Tuesday, September 30, 2014

I Didn't Choose the Mom Life...

I didn't choose the Mom Life, the Mom Life chose me.

Well, let me clarify:
I DID choose to be a mom. In fact, I spent a considerable amount of time, money, and energy trying to convince my eggs to get on board with the plan (which they were none too thrilled to be a part of, let me tell you)

What I did not choose was this lifestyle.

Rest assured, I was not one of those people who claimed that they would continue to travel/work towards career goals/exercise/otherwise continue life as normal despite the birth of a child or two. I wasn't naive enough to believe that the before and after picture would be mostly the same, save for some mussed hair and a trendy baby-wearing gadget.

I was naive enough, however, to believe that women who spent their days being their kids' personal assistant had somehow made a deliberate choice to live that way. I truly believed that they had overbooked their kids' lives to compensate for some emotional shortcoming. As if they were throwing themselves and their yoga pants at soccer games and preschool aid duties because they honestly had nothing better to do (besides face their own personal failures or whatever).

Babies: The best way to ignore your failing marriage and crippling debt since...uh...whenever babies and credit cards were invented. Like the 1950s? Yes. Since the 1950s.

So in that sense, I didn't so much choose the mom life as I walked in to it like a a mountaineer blindly walks off a cliff in the middle of a blizzard.

And here I am. Up to my elbows in preschool registration paperwork and physicals and IEP meetings. I have two children in two entirely different schools, each coming with their own class schedules and drop-off times and sign-up sheets and individual days where your children should be dressed in the color yellow because it's "Yellow Day" and IF YOU FORGET TO PUT A YELLOW SHIRT ON YOUR CHILD HE WILL BE ISOLATED AND RIDICULED AND SCARRED FOR LIFE AND HE WILL END UP BEING A SERIAL KILLER (If Dexter has taught us anything. Not that I plan on abandoning my children in a pool of blood but...red paint? Could happen.)

And the birthdays.
My god, the birthdays.

Three kids, three birthdays, three days. Truly, does it not sound like the pitch line of some reality TV show?

Oh, and my mother-in-law's birthday, which is conveniently sandwiched between the twins and the baby, destined to be hastily celebrated in the few moments we can scrape together between the festivities, eating left-over cake on Dora the Explorer plates, gathered under rumpled, sagging streamers, giving the same line year after year: "we didn't buy you a present this year, but what better gift could you receive than grandchildren? ENJOY YOUR STALE CAKE AND BE GRATEFUL FOR THE LITTLE MIRACLES THAT STAND BEFORE YOU."

The poor, poor woman.

So I'm party planning like a Mo Fo. And my inner Martha Stewart is all, "The centerpieces for the kids' party are charmingly home-made. Its obvious that you tried really hard to recreate the minions from Despicable Me" (because she is a passive-aggressive C-word). And suddenly I find myself standing in my living room, surrounded by shreds of ripped-up centerpieces, unable to recall the last 2 hours of my life, wearing rubber gloves and holding a mop and an extra-large jug of bleach.

At which point I realize that I might have overbooked myself, let alone the kids, and maybe attempting to create six intricate centerpieces for a kids party was not the best of ideas.

And then it's Wine O'Clock.

Which is proof that this so-called Mom Life will inevitably end in substance abuse and fugue states.
Which I would normally be down for, but someone has to get the kids to and from their individual preschools every day.

In conclusion:
- I might have perhaps misjudged soccer moms a teeny weeny bit. Yet again.
- Having all of my children in the first week of October was not ideal.
- My mother in law is a birthday saint/martyr.
- Centerpieces area bad idea. Always
- Fugue states should  be followed by wine. Always.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Cash, Credit, or Waffles?

Omg, you guys. What a day.

Right now, my expression is pretty much a dead ringer for the right-most Easter chick. Brian looks more like the chick on the far left, only because he's been screaming at managing the kids all evening while I shovel ice-cream into my face and mentally retreat into my happy place.

FYI, my happy place is clean, uncluttered, and doesn't reek of farts. Not even a little. It's like a padded cell that smells like cinnamon buns.

It was one of those days where the high point of my parenting was when I managed a smile and praised one of my children instead of just sort of glazing over. The low point? We don't talk about the low points.

And of course, as is par for course on those days where the kids are hell-bent on making me regret my life choices, we always run out of milk.

