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!)

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.

First Days

The twins started back to Montessori pre-school on Monday. This year was nothing like last year. No struggling to put on shoes. No waving of arms. Minimal chaos. No tears. Just lots of excitement because we're all old pros at this. Good Lord, you'd think they were starting their first semester at M.I.T. Oh, wait, with that whole time relativity thing, that will be next month. Never mind.


Aren't they just the cutest? Fine, I am biased, no need to remind me. Even J-man got in on the action with a lunch box and backpack of his own. I figured I might as well break him in early since he starts the whole school shebang in January.

Monday was a first day for me as well. It was my first day in years, YEARS I tell you, to drive up to an office building, talk to an HR rep (Who, by the way, looked like Willem Dafoe's twin brother from another mother. Seriously. I was waiting for him to chuck a pumpkin bomb at me. I kept flinching throughout our meeting.), fill out tax forms (Pssst! Ty-man! I haven't filled out a W-4 in... well, ages! What do I do! Hello? Hello, Ty-man?), get a tour of a company where people actually sit at computers and, you know, work (Yep. That's a cube farm. Yep, those employees are prairie dogging. Ah, memories.), and meet my boss (My boss is my sorority sister/college roommate. Nepotism? Technically, no.). It was surreal. Even though I'll be doing this Social Media Blogger gig from home, I went through the motions of Welcome aboard! Glad you're here! Girl, don't even eat poppy seed bagels for the next couple of months because we may make you randomly pee in a cup, thus causing you to positively test for opiates, even if it was opiates with cream cheese, in which case we'll chuck you outta this place. Head first. It's so great having you as part of our team! I drove home with a spinning head.

And then, it happened. It being a picture for my ID badge. An ID badge I'll probably never use except for dart target practice, because oh. my. GAWD! Will you look at that train wreck?



There it is. Right there. Proof that I was a butt-first baby. My whole face is crooked, people! My left eye is higher than my right and what's with said left eye being all droopy?!? Mr. Dafoe probably thought I was getting a head start on the opiate thing. No wonder he smirked when he said, What a great photo! Must remember to un-alphabetize all his files, pumpkin bombs be damned.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not a big advocate of change. In fact, I fear it. Even if it would do me some good, change generally makes me grumble like Old Mr. Schneider pissing and moaning about the teenagers down the street. Every time change occurs in my life, I wonder if I'll manage it, will I be good enough, will I live up to the expectations of others (which, I know I shouldn't care about but I just do anyway , thankyouverymuch), and will I come out the other side better? Or worse?

I'll let you know.

The Brave One

Yesterday, I took all three kids to the grocery store. For the first time. Ever.

In the past, I would get my mother-in-law to look after the kids once a week so I could make a quick food run. And this past year, I took J-man in the mornings while the twins were in school.

But this summer? There just hasn't been a good time. Ty-man has made quick after-work runs or one of us will pick up the necessities on the weekend. But to sit down, plan out a menu, and make a thorough weekly trip? Haven't done it. Because I've had all three kids.

So, after two weeks of eating out every night (You want Chili's? AGAIN?!?) and realizing that:

1) That's so very expensive, B) That's so very unhealthy, and iii.) That's so very tiresome, I broke open Recipe Manager, picked out a couple of recipes, loaded up the kids, and headed out to Kroger.

And that's when it happened. Once I herded all three little ones across the parking lot and loaded them into one of those carts that can hold two kids in the rear of the cart (near me) and two more kids in the plastic car (Bacteria! Viruses! PLAGUE!) attached to the front (Bubba's hour-long monologue included Beep! Beep! Look out!), we breezed in and began our plan-of-attack. And then the comments hit me left and right:

Wow! You've got quite the little tribe, there!
Oh, look at you! You're just so brave!
How do you do it with three little ones?
Are they triplets?
Really? The boy and girl are twins?!? I thought the two boys were twins!
What a brave lady!

The twins/triplets stuff didn't bother me. I've been dealing with that from day one with the twins' births and later when J-man got as big as his older brother.

What drove me nuts were the braves and the how do you do its. I mean, seriously? Am I the only person in the northwest metro-Atlanta 'burbs who goes grocery shopping with three toddlers? Really? And I'm not brave. Not at all. My sphincter was on high alert the whole time, waiting for one or more of them to lose their minds (which did happen with J-man when I took him out of the car so Miss-Miss could have a turn - oy).

But it's not bravery, not by any stretch of the imagination. It's no choice. It's either this or buy interest in the local Captain D's franchise. And I'm just not interested in getting fish batter all up in my hair.

