Apparently They Were Just Getting Warmed Up

Oh heyyyy there blog.
I remember you.

I remember the days where I had the time and energy to tap out a witty commentary on the magic of motherhood whilst sipping my Merlot after the kids went down for  their 8th nap of the day.

I remember the days where the boys would just hang out, all strapped in to their bouncers, happily batting at a colorful, suspended whatnot while I bantered on about the "challenges" of being a parent which, at the time, measured up to me having to switch them from the swing to the playmat every few hours, lest they get bored and start to whimper in their teeny, tiny baby voices

I vaguely remember that there was a time when I had to mix up two bottles every 4 hours and, horror of horrors, plug the aforementioned bottles into their pie-holes for about 10 minutes while they sucked it down without a word.

Yanno...because they had no opinions about what they ate, as long as it was liquid and formula-y tasting.

In other words, I remember a time where I thought I had it rough.

pssshhhht.
Whatever.
Don't make me laugh.
Somewhere, the world's smallest violin is playing a sad, sad tune.

If you'll excuse my french, those days weren't shit compared to the screaming, eye poking, hair pulling, electrical cord yanking, curtain swinging, sock losing, toy stealing, "I'll do whatever I damn well please and if you try to feed me that carrot again, I'll SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS" days I have now.

HO-LEE GOD, people, I had no idea what was in store for me.

There I was, all motherhood is certainly a little challenging, but I love every minute of it and oh, I think the timer went off on the meatloaf I'm cooking for dinner. My how time flies when your kids sleep for 3 hours at a time and you're just SO BUSY getting the household chores done.

Little did I know, the things I was complaining about...the chores and the dinner preparing?
...turns out, they were LUXURIES.

That WHOLE TIME I was complaining about having to fit parenting and housework into a single day, I had no idea that it I was lucky to be able to do both. That one day I'd have to decide between getting a shower and making sure the children wear actual clothes and not pajamas all day. That I'd have to choose between feeding the children and feeding myself. That I'd go to bed and dream about having time to sort the mountain of clean laundry in our bedroom like teenage girls go to bed and dream about meeting some swarthy, misunderstood boy who reads poetry and smokes cloves.

*sigh
Until tomorrow night, balled up underwear and random socks...
Mi Amore...

But I've digressed.

Life, while still wonderful, is full of little people who express themselves through a series of howls, shrieks, screams, and (during my more successful parenting moments) laughs. Occasional laughs, mind you. I haven't exactly received my "Parent Of The Year" plaque, although they ARE still alive, which is rewarding in it's own way.
In any given day, there is much rolling of eyes and gnashing of teeth (all 8 of them). Mostly because I won't give them my iPhone or I insist on feeding them fruits and vegetables instead of cheerios and chocolate grahm crackers.
These kids usually know what they want, and when they don't get it...they cry.

Also, they cry when they don't know what they want. (You'd be surprised how often that happens).

Aaannd, they cry when they know what they want, get it, and then change their mind.

In other words, they cry. A lot.

But it's all part of the process of becoming people, I guess. You figure out what you DON'T want, and the rest sort of works itself out (especially if one is eating a chocolage graham cracker while this process occurs).

But.
I still wouldn't give it up for anything.
Not only because I love them and think they're possibly the coolest little people on the planet, but also because it gives me an excuse to let the house to go pot.

I kid.
Sort of.

It's just that it's so WILD to go from this little meatloaf, which just laid there and blinked at you from it's nest of swaddling, to this individual who has preferences and tastes and habits. Isaac loves grapes. Simon loves to clap. Isaac's scared of the dark, and Simon can't keep a sock on his left foot to save his life. Sure, it seems obvious, but watching your newborn turn in to a toddler is the equivalent of finding out your sofa and coffee table have been caught up in a scandalous love affair.

For realz, observing anything morph from a stationary, emotionless object to a multi-dimentional being is crazy-with-a-K.
And baffling.
And super entertaining (it helps if you don't get out much)

So that's my 12 month summary.
It's like 80% craziness and 20% suicidal and 100% wonderful in every way.

I'll try to check back in more frequently, but let's be honest, it probably aint gonna happen.
Stay tuned for another report...when the boys go off to college. Which is in all likelihood the next time I'll have a shower and a hot meal in the same day.