The boys get about 90% of their calories from milk (the rest being from chicken nuggets and sandbox sand, of course). So without milk, I'm pretty sure they'll start withering away and by lunchtime someone will have called CPS on me.

So off to ShopRite we went, which is a lot harder than it sounds. Just getting my herd out of the car, across the parking lot, and into the store is a feat worthy of some sort of medal (or at least a solid high-five). The closest analogy I can come up with is putting several territorial, poorly socialized Saint Bernards in a canoe and telling you to paddle across a lake with them.

Tricky is an understatement.

And then when we're in the store.
Oye...the comments.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I enjoy a lot of the feedback that I get when I take my three-ring circus on the road. I love when people tell me that my children are beautiful and that I'm so lucky because occasionally (okay, like 99% of the time), I forget that they are and I am. Which is sad but I'm sorry, sometimes that message gets lost while I'm pulling raisins out of their noses.

And I love when people give me a sympathetic look and comment on how tired I must be. Because then I'm all "OMG, how did you know? You are a mind reader. You get me. We are totally connected. We are like soul sisters. Do you babysit? I can pay you in waffles..."

But I often get comments that fall into this third category. I call it the Do You Hear The Words That Are Coming Out Of Your Face?? category. These are the questions that are either two dumb to warrant answers or just so bizarre that I have no answers. For example:

1. Are they twins??
No. I can see how you'd be easily fooled into thinking they are twins, what with the similar features, identical height, and obvious equivalent age. But no, we just had two kids in quick succession and decided not to feed the first one until the other caught up. It sure has saved us a lot of money on groceries! We've already decided not to feed the baby until we get our fourth child!

2. Are they identical??
Depends on how you define identical. I personally define identical as originating from the same egg and therefore looking like carbon copies of each other. But if you define identical as having the same color and texture of hair and a similar wash of jean shorts....then yes. Yes, they are identical. Pay no attention to their faces. It'll only confuse you.

3. Aren't you glad you got your girl??
This could go either way. I could respond, Yes, thank god she was a girl, or we would have had to wrap her in a blanket and abandon her in the woods to be raised by badgers. Or I could say: No. I wanted a boy. I cried for days when I had her. Do you want her? Either way, I bet they'd regret asking.

4. Wow you must be busy. How do you do it??
There is no answer to this one. I want to say Well, get woken up at 6:00 am by children who need to be fed and clothed and played with and changed and supervised and fed again and changed again and entertained and kept safe and changed again and fed again and stimulated and bathed and changed again and fed again and put to sleep, but I'm pretty sure I'd lose them by the third changed again. And on bad days, I want to pour my heart out to them and tell them that I DON'T KNOW HOW I DO IT and I often worry that I'M NOT DOING IT RIGHT and I don't know how on earth I'll find the fortitude to WAKE UP AND DO IT AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN. I want to tell them that I need encouragement and support from them, even though we're strangers. That I'm so tired that I could lean on them and cry, even though we're strangers. That I'm so frazzled, I'd let them help me get the bags in the car and the kids in their seats, even though we're strangers. That, hell, I'd even let them come home with me and cook me dinner, even though we are complete and total strangers.
Of course, if you catch me on a good day and ask me that question, I'll just tell you it's easy and strut myself and my three angelic children back to the car as if we're walking on air. Because those days are so awesome I don't even mind getting asked stupid questions.

You'd think I'd be used to the dumb questions. They started when people, staring at my pregnant belly, found out I was having twins.
Oh, are they natural?
Well, why don't you pour yourself a glass of wine and sit back while I tell you the romantic story of how they were conceived with just me, my husband, my IVF doc, and a surgical staff of about 15.

I do understand, at least on some level, that I'm being persnickety and even...dare I say... a curmudgeon. OBVIOUSLY these people aren't as dumb as their questions would have you believe. After all, they're not walking around with their underwear on over their clothes, so clearly they have an IQ over 70 and therefore must understand the basics of reproduction and child rearing.
I guess I'm just tired and cranky.
Understandably so, after dedicating my life to raising my non-identical twins and the girl baby that I may or may not wish I had.

But a word to the wise. If you're going to ask stupid questions, be prepared for a stupid response. Or better yet, skip the questions alltogether and help that tired mamma get her three screaming banshee children into the van.