Costume Designer Extraordinaire

I'm a big tease, aren't I? I left you on Friday with pictures of a luna moth and a coral snake, informing you that my twins had dressed as said animals for their school Halloween party... and then made you wait for three. whole. days. for pictures of my sweeties wearing said frightening creations.

Well, one was frightening. One was beautiful. And I discovered that it is possible for me to be a Super-mom. As long as I have a Super-nana and a Super-papa, and a shit ton of sweet tea, by my side.

The saga began in August when I received the school schedule and noted that for the Halloween celebration, the kids were supposed to wear costumes representing animals they had learned about up to that point. I began pestering Bubba's and Miss-Miss's teacher two weeks ago and she would breezily tell me that any animal would be fine.

Well no, sweetie. "Any animal" will not be fine. I'm extremely anal-retentive and I don't want my kids dressed as an animal they haven't learned about. This is, after all, supposed to be a learning experience for them and I want them to dress as animals they know about, thankyouverymuch. So, it was with relief and frustration that I opened an e-mail from the school director, two days before the party, listing said animals.

Ahem. The list was as follows: red fox*, black bear, tiger salamander**, screech owl, green tree frog, coral snake, box turtle, luna moth, white-tailed deer, white-lipped forest snail, wild turkey, opossum, red-headed woodpecker, bluegill***, and green anole.

Yeah.

No, seriously. So I picked the two I thought I could create in a couple of hours.

Riiiiiiight.

So, how does one create a coral snake costume and a luna moth costume in eight hours? Observe. And feel free to enlarge the photos to fully reveal the smart-ass comments contained within:


Yes, I was smiling. No, I was not happy. I was extremely tired. My fingers were sore. And that bright red shirt coupled with day-glo yellow felt? Sent my corneas on a happy little acid trip. My mom modified Miss-Miss's Tinkerbell wings, muttering the whole time about how her fracking sewing machine could make this job go faster. Well, just rub it in, why don't you?


Someday, I'll be able to tell Bubba that not only did I push him out of my body with great pain and discomfort, but that I also punctured my thumb and left my bloody DNA on his lesson-appropriate school costume. Guilt, baby. It's all about the guilt.


At times, the white, upper-middle class, Republican male will display his antenna in a rare, election-year mating ritual. He will begin cooing softly to his mate Universal Health Care is for pussies! Don't control guns, control Democrats! Tax-breaks for the rich! Vote Republican! in an attempt to propagate his species. Or just to get a little nookie.


And so what did I learn from this last-minute, maniacal attempt at creativity? I learned that my kids looked adorable as a coral snake and a luna moth. I learned that there is no way one woman can get two costumes finished in eight hours; help is most definitely needed. I learned that J-man will be a coral snake in two years at his first Montessori Halloween party. And I learned that the other mothers in my kids' class are lazy-asses who took the easy way out with Wal-Mart costumes that don't match the teacher's list.

Bitter? Maybe. Proud of myself? Yes. Would I do it again? You betcha. Why?


That's why.

*No, not Redd Foxx. Smart ass.
**Isn't it cute?!? Gotta get one...
***Seriously? An ugly-ass brown fish. That is considered a pest by some. And a tasty meal by others. Um, whatever.

Happy Halloween!

So, it's 12:30AM. My mom and I have been working on the twins' Montessori Halloween Celebration costumes (in the theme of animals they have learned about) since 4PM. Why did we wait until the last minute? Because the twins' teacher didn't give us a list of the animals to choose from until Wednesday night. What will they be dressed as? Not elephants. Not cows. No. Nothing as simple as that. Try Miss-Miss as a luna moth:


And a coral snake for Bubba:


I shit you not. The photo essay will follow on Monday. Until then, my tired brain and fingers leave you with this little tidbit. Did you know the mask, worn by the character Michael Myers in Halloween, was a cheap Captain Kirk mask, painted white? And since that sorta makes William Shatner as iconic as a Jack-o-Lantern this time of year, I leave you with this video. This thing of beauty. This savior o' my blog at 12:38 AM. Run away, dear friends. Run away.

She is So Screwed

So, I'm a member of the NMMOMC. Sounds official, doesn't it? Go ahead, take a stab at what that is. A lobbying group? Pissed-off Mickey Mouse people? Not quite.

Try the North Metro Mothers of Multiples Club. Yep. It's a place for all us moms of twins and higher-order-multiples to get together and whine over our coffees and cookies while our multiples multiply the noise level of wherever it is we meet.