Game Over

Fuck, you guys.
Isaac is now crawling.
And it's not that I don't want him crawling, but yeah, he kind of called my bluff on the whole "parenting" thing. Upped the ante, if you will. He was all, oh yeah? You think you have this shit locked down? We'll see about that.

And yeah, I'm cursing again, because having a crawling 9-month-old is alot of stress, and it's either cursing or drinking, and I think we can all agree that dropping a few F bombs is preferable to throwing back a few scotches and taking the family on a Sunday drive.

Holla, 1950s

So my mom was all, well, what's your plan, and I was all, what plan? and she was all your plan for safeguarding the house and I was all I dunno, I guess I'll just follow him around and see what he gets in to and take it away from him before he electrocutes/burns/chokes himself.

And then I got that "I'm concerned about your parenting" look again, which is quite frankly getting a little old, but you know how it is with family: Up in arms every time your kid chews on an extension cord. Sheesh.

So Ike is crawling. Not totally crawling, but enough so when I put him down and go check the laundry, he's not there when I get back. Which is disconcerting, to say the least.

And then there's Simon....
Poor Simon, who would rather lay around than move, and sleep rather than be awake...
This kid is all about energy conservation.
The thing is, I get Simon.
He and I, we're on the same page.
We're like two very lazy peas in a pod. He lays on the floor and smiles at me, and I sit on the couch and smile back, and we're all very happy with this arrangement.
But then this other one comes crawling by, grabing Simon's toy and assaulting my coffee cup, wanting to do things and, between you and me, being a total buzz-kill. And I'm all like, Isaac, maybe you should just chill the fuck out for a second and he's all like either you let me go or I'll scream till the rafters come down, so I have no choice but to release him, and seconds later I've lost him under the couch.
Again.

It's quite a problem.

Playpens help to contain him.
Barely:

Like, woah, right?

This kid is nuts.

He totally takes after his father.
Brian is what us "low-energy" folks like to call...a spazz. He can work a 24 hour shift at the firehouse and then come home and BBQ up some mean dinner. WITH appetizers and cheesecake dessert. And while I fully appreciate his ability to be productive for DAYS on end, it totally mystifies me.

Because I'm the person equivalent of a sloth:
I'd be completely happy spending the rest of my life wedged into the crotch of a tree, chewing on a bamboo shoot.

So you'd think that a high-energy person like him and a low-energy person like me would make moderate-energy babies. Like the energizer bunny mating with a vacuum to create the Roomba.

What?
Whatever.

But no.
We have one kid who lays around like a lump on a log, and another kid who gets meth-eyes every time he's still for more than 30 seconds.

It's more than a little ridic.

I'm sure it'll work out in the end.
Simon and I will sit in the house and watch paint dry while Isaac and Brian go outside and do whatever it is that spazzes do...like run around in circles with their hands in the air or whatever.

But for now, I'm left watching this little crazy person, completely baffled by his desire to move around, and trying my best to keep up with him while he log-rolls down the basement steps.

Oy.

Nine Months. Introduce Choking Hazards Now.

9 months.
9 crazy, ridiculous, insane months.
It's been 9 months (well, 9.5 months) since the meatloaves were born.
In that time, I've seen heaven and met the devil himself (mostly in the form of explosive diarrhea).
I've been spit up on more times than the camel caretaker at the Philadelphia zoo, and I've spent more money on formula than I care to discuss.

In other words, it's been wild.

The boys had their 9 month check-up this past week. Thankfully, they're healthy, happy, and growing reasonably.
They're 16.5 and 17 lbs, which totally surprised me, because I figured, based on how tired my arms are at the end of the day, that they weighed about a metric ton each, give or take a few pounds. Isaac is still taller than Simon, and Simon still wins in the BMI department, mostly because he lays around like a lazy starfish while Ike bounces in his bouncer until he develops callouses on his toes (no joke, that kid is a crackhead).

At 9 months, suddenly, I'm supposed to give them food. Not baby food. Like, people food.

Awww, they think they're people!!

The pediatrician was rattling off all these foods to give them, and I'm all like, woah, wait a minute, I'm supposed to just stick that crap in their mouth? They don't even have TEEFS!! and the Pediatrician was like, it's fine, they always figure it out. They'll just gum stuff until it dissolves and they can swallow it. And I was all, what if they DON'T figure it out and she was like, its fine. Don't worry.
And I just kind of looked at her in awe and wondered about her malpractice insurance. Because up until this point, I'm pretty sure that anything that could fit in their mouth was considered a choaking hazard, but now suddenly it's just considered nutrition??

