it was the best of times, it was the worst of times

we are living life in contradiction. for example, when someone says "do it" (i'm sorry, it's more like "DOIT!"), you might think someone wants you to do something. au contraire mon frere. someone wants to DOIT themself. herself. so don't go trying to help. because your help might be seen as a plotted strategy to destroy plans that have been in the making for.ever. (for 3 seconds). when one says "no k" your initial reaction might be "she said o.k., i should proceed." not so fast, fasty. "no k" is a hybrid. "no" and "ok." makes perfect sense right? "do you want me to tie your shoes?" "no k." um. this could go either way. i feel like a charlie's angel (kate, please) trying to choose between the red wire and the white wire seconds before the boat explodes. and this boat is about to explode. believe me. just so you know, R never wants help. except for that 1 out of 2,048 time. then she wants help. rightnow. andhowcouldyoubesostupidfornotknowing. when someone wants her baby stella to have juice. she doesn't mean you should bring down the juice. dumbass. she means she wants to be relocated to the juice. don't bring the juice to her. bring her to the juice. she said "juice" for cripe's sake. how could you not know that? here's another. "like it." aw. she likes it! she really likes it! um, no. she hates it. like means hate. d.u.h. also important to note: "big hug" means tackle when spoken during forward motion toward her brother. "crayons." "um, sure we can do crayons. let's clean up what we're doing. let's stop any plans that mommy had so that i can accommodate your every whim. let's get out the crayons." [exactly 1 crayon is touched. and then it's over]. so when you said crayons, you really meant "like it" as in you hate the crayons? i think i'm piecing this together. it's hard to be an angel. all of these complexities of semantics and God forbid you make the wrong choice! you're done. sabrina will be stuck gagged in that chair with her hands tied for.ever. she'll be stranded on the beach without a bikini. or a scarf. [gasp]. you'll be forced to start a luxurious clothing line to be sold at kmart. contradiction, remember?

next time i'll choose white.

Jesus

consider this a Holy Ghost. i mean holy post. 'tis the season, after all. my kids are all about Jesus. we broke out the nativity scene a la little people that my sister gave us last year and the change of reaction from last year to this year was, um, spiritual. C and R are all about the baby Jesus. how did they know He was the star of the show? the angel is the one at the top. and she (are angels gendered? bygones.) even plays music. but no. they wanted Jesus. they didn't even prefer the donkey that carries food. R wanted to rock-a-bye baby Jesus. sigh. C wanted to put baby Jesus in the tree as an ornament. sigh. "JESUS!" "JESUS!" "JESUS!" (them, not me). yes, Jesus is getting a lot of airtime in our household. R and C wanted to know who everyone was. mary, mommy. joseph, daddy. well, um. kind of. actually God is baby Jesus' father. but they're both really God. and don't forget that Holy Ghost. no, that was halloween. oh, this is harder than i thought. damn you little people nativity. wait, that's just wrong. i also think it's wrong when you leave baby Jesus laying on the floor to later be stepped on by one bare mommy foot. "Jesus." (me, not them). it's like the scene from "the ref" (one of my all time favorites, ever, especially this time of year) when dennis leary bites into the baby Jesus cookie. but i didn't even get a cookie. we're still reeling from the dual birthday that occurred last month. so we sing happy birthday at least 5 times per day. still. last week C walked right up to the nativity, held baby Jesus cupped in his little hands and said "Merry Christmas Baby Jesus." sigh. now we're singing happy birthday to Jesus. wait. Merry Christmas Baby Jesus. Happy Birthday Baby Jesus. same thing. tonight we went to look at Christmas lights in a funky Christmas lights area, where the nativity scene may be comprised of sock monkeys. at some point R started saying "baby Jesus. up." i kept looking but i couldn't see what she saw. better start preparing now for Easter.

economic crisis

ok. i used to think that having girl/boy twins was God's gift to me as a way to control my spending. ok girl/boy twins are a gift from God (or girl/girl twins. or boy/boy twins. or one girl. or one boy. but. i. digress.) for many reasons but go with me on this spending thing. girls clothes are freaking cute. the smaller, the cuter. boys clothes are not. period. the smaller the cuter here too but it's just not the same. so since i subscribe to the "even stevens" mentality, my spending is thus reduced because i will only (try) to purchase equal amounts of clothing. so if i can't find something cute for C, i try not to purchase for R. i try hard. it doesn't always happen. so now i think my limited spending theory is crap. o la. because what do i do? what i will do, as queen of justified purchases, is purchase expensive boys clothing to be even stevens with the amount of really cute girls clothing, even if said really cute girls clothing is from target. so what i have created is C busting out in expensive boutique items. they're still plaid. and striped. because, well, that's all you get. so i think it's costing more. all those people who think girls naturally somehow cost more money than boys: i beg to differ.

boys' tea: $59 girls' target: $11.99

SEE?!

you would...

eat this, wouldn't you?
chicken nuggets, vegetarian corn dogs, dollop of vanilla yogurt?
what's not to love?
you would eat this, wouldn't you?
or if you are R, you might just suck the delicious vanilla yogurt off of previously mentioned meat and non-meat products, using them only for utensil purposes.
foiled!

rock-a-bye bye

yeah. that sweet rock-a-bye lullaby? it's really saying rock-a-bye bye to the sweet precious baby near sleep, tucked into a cozy cradle, suspended from a tree before said cradle and said baby come crashing down. ahem. consider this my public service announcement. i'm down with the people. "people" being those of you who have always been a little more than slightly uncomfortable with singing about not just the cradle coming crashing down, but the baby as well. what kind of a lullaby is this? who puts their baby in a tree? is this babycradle crashing supposed to comfort a baby into a deep peaceful slumber? i think not. and i thought not. so i made up my own lyrics.

rock-a-bye baby

in the tree top
when the wind blows

the cradle will rock

when the moon rises

the sun will fall

good night to baby

good night to all

it's a science lesson and a good moral all in one. moon rising. sun falling. el sol y la luna. the sun is the only thing that's falling here. and it's safe. it knows what it's doing. no baby crashing. and it sends a good sleeping message. good. night. we're all going to sleep now. including baby. but especially including me. everyone wins.
you. are. welcome.