(I hear she pays in waffles)

Friday, August 29, 2014

Creep Show

Q: What's worse than having a creeper for a kid?
A: Having two creepers for kids

So we all know how weird, gross, sometimes dangerous, and always insane kids are. I'm sure everyone among us has witnessed their over-the-top bizarre behavior, from public nudity to brutally honest conversation starters (or...enders, as the case may be. Nothing produces a recording-scratching, cricket-chirping silence like a child asking why you have an ugly mole on your face or pointing out how you like to pick your nose in the car).

My kids are no exception.
They're weird. Like, lets put some sand down our diapers and then pelvic thrust for a while just for fun weird.
So it didn't really phase me when Isaac dubbed himself Chancellor of Body Parts and decided to take a survey of what was under every shirt and skirt he encountered.
I mean, I get it.
He's a curious little monkey who wants to know what's up in there and who am I to squelch his inquisitiveness just because it breaks a few social rules?

So he's out there, exploring the nethers of close friends and family. He's looking up my sister's dress and I'm all, Awwww, he thinks he's people, and she's all could you please come over here and handle this?!?! And yeah, sometimes I'm holding him while talking to the UPS guy, not even registering that he has his hand down my shirt and is sort of waving it around (Isaac, not the UPS guy. This isn't Desperate Housewives, people).

But on a humiliation scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is Isaac sitting in a corner being neither seen nor heard, and 10 is him whipping out his little boy weenie in public and urinating on the closest pair of shoes, taking a peek at the female anatomy barely registers a 3. So I've been channeling my inner hippie and letting him have a looksee here and there.

But then I walk in on this scene:

And I'm all, THIS IS NOT OKAY, because he's checking out his sister's goods and she's smiling to beat the band, and last time I checked it is not 1932 and we are not living in Southern Appalachia, and GAAAAHHHH COULD YOU GUYS TAKE THE WEIRD LEVEL DOWN ABOUT SIX NOTCHES?!?!?
(but not before I grabbed my phone to take a pic because...yanno...precious memories are being made)
So I finally decide that maybe we should have the talk in which I explain how it's not okay to look up people's dresses. And he replies by pointing out how Milo is eating and Daddy wears shoes, and I realized the futility of the situation.
And then I look at Avery, knowing there is nothing I can do to prevent her from taking delight in being "aired out" as it were, and I just sigh and save the photo to my hard drive in the folder entitled PHOTOS TO SHOW FUTURE BOYFRIENDS AND GIRLFRIENDS.
Because if I can't prevent this creep show from happening, I can at least use it to embarrass the CRAP out of them later.

Monday, August 18, 2014

How To Poop In The Tub

So, you've decided to poop in the tub.
Pooping in the tub is an excellent way to further explore the weird stuff that comes out of your body that your parents never let you play with. With careful timing and execution, pooping in the tub can be a rewarding experience that can both educate and entertain the whole family. To maximize your tub-pooping experience, we've put together an easy, step-by-step guide that will have you  defecating mid-bath and reaping the benefits in no time!

Step 1: Hell No, We Won't Go (pt.1)
If you're lucky, your parents have not yet attempted to introduce you to the Nightmare Hole they call a "Potty." Count your blessings; a Potty is actually a wormhole that will vacuum suck you into an alternate universe full of sharks and strangers. For those less fortunate, your parents may be trying to convince you to sit on the Devil Pot to rid yourself of bodily fluids and solids. Don't be fooled by promises of candy or high fives in return for this act. There is a limited amount of poop in your body and if you release it into this Terrible Void it will be gone forever and there will be none left for the tub. Simply refuse the potty as per usual.

Step 2: Lights, Camera...
Your parents hate you and want to send you to Shark and Stranger Hell so they can stay up late and not share any of their dessert and jump on the bed in peace. They therefore are highly attuned to indicators that you are about to poop so they can put you on the Potty Suckage Device as soon as possible. It is important that you respond in the negative if they ask you if you have to poop. This can be in the form of a head shake, a verbal "no," or, when all else fails, a spontaneous conversation about trains. At this point, do not squirm, flex your abdominals, or do anything else outside your normal routine. Be aware that even staring off into space can be interpreted as poop readiness, and can prompt the initiation of a speedy Poop Action Plan, or PAP, from your parents. The PAP often involves the Potty and rarely involves the tub, so this action is not advised. Carry on as normal until you are placed in the tub

Step 3: Action
You are in the tub. Huzzah! Let 'er rip.