Except? I've never been to the first meeting, the first playgroup, or the first rummage sale. I'm just not a joiner. Ironic since I'm a sorority girl but I guess I've always been afraid that I would show up to one of these things and get criticized for doing something with the twins that works for us but is completely taboo to everyone else. I don't take criticism well. So, I'm a twin-mom loner. Screw it! I'll do it myself! As friend Teri says, "MARTYR!!!" I love you too, hon. Bite me.

And then? It happened. I got an e-mail from the NMMOMC about a woman who is due with twins on October 31st. Living in my neighborhood. And I've been assigned to be her mentor.

She is so screwed. Soon-to-be-twin mom? Let the lessons begin:

1. Breast feeding them at once? You'll get the babies fed in 30 minutes as opposed to one hour. But? No free hand to feed yourself breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Or that all-important postpartum chocolate snack. Sorry.
2. About the time you get one to sleep? And then you work on getting the second one to sleep? The first one is going to wake up. You'll get to sleep again in about six months. But in the meantime, you'll get updated on all the late-night infomercials. A TiVo is critical.
3. Infant twins sleep best on rainy days. And after immunizations. Pray for rain and shots. Seriously.
4. Just because they've been squished together in your womb for nine months does not mean they're going to be happy cuddled together for two minutes for a picture. In fact? It's guaranteed they're going to hate it. Photoshop will become your best friend.
5. Don't pump breast milk in front of the husband. Kind of a turn-off. Unless you're looking for that result. Then rent a pump from the hospital for the bargain price of $60.00 per month! Birth control, baby!
   
6. Anytime you need a break, bring those little sweeties over here. They'll most likely be drooled and snotted on and Bubba and Miss-Miss will probably chuck a plethora of Thomas the Tank Engine trains into their pack 'n play. But hey, you'll get a break from them, right? And they'll get exposed to other twins, right? And their germs! Erm, maybe not.
7. Finally? It's all worth it. Trust me. Just 15 more years and they're out of the house... Wait, did I just type that out loud? Crap.

Typing out my NMMOMC resignation letter right now.

Not Your Average, Everyday Mom

Today, as many of you read this, Bubba and Miss-Miss will be attending their first-ever day of school. Montessori pre-school to be exact. At 8:30 AM, I will drop them off. There won't be any gradual separation or walking them into the school while I quietly slip away as their attention is focused elsewhere. Their teachers will come out to help them out of the minivan and as the rear door slides closed, J-man and I will drive off. It seems this "cold-turkey separation" is easiest for the kids and the teachers.

And as I drive off? I may shed a couple of tears over their momentary trauma, but overall?

I will be so damned relieved.

I'm constantly reading mom blogs, and overhearing mom conversations, about mothers who are devastated that their children have started school. These moms cry because their little ones are all grown up and have started down the path of independence. As mom and child are separated the mothers feel a sense of loss and know that soon enough, their children will no longer depend on them. There's an over-all sense of sadness that their jobs as mothers are over and what will they do then?

Me? I'm looking forward to my kids' first day of school. I'm looking forward to that next step. I've always said to my children, I can't wait to see what kind of people you become. I can't wait to meet your friends, visit your colleges, check out your office, stay in your new apartment/house, and have lengthy discussions about your career choices or love lives! And this first day of school is that first step toward independence and their ever-elusive, ever-present futures.

And it's also the first step toward gaining some of my sanity, some of me, back. If the last three years have taught me anything it's that I'm so very ready to get me back; I'm not cut out for mom-hood 24/7. I watch those mothers who home-school their children for 12 years and I don't know how they do it. How they can immerse themselves so completely in the lives of their children? I know that if I were to do the same, I would lose myself, my identity. I fear that I would forget about those things that made me me before the kids came along. I already feel like I'm losing myself and becoming this ever-cross, ever-stressed, ever-grumpy, baggy-eyed thing that barely resembles the girl my husband fell in love with. Honestly? I don't think I would still love the me I've turned into if I were the Ty-man.

As I write this, thinking about driving away from my sweet children that I take for granted and their new future, I know I'll be stressed about Miss-Miss and Bubba crying, sitting in this strange place and wondering if I'll ever come back, if I've left them forever. But me crying that they're growing up? No, that I won't cry about. I can't cry about something that is meant to be, something that is positive, and something that gives my children their identities and freedoms, and restores my identity and freedom as well.

If only for three hours a day.

Potty Training Hell

So, we took the plunge this past weekend and began potty training the twins.

Oh. My. God.