When the F* did that happen??

(yes, I said F* instead of the real deal, because I'm trying my hardest to curb the cursing now that the meatloaves are absorbing language. But rest assured, a small part of me dies every time I can't drop the F bomb. Being a parent is all about sacrifices, I guess)

So I went home and broke out this thing of toddler puffs that someone had given me, and I put one in each of their mouths...and then I hovered, waiting to sweep in and begin child CPR the minute they showed the least sign of distress.

But instead, they gave me a weird look, and worked the thing around in their toothless mouths, and then suddenly it was swallowed and they were smiling at me and grabbing for more.

WHAT?!?

The little dudes are becoming more like toddlers and less like babies every day. And while I'm supremely excited that they're on the verge of feeding themselves, a little part of me is sad, I guess, that they're growing up.
...not sad enough, though, to keep me from doing a victory dance that I will soon be able to slap a plate of food down in front of them and then go watch an episode of Ghost Hunters while they eat lunch.

Awesome-sauce.

So, while 9 months ago, my life exploded into a chaotic malestrom of vomit and diapers, today, I'm piecing it back together again. But now it's way better than it was before. Sure, there's still vomit and diapers. But there's also baby talk and curly hair and jack-o-lantern smiles that melt my heart. There's communication and a little bit of independence on all accounts. And sleep. I cannot stress enough how a full night's sleep has helped me reclaim my life.

So I guess this post wasn't very funny.
But that's okay, because being a parent often isn't very funny.
There are days when I'm too proud, too thankful, and too blessed to crack a joke. Because these little miracles of mine are not only surviving, but thriving.
And sure, I could try to make that funny.
But sometimes, I'd rather just be grateful.

So let's end it on that note.

Beer, Rollercoasters, and the Ravages of Time

Well, we had quite a weekend here at Slapstick Motherhood.

Because Brian and I love a good challenge, we decided to take the whole family (retarded dog included) out to Lancaster PA to see my In-Law's newly purchased house. The itinerary included such awesomeness as Beer Tasting! and Rollercoaster Riding! and Sleeping In The Same Room As Your Twin 9-month-olds!, which wasn't awesome so much as completely annoying and included much farting.

It was a (mostly) successful trip.

The beer tasting was fun. Sort of. Well, the beer was good. I particularly liked this one porter that Brian had procured for me. However, I'll never know how to get it, because when I asked who brewed it, my Father-In-Law (FIL) replied, "this is a pretty good ham sandwich" (there was food too), and Brian followed up with, "I sing way better than this dude; I should start a band" ...at which point I suspected that I'd be driving home.

I also learned that while beer makes most things supremely interesting, there are just some subjects that are beyond boring, even while slightly inebriated.

Read: Clocks.

The beer tasting was at a clock museum. In other words, a building full of rooms and rooms of clocks. Like, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling clocks. And while Brian and my FIL spent the better part of an hour fully absorbed in learning about the complete history of the clock, I considered the practicality of suicide.

Dude

I'm not saying that clocks aren't marvels of technology and completely vital to our society, but if I never see another grandfather clock again, it'll be too soon.

But then it was time to go (hooray!).
And the next day was Hershey Park Day.
And it was everything I hoped it would be.
(But not for Brian, who had partook in a little too much merriment at the beer tasting, and spent most of the day as a living coat rack for purses and what-have-you)

Especially since everyone warned me that since I am now considerably older than the last time I rode roller coasters, I might be unpleasantly surprised what the ravages of time might do to my 1) ability to withstand and 2) enjoyment of loop-de-loops and other such fun. 

But the warnings were (more or less) for naught, and I was (more or less) unscathed.

Well...
Except for this one rollercoaster that happened to be the second steepest drop in America and might have made me crap my pants a little. But in my defense, we must have watched 100+ cars go down that drop while waiting in line and not one...NOT ONE person screamed. Because it was THAT SCARY.
All you heard was the sound of nightmares coming to life and the ping of loose change as it fell out of the pockets of sweating, panicked riders.

And there was this other rollercoaster, which we happened to ride after the aforementioned rollercoaster, so our adrenaline was kind of tapped out, and we figured we had survived the worst, and then we were in the seats, considering how we were about to be rocketed to some ridiculously high MPH over some ridiculously short period of time, and then we were gonna shoot up some ridiculously steep and high track, and maybe we should have prepared ourselves a little.