*no babies (or cradles) were harmed in the singing of this lullaby

ob-la-di

i think i have selective memory. is that what it's called? i should say selective positive memory. when i think back to the last (and only) two years with my twins, i have only fond memories. really. it's not like i see a montage of only beautiful peaceful moments where you hear "these are days" by 10,000 maniacs. but it's mostly just a general feeling of it hasn't been that hard. i mean, i can vaguely recall that i was sleepy on a consistent basis for the first one or two. or three. months. but ah. what's a little sleepiness, right? i can more readily recall the eighth month of life which revealed the oh-we're-so-big-time-with-this-crawling-bonkcry-thing-that-we-bonkcry-can-crawl-our-bonkcry-bad-selves-all-over-bonkcry-this-bonkcry-joint. bonkcry. that was a rough week. or two. but ah. what's a few bonkcries? no big. we all moved on. and way back when there was that labor thing. it hurt. and a c-section. it hurt. well, i didn't actually feel it. i was numb. but i knew it was happening with the out-of-body-someone-just-cut-into-my-abdomen-and-extracted-two-people experience. but i think it hurt a little after. but there were drugs. so really? no big. the thing is, i can't recall anything being that hard. but i know in my right, sane (sometimes) mind it was hard. of course it was hard. no experience and two babies. it was hard. but why do i look back and think ah, no big? it wasn't that hard? when i see someone with twin babies i kind of stop dead in my tracks. "uh. that looks sooo hard." um. like i don't know what that is like? why do i say it (to myself) like someone who has never had one kid. let alone two? maybe all of my singing ob-la-di, ob-la-da (thank you beatles) (and thank you that show with that girl. and chad lowe. life goes on! good one) really sunk in. i osmosised myself or subliminated myself (both made up, but you get it) into thinking no big. whatever this superpower is that i have developed, i hope it doesn't fail me now as i enter double two's. i'm not 22. nowhere close. i mean double two-year-olds. because i've been singing a lot lately. now they sing it with me. that's how i know.

bonkcry. no big.

f*ck

don't you love how i follow heartwarming warmth with this? well, i just wanted you to know. if you hear C say "f*ck off" he is actually saying forklift. i promise. sometimes he gets feisty/excited about the forklift so he shouts it a little. it's "fork. lift." i promise. also, if you hear R say "f*ck" she is actually saying "truck." well, she is actually saying "fruck" but she means "truck." i promise. and let us not forget the "peach" confusion. we review the proper pronunciations. a lot. i promise. besides, f*ck is not even one of my most favorite curse words. if they were mimicking, it would be something else. but. if you hear R or C saying "punk ass mother f*cker" well, that one is mine. all me. and if you hear me saying "punk ass mother f*cker" i am actually saying "punk ass mother f*cker." and you are probably driving too fast. or too slow. or you cut me off. or you're on my ass. and i'm going to stop now. this post is so sending me to hell that i feel compelled to wish you happy holidays so i can end on a good note.

happy holidays

love letters

dear C,
today you are two years old. or 24 months old. which means that two years ago today, you were in my tummy. actually you were in my pelvis. you staked your claim on the lower pelvis at about month seven and you weren't budging. hey, real estate is a good investment. most of the time. securing your 1/3 of the available space left a comfy 2/3 of space for your lovely sister, R. and she wasn't staying still. at. all. so you hunkered down. and on november 17, 2006 you were ready to vacate. move on. out. but R had other plans. since this day, you have seen that R sometimes has plans other than yours. and i'm sorry about that. but what's gonna work? teamwork! in the last year, which makes up a whopping 50% of your total life, i have seen this hunker down mentality continue. you zero in on what you like and you focus. lately you are really into trucks. you love the trucks. frequently when we're in the car you'll point them out. you even can tell the difference between diggers and bulldozers. cranes and loaders. what? who knew? now we all know. sometimes you'll follow your truck shout-out with a "big one." so we know it is a big digger. not a mini digger. which does also exist, we all now know. this year you have learned that if you lose an eyelash (of which you have at least 1 million and they flap like snuffleupagus) you get to blow on it and make a wish. your sweet "thank you" while touching your chin (saying and signing) couldn't be any cuter and i have yet to turn down a "please" request when you say it in this little sweet voice and rub your chest, signing. you always notice when R is not around. sometimes she bolts off to another room. sometimes that other room might be time-out. you want to be with her. you have a love of jumping up. and down. and off the bed. "good catch mommy." of course we'll do it again when you say that. you are a budding artist. you could spend all day with some paints. or play dough. or markers. or crayons. you love the stuff. you said your first sentence this year. "i did it." which has been said 3,596 times since. you are so proud when you do something yourself. what a joy you have been this year. you are the sunshine of my life. i love you. xoxo, mommy