The current score is as follows:

Miss-Miss accidents - 5
Bubba accidents - 4
Successful potty uses involving pee - 11
Successful potty uses involving poop - 1 (Go Miss-Miss!)
Poops in the bathtub - 1 (Go Miss-Miss!)

The twins walked around half-naked all day Saturday and most of the day Sunday. Anyone who peeked through our windows or stopped by would have immediately reported us for child pornography. We thought that having the pee dribble down their legs would be incentive enough for them to utilize that dormant sphincter muscle and haul two-year-old asses to the potty.

Um, no.

It turns out that the distance to Hell and back is the distance from the playroom to the half-bath and Hell, it seems, is not paved with good intentions but with pee dribbles. Obviously, my children are comfortable walking around with wet undies, shorts, and socks; they feel that it's OK to function on a daily basis with pee running down their legs. What does that say about me as a parent? I don't think I want to know.

I found myself telling Miss-Miss, Sweetie see these pretty panties? That's Belle, isn't it? Do you want Belle to get all wet from pee-pee or dirty from poop? No? Well, let's put these panties on and when you have to go pee-pee or poopy, let's go potty because Miss Belle doesn't want to be dirty or wet. OK?

Blank stares. Substitute handsome undies for pretty panties and firetrucks for Belle and you have my conversation with Bubba. Again, blank stares.

Do I feel like a parenting failure because my sweet, adorable children are pissing on my furniture and carpet? Yes.

After just 48 hours, am I completely over all aspects potty training: sitting in the bathroom, watching them like a hawk for any signs of leg-crossing or squatting, and bringing up the elimination of bodily waste in every. single. conversation? Yes.

Am I going crazy because I'm realizing that potty training is going to be an ongoing process for the next four years? Yes.

Do I feel like giving up and hiring someone to do this for me for the next four years? Yes.

Did I cry when I realized Ty-man would beat me senseless if he found out I hired said someone to do this for us? No, but I certainly felt like it.

I would post a picture for you of Bubba, Miss-Miss, and me, all crammed into the main floor half-bath, one kid on the potty chair under the sink, the other on the toilet, and me on the floor, barely enough room to breath much less potty train twins, but I realized that if I posted said picture some ass-hat would turn me in for the above-mentioned child pornography charges. So I instead leave you with a Japanese potty training video that left me coughing and sputtering because I laughed so hard that I swallowed my own spit.

Yeah.

I'm Turning in My Twin-Mom Card

A while back, a loooooooong while back, I lamented about the stupid questions people ask when they see you are the parent of twins.

Are they identical?
How far apart were they?
Did you have them vaginally?
Are they artificial?

Well, after a recent pediatrician visit, I'm turning in my twin-mom card. There I sat with Bubba and Miss-Miss who were quietly playing. I could tell the mother sitting near us was watching them with interest. She finally asks, "Are they twins?" And I answer, "Yes. Double-Trouble!"

Oh. My. God.

I said Double-Trouble? Out loud? In a perky voice? When that's what all the curious strangers say to me? And it drives me crazy?

Someone, I beg you. Cut up my North Metro Mothers of Multiples membership card. Then? Just smack me, please. I'm so embarrassed.

Post-Vacation Blahs

So, we're home. Have been since Saturday night, and I am one sad sack of unmotivated... blech.

How pitiful was that?

We got home Saturday night and Bubba and Miss-Miss were all like, "Papa! Papa! Papa!" running up to Ty-man, grabbing him around the neck, holding him tight. I went over and said, "Hey sweethearts! Mama's soooooo glad to see you!"

They couldn't have cared. Less.

They turned away from me, said "NO!" and grabbed Ty-man even harder.

I could see their little minds whirring. "Oh, great, that bitch of a mom is home, too. We had hoped that Papa would have done her in and dumped her body at Disney, but no such luck!"

I'm chopped liver. No, actually, I'm not chopped liver. I'm the chopped liver that's already been digested and passed through the small and large intestines and is now residing in the colon. I'm chopped colon liver.

The next day it was all "Where Papa? Where Nana? Where Bam-ma?" and massive amounts of crying if Ty-man left the room. I mean, at least J-man smiled at me, but then again, he's seven months old and smiles at the phone.

I know, I know, I'm their primary care-giver. They see me everyday. But, I had hoped, just a little bit, that a week without Mama would have made them miss me. Just a little.

Not only that, but I'm unmotivated in the housework/laundry/wrapping gifts/putting up decorations departments. I'm seriously thinking of asking the president for FEMA funds and to have our living room declared a national disaster area. It's that bad. I vacuumed chunks - yes, chunks - of cookies, bagels, and God-knows-what-else out from under the sofa cushions during my five minutes of "I have to get something accomplished" today. And, frankly, that's as far as I got.

