Binkeys Rule, Parents Drool

All hail the binkey

Reliever of woes
Grantor of serenity
Deliverer of peace
Giver of precious minutes to facebook-stalk old highschool friends and lady-scape the privates.

I don't know what kind of messed-up baby crack they put on those binkeys, but whatever it is, I need to buy stock in it.

Binkeys are amazing. They can turn your screaming, tomato-faced infant into a limp bag of happy baby in approximately 3.4 seconds. I could probably submerge the kids in a tub full of ice water and dead puppies, and as long as I shoved binkeys in their mouths, they wouldn't cry.

Personally, I don't quite see the appeal.
But there you have it - babies are weird. They're soothed by the oddest things, like being thwacked on the back repeatedly hard enough to dislodge a lung, or flying through the air in various swinging contraptions.
What's tantamount to an old-school beating or a roller coaster ride to us puts babies to sleep faster than a Nyquil cocktail with a Lunesta chaser.

Go Figure.

In other news, I almost microwaved a fork yesterday.
Not even with a plate of food or anything - just a lone fork.

I think I might have been preparing soup, but things were so hazy after getting scant amounts of sleep, I very well could have been readying a bowel of Windex. Not that the babies are up all night, but they're up often enough where REM sleep is a thing of the past. And without REM sleep, people do funny things.
Like remove a dirty diaper from a child and dress them without putting a new, clean diaper on, resulting in an impromptu pee party mid-feeding.
True story.

So I'm mildly concerned about my ability to effectively parent, but I figure if I endanger the kids, they really have nobody to blame but themselves. If they want better parenting, they should learn to sleep through the night.
Simple as that.

So that's the status in our household; very little sleep, and a general atmosphere of poor decision-making.
It's a lot like college, except now I'm the one cleaning up the vomit instead of producing it (which is - admittedly - a lot less fun, and gives me a new appreciation for the Rutgers janitorial staff). But, also like college, everybody is relatively unscathed at the end of the day, so I guess I'm doing an okay job.

The babies, however, seem a bit...underwhelmed...with my caretaker abilities. The looks they give me when I accidentally drop a poopy diaper on their heads or poke them in the eye with the bottle nipple suggest that they are 100% aware of what is required of a mother and I'm not making the cut.

They're like, Mom, can you please get your shit together?!?
And I'm like, I know, I know. Sorry about that.
And they're all, Didn't you learn how to do this before you took the test
And I'm all, Uhhh, well this is awkward. They actually don't make you take a test first
And they're all, Are you fucking kidding me?!?
And I'm all, 'Fraid not
And they're all, So any jerk-off can have kids?
And I'm all, Yep.

And then they roll their eyes and mutter something about how that explains everything.
Which is pretty rude, but what can I say? My kids can be assholes sometimes.

So in summary, it would appear that binkeys are better at parenting than I am, and my children have already learned how to curse through facial expressions.

And I think I speak for us all when I say this is not surprising in the least.

I Scream, You Scream

If you know you're a mom when you can ignore a little spit-up on your shirt, then you know you're an exhausted mom when you can ignore the fact that your kid just pissed on your jeans and continue to wear them for the next 3 days.

We're on week 2 of solo daytime parenting duty and I'll tell you - it's something else.
It's equal parts magical and suicide-inducing.
Like spotting a unicorn at a Barbra Streisand concert.

When they're both sleeping, it's awesome.
When one is awake and fussing, it's manageable. Almost cute, actually. I get to cram them into my Moby wrap and use it as an excuse for not cleaning the bathroom.
But when they're both awake and fussing, it's game over. I never, ever want to hear someone complain about how hard it is raising their single infant, because I swear to all that is holy, I will roundhouse kick them in the teeth Chuck Norris style. Because I'm pretty sure it was two children screaming simultaneously that caused the Heaven's Gate cult members to drink the Kool-Aid.


Today is one of those tandem fussy days.
Fantastic.
"And how," you might ask, "are you managing to blog if they're both incensed about the condition of their tummies?"

Easy.

I'm ignoring them.