dear R,
my sweet ladybug. today you are two years old. or as you would say "twoooooooo." two years ago you were in my tummy and you decided if you went with C's plan, you would be several minutes younger than him. that wouldn't do. you needed to get out as close to oldest as possible. so there you were. one minute later. one minute younger. one minute louder. you cooed for the first 48 hours of your life. the sweetest little coooooo. and you haven't been quiet very much since. you have a lot to say. or sing. lately you are really into the singing. and you. are. good. sister. you don't just sing. when you're singing, you're eyes sing. your hands sing. your face sings. your head sings. even your hair sings, somehow. and you know the words. to a lot of songs. your current hit list includes "my cherie amour" by stevie wonder (modified to include your name, of course), "lucky star" by madonna, and "maniac" by um, flashdance. because the actual singer is irrelevant. it was part of flashdance. one day you just kept singing "may (pause) may (pause) may (pause)" and your silly mommy and daddy couldn't figure out what you were singing. then it hit me. when you hit the "before" part. you're always a ringer at the end notes. and at the grand finales. you shake your head, give some jazz hands, and hit the big one. it's awesome. this year you went from walking to jumping with two feet and running circles around all of us. fast. you are really fast. you have this amazing giggle that comes from your tummy and brims through your face and seems almost too big for your little body. and i just want to record it and play it back over and over. you have rekindled your love with the swing. which you took about a year off from. now you love it again. sometimes in the yard you will stay on the swing for half an hour (telling mommy to sit in a chair to push you. or stand. or push your feet.). you really love C. when you go to get your drink you always bring C his. and when he is getting his diaper changed you will bring him toys or books. your first sentence, which was this year, was "whe's C?" you don't like when he is away. sometimes he sleeps a little longer than you at nap time and it is hard for me to keep you out of the room. sometimes i'll say "ok, let's go check on C. very quiet." and you will say "got. it." and then we go in and you run to C's crib and say (yell) "C!" you also love your friends. every single day you run through your list of people you love. friends, mommies, daddies, etc. eitan, elaine, caden, josha, lauren, pilar, jason, chuck (cat), linus (cat), grammi, papa, florida, bryce, sister (ivy), jo, ryan, baby (colin). you remember everything. every little detail. you have really developed a love and appreciation for shoes this year. if someone's shoes are left on the floor, you go and get them and either give them to the person to put on or you put them on yourself. but someone must wear them. you can just flip through magazines and look at pictures of shoes. or babies. or anything. you also are into your doll's stroller, which you have loaded up with several purses on either side. this year you have been a bright, shining star for me. i love you. xoxo, mommy

never was a t-shirt girl

i never liked to wear t-shirts. except when the sorority pressure (let's call them raisin girls) made me wear a kappa delta t-shirt at least two times a week. and since then i haven't looked back. good riddance. i just don't like them. but now. i am finding that i now might be a t-shirt girl. it's hard to shop for clothes. i need comfortable. washable. ok to get dirt/spit/foodparticles/maybe pee/poop/spitup (on a bad day). things are getting kind of gross. this is a whole new thing. and i am just realizing it. my fashion conscious working in an officeness has been muffled. gone to the other side. i think i have just become lazy. i want to do what is easy. and i don't want to invest. so i will purchase the same tank top in four different colors. thought that was a good solution. but now i'm annoyed. but i don't want buttons. don't want to iron (my iron is currently giving birth to it's very own dustbunnies). i also no longer know what is acceptable for my wearing pleasure. i mean. i never have been an inappropriate dresser. i'm not saying i'm trying to do midriff and miniskirts. but should i be shopping in the junior's department? i think i should. but maybe i shouldn't. it reminds me of when i was a babysitter at the age of 14 and mrs. batsel picked me up. we were wearing the same skirt. even at 14 i knew that was not cool. mrs. batsel should not have been shopping in the junior's department. or at the ups and downs. [sigh] ups and downs! but now here i am. it's quick. it's cheap. it's washable. i'm 33. recently was in the fitting room and the lovely 17-year-old employee popped in to check on me. "that dress looks so good on you." "yeah. i think it is a little young for me." "well you could wear it, like, when you're going out or something." oh honey. goodbye dress. the other problem is that i find myself drawn to trendy clothing that is so freaking cute. um. so freaking cute FORMYTWOYEAROLD. what is my trendinessability (made up) anymore? what am i doing? that is cute. FOR R. stop the insanity. i don't need this many ruffles. why do i like ruffles? are ruffles appropriate for a 33-year-old? i don't know anymore. i think my age/profession/mommyness are crashing together and causing a fashion identity crisis. what if this is a continuation of the bangs crises of february 2008? or the bebe crisis of may 2008? or maybe the bratz crisis of july 2008? wait a second. this could be the cumulative impact. this is not really happening. but you know what is happening? my new fingerless sweater gloves. they're awesome. i know. you're not supposed to repeat trends. but i was not wearing the fingerless gloves in 1988. i wanted to. but i didn't. so now i will wear them. damnit. this is not really happening.

you bet your life it is.

p.s. thank you if you sung cornflake girl in your head (or out loud) while reading this post

and then

your sister sends the most perfect card. because she knows you. or she knows herself. or she knows you both. it reminds me of us. and it reminds me of R. she twirls. she laughs. she shakes her hair like a pantene commercial. she loves shoes. she puts her hand in the air and says "taxi" (thank you urban babies wear black). she loves nothing more than a good mirror. or a good book. she loves to be rocked in your arms while you're singing a stevie wonder song in her honor and she'll concentrate so intently on your mouth so she sees every syllable. every pause. and then she'll sing it herself tomorrow. she knows the words. and it gets me thinking how i can't wait for her to be all of the amazing women in our family. and how she already is. all of them wrapped into one. and what that means is giving, feisty, thoughtful, hard-working, dainty, tough, independent, strong, loving, dramatic, funny, strong-willed, smart. and a little bit bossy.