And then I almost died.
For serious.

And after we staggered through the Exit, we though maybe we'd slow jam the park for a bit, which was not how I used to roll, but well, I'm 30, and apparently these things happen.

The next day, voices hoarse and backs stiff from the jostling, we headed home. But not before a stop in Amish Country, my homeland, where I rocked out Pennsylvania Dutch style and enjoyed some of the dishes of my childhood, and took pictures of horses...
Because I may have worked in a barn since the age of 8, but I CANNOT let a cart and buggy go without taking a picture, petting the horse, and daydreaming that the horse suddenly freaks out and I jump in and save the day, and everyone's all wow, what are the odds that a horse expert would be here to save us?? and I'm all yeah, I'm a trainer. I deal with crazy horses all the time, and everyone cheers and offers me pie.

(still waiting on that last part to happen. One day...)

So it was great to get out with the family.
And it was an excellent test run for when we drive down to South Carolina in a few weeks to visit my Brother-In-Law

And if you're thinking that A) an 11-hour drive down to SC with 9-month-olds is going to suck like nothing has ever sucked before, and B) that is A LOT of In-Law Family Time for a one-month period, I would say that I agree wholeheartedly, but you have to pick your battles, and once your husband allows you to purchase a $*ahemcough* horse, you don't have much of a leg to stand on.

In conclusion:
Beer is great.
Pennsylvania Dutch cooking is great.
Rollercoasters are also great, but as you get older, they also hurt.
Clocks are not great.
Ever.
Neither is sharing a room with your kids.

I hope you all have learned from my experiences.

Like a murdering, junkie Mary Poppins

You know what I love?
Having to blog with a cat shoving her hind feet (claws out) into my derriere because she thinks we share joint custody of my office chair.
Hey, Diabetes Breath, you're on thin ice as it is, so perhaps you could remove your feet from my ass and go make me a sandwich before we decide to have you put down.

But my loathing for this cat that's not the point of this post; just an aside.

Moving on....

I want to talk to you about what's in my purse.

Because LORD KNOWS I've had some strange things in my purse.

Like this one time, when I reached into my purse and pulled out this knife that I had never seen before.
No joke.
I was all, how did THIS get in here?? and Brian was all, why are you carrying knives around in your purse like a creeper? and I was all I didn't put this knife in my purse. It's not even OURS. Look, it doesn't match our set and Brian was all ...woah and I was all...woah
At which time I concluded that some psycho killer lunatic slipped his murder weapon into my purse while I was out shopping or buying a latte or something.
Creepy.
And what's worse, we took it home and started USING it!! Because it was serrated and super sharp and way better than our dull crap K-mart knives.
I mean, I washed it first. But what kind of family uses some mystery killer lunatic murder weapon to cut their ciabatta bread for panini night??
THIS family does.
Which is why we're awesome.

And then this other time, when I asked Brian to go in my purse and grab a pen, and he pulled out a hypodermic needle, which ironically WAS mine this time. Granted, it was for infertility stuff and NOT to get a quick lunchtime fix, but I'm sure it still looked strage to the good people of TD Bank.

I believe it was around this time that Brian was convinced that I was booby trapping my purse, and next time he put his hand in there it'd come out with a bear trap around it. So now he's afraid to go within 3 feet of my adorable Vera Wang bag, which I find hilarious.

(Also, if I could get him to go in there again, I daydream of rigging it so a boxing glove springs out and punches him in the face. Now THAT would be funny)

But now, *sigh* I'm a mom. So I can't walk around with murder weapons, needles, or pop-out boxing gloves in my purse.

However, I find that being a mom lends to it's own ridiculousness in terms of purse contents. Sure, there's the occasional binkey, diaper, or clean (or dirty) bib. Sometimes there's a toy or burp cloth. Once in a while, it's a sock. (Always alone, without its mate)

But this last time, I found something particularly special in my purse:
the contents of my son's stomach.

While they both spit up regularly, Simon is a pro at spitting up at inappropriate times, and on inappropriate things. I don't hand him off to others without a a warning and a blanket to mop up what might come out. Many a time, I've been holding him and talking to someone, only to hear a *splat* and feel warm vomit dripping between my toes. But it would appear that one time he managed to get his spit-up INSIDE my purse, without me even realizing it.
Cut to hours (or days), later, when I reached in my purse to get a handful of sticky, slightly soggy, slightly stiff purse liner.