You know, I enjoy Halloween so much that I'm thinking of celebrating family and gift-exchanges then. Who's with me on that one?

Ah, screw it. I'm going to have another piece of Ghirardelli's Intense Dark Twilight Delight chocolate and watch "The Devil Wears Prada" for the millionth time while the kids sleep.

Murphy Can Just Kiss My Ass

I swear, it will be a miracle if these kids aren't in foster care by the end of the year.

I was feeling under the weather this morning. Scratchy throat, throbbing headache. Blech.

After the breakfast-shower-coffee, I sprawled on the couch. Twins were watching Little Bear, J-man was fast asleep. The next thing I know, I'm in dream land. Me and Sean Connery, fishing with Little Bear and Emily. Don't ask.

Suddenly, Sean is playing with a piece of plastic. Wait, Sean? I slowly wake up to the sight of Bubba running around the kitchen with a PLASTIC BAG OVER HIS HEAD! Holy crap! Half asleep, I stumble over, rip it off his head, and throw it away. He had dug it out of a box that once contained a radio. A room full of toys...

Murphy says that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. That and if there's plastic in the house, your kids will try to suffocate themselves.

That Murphy. Such a smart-ass.

3 Prescription Motrins, 1 Oxycodone, and 1 Bag of Frozen Peas Later...

I'm ready to kill. Seriously. Physical pain can be a cause of serial murder. Especially extreme pain in the female mammary glands. I wonder how many women have killed while having their period or while weaning a baby off the you-know-whats. Why not just use the "b" word? Because then some sicko performing a pornographic Google search of some sort will find my site and click on the link thinking he's in for some great nudity and instead find an entry regarding a murderous, engorged mommy blogger.

See, J-man nursed for the last time on Saturday morning. Yesterday (Sunday) dawned and I felt fine. But, as the day progressed, the twins (and I'm not talkin' about Bubba and Miss-Miss) began to itch. Literally. You know how a cut that is healing will itch. Same concept. The udders are filling up with milk that's not being used, causing my non-nursing A-cups, nursing solid B- somewhat C-cups, to become very large, painful D-cups. Lots of uncomfortable skin-stretching going on. Yeah, today has dawned and I'm breaking out the 6-month-old postpartum prescription pain killers.

Today was J-man's second attempt at eating watery rice cereal. Of course, he's not sitting up all that well, so I lounge him in his baby papa-san on top of the kitchen table. Where does this put his piston-like legs and feet? That's right, in perfect position to kick the bejeezus out of my horribly engorged ta-tas. Joy. After getting the snot kicked out of me, Ty-man arrived in the kitchen to say good-morning. My response? "I HATE TEACHING BABIES HOW TO EAT SOLID FOOD!" Then, I promptly stomped upstairs to finish off J-man with a bottle.

Later, when I had calmed down, I explained to Ty-man what had happened and told him it was the equivalent of putting the papa-san at groin level and seeing how long he could feed J-man in that position. Understanding dawned on his face.

Later, after lunch, I herded Miss-Miss and Bubba upstairs to begin their naps. As I lifted Miss-Miss to put her in her crib, she inadvertently kneed me in the left hooter and the wind was promptly knocked out of me. I couldn't even move. I somehow managed to get her in her bed (without chucking her out the window), mumbled a "Have a good nap!" and backed out the door, into the hall where I promptly fell to the floor and whimpered.

When this 800mg Motrin wears off, I'm takin' an oxycodone... and a Cosmo. Wake me up when it's 2023 and they start college!

Kid Secretion

My sunroom windows are filthy. They are covered in some sort of kid secretion. It looks like I have a friggin' Great Dane living in my house. The slime on these windows is so revolting, it's impressive. Why do two-year-olds feel the need to kiss and lick windows? Why can't they be normal kids, licking flag poles?

Ish.

It's just... nasty. When I ran the Windex-soaked paper towel over the window, the dried scum was, in a word, chunky.

Double-ish.

Garden snails leaving their slimy trails on leaves, male cats spraying on anything in their territory, and my two-year-old twins, slobbering and snotting on everything in sight.

Somebody hand me the Lysol and a Haz-Mat suit. This is going to take a while.

Oh, It's a Proud, Proud Day!