tricks

isn't it too early for halloween pranks? aren't they too young for halloween pranks? my halloween is off to a rocky start. pooptastrophe. for real. maybe our worst one in almost two years. which means maybe our worst one ever. it's the kind of pooptastrophe which is only made worse by a resistance to being changed on the changing table. "because, like, i'm like two mom. i don't need a changing table." yes. but you still need a diaper. so don't get all i'm too big for this on me. you'll be too big for this when you're too big to wear diapers. and i'm pretty sure we'll have a big ceremonial changing pad bonfire. can't wait. but until that day. fine. i'll change you on the floor. whoa. didn't see that one coming. but i should have smelled it. except i think my nose has started selectively turning heinous scents off as a manner of self preservation. thank you, nose. pooptastrophe. made worse by changing on the floor. and then made worse by a not so innocent bystander bystanding way too close for comfortable to catch an up close glance at said pooptastrophe. only saving grace is that R is now at the point where when i say "R. bring mommy wipes. a lot. stat." she obliges. that's helpful. so we started with a pooptastrophe. trick number one. how fun would it be to apply our fun new halloween tattoos (temporary. what am i travis barker?)? it would be fun! they're like stickers. but better! because they won't come off. oh shit. they won't come off. so when two 23-month-olds keep saying "sticker. off. sticker. off. sticker. off." guess what? they don't come off. that's what makes them great! or horrible. whichever way you look at it. rookie mistake, mommy. trick number two. now off to a new story time (after washing machine loaded with trick number one). a new story time! at a new library! how exciting! how exciting? not exciting. no sitting. no listening. no fun. R actually climbed into her stroller to show me she was over it. and C kept saying "go." ok right. but wait, there's more. mommy selected this story time because there will be a guest appearance by, wait for it, elmo! just a quick walk to elmo. elmo is here! we hate elmo. we're a little bit like, why isn't elmo in my television? or in my book? why is elmo 9 feet tall and 463 pounds? he's a giant red shag carpet monster. other kids are hugging him. how bad could he be? R: "go. elmo all done." and we're off. apparently elmo in person bites. figuratively speaking. he didn't bite anyone. that i saw. trick number four. good God that's four tricks before 11 am. where is my damn treat? maybe they need a treat. it's halloween. stop. milk boxes. this one is plain milk thankyouverymuch. no pixie sticks. off to the car while enjoying your milk box. delicious milk box. delicious milk now spilled all over one small lap wearing orange pants and a stroller which will now smell like rotten eggs for all of eternity. what's halloween without a few thrown eggs? trick number five. someone is screwing with me. i'm home now. two loads of laundry in progress. five tricks already played on one played mommy. and no treats. i want my damn treats.

treats.

um, no

who knew there could be so many "no's?" i didn't. i was a kid who accepted the word no. or i watched my older sister get read the rights at which point i was totally ready to go with the "no." chicken. hey, save yourself. but what i am realizing now, as i hear myself speaking to two almost terrible two toddlers (actually they couldn't be farther from terrible) (most of the time), is that "no" has metamorphosed into the land of infinity. or the autumn mist. or narnia. wherever it is, it apparently does not mean no. no means no right? i saw the public service announcements. no. it doesn't mean no. apparently. here is how i know no does not mean no. (read that sentence again. i am now at the point where i don't think no is spelled correctly because i've written it too many times. and i am confused by words like know and now. this shall pass).

-no. works 1 out of 10 times.

-no, no. usually used after above failed no. works 1 out of 10 times.

-no way. usually used for destruction, ie. someone is throwing, not a soft plush ball my way, for example, but a wooden pottery barn shape sorter. because that should be thrown. at my face.

-no, absolutely not. i feel like this is reserved for occasions that R and C know are out of the question. but proceed anyway. like the dog's bowls. haven't we been over this at least 9,834 times? yes, i believe we have. that gets you an absolutely not. seriously. the dog has to eat. for the love of God.

-big no no. this is the non-negotiable. big deals. when R repeats it, it sounds like BEEnono. it's reserved for the self-diaper-removals and the biting (only one episode. that i know of). "alson. bite. fin.er. BEEnono."

guess what? no doesn't mean no.

it's like lloyd (dumb and dumber, circa 1994).

Lloyd: What are my chances?

Mary: Not good.

Lloyd: You mean, not good like one out of a hundred?

Mary: I'd say more like one out of a million.

