see the warning signs that Bandit was sick until it was too late. Mom rushed him to the vet yesterday and what I thought may be a simple urinary tract infection became renal failure and a last good-bye.

I once posted about how I was dreading the talk with the kids. Not the sex talk, the death talk. Having to explain to my children that yes, people they love are going to die, that I am going to die, that they will die, and there's nothing we can do about it, is not a topic of conversation I've been looking forward to. At all. And I wasn't expecting to have that talk yesterday. According to the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, you should always be honest when explaining what happened to your pet, don't use euphemisms, don't lie, and don't be vague. They may not get it, but you as the adult need to be honest.

So I sat there, with my 2-year-old's arms around my neck and my twin 4-year-olds watching the tears streaming down my cheeks, and I told them that Bandit is gone, that he's never coming home, that he can no longer see, or hear, or move, that this is permanent, forever, and that we love him and will miss him and that they can talk about him whenever they want. My heart broke as I remembered just one hour before holding my Mom while she held and cried over her cat, her best friend, the companion who gave her joy after Dad's death. I remembered that I signed the paper that ended Bandit's life, and I felt so very guilty for not paying more attention to him, making sure he wasn't sick, looking at his tail, his eyes, his fur.

I hate that I'm a person who can't keep track of everything, all the time. And I sit here and woulda-coulda-shoulda myself some more.

So, they'll ask. Miss-Miss will probably run downstairs in the morning, expecting to feed Bandit some treats and realize he's not there. J-man will ask where Bandit is. And Bubba will point out his toys or his bed. And I will have to explain again where he is and where he isn't. And I will cry some more. And I'll hate every second of not lying to my children. Of feeling guilty for not being more observant.

Because all I want to tell them is that we'll all live happily ever after. I just want to lie like a rug.

No, They Are Not Triplets

For the twins' first birthday, Teri gave me a t-shirt with the title Yes, They Are Twins displaying sarcastic bullet points answering the annoying, personal questions people ask when they see a mother with twins.

Now, with these three being so close in age, I've come up with a new bullet list. It's too long for a t-shirt, but I'm thinking of printing up a brochure and handing it out when anyone asks Are they triplets?

• No, my children are not triplets, but two of them are twins and the other is 20 months younger than the twins.
  

• Irish triplets? Do you even know the history of the term Irish triplets? Because you just basically called me stupid, unable to plan, and a sex fiend. Gee. Thanks.*

• I'll give you $100 if you guess which ones are the twins.

• OK. I won't give you anything because you just called me a ho in a roundabout way and anyway you're going to guess that the boys are twins and you're wrong. It's my taller son and my daughter.

• Yes. Yes. The twins are identical. My daughter was born a boy, but the circumcision went pear-shaped and we decided to raise him as a her. Lucky for us, he/she likes pink.

• Yes, I was being sarcastic again. Boy/girl twins cannot be identical. It's a biological impossibility. Kind of like you walking upright.

• Why are you asking how far apart they were? How far apart were your bowel movements this week? Oh, that's personal? Well, then don't ask about how quickly humans came out of my vagina and I won't ask you about the regularity of your colon.

• What the hell are artificial twins? Why would you ask that? Are you saying my twins are imaginary? That all of this is an illusion? Wow. I've been screwed. Oh, you wanted to know if I got pregnant through in-vitro or some other method. Did you have a bowel movement today via ex-lax or sweet potatoes? WHAT?!?
  

• Oh, sure. I have all the time in the world. Please, do tell me about your cousin's-brother's-wife's-sister's-nephew's twin girls. Or those triplets you once saw at Wal-Mart that were in their 80s and all wearing square dance dresses during their day out from the convalescent home. I have all day. No, I don't need to get home in 20 minutes to cook dinner. Not at all.

• Yes, my hands are full. No, of course you aren't the 9-millionth person to say that to me. Thanks for the reminder.

And that is my public service announcement for the day. You're welcome.

*My mother-in-law calls her grandkids Irish triplets and I let her because she's family and she's cute when she does it.