Step 4: There Is No I in TEAM
Once your parents have discovered that you have pooped the tub, they most likely responded with something akin to "IIIEEEEEEE!!" and removed you from the water post-haste. They are now faced with the task of managing you in all your wet, naked, glory, as well as disposing of the waste and scrubbing affected surfaces. At this point, it is a good idea to help with the clean up process. This can be achieved by attempts to touch and/or smear the wastematter with a toy, a square of toilet paper, or even your hand. Obtaining a bleach-based cleaner from the cabinet while your parents aren't looking is also useful. Just be sure to demonstrate utmost concern for the situation regardless of your clean-up tactic.

Step 5: Hell No, We Won't Go (pt.2)
At some point your parents, undoubtedly thanks to your efforts, will have removed all traces of poop from the tub and have refilled it with water. They will have muttered a dozen or more obscenities (take a mental note; these can be shouted the next time you're in a public space) and if you're lucky, they've ignored you long enough for you to make the most of Naked Time by peeing on the bathroom mat (an action they likely won't discover for days or weeks). They will now attempt to place you back in the tub for final sanitation. This is the perfect time and place to remember that you are actually terrified of your bodily waste and are therefore now terrified of the bathtub. Although you will most likely lose in the end, it is still important to fight your parents with all your strength as they struggle to reintroduce you to water. Screaming, kicking, and even biting are appropriate as long as your parents, who are frazzled and exhausted, are brought to tears.

At this point you have won, and you will probably be left to your own devices for a length of time while your parents, having now been pushed to their breaking point, either argue about some unrelated incident for the remainder of the evening or split a bottle of wine. You can rest easy tonight knowing that your parents are broken creatures who will never fully recover from this experience...which as well all know is your primary directive.

Friday, August 15, 2014

Avery the Asshole Baby

I called the baby an asshole today.
 It wasn't my proudest moment.

But I had just gotten the boys down for their nap, and just arranged my comfy down pillow on the couch, and was just about to enjoy a much earned snooze - which is essentially the eye in the category 5 hurricane that is my daily life...and she started crying.


So I sighed the weariest of sighs, dragged myself off the couch as if I had three times the mass of Neptune, childishly stomped into her room, and told her exactly what I thought of her.

Of course, she didn't seem to care, which is nice. And I don't think she'll remember my calling her an asshole, which is doubly nice. But it just goes to show that long-term sleep deprivation will cause even the most well-intentioned of mothers to resort to obscenities and name-calling once in a while.

It has been roughly 300 days since I've enjoyed an uninterrupted nights' sleep. Okay, I've had the occasional night when the planets aligned and The Divine Being, in all his glory, smiled upon us and granted us respite in the form of overnight babysitting. But in general, I haven't slept for more than a few hours in a row since October of last year.
Ten months, people.
Ten long months waking up to the baby crying.
Or the silhouette of Simon standing in our darkened hallway at 3:00 am like something out of a horror movie (and taking every ounce of effort in my body not to instinctively scream in fear and roundhouse kick him in the face as he slowly walks towards me like a devil child).

And speaking of horror movies coming to life...forgetting to close the kids' door (and subsequently not hearing it open in the middle of the night), and feeling the cat brush against my back as I lay sleeping, and going to swat her and feeling fingers instead.


Isaac almost lost his head that night.
And I almost lost my bowels.

(JK, guys, I totally lost my bowels)

But aside from those super fun Exorcist-meets-Children-of-the-Corn moments, nine times out of ten, its Avery the asshole baby who's waking me up.
Because she's hungry.
Or hot.
Or has a poopy diaper.
Or, I dunno, upset about systematic dissolution of the middle class or something.
And sometimes she goes back to sleep and that's it, but sometimes she wakes up every half hour for the entire night until I finally feed her face-hole because GOD FORBID she go four hours without eating.

I thought Simon was bad, because it took him 7 months to sleep through the night (between you and me, he's a bit of an asshole too). And the problem with that is once you get a non-sleeper (aka asshole) child, you hedge your bets and assume that the next child is guaranteed to sleep through the night at 3 weeks because you've earned it.