Gross.
Super gross.
Blech.

So I guess I can add that to the list of weird stuff that's been in my purse.
Personally, I think I'd prefer a boxing glove on a spring to vomit, only because rigged boxing gloves won't leave the stain (and the smell) that vomit leaves. Also because quite frankly I paid more for that purse than I did to conceive my children, and if I had to choose between the kids and the purse, it'd be a closer call than I care to discuss.

But yes. Simon puked in my Vera Wang bag.
Match, Set, Game.

I'm sure Mary Poppins didn't have to put up with that shit.

Public Access

Ooh, man.
Days like today I wish I had two baby swings.
Or two nannies.
Or two stiff drinks.
Or, if all else fails, a gun with two bullets.

No, not for the children (you horrible, horrible person)

Two bullets: one for me, and one for Milo.
Because I plan on burying him with me when I die. Pharoh style. AWWW SHIT.
That's right, Milo, you and I are going to be traveling into the next world together. Don't worry - I'll pack a lunch. Because I know it's going to take forever to get there with you having to sniff and/or pee on something every 2 seconds. I can't wait.

It's one of those go-to-the-bathroom-with-the-door-open kind of days because their neediness trumps any sense of privacy (or dignity) I might have.

BTW, Heads up on the whole "going to the bathroom with the door open" thing:
Always check the time first.
Because if you don't, you might suddenly hear your husband arriving home from work, forcing you to make a mad dash for the bathroom door so that the aura of mystery that surrounds you at all times remains intact

Read: girls don't poop.


Another fun fact about going to the bathroom with the door open:
Pets see it as an invitation for snuggle time.

I'm all Milo, Eff off (because I'm trying not curse as much), and he's all why? and I'm all because I'm INDISPOSED at the moment, and he's all, you look okay to me, you're just sitting there, and I'm all it's complicated, just leave me alone okay,  and he's all but you're just SITTING there. Why can't you pet me? and I'm all MILO I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON'T GET OUT OF HERE IN 3 SECONDS I'M GOING TO BEAT THE BRINDLE OFF OF YOU, and he's all okay, okay, jesus, calm the fuck down (because he doesn't care about cursing in front of the babies). I'm leaving already.

It's weird, going to the bathroom in front of people.
Everybody seems to draw a line in the proverbial sand, as it were, when it comes to bathroom openness.

For example, I had no problem peeing in front of my college roommates. Or my ex husband. But husband #2? To put it bluntly, I'd rather hold my pee inside of me until I develop some kind of massive kidney infection, and then my kidneys explode pee inside of me, and it leaks out of my eyeballs, and children run screaming from me yelling, "she's peeing out of her EYES" and I'm forever referred to as The Eye Pisser, rather than pee in front of Brian.

But I have lots of friends who pee in front of their significant others, so maybe I'm the one with the problem.

It's just that, I guess I kind of feel like it opens the floodgates to a whole bunch of private (and gross) behaviors that are suddenly expected to go public access, if yanno what I'm saying.

Like, one day I'm peeing in front of my spouse, and the next thing I know, I'm chewing on my toenails in bed and only shaving my legs on our anniversary and using crystals instead of real deodorant because it's "all natural" and I don't want to pollute my body with harsh chemicals, but really I just smell like BO all the time.

It's hard, trying to maintain your allure as a wife when you're elbows deep in 8-month-olds. Because, let's face it, your husband saw you immediately post-C-section, when your nethers were swollen and bruised, and the stomach that recently encased two babies was hanging over your pelvis like a sad, partially deflated balloon, and your body was sweating out hormones, and you hadn't showered in 36 hours.
And you think back to that first date, where you made sure your hair looked perfect and you smelled like a sexy flower, and it's kind of like, well, there goes THAT.

But the amazing thing about the human brain is that it can block out traumatic, painful events. So I can only hope that Brian has forgotten what I looked (and smelled) like post-C-section.

Hence: I don't go to the bathroom with the door open.

But where were we? One of those days where I need two bullets/martinis/what-have you?
Right.
Well, yeah. It's been a crazy day. But they're sleeping now, so it's all good.