Lloyd: So you're telling me there's a chance.

have my kids seen this movie? no. or whatever the word is for they haven't seen this movie. since i now am questioning my own definition of no. no matter what i say, they still think there's a chance. i'm afraid if i got all whitney houston on them with the "hell to the no," then that will be on repeat for the next week. their teachers don't need to hear "hell to the no." (how funny would that be, though?). (seriously). (if it was someone else's kid). i think, instead, i'm going to start saying "no chance." adding that to my repertoire. "cookie" at 8 am when flax oatmeal with applesauce is on the table. "no chance." perhaps this will make it more clear. "up up up up up up" (in stereo) when i'm trying to cook dinner during the crazies. "no chance." it's a revolution. and my hope is that it will indeed sound like a whisper. (thank you if you just got that).

maybe what lloyd needed to hear was a little hell to the no.

babysitter boo hoo

i need a babysitter. er. we need a babysitter. my one golden babysitter is gone. she's gone (oh i, oh i'd better learn how to face it. she's gone oh i, oh i'd pay the devil to replace her she's gone). oh hall and oates. i miss her too. sniff. who hand delivers you someone you have known for years and love and trust who just returned from a world tour as a celebrity nanny to twins? God. that's who. God delivered our babysitter to me and now satan has taken her away. and i am babysitterless. do you know how hard it is to find a good babysitter? hard. i was going to try speed dating babysitter match up but then i thought again. you pay $100 for someone to find you random college students and then you stand up and introduce yourself and the matches begin. um. i went through sorority rush once. that ship has sailed. and i'm pretty sure my request for babysitter for two delightful two-year-olds will go over like gangbusters. and what am i paying $100 for? a list of college students. hello i'm on the facebook. i can find college students. and i at least need you to background check for crazy criminals. so i did my own college student search (not on facebook thankyouverymuch). i said there would be background checks and early education majors were preferred. oh yeah and they have to like [big] dogs [hyper]. what crazy criminal is going to agree to a background check and walk into a house of a big hyper dog with two two-year-olds? watch a moving made for tv movie staring meredith baxter birney and you will know. because this is how my mind works. i will come home and my children will be gone and my dog will be dead (in really bad bad dreams it is dead a la fear. i hate you marky mark). i asked my spouse if it would be weird to check identification. you know, to make sure she is who she says she is. of course he said yes. when i ask "is this weird" questions, they generally end in "yes." but in my made for tv movie staring meredith baxter birney after i find my kids missing and my dog departed, i will call the police and say "crazy criminal" stole my kids and killed my dog and the police will say "ma'am [don't police always say ma'am in made for tv movies?] no one exists by that name. did you check her driver's license?" duh. no. i didn't. i didn't check crazy criminal's driver's license because my spouse said it was weird. this weird perspective is counter clockwise to my mother's perception of my finding a babysitter. she. was. appalled. this woman could write serious made for tv movies. hers could pull in a-listers like kathie lee gifford. no M.B.B. rapid fire questions. "well how do you expect me to find a babysitter?" it was as if i pulled up to the local jail, threw keys to my home into the cafeteria and shouted "anyone like kids? come over!" so now i'm just bitter. and researching background checking. and anyone named "crazy criminal." and nannycams. and what it will be like to never leave my house again. boo. hoo.

i totally went to this concert in 1996 and sashayed my 21-year-old bootie up past a vast quantity of bitter 45-year-olds so that i could be in the front row. because it was important to be in the front row. at a hall and oates concert. shame.

boxed beverages

if you want to know what happens to pixie sticks when they are mixed with high fructose corn syrup concentrate...just drink an organic vanilla milk box. seriously. i thought it was healthy. even though it's milk (and i use that word lightly) that doesn't have to be refrigerated. hmm. i thought milk was a dairy product. that, i don't know, turns sour/bad/rotten/retched when not refrigerated. bygones. apparently the magic milk box needs no refrigeration. and it needs no taste resemblance to milk either. it's organic. what does that mean exactly? the corn which the high fructose corn syrup is derived from is organic? fabulous. fabuless. my kids go to school. they see other kids' lunches. damn kids. those other kids get boxed drinks. my kids get water. boxed beverages are only for special occasions. like the pink franzia of my yesteryear. way yesteryear. my stomach just turned typing this. no one should ever say the word franzia. let alone put it in writing. so my kids see other boxed beverages and i think they, or she, as it may be (you know twins. they always get blamed for something even if only one did it), was actively coveting someone's boxed beverage. happened to be a milk-like boxed beverage. the teacher reported that she was really into it. read: she was hardcorepressing the kid for his/her boxed milk beverage. i of course went out and procured milk-like boxed beverages for my kids to bring to school. oh the peer pressure. i'm pretty sure this won't happen when lilly shows up at 10th grade with a brand new BMW and the creepy gym teacher tells me how much R wanted that BMW. so i got them vanilla. because chocolate sounded too sugary. vanilla somehow sounded more innocent. the night before school i decided to give it a taste. just to see what vanilla-milk-like-boxed beverages taste like. you know what? it's. dis. gusting. sugar in a straw. sugar in a box. sugar everywhere. not even the good kind of slurpee sugar. this sugar is like a pixie stick gone wrong. gone beveraged. so besides the sugar, the idea that "milk" did not have to be refrigerated was bothering me. so i looked into it. stop reading now if you like your organic milk boxes. carrageenan. i believe this is our culprit. it's a "thickening agent." as if that doesn't sound gross on it's own, you can make your own carrageenan by boiling down irish moss. yum. and i believe the reason you don't have to refrigerate this organic milk-like product is because it is superpasteurized. that's an official term. i don't know what that means. but they must pasteurize the hell out of it. and then double pasteurize it. like a double dare. regardless. this i know. it is not superpasteurized enough to make it taste like franzia.

well, it's no organic milk box. thank God.