We humans are a ridiculous and illogical species.

If there was such a thing as Karma, my ex husband would be in jail and married to an inmate named "Big Jim"...which, last I checked, he is not.  And if there was such a thing as God, I'm pretty sure he's too tied up in the most recent round of Israel vs. Palestine Missile Toss to play SandMan to my asshole baby.

So, lacking Karma and the attention of a very busy God who may or may not be out of his depth in the middle east, I'm left to endure my own little white, middle-class, suburban struggle of sleep deprivation.

All I'm saying is, if I have to deal with first-world problems, can I at least get a Keurig up in here?!?

And somewhere out there, there's a jerk-face person (who was probably an asshole baby too) who's saying "But Lily, you wanted children more than anything. You made your bed, NOW LAY IN IT"

And to them, I want to say:
1. Excellent, if not exceedingly cruel, pun. My hat off to you sir. ...and
2. Go pound sand.
It is an honor and a privilege to be a mother and an honor and privilege to complain about my asshole kids. If you gave me the choice right now, as I'm dropping a mixture of espresso and Red Bull into my eye sockets, to go back and not have kids, I would refuse.
They are my light and my life. They are my world.
They just happen, at the moment, to be assholes.

I'm just calling it like I see it.

So I will continue to wake up every night until they all sleep soundly. Partially because it's an honor and privilege to be a mother, but mostly because I'm required by law to see to their needs.

And also, because I'm already preparing a series of blistering one-liners for when they call me, as parents, and complain about how sleep deprived they are because their asshole babies keep waking up.


Friday, August 1, 2014

Lost in Translation

You know what's making me tired lately?

Well...let me rephrase that.

You know what's making me tired lately, BEYOND THE FACT that I've usually changed 6 diapers by 10:00 am, and we use an average of 4 dishwasher loads of utensils and dinnerware per meal, and I spend the majority of my days breaking up spontaneous mosh pits while lugging around an 18-lb hunk of drooling, cranky, teething baby?

This "sort of talking but not really" nonsense.

I know, I know.
Every parent on the planet is happy to volunteer the ole' "you want them to talk, and then they start talking, and all you want them to do is shut up" gem. (and most of them think they're they ONLY person to come up with this bit of wisdom, god bless their overly-helpful souls). And I am fully aware that clear communication between children and their parents is generally an awful and terrible thing - full of "why??"s and, later, uncomfortable "birds and bees" talks, and what have you.

I am fully aware that there is a lot going on in those overly active brains, and I honestly want nothing to do with 99% of it.

But here's the thing:

When they're just babbling, you can ignore them.
And when they're talking, you can have discussions (or ignore them, depending on your parenting style).
But when they're sort of talking, you spend your days translating seemingly nonsensical terms into coherent requests and observations, mostly based on context rather than the actual noises coming out of their adorable little faces.

It's like traveling to a foreign country, where nothing anybody says is recognizable, and  you struggle to pull out words amongst the jibberish. Problem is, when one of these locals asks you a question that you don't understand, and you try to communicate your confusion, instead of nodding and walking away, they usually start screaming and attempt to slap you in the face. I've never been to France, but I can only imagine it's a lot like that. But with less cigarette smoking and more goldfish crackers.

By the end of the day, my brain is a puddle of mush from trying to distinguish between "car" and "air" and "careful"  and "cat" and lord knows what else. The consequences of misinterpretation range from mild frustration to full on body assaults and tantrums. Mistaking "drink" for "dish" is an act of war. Thinking they want peanut butter when they really want to tell you that they just went Pee Pee (thanks for the info, btw) could result in a roundhouse kick to the shin.

Sidenote: I have so many bruises that for a moment I was scared I was developing some sort of hematologic malignancy before I came to my senses and realized that I've essentially become the Wiley Coyote to their Road Runner.

Dear Boys:
I AM TIRED. Taking care of you and your sister takes a phenomenal amount of physical, mental, and emotional strength. I feed you. I comfort you. I kiss your boo-boos and I retrieve your binkeys and toys from the depths of the crusty, gritty, utterly disgusting couch. I clean your privates and cut your nails and watch horribly predictable and one dimensional cartoon shows over and over again because you love them. I do a lot for you. And all I ask is that you speak coherent words. Talking isn't that hard. I have over-enunciated until I'm blue in the face. Next time, pay attention. Figure out the difference between "M" and "N" and "Sh" and for the love of god, SPEAK ENGLISH. Or Spanish. I will learn Spanish for you if that's what you want to speak. Just speak already. I guarantee you, we will all get along a lot better (and mommy won't fantasize about buckling you into the minivan, putting on a DVD, and walking away for at least an hour).