*And that's how I turn a blog that's supposed to be about parenting into a platform for me to rant about bathroom behaviors*

Texts From Last Night: Family Style

As proof that my children's first words will probably consist of 4 letters, allow me to submit "Exhibit A" in the form of a text conversation I had with my mother the other night after she left my house:

Mom: Did I leave my damn eggplant there?

Me: Dunno. What was it packaged in?

Mom: Yell
Mom: Ow sjoprite bag. I think i peft it outside on the table
Mom: Sorry i get sonsick of goingmback and correcting everhthing on thismpiecemofshit pu
Mom: E
Mom: Phone

Me: That might have been the best god dam text series I ever received

Mom: Fucking phone

Yeah, we might need to work on that before the kids start talking.

First-world problems

I got first-world problems, yo.

First-world problems: problems that one encounters only while inhabiting a first-world country (as opposed to a second- or third-world country)

Seriously, you all know about how my horse fell in the pool a few weeks ago. And for the record, the horse isn't used as a mode of transportation. Or to help grow food. Or, yanno, to eat. My PURELY RECREATIONAL horse fell in my trainer's IN GROUND, CHLORINATED pool that he DOES NOT USE FOR DRINKING WATER.

Thank GOODNESS he's okay, or his injuries could have affected his future dressage career.  <------ Side note: WTF is up with this font?!? Why is it in Courier when I've repeatedly tried to put it back to the default font?!? ANOTHER first-world problem!!!

My front window is rotted and about to fall out. If I had to fix it myself, I suppose it would be a second-world problem. And if by "window" I really meant a bunch of clear plastic coke bottles tied together with old shoe laces, that would constitute a third-world problem. But it's made of glass, and I have a guy named "Mitch" coming out to look at it, so it's all good.

PS, they don't make guys named "Mitch" in third-world countries.

Did I mention it's about to rot out because of termites? Termites are a first-world problem because only in first-world countries do we exterminate them rather than cohabitate with (or, once again, eat) them.

My air conditioner isn't working great. That's a first-world problem. My laptop also fried last weekend and I had to drive ALL THE WAY to Best Buy to get a new one, even though it was in the opposite direction of the drive-up ATM at my bank, which, BTW, was broken so I had to go INTO the bank to get money to pay for my new laptop.

Say it with me....first-world problems

My sunroom is being held up by two-by-fours. That's a second-world problem. Or a first-world problem if you live in the Deep South.

You can have first-world baby problems, too.
Like, when you miss the deadline for the "Baby Swim" class sign-up at your local YMCA. Or when they're out of organic apples at the Shop Rite and you have to use regular apples to make baby food.

Or when the kid gets a fever...
From all those vaccines he or she just received.

OTHER WAYS IN WHICH MY LIFE COULD BE MUCH, MUCH WORSE:

My (first-world) problem: My goat cheese went moldy
Second-world style: My goat is old and stopped making milk
Third-world horror: My goat just died and now I may not make it though the winter

My (first-world) problem: My Ipad is impossible to type on
Second-world style: I'm having a hard time obtaining a piece of paper and a pencil
Third-world horror: I never learned to write. And my goat just died.

My (first-world) problem: Identity theft
Second-world style: Being held up at gunpoint in the middle of the day.
Third-world horror: Being held up at gunpoint in the middle of the day. By a cop.

My (first-world) problem: My prozac prescription needs a refill
Second-world style: I could really use an antibiotic
Third-world horror: The only tree that cures this rash died in the 10-year drought we just had. Oh, and also, I'm thirsty. 

Please don't think I'm making fun of less fortunate individuals. I'm not on a high horse or anything (Yes pun absolutely intended. Bask in its magnificence).
Quite the opposite - I've BEEN to third-world countries. I've seen Brazillian ghettos (from the safety of my air-conditioned bus). I've given shoes to kids who had never worn shoes before. And I'm not bragging about those experiences, like oh, look at me, I'm so well traveled, and I have so much WORLD EXPERIENCE, and I don't buy things made in Indonesia anymore because seeing those sweat shops really OPENED MY EYES to the horrors of child labor, and oh, your shoes are made out of LEATHER? *fake, judgmental smile*

On the contrary. I'm making fun of myself, because for all the bitching and moaning that I do, it's important to remember that what seems like problems to you and me are NOTHING compared to what some people are going through.

Still, in a world that's damn near perfect, those little things can really get under your skin.

Fortunately, we have Prozac for that.