For quite some time now (well, since the day the twins were born, it seems) Ty-man and I have been trying to teach the kids to ask for help rather than to cry and wail. Each time a toy is stolen, every time a door needs to be opened, whenever a frustrated meltdown occurs, we tell the kids, "Don't cry! Just come over to Mama/Papa/Nana/Grandmama/Grandpapa/etc. and ask for our help. Just say, 'Mama! Help!' and I'll help you!" Slowly, but surely, the message has been getting through. In the last six months, they've finally caught on. Bubba steals a toy from Miss-Miss, she runs over, "Mama, hep!" If Bubba wants something from the kitchen counter, over he comes, "Mama! Hep!" and leads me by the hand to the kitchen. This is great. But, they were still waking up in the middle of the night/morning, screaming and crying. Finally, this morning, a break-through!

J-man cried out at 7AM and I was not ready to feed him. So, I picked him up and brought him in bed with me, knowing I could buy an extra hour of sleep (Ty-man out of town for three nights and a rockin' Halloween have left me, well, exhausted, people!). About 30 minutes later, I hear on the twins' monitor, a plaintive Miss-Miss cry, "Papa! Papa! Hep! Hep!"

I elbowed the Ty-man, and stated in a volume loud enough to carry over his CPAP machine, "Ty. It's Miss-Miss. She's calling out for you. Take care of it!"

Yes, the payoff is sweet! This, as much as hearing her say, "I love you, too, Mama!" just made my year!

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Oh, and? Ms. Not Afraid To Use It has meme'd me again! This is a simple one, though. I simply have to post a screen capture of my desktop. So, here 'tis!


Yes, I got a kick out of this summer's blockbuster movie Transformers and the above air freshener hanging from Bumblebee's rear view mirror. So, this is the personality of my MacBook. She. Is. Bee-otch. Don't cross her or she'll lose all your stuff!

Boys Have a Penis, Girls Have a 'Gina!

Yes, you read the title right. Tonight's post is a doozy and not for the faint-of-heart. If you think you can handle it, read on.

When pregnant with the twins, we discussed getting them to sleep through the night, breast- vs. bottle-feeding, stomach or back sleeping, twins sharing the crib or having separate cribs, yadda, yadda. Something we didn't talk about was "What will we call the private parts?" One morning while changing Bubba's diaper, Ty-man said something to the effect of, "I'm not sure how I feel 'bout touching another man's rhubarb." I, of course, immediately collapsed onto the floor snorting and laughing hysterically. Later, he referred to Bubba's manhood as his "peabody." So, Peabody was born. After that, anytime we referred to his penis, we called it Peabody. Peabody this and Peabody that. How cute.

Being fraternal boy/girl twins, Bubba and Miss-Miss watch one another during diaper changes. Miss-Miss began to notice Bubba's Peabody, pointing to it during bath time and looking down at herself. You could tell she was trying to figure out, "Where's mine?" About this time, the subject came up with Supermom Kristi and she said that you should use the proper words for private parts because if your child is ever sexually molested, they will be able to use the proper terms in a court of law and that would make a case against the molester more solid. OooooooKaaaaaay. I had never thought of it that way. This is why I consult Kristi on a regular basis. She thinks about stuff like this. So, Peabody went bye-bye and Penis came to stay.

Eventually, Miss-Miss began to ask about her private parts. She would point and make an inquisitive sound. Well, if you know anything about female genitalia, there's more to it than just the vagina. So, about a month ago, I found myself on the phone with friend Teri and mentioned my quandary to her. So, off to Wikipedia she went and there we were, looking at explanations, graphics, and pictures of the female genitalia. After much infantile snickering and juvenile comments, we got down to business. Let's see. There's the clitoris, the mons pubis (Sounds like something on the Moon.), the prepuce (OK, that sounds like a bug larvae.), the urethral orifice (One of my parts is referred to as an orifice?), the vagina (duh), the labia majora, and finally the labia minoria. Dear. God. Turns out, all of that is collectively referred to as the Vulva. Vulva. Let me repeat that to try it out. Vuuuulllllvvvvvaaaaa. Right.

So, now, whenever Miss-Miss points to herself, we say, (with respect to great friend Chip), "Those are your groceries." Hell, she'll be confused whenever she goes to a Kroger, but at least we've saved face when we can't remember the litany of proper names of the external female genitalia.

P.S. My apologies to you, Chris. I know you're sitting in front of your computer screen, in a catatonic state, unable to move, because of this post's content. When you've recovered, shoot me an e-mail and let me know you're alive!