The Articulate Pacifist...your mother.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

New Look, Same Ridiculousness

As you may have noticed, I've tweaked the blog.

I selected the Easter chicks with the wonkey eyes as a background picture, because I can only imagine that I look pretty much exactly the same after a hectic day with the kids. It was hard to decide between that and the picture of the very serious stack of dusty, worldy books and the other picture of the woman blowing dandelion tufts into a field at sunset.
And by hard, I mean ridiculously easy.
In the 3,000 some odd pictures that Google Blogger provided to encapsulate my entire existence, only a single picture - the chick with the wonky eyes - came close to hitting the mark.

I'm not sure if that's a loss for Google Blogger or for me, but there you have it.

I am once again attempting to become a regular blogger, after years of disasterously boring and infrequent posts. In a world where luxury is defined as the number of seconds (or dare I dream - minutes) where my personal space isn't being grossly invaded by dirty, screaming household natives, I don't exactly know where I'll find the time and energy to devote myself to anything other than crying and defensive maneuvers.

And I know you guys are all like, "Lily...seriously...c'mon" and rolling your eyes, because I've attempted this before, and it was always kind of a wash, and you're thinking, "well, she USED to be funny, but now it's getting sad." And I couldn't agree more.

Trust me. I'll be the first one to admit that my blog is a sad, sad thing.

But the children are always here, and growing vegetables is getting old, and honestly, if I don't find another way to express myself other than through butternut squash and dinosaur T-shirts, I might actually lose my mind.

So here we go.
Attempt nuber 3895730327 at breathing life into this sad, dusty blog.

Shall we do a status update?

Name: Mom, although I also go by "Mommy" and "Milk, Please"
Occupation: Safety and Nourishment officer. (I'm essentially a walking egg white)
Marital status: Married, although I have no idea how he's put up with me for this long
Number of children: Still 3. I'm sure it doesn't surprise you all, but somehow, on some level, I'm surprised. Like, really? You're still here? Okay, I suppose you want breakfast...
Pets: Two dogs, neither of which are particularly bright. And a Goddamn Cat.
General Physical Health: Malnourished, yet consistently 5-10 lbs heavier than before I had the third child. It boggles the mind.
General Mental Health: Pass.
Hobbies: Unloading the dishwasher. Growing weeds vegetables. Yoga! Mental disassociation from my physical state. Blogging?
Favorite Quote: Bob the Builder. Can we fix it? Bob the Builder. YES WE CAN!!
Household Status: Barely hanging on by a thread. The floor hasn't been swept in a week and swiffer wet-jetted in a month, the boys room smells like pee, and a huge branch came down in a storm three weeks ago and is still on our roof. Our house looks abandoned, inside and out. I've been wearing the same jeans for 5 days in a row, and my husband can't bend his head to the right because he has a stress knot the size of Long Island. I haven't seen the surface of my dining room table or changed my bed sheets since Memorial Day. I've prepared and consumed dinner exactly 8 times this year.  Our floor is a minefield of spit-up, toys, and hungry animals, and the baby's nails are so long they could probably cut glass.

But they are also wonderful.

The kids are - my life IS - intense and wonderful. (And dirty. And loud. And chaotic. And slightly cheesy-smelling)

I don't want you to think I'm unhappy.
Well, not big picture unhappy (although the small picture is giving me a run for my money). There are days when I laugh more than I cry, and those days are better than anything I could have ever imagined. They're 100% worth the days where I wake up to screaming and kicking and poop and demands for cookies and temper tantrums in the middle of ShopRite.
I promise, they are.
But I'm thinking, Hey, maybe blogging will help me work through those violent, poop-filled days a little better, so, like, maybe I won't lose my mind and my husband doesn't leave me for a woman who doesn't have Cheerios in her hair and wears matching outfits and make-up and adorable ballet flats.


Hooray for a fresh blog.
Hooray for wonky eyes.