move

i think we're getting to the point where i feel that every day is a "kids say the darndest things" submission in some cheezy magazine. like, oh that was so funny when your daughter said "purple panties." and don't act like your husband wasn't wearing them. or how about when you said your son told you to "eat more chocolate, mama." oh yeah. that really totally happened. but i feel it happening. like when R called my boobs "balls." i feel it's going to get worse. i feel within moments of a good "you should stop singing now" or a "leave me alone" or how about a "i remember that time you almost lost me in a bookstore and i'm not over it." i know this sassiness is enroute. and i want to stop the presses. "move." oh i must not have heard that right. even though he was attempting to move my leg as he said it. "move." nope. i heard it. my not-even-two-year-old just told me to move. oh i'm sorry. i was blocking your view of my stunning stylish elmo bandaid that i wore publicly unknowing the public display because i have no other bandaids or other necessities in this house that do not pertain to your utter pleasing. i admit i totally laughed. i couldn't help it. i started to think...where did he hear such a thing? who is responsible for such disrespect? i never say "move" to my children. but wait. my former child, now sometimes nemesis, the dog. i totally tell him to "move." every day. several times a day. he huddles around the high chairs for any delectable or even heinous morsel and he gets in my way. he's huge. he has to move! note to self: watch language towards dog around children. i knew this would happen. they say this happens. thank God C only copied "move." i'm sure there has been far worse than that. take the "move" kid. and run with it. it's better than "m-er f-er." (p.s. i say it exactly like that. not censoring for family-friendly blogosphere). or "punk-ass." (p.s. that one is real too). so all in all, i'll take "move" as a copy. i'll also take R's copy today of "bummer." i'm pretty sure we're about to up the anty on the sassafrass. i'll keep you posted with my parent's magazine mykidissomuchfunniersmarterthanyourkid entries.

balls

i've got them. you know how when someone is gutsy we say "they've got balls?" or "that's ballsy?" well i'm gutsy. so i guess i've got balls...ballsy. but a few years ago my friend and i were discussing the sexism inherent is saying someone, particularly a woman someone, has got balls. why do we say that? like women are not strong, gutsy, bold, brave? so we brainstormed. a way to capture the gutsy and give the gutsy a female part association. because plenty of females are gutsy. and damnit we should have our own parts as a part of the gutsy. instead of needing male parts to indicate the gutsy. you know? so we came up with ovaries. but "they've got ovaries" didn't seem quite right. so we shortened it to "O's." "they've got O's." nice ring, no? so ever since, i've thought i had O's. then today happened. my precious R, tugged at the neckline of my shirt, and took a look down. she has done this before. she has also tugged at the waistline of my pants, to look at my bootie. and we know how that turned out. but today her glance down my shirt lingered. so i said "that's mommy's body?" as though i wasn't sure. but we have discussed this many times before. "balls," she said. so apparently i've got O's and balls. thankyouverymuch.

oh patsy

sometimes my kids really tick me off. i'm not talking about when they whine. or throw their food. or run like hell in the other direction when i call their names. i mean who has delinquent children who behave in such a manner anyway? (not it). what i'm talking about here is probably something i need to take to a shrink. but i have neither the time nor the desire for a shrink. so my cute little blog community is the beneficiary. you. are. welcome. C and R mess with my stuff. well, it's their stuff. but it's their stuff that i've been working on. for example. i just picked up all 26 of those puzzle pieces and put them back into the appropriate places on the puzzle. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WATCHED ME PUT IT BACK TOGETHER AND NOW WANT TO DEMOLISH IT? for example. i just spent 9 seconds building the most stunning building ever to be built with cardboard tri-color blocks. i know. i've seen a lot of them. mine is very avant garde. i'm the frank lloyd wright of my time. hello kitty cannot believe her great fortune getting to live in this pad. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WATCHED ME BUILD IT AND NOW MUST DESTRUCT SAID BUILDING? for example. i just carefully aligned 16 books front-facing on the shelves (very montessori). WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU FEEL COMPELLED TO RIP THEM FROM THEIR SHELVES AND JUMP ON THEM AND EAT THEM AND THEN VOMIT THEM UP AND RUB MY FACE IN THE VOMIT? ok. made that last part up. but only the last last part. but seriously. it's rude isn't it (them)? it's obsessive compulsive isn't it (me)? (do you hear patsy cline right now? or is it just me?) i know. i know. i like things to be tidy. and is it wrong to be proud of my handiwork? without nina-garcia-like critics coming in and trashing my accomplishments? "i just don't even have anything to say." shut up nina. you know you have something to say. and you know you'll squash some poor designer wannabe like R and C squash their poor mommy wannabe.

these structures only breathed life for 0 - 3 seconds. sniff.

(in case you're wondering...bribed the kids with "baby signing time" so i could photograph.

cra zy. crazy for feeling so lonely...).

hello kitty. off to build her own damn house.