Okay, I'm not so much ignoring them as acknowledging the fact that nothing I can do will help them feel better. So I can either choose to stare at them while they fuss and squirm and chant supportive phrases like "it's okay" and "I'm sorry you don't feel well" and direct them to the inspirational poster of the kitten dangling from the branch with the words Hang In There printed at the bottom...

...or

...I can wish them well, get a second cup of coffee, and let the interwebs take me away from this horrible, horrible place.

Don't worry - I'm checking on them. When they stop screaming, I hold a mirror under their noses to make sure they're still breathing. And I'm providing binkey retrieval services for a small fee, which I'm taking out of their college funds.

(Psych...AS IF we had college funds set up for the babies. It would totally cut into our beer fund.)

But I'm learning that with babies, a lot of the time, there's just nothing you can do.
They cry.
You cry.
Everybody cries.
And at the end of the day, everybody is still alive and relatively in one piece. Which is the ultimate goal of parenting, isn't it? To get through the day without death or dismemberment?

Some might call me a bad parent.
Negligent, if you will.

But I prefer to think of it as fatalistic parenting.
If there's nothing you can do about it, then there's no point in getting all worked up about it.
Plus, anyone who wants to judge is more than welcome to spend a day in my vomit and poop-covered shoes. If you're not this close to gouging your eyes out with a spoon after 2 hours of surround-sound screaming, I'll eat my words.

...and then offer you my kids, because you're obviously better at this than I am.

In Which I Explain Why You Might Find A Baby In My Clothes Dryer

I've been alone with the twins for 2 whole days while Brian returns to work. Well, 2 days once this day is over (which I'm sensing it will never, ever be).

Managing the twins has honestly not been that difficult. On a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is lounging by the pool and 10 is climbing Everest in flip flops, I give solo twin duty about a 6.5, which is honestly better than I expected going into this mess.

However, I'm finding that managing the twins AND life is more like an 8.4. I honestly have no idea why it took me nine and a half hours to shower, go to the bank, and do the dishes, but I'm assuming it has a lot to do with the endless feedings and changings that occur in between these activities.

Naturally, I'm becoming a bit...frazzled.

For example, I keep losing babies.
Well, not so much losing them as forgetting where I put them. A few days ago I glanced over into the kitchen and was absolutely shocked to find a baby, sitting in a bouncer on the counter top.
No joke.
Apparently I had put him there earlier while I was attempting to make dinner, and since he wasn't complaining, I kind of, sort of forgot he was there. I also was surprised to find that I spent about 5 minutes cooing and talking to a pile of blankets which I thought was Isaac yesterday. It wasn't - Isaac was later located in a bassinet in the living room. And I'm sure the blankets enjoyed the one-on-one attention, but seriously?!? Someone hand me an espresso and some blow, because I need to wake the fuck up before I find myself printing out Missing Child flyers and signing up my Diaper Genie for ballet lessons.
I'm hoping this happens to all parents (or at least parents of multiples), but if it doesn't, may I say in my defense that I have yet to find a baby in a truly inappropriate place, like that time I found that I had put the smoke detector in the fridge. So far, there have been no babies found in large appliances, so I figure that's kind of a win.

Go me.

I also keep confusing the babies for the dogs.
(I know, just when you had talked yourself out of an anonymous call to CPS, I go and drop that bomb)

I do this utterly disgusting thing where I pick at my dogs' eye boogies and then let them eat them.
(yeah, yeah, I'm a horrible person. Spare me your speech on animal cruelty and hygiene - I've already gotten it from my family and friends).
Well...apparently I tried to offer Simon one of his eye boogers the other night. It was only for like a split second, and then I realized that my children were NOT my dogs and therefore might not have a palate for eye crusties. Unfortunately, I received a look from Simon upon being offered his own eye gunk that suggests that he will remember this moment for years to come, so I can't say he's escaped completely unscathed from my horrible parenting.

And we're ONLY on day two, folks.

And then we were at the drive-through at the bank today, I was taken aback when I realized that they didn't include the dog biscuits that they usually enclose with the transaction receipt. For realz, I actually raised my hand up to hit the call button and request the treats...
...until I realized that it was because I had babies in the back seat, as opposed to dogs.