Stuff From All Over

Have any of you ever had one of those moments when, you're proud to be a mom, proud of your kids, love them dearly, but wish others were more appreciative of them? I'm not talking about shoving your kids down someone's throat 24/7 and expecting them to adore your children. I'm talking about being made to feel small just because of your childrens' existence and your inability to detach yourself from them because, let's face it, when you're a breastfeeding mother of a 5-month-old, as their only food source, you are limited as to who can take care of them. I had that experience for the first time today and it brought me to my knees. I won't elaborate, but I was hurt, upset, pissed, and dearly wanting my old life back. Then, I looked at J-man's little face and said, "F it. I love you and that's all that matters."

On to more silly things...

I have watched Finding Nemo so many times the last two weeks that I'm ready to gouge out my eyes and firebomb the Pixar/Disney studios headquarters. Early in 2006, I got the bright idea of decorating the kids' bathroom with a Finding Nemo theme. Nemo soap dispenser, Nemo toothbrush holder, Nemo shower curtain, little plastic Nemo character toys (that are probably loaded with lead). I topped it all off with an actual picture of two clown anemone fish, taken by a dive buddy of mine. I figured that at some point in the future when the kids decide they're too cool for Finding Nemo, we could just have fish pictures and end it at that. Anyway, we went from playing with Nemo in the tub to taking Nemo and friends out of the tub, playing and sleeping with them at all hours of the day and night. Miss-Miss will cry if Nemo can't be located before bedtime. "Nemo? Nemo?" is her usual whimper. Two days before their birthday, we thought it would be cool to finally let Miss-Miss and Bubba watch the movie. BIIIIIGGGG mistake. We have now watched Finding Nemo every day for the last two weeks. Fifteen minutes here, ten minutes there, and it all adds up to Ty-man and I quoting the movie word-for-word and knowing the names of all the characters - Nemo, Marlin, Dory, Bruce the shark, Gil, Peach the starfish, Deb, Bubbles, Gurgle, Nigel the pelican, Squirt and Crush the turtles, and on, and on. Somebody, kill me NOW! Finding Nemo went from a cute kids' movie to the bane of my existence. It's Nemo and clown fish 24 hours a day, 7 days a week here at Casa Crazy and I'm so ready for the nut house. Ty-man said, "Well, I guess we'll have to read up on saltwater aquariums soon because the kids will want one." Yeah, sure, I'll get a salt water aquarium, so that I can fill it with clown fish and then fry up the little suckers for dinner. Pass the tartar sauce and malt vinegar, baby!

My usual Friday top ten lists have gone by the wayside. I just don't have the brain power to count to ten, much less come up with funny things to go along with ten numbers. So, top ten lists will happen when my brain happens.

Found out today that Ty-man's cousin, Newman, is pregnant!!! Way to go, Newman! Three months down and a lifetime to go! Can't wait to meet the newest member of the family this coming April. Woo hoo!

I have splurged and hired a wonderful lady named Mia over at The Blog Cafe to design a new look for my blog. So, hopefully in the next few weeks, you will be dazzled by my ideas and her talent and knowledge of blogs, HTML, and Google Blogger. Stay tuned!

Finally, in honor of October and Halloween, I have chosen a headstone quote for this weekend's blog quote. From Benjamin Franklin's headstone, here goes:

The Body of
B. Franklin, Printer
Like the Cover of an old Book
Its Contents torn out
And Stript of its Lettering & Guilding
Lies here. Food for Worms
For, it will as he believed
appear once more
In a new and more elegant Edition
corrected and improved
By the Author.

Happy Weekend! Blog you Monday.

These Kids Are Just Too Cute!

OK, time for kid exploitation! First is Bubba who has been product-testing a new hair product from the makers of YoBaby yogurt. This was one of those slow-motion moments. Ty-man was feeding the twins breakfast, cutting bananas, looked up and in slow motion, yelled, "Nnnnnnnnooooooooo!" Too late, yogurt was smeared, hair was sticky. I think his bangs stayed in the same place all day with no movement. Sugar is a wonder!

Now, on to Miss-Miss. I had gone through my closet and decided I needed a clothes-giveaway/organization overhaul. It was total carnage and Goodwill made out like bandits. I also pulled out a couple of old purses and scarves for the twins to play with. Here is Miss-Miss, strutting her stuff, showing the world that she truly is a princess worthy of our worship and respect!

Lastly is J-man. Our little boy is, like Bubba, a clone of Ty-man. Here he is enjoying his saucer seat toy, playing the piano and generally looking cute.

Hope you've enjoyed these guys! It's late, I'm whipped, and the pictures are the best I could come up with on such short brain-power notice. Blog ya tomorrow!