i heart you, fall

but it's like an unrequited love. or like my celebrity crush on lenny kravitz. for i will never have you, lenny, i mean fall. i mean both. neither. neither lenny nor fall. where i live we only have one season: hot. it goes from hot to slightly less hot and back to hot then right on over to Godforsaken pits of hell hot. we're wrapping up the hell hot now. or are we? that's what we tell ourselves. it's september. it will be cooler. will not! it's not cooler! it's only slightlylessGodforsakenpitsofhell hot. we just tell ourselves "fall" will be better to get us through the place where grendel lives (i once made a diorama. not diarrhea. of grendel from beowulf. it. was. awesome.). ok right. why do i love the illusion of fall so much? other than a delusional fantasy of some level of coolness. my birthday. yes, still exciting. even though i am only slightly upstaged nowadays by two beautiful creatures who landed here two days after my day. speaking of the delights. oh yes. that's something to look forward to. way forward. celebrate good times come on (hmm. not the first time i've used that i'm afraid). the idea of fall makes me want to cook butternut squash. eat gingerbread pancakes. eat candy corn even though i don't like it. i always think i like it. but i don't. make s'mores over an open flame. random question: does apple-bobbing, bobbing for apples, still occur? what a heinous and germ-ridden activity. i once wanted to bob for apples. i was in 2nd grade. my mom said no. when she wasn't looking i did it. know what? it was icky. can you think of anything worse, during flu season especially, than opening your mouth and oozing saliva into an open bucket of water and other peoples' oozed saliva and apples? gross. which reminds me. let us not forget halloween. picking costumes for the little pumpkins. oh the pumpkins! pumpkins are good. even if your pumpkin melts (literally) if you leave it out for one. freaking. night. with. no. candle. whew. i sound whiny. and i really do love the fake fall. and here's why: i've already talked about the back to school loves. and i. cannot. wait. to put R in some leg warmers. though that is def more winter (two maybe three days).

let me boil down my love of fake fall, some based on reality, some illusion and delusionness (made up).

i have an unrealistic love of coats. love them. i can wear them for maybe ten days a year. and two of those days i will be sweating. oh the CPW (cost per wear) on the coats. it hurts. but i can't resist. are you looking at these coats? dreamy. apparently i'm in a ruffle phase.

boots. also unrealistic love. though i'll squeeze out more wears on boots than on coats.

those bastards at pottery barn make me want to host a seven course meal with delightful pumpkin-colored chairs (do you have to get new chairs per season?) and cloth napkins and beautiful flowers and candles and apple name cards and wait. what exactly would R and C do at this table? and when i say "at" i mean "to." what would R and C do to this table? let's move on.

i want a cold cloudy morning with nothing to do but hunker down and snuggle into my cold cloudy bed. open the windows to get that cold air smell. i will only pop out to eat tomato soup and grilled cheese and later drink hot chocolate (the real stuff). um can you believe the peace in this picture? i see cold cloudy peace.

the prospect of fall also makes me feel compelled to decorate with images like this one. paintings. pillows. dishtowels. i do have a strange fascination with trees. preferably bare trees. someone psychoanalyze me. and don't say my tree doesn't bare fruit. au contraire mon frere. two fruities would beg to differ. thankyouverymuch.



i'm ready for dark nail polish. it just seems wrong in june. you know?

oh the quest to pull off jet black hair with pale skin. damn you angelina jolie.



so i will now vow to not dress my sweet sweeties in fleece halloween costumes with plastic masks and wool hats. no mittens on thanksgiving. no earmuffs on Christmas. no faking the funk.

i still heart you fake fall.

dear mom

dear mom,

i love you. i love your passion. i love your fire. i see it in R everyday. and, especially when reminded, i see it in me too. i love that you are a fighter. of course, you had no choice. you were dealt a hand early on that forced you to fight. and fight you did. you always taught me to fight. but to be kind. you taught me to give my best to everything i did. and when i was the best, to be humble. you taught me a love of nature. and nurture. you taught me to give. and that there is no better feeling in the world than being thoughtful. and giving thoughtfully. you showed me how to take care of people. especially those that could not take care of themselves. you taught me to treat all people well. and not burn bridges. you taught me to be careful. though i never really was. you taught me about commitment. and loyalty. and perseverance. you taught me how to be part of a team. a family. and that family was most important.

so when we disagree about politics i can see why you might feel disappointed, though you've never exactly said that. it must be perplexing. you raised me. you taught me. we have so many similar beliefs and values. and now that i am older. so many different ones. i think about it when i think about C and R. what if they grow up to think so differently than me? i know we'll have conversations that take me back to you. and how you must feel.

right now i am just ready for political season to be over. i am tired. which is not like me at all. or you. even when you get tired, you are still strong. i love your tenacity. i love your confidence in your beliefs. i love your sassiness which you had way before that level of sassiness was acceptable. i love your fight the power mentality. which conflicts every so often with your respect the power mentality. i love your kill them with kindness nature. which conflicts every so often with your if someone hits you, hit them back harder side.

people tell me i'm strong. i know that i am. because of you. so i don't get upset when we disagree about issues. i wouldn't want you to back down. you are passionate. and i am so glad. because i feel grateful to be passionate too. and i know exactly where it comes from.

love you,

betty

sass. wonder where she gets it.

what's a few bites?

one day last week C got bitten by a human at MDO. one day last week R got bitten by 10 mosquitos at MDO (or 1 mosquito bit her 10 times. or 5 mosquitos bit her 2 times each. you get the idea). all this biting. what is all this biting? C recovered quickly. didn't even cry. R didn't cry either but is recovering with hives. ew. at home there are no bites. no hives. two freaking days out of my hair, er home, and bites and hives! what have i done? it's not all bad though. at home i have never made paper bag puppets with cute noses and little eyes. it's hard to describe...there are so many things you look forward to. the standards: smiling, laughing, crawling, walking. things that you look forward to but when they happen they are better than you even expected. i have never been more excited than for the first school art. i mean i loved the smiling, laughing, crawling, walking business too. but oh the art. and it's better than i expected. we have done some crafty things at home. play dough. crayons. but i was so excited for the first school art that i superdorked and had the display area ready and waiting for magneted art. in a prominent area of our kitchen. in a place where the dog won't eat it. hopefully. and so last week when i picked C and R up and received two precious paper bag puppets, i had so much pride. we hung them up immediately. is it wrong to be ok with human and insect bites on my children's bodies as long as they are accompanied by outstanding school art?