(It was right about then that I suspected that I was losing my mind)

I'm 83% sure that with a proper nights' sleep and maybe the daily assistance of an illegal immigrant, I would lose the babies less and stop mistaking them for Milo and Jericho.

That said, I'm not expecting a proper nights' sleep for the next..oh...15 years, and I can't afford help, even if I can get away with paying them a ridiculously low amount.

So, I guess I'm stuck with having to triple check that the babies aren't wearing dog collars...or that I haven't just tried to burp a pile of dirty laundry.

Chrisabaptismapalooza

This may come as a complete surprise to you folks, but I'm not a religious person.

I know - you're absolutely shocked. I'll give you a minute to collect your jaws from the floor.

Maybe I'd be a more religious person if I wasn't such a hardcore scientist.
Or if there was a religion that encouraged swearing and mud-wrestling.
Or if those communion wafers tasted better.
I dunno.

Oddly enough, I grew up in a religious household. From age 0 to 6-ish, I was practically raised in our community church. My dad was the choir director, and my mother was the secretary. We were, like, "the cool kids" of the church. We wore letterman jackets and gave lesser parishioners wedgies and swirlies. We gave other "popular" church-goers high-fives and drank 40s with them in the parking lot.

Okay - I might be exaggerating a little bit.
God generally frowns on wedgies (although I know for a fact that he is pro-high five).

But yeah, I was definitely raised Presbyterian for the early years of my life.

Which is weird, because my immediate family is now comprised of two athiests, a buddhist (Hi Em!), and a "meh, whatevs" (otherwise known as agnostic).

My husband's family, on the other hand, is Catholic. Especially his mom. She's extremely non-pushy about it, which I truly appreciate, but a mass-goer, nonetheless.
It hasn't really been an issue in the slightest..
...until now, what with us having chitlins and all.

The issue, of course, is the big C.
Or...B?
Christening? Baptism? I dunno - whichever one is Catholic.

The Holy Dunking, if you will.

Which of course leads to the age-old question:
Does one have one's children chriabaptimatizied for the sake of one's inlaws?

Normally, I would say Hellz To The No. I don't believe in Christianity and certainly don't intend on raising my children to be Christians. More importantly, I don't believe in compromising my religious beliefs (or lack thereof) for others.

But the thing is...if my mother-in-law truly believes that her grandchildren are going to go to hell because they were never sprinkled with holy water...
...well...
that's a pretty awful thing to have to come to terms with, whether it's actually going to happen or not.

So there's a good chance our children will be dunked.
Unfortunately, I have to be in attendance. Trust me - I looked it up. It's in the rules.
I'm also not allowed to roll my eyes during the ceremony or smoke a doobie behind the church beforehand.
(that's not in the rules, per se, but Brian assures me that it's a "given")

Apparently, I'm also supposed to throw a party afterwards. I mean, don't get me wrong - any excuse to get your cake on, right? But having to shell out money for a party for a religious ceremony that I don't believe in kind of rubs me the wrong way.
It's like saying "Hey, we just doused your kids in tap-water. Hooray! Feed us!!"

So that's where we stand at the moment. I have reluctantly agreed to allow a perfect stranger to spritz water in my kids' faces and feed everyone who wants to watch.

I've said it before and I'll say it again...religion is weird.

Dear Neighbor, *#$&% You

Dear Neighbor,

So, you've noticed I'm an animal lover.
That's fantastic.
Your powers of observation are impressive.

I am, indeed, a lover of all things fuzzy (or I thought I was before I moved in). Animals are great. My pets provide me with unconditional love, affection, and floor-cleaning services (I can't remember the last time I had to worry about dropping crumbs). They don't judge me or criticize me. They love me for who I am, and all they ask for in return is a little attention and regular feedings.

Well, except for our evil cat, who has asked for a pony for Christmas...to slaughter.
She may be getting anger management classes instead.

So it's 100% understandable why you would think that because I love animals, I welcome your pack of mangy, rabid he- and she-devil dogs racing across my property to assault me, my family, my pets, and any guests who might have the audacity of approaching my front door.