Food Radar and Other Kid Mysteries

As I write this blog, J-man is across the room, sleeping in his Pack 'n Play. Or is he just playing possum? You see, my kids, like all kids, have radar. It's the all-purpose "Mom/Dad is doing something important/eating something - time for me to interrupt her/him!" Typically, this kid radar comes into play while one of us is eating, talking on the phone, drinking a cup of coffee, folding laundry, into a house-cleaning groove. Allow me to deconstruct a kid radar moment.

I have just sat down to lunch. All three kids are asleep, sawing logs (as my mom would say). There, staring at me from my plate is two-day-old pizza, fresh from the microwave, wonderful rubbery goodness. Next to it is a diet root beer and a sliced apple. It is the lunch of champions. As I lift the pizza for my first bite, J-man begins to squirm. It's 30 minutes until I feed him again. He could just be moving in his sleep, but I freeze anyway, as if I'm a deer in headlights. He squirms again then quiets. I wait a few moments longer, then take a bite. As I chew, he squirms again and begins to cry. No matter how much a jostle and rock him or the pack 'n play or place his paci in his mouth, he will not be calmed back into going to sleep. So, I give in and feed him while feeding myself. While nursing him, he frequently employs his arm of death. What is this arm of death? The arm of death is whichever arm is exposed while he's nursing. This arm invariably swings out from his side, then back, then forward onto my chest with a loud "thump!" Several times while nursing, the arm of death will be deployed and it's particularly dangerous when I'm eating or drinking. The arm of death has caused coffee spillage, peach projectiles, and on this occasion, diet root beer has flown from my hand, droplets spilling across the two of us.

Ten minutes into nursing J-man, feeding myself, and avoiding the arm of death, the twins' radar has gone off. Instead of sleeping for another half-hour, they have sensed two people in the house eating and feel that it is time to wake up. And not only do they not wake up calmly, rolling over, jabbering to one another, playing with stuffed animals. No. It's time to scream bloody murder as if someone is knifing them. Of course, I'm kind of stuck with pizza in one hand, J-man nursing in the other. He's nursing for another 20 minutes, so I listen to screaming for 20 minutes. Oh, joy.

Kid radar also happens during those intimate husband-wife moments that happen oh-so-infrequently. All has been dead silent, we're in the mood, a crucial moment occurs (hey, this is a PG-13 blog, mild cussing only, not nudity or porn, people!), and it's suddenly 1 AM meltdown mode. I just can't figure out how they can sense these things two rooms away while in a deep sleep.

I had a Chez Ami clothing party last month and was calling the mothers I had invited, reminding them of the party time and date. I was nursing J-man while making the calls. The twins were happily playing. Suddenly, while leaving a message for one mom, Bubba gets his head stuck in the gate and begins screaming. I don't know what was worse, me continuing to leave the message as if nothing was going on or Bubba screaming in the background like he's being attacked. I'm telling you, if I hadn't been on the phone, he never would have gotten himself stuck in the gate in the first place.

Instead of spending millions of dollars on "remote psychic viewers," the CIA should have just hired a bunch of toddlers on a part-time basis. They would have had much more success and would have saved my tax dollars in the process.

Bad, bad...bad day. Bad Day.

Today was one of those days that I wish I could erase from memory. Nothing bad happened to put me in such a rotten mood. All family and friends are hale and hearty, the kids are great, the house is standing, Stephen Hawking and Sean Connery are still alive and kicking, so all is in order. All, that is, except me.

I woke up under a black cloud. You know it's going to be bad when you wake up tired. As I nursed J-man, all I could think was, "I can't believe I have to do this all over again. It never ends, just endlessly repeats, ad infinitum."

When I'm in these bad, black moods, I throw lotion bottles, don't smile much, chuck Diaper Genie diaper bags down stairs, fuss at the kids for tiny infractions, and don't talk except for said fussing. I feel horrible for being like this. On my great days when I love being a mother, I think to myself, This is so easy, I can overcome any bad mood that hits. Then, the bad mood hits and no matter how I try to talk myself out of it, I'm in it for keeps. Or, until I go to bed and wake up the next morning.

So, that being said, I'm going to go to bed. I'm going to sleep this off and wake up tomorrow much happier. I'll talk to Bubba and Miss-Miss rather than fuss. I'll smile and interact with J-man. I'll gently place the lotion bottle on the counter rather than chuck it across the room in frustration. I'll kiss my husband as soon as he walks in the door instead of complain about my day. I'll be a better person. At least, until the next bad day comes along. Then, I'll ride out just like today. Sigh.