My current-day-self is sloppy. Get over it.

So here's the thing:

Just because I WANT to blog again and kinda, sorta have the time to blog again, doesn't mean that I have the MATERIAL to blog again.

I know you all must think that raising twins is glamorous and full of hysterical stories about poop and tequila shots, but it turns out that parenting is 99% about routine.

Monotinous, mind-numbing routine.

They eat. They poop. They sleep. They cry. Every once in a while, they laugh (and thank goodness for that or parenting would be an exercise in futility).

Lather, rinse, repeat, and you have a day in the life of Lily.

And there's the 8:00 beer(s), which occurs because they finally went to sleep and I'm wound tighter than my cat when she spots my foot moving under the covers.

And I'm sorry guys, but I drink more now, on average, than I did before I got myself pregnant.
Because I have grown-up problems now, like termites and a shotty air conditioner, whereas before I had young adult problems, like overbooking my weekend and splattering chili-infused oil on my new D&G top while trying to cook a gourmet dinner for my husband.

On a Tuesday.

These days I'm really feeling my age. Not my NUMERICAL age, but my LIFESTYLE age. Which begs the question:
If you spent your day boiling butter-nut squash and getting an oil change, exactly how old are you??

Call it a mini-life crisis, I guess. My inner self is struggling with the fact that low-rise jeans, jello shots, and radical hair colors are no longer acceptable. Not that I ever acted particularly "young" (and at this point I distinctly remember asking my college roommates if we could please go home, because it was almost midnight and I had to take my delicates out of the washer), but there's nothing like a pair of adorable yet screeming twins to remind you that if your 22-year-old self was walking down the street and passed your current-day self, your 22-year-old self would probably notice how shabby and tired and (let's be honest) a little sloppy your current-day self looks. Like maybe your current-day self should make an effort to straight-iron her hair and maybe put on a shirt that accentuates the boobage and doesn't have spit-up on the shoulder. And maybe a tic-tac. Because your current-day self probably forgot to brush her teefs that morning.

you get the idea...

So it appears that I lost the point of this post. Or maybe I never had one.
Whatever.
My current-day self needs to lose the bra and grab a beer.
My 22-year-old self might not approve, but screw her. She's got 99 problems...and none of them are real.

Broke-de-broke

This is the blog in which I explain to my children why they won't be going to college because my new horse likes to celebrate the shit out of Memorial Day.

But I should probably back up.

I bought a new horse about a month ago. Now for the record, this isn't just a horse horse. This is a fuck you, see you at the Olympics sucka horse. I won't get into his breeding and confirmation and all that jazz because 99.9% of you will glaze over and start thinking about lunch, but let's just put it layman's terms and say he's pretty.

Unfortunately, a fuck you, see you at the Olympics sucka horse typically comes with a hefty price tag. And while I got a tremendous deal on account that he was essentially unbroke, handing over the check for him still made me all kinds of sweaty under the armpits.

Now, because my timing is amazing, I managed to find this horse about a week after we had just replaced our old boiler and hot water heater. And for those of you who have never replaced a boiler and hot water heater, let me tell you...it's the adult equivalent of when you were 5 years old and someone hands you an ice cream cone and then some jerk teenager walks by and wacks it out of your hand and it lands on the sidewalk, and then a dog comes by and pees on it.

CONFUSION, HORROR, AND THE FEELING THAT YOU JUST GOT SCREWED.
That's what you feel when you get the bill for a new hot water heater and boiler.

So let's do the math:

     New water heater/boiler
 +  New fuck you, see you at the Olympics sucka horse
    ______________________________________________
    coke-and-hooker-binge broke

So here I am, with hot water and an awesome new horse and (this is key, here) NO MONEY, and what does my new fuck you, see you at the Olympics sucka horse do?

He says fuck you, it's Memorial Day, see you in the POOL sucka.

That's right. My uber-expensive new mount breaks OUT of his pasture and INTO the pool area over Memorial Day weekend, wherein he immediately strolls onto the pool cover and breaks through.

In the end, the horse is okay, and that's what matters. But the pool is not okay.
Not in the least.
And now this coke-and-hooker-binge broke woman has to come up with the funds to help fix the pool.
Which I partially did....until my laptop did a specacular Shakesperian stage death (complete with woeful monologue) over the weekend, and I was all yo, get up, it's time to work, and it was all, no, and I was all, c'mon, I'm serious, and it was all so am I, and I was all are you kidding me?? and it was all no, this is for realz, bitch. I'm out.