OF COURSE you wouldn't think to question whether or not I enjoy your dogs' extended visits to my front and back yard. I mean, who wouldn't love being barked at incessantly every time they leave or return to their house? Who wouldn't welcome watching as their dog flips out and tries to break through the living room window because there are several small dogs just on the other side, standing on the window box, aggressively screaming at the household inhabitants? Who wouldn't love having to wait 6 to 8 hours at a time to let their dogs out in the back yard because your pack of vicious animals are still outside and will charge the fence, teeth bared, if they happen to see any dogs on the other side?

Yes.
It's totally and completely understandable why you wouldn't stop and think for half a second that maybe your neighbors don't enjoy being aurally and physically assaulted on their own property by your gang of fluffy, shrieking canines.

Granted, you've taken steps to control these aggressive mutts. You mentioned the other day that you reduced the radius of your invisible fence from half-way across our property to your own property lines, or thereabouts (and may I congratulate you for finally realizing that your property does not extend past my master bedroom, bathroom, and office). Unfortunately, being that your dogs come straight from the bowels of Hell, they don't feel pain and - I'm not sure if you've noticed this - pay about as much attention to the invisible fence as they do to your demands to return to the house.

And speaking of your attempts to call off your intrusive little furballs...a word to the wise:
if your dogs haven't returned to you after 5 minutes of you standing barefoot on your porch, half-heartedly calling to them and shaking a box of dog treats, it's safe to say they're ignoring you and maybe you should put some shoes on your feet, drag your fat ass away from your front door, and come and retrieve your dogs before I drop-kick them on to route 70.

Understandably, you are confused about which types of animal interactions I enjoy.
So let's set the record straight.

Well behaved dogs who are happy to see other people and animals = good.
Aggressive dogs who charge and/or bite other people and animals = bad.

Dogs who remain on their own property = lovely.
Dogs who are left out unsupervised for hours on end to wander around, shit on, and piss on other peoples' property = not so great.

Dogs who allow my dogs to roam their backyard in peace = bombastic.
Dogs who throw themselves at my fence and shriek at me and my dogs any time we happen to be outside = srsly, WTF.

I hope these examples are clear enough. From your lack of reaction to my dirty looks and plaintive requests it's pretty obvious that you require less subtle forms of communication. And honestly, if you have any questions about what sorts of behaviors I find desirable, please don't hesitate to ask. I want to be sure that you're aware of exactly how much your dogs (and by association, you) are assholes.

In the meantime, please review my definitions of "good" and "bad" pet situations and compare them to the actions of your own satanic animals; I think you'll find more than a few similarities that may prompt you to take some drastic and unconventional approaches to dog ownership. Like, oh, say, fencing in your dogs. Or using a leash. Or (and I know this is kind of a crazy idea) supervising them when they're outside and retrieving them when they start to harass others.

By taking these extreme actions, I believe it's possible that maybe one day your pets and the rest of the world can live in harmony.

But if not, and you find that maybe - just maybe - you did such a poor job raising these dogs that they now are beyond hope and need to be put down...

...allow me to volunteer my services.
I have a duffel bag in the garage, a creek in my backyard, and my fees are reasonable.

Love,
Your (formerly) animal-loving neighbor.

I Heart Fall (An Ode To F-Bombs)

Everybody who knows me knows that fall is my absolute FAVORITE season. If I could, I would make tender love to it and then buy it a steak dinner afterwards. And not just a sizzler dinner. I'd spring for the Ruth's Chris steakhouse fillet. WITH APPETIZER and a shared dessert.
THAT is how much I love fall.

Also...everybody who knows me knows that cursing is near and dear to my heart. My boys' first words will probably be in the form of 4 letters, and I couldn't be more proud of that.

So when somebody combines fall and cursing, I start to schvitz a little. I get all warm and fuzzy and my outlook on life is a little less stabby.
My heart grows three sizes, and my shoes feel like they fit just right.


There is a man who shares my obsessions. He, too, feels that fall and cursing is a beautiful combination. He managed to capture the essence - the very marrow - of fall...with enough F-bombs to make me positively swoon.