i say...worth it.

i heart school

new clothes. new supplies. new shoes. the cutest new lunchboxes with the cutest new coordinated bento boxes. is there anything better? why yes, there is. what's better is providing all of the previously mentioned mentionables to your two children and scooting them into their new classroom while you drive an empty stroller back to the parking garage. whoa. this is light. "you can leave that here." dumbass. of course i can leave the stroller here. there are no kids in it. what am i doing pushing an empty stroller? it's doubly empty. park. and. i'm. off...but off to where, i wonder? i decided to helicopter parent like the best of them and stick close to the school in case i got that pleasedon'tringphone phone call telling me that R and C hate school and they want to drop out. they're never going back. it's straight to cosmetology school (i am in the market for a new hairdresser). no call today. no tears either. no dancing yet, but there's plenty of time for that. so here's what i did for my (er, their) first day of school:

*volunteer work delivery. put my car in a loading zone (legally) and made a jaunt.

*pharmacy. i went in. no drive-thru necessary. popped in. popped out. done and done.

*car wash. do-it-yourself car wash. thankyouverymuch. i'm counting this as exercise bytheway. there are some arm lifts. swift movements. broke a sweat (it's hot).

*whole foods. i drank hot. i said hot. coffee. while sitting. down. what? seriously. i even read the acknowledgements of my dissertation. where THERE IS A TYPO IN THE FIRST SENTENCE. i am now sharing my most embarrassing fact of life with you, at this moment, here on this blog. i have a typo on the very first line of my dissertation. and they still gave me the degree. suckers.

*parking garage of school. hey, it was shady and cool. and sat in peace and had a lovely cellular telephone conversation with an old friend who i have been trying to talk to for 2 months of phone tag and when will i ever have time to talk to her? so nice.

for my next day of school i will be going to lunch with a friend to celebrate said friend's birthday. lunch during the week. in a restaurant. with no high chairs. i might throw my own food on the floor just to be wacky.

kind of makes you want to go back to school, no?

out of this world

do you remember the television show "out of this world" (circa 1988)? the main character was bi-alien (just made that up). her dad was an alien. her mom was a human. this girl, i forgot her name, could stop time by putting her two pointer fingers together (don't lie. you know you watched this and tried to put your fingers together to try and stop time). why am i talking about this ridiculous show that only myself and two other people (i'm assuming there were two out there) watched? because i now think this was reality television ahead of it's time. it. was. real. she. stopped. time. and that girl (i can't believe i don't remember her name because i remember random shit like this) is screwing with me. for some reason she feels the need to stop time between the hours of nap and dinner in my house. that's approximately 2.5 hours. so since it's stopped, thank you very much "evie" (had to look it up. it was bothering me) that feels like at least 14 hours. time is stopped in my house. but we're all still operating. and when i say operating, i mean bonkering (made up). maniacal (real word). seriously she is stopping time and only my toddlers and dog and i are forced to burn 14 hours in the span of real 2.5 hours. it's really ridiculous. R and C lose it. they're crankies. and why wouldn't they be? they've just slept for two hours. they've just eaten a delightful snack and consumed a frosty beverage. they have three rooms full of toys (venturously spilling into rooms 4 and 5). they even have a built-in playmate, besides their mother. and besides the dog. but. still. there's something squirrely about the hours between 3 pm (CST) and 5:30 pm (CST). and i will get to the bottom of it. damn. it. but for now i'm blaming her.

"i am now stopping time. for everyone in the universe except that little lady with the crazy twins and crazier dog. they will continue bonkering (oh now she's stealing my word too?) for hours and hours and hours. and hours and hours. BWAHAHA!"

p.s. robots and now aliens? what is this, some kind of a sci-fi freak phase?

this freaks me out.

i recently discovered this ad for a toy...

It’s 8pm, and your child is fighting sleep. Your throat is dry from reading, your mind a million miles away. “Tell me a story, Mama!” your child begs feelingly. You would pay ten million dollars to hire someone to tell that story so you could do something else.
So enlist the help of the Smart-e toys from Intellitoys, a line of plush animals pre-loaded with software that allows the Smart-e-Bear, Smart-e-Dog and Smart-e-Cat to sing songs, tell stories, play games, call your kid by name, even answer rudimentary questions. It’s like Teddy Ruxpin 2.0. When your child gets sick of the pre-loaded songs and stories, you can go online to get updates you choose. Will it be Goldilocks and the Three Bears tonight, or The Gingerbread Man? Who cares? You’re not the one who’s going to have to tell it!

is it like a robot replacement for parents? i can't wrap my head around it. i know sometimes i am sick of the same old books. even though we have 1,000. please please please don't make me read about hearing, seeing, smelling (etc.) the brown bear, brown bear. however. i'm not going to program a freaking robot to read it for me. i think i'll tough it out. and i would totally accept the ten mill to read it to someone else's kid even. it freaks. me. out. way out. and not in a good JJ fad way either.

this is what it looks like. in my mind.




and this is what the parents, who purchased this toy, look like. in my mind.
(p.s. i don't know these people)

one baby

today i told R she could only have one baby.
lately she has wanted to take her baby (vintage preemie girl cabbage patch kid circa 1982) in her crib with her for her nap. today, though, she wanted to take two babies (vintage preemie girl and boy cabbage patch kids circa 1982).

R walks over to her crib with one baby in each arm.

me: oh no sweetie, you can only have one baby.

hypocrit.