So without further ado, allow me to present McSweeney's glorious ode to all things crisp and fall-like.

In my family, this prose is legendary (foul mouthed trash talk has a genetic component, apparently). We recite this composition every year, usually once we've consumed a healthy amount of Merlot and brazenly wielded sharp, pumpkin-carving tools (yes, in that order). And every year, I post this work of literary genius, hoping that somewhere out there, someone's day gets a little brighter just by reading it.

If you don't like cursing, you shouldn't read it. Of course, if you don't like cursing, then why are you reading my blog?!?
Also, if you don't like fall, you shouldn't click on the link or read my blog, mostly because I don't like you and you may or may not be the anti-christ.

Go ahead...close this web page and delete this link from your favorites list.
I'll wait.

For those of you who are still reading - those of you who obviously love cursing and/or fall - I salute you.

Now go get your motherf*cking asses over to McSweeney's page and help me celebrate everything that is wonderful in life.

Because the air is crisp, the mums are abloomin', and squirrels are slap-fighting over acorns.

It's fall, f*fuckers.

Baby Apocalypse: Day 7

It's been 7 days since both twins have been home, which will henceforth be referred to as la casa de caca, on account of the 16 diapers we blow through in an average 24-hour period.

These kids.
Oy.
How can something so cute and adorable and little and precious create so much poo?!?!
I'm not even mad...I'm just impressed.

Don't get me wrong - they're wonderful. They have the softest skin ever, and these teeny tiny little fingers, and these beautiful eyes and they make the funniest faces in life. But then, while they're staring up at you all quiet and beautiful and holding on to your index finger, and you're totally having a pampers commercial moment and thinking that life just couldn't get any better...
...
...they release explosive diarrhea that you can feel through the diaper.
Or they suddenly scrunch their face up and get all red and scream for no goddamn reason whatsoever.
Or they puke, without changing facial expressions at all. Just a sudden oozing of formula out of their face holes and holy crap on a stick, someone get me an old priest and a young priest!!

Feeding has been, by far, the biggest challenge. Feeding them one at a time takes up a huge chunk of the day. Like, literally one-third of my waking life - which is about 22 hours and change these days. Feeding them at the same time works famously if you have two sets of hands, but I refuse to get in the habit of depending on Brian for these things, because he'll be doing that whole "breadwinner" thing soon and I'll be largely on my own.
I tried feeding them at the same time by myself once.
It involved 2 boppys, 2 bottles, 2 hands (and I cannot stress enough that I only have 2 hands), and 2 screaming, sputtering infants that needed to be burped.
In other words, it was an EPIC FAIL, and both me and the carpet now suffer from PTSD.

But I guess trial and error is the cornerstone of parenting.
Well, that, and gin. Or whatever hard alcohol you happen to have lying around.

Kidding!
I'd never drink hard alcohol while actively parenting.
(Everybody knows I'm a beer and wine kinda gal)

But it's not all bad.
There are long periods of time when the kids sleep, and life feels relatively normal. Brian and I have our morning coffee. I blog and prowl facebook. Laundry occasionally gets washed, and I've even managed to squeeze in two glorious horseback riding sessions in exchange for two nights of Brian meeting his dad and brother at the bar for Happy Hour.

Of course, this is all about to change.
Again.
Brian is going back to work full time next week, and I'm supposed to start freelance writing again in December. What little downtime we have will be jam packed and we'll barely be able to breathe between juggling work and babies.
It seems like every time I get comfortable with life, the next few weeks promise to up the ante.
I suppose it's better than everything happening at once (which must feel like being dropped in the deep end of an olympic-sized pool with concrete shoes), but I'm terrified, none the less.

Shit is always about to get more real up in this joint.

But I'll survive, because I've yet to hear of a case of somebody dying from too much baby screaming.

So that's life right now.
Change diapers, feed, burp, repeat.
It's not bad - just different.

And now I'm off to catch a quick nap before the twins wake up and realize they haven't eaten in, like, two whole hours and flip their shit.

Baby mamma out.