*sigh

So now I have a new water heater and boiler, a new fuck you, see you at the Olympics sucka horse, a new laptop, and EVEN MORE no money. Like, negative money. I went from coke-and-hooker-binge broke to hit-yo'-family-up-for-bail-money broke.

Classy.

So this is why my children will not be going to college. But on the upside, they have as much hot water as they could want and a new horse to ride. And they can have this laptop when they turn 18.

ALMOST as good as a college degree, right?

I'm back. Or tripping on acid. Whatever.

I don't know if I'm actually BACK back, or just VISITING back. After all, saying I'm BACK back would be like Frodo vanquishing the giant spider and then saying, phew, thank god THAT'S over. I'm sure the worst is behind me.
Right, Frodo.
I'm sure the rest of the road to Mt. Doom is lined with IHOPs and those walking conveyer belts they have at airports.
Good luck with that.

Parenting, thus far, has kind of been like a well-planned-out acid trip that goes horribly, tragically wrong. You buy a couple of black lights and cover everything with bubble wrap and fill the fridge with orange juice (or is that for Ecstasy? Whatevs). Then you drop your tab and you're all like, woo-hoo, this is gonna be AWESOME! I can't WAIT to tell my coworkers about this on Monday after the staff update meeting and bagel buffet. I'm so edgy!

After an undetermined length of time, you come to to find your house filled with roaming chickens, old Chinese take-out boxes, a shady guy sleeping on your couch, and a mysterious green foam coating everything. You're not sure what exactly happened, but you know it was was definitely not cool, and your mouth tastes like stainless steel and shame.

Thus, I have emerged from the 8-month-mark, squinting, bedraggled, hung-over, and confused. I don't know what day it is, nor am I wearing pants.

But I am here. And that counts for something.
*solidarity fist pump*

So where do we stand with the meatloaves?
Well, as far as I can tell, there are still two of them.
At 8 months, they weigh about 34925830283037 pounds and are long enough to smack both their heels and their heads on either end of the changing table. They log-roll as a form of locomotion, and they sit up long enough for me to take a picture before they crash over sideways and hit their heads on the ground while I'm trying to post the picture to Facebook. They eat (and spit) pureed food. They require baths every other day. They mostly sleep through the night, and they get bored by 8:30 am and want to do stuff, like go to the park, or yank my hair until they scalp me. If we don't? They cry. They also cry when they're hungry. Or tired. Or awake. Or breathing. Or not breathing. (They cry a lot). But it's not that newborn instinctual cry.
No.
It's a purposeful, get-your-ass-over-here-right-this-minute-and-bring-a-new-toy-or-so-help-me-god-you'll-wish-you-were-deaf cry. And then, when I've fed them or given them a toy, they do the "I'm watching you" two-finger-eye-point and stare me down until I pretend I heard the clothes dryer go off so I can quickly exit the room and escape their devil eyes..

In other words, they're in charge.

But as much as I joke, it's been the most wonderful 8 months of my life. I have yet to experience anything so satisfying as nurturing my children. EVEN WHEN they're beating the crap out of me because they're sleepy but think that sleeping = death, and they WILL NOT go gentle into that good night.
Turns out I'd rather be smacked around by my children than go back to the 9-to-5 life.

Well, actually, it turns out I'd rather be smacked around by ANYBODY than go back to the 9-to-5 life. But we already knew that.

So that's where we stand. Hopefully this post will herald my triumphant return to the blogging world, but I have this sneaking suspicion that the boys are about to crawl, and if they do, ALL BETS ARE OFF.

But for now?
Let's bask in the possibility that I might have gotten my shit together. Let's pretend that my house is clean, my laundry is folded, and my brand new horse HASN'T been recently rescued from my trainer's pool (another story for another day). Let's pretend that I'm so utterly on top of things that I have nothing better to do than blog.

Yeah.
Feels good.
Breathe it in.

Aaaahhh.

The Little Things

I'm sure you all thought I was dead, buried in a pile of diapers as high as Mount Washington that collapsed when the sound waves of the boys' screaming produced an avalanche of massive and smelly proportions.

Well rest assured, I'm not dead.
It's just that the boys used to do this adorable thing where you could feed them into a coma and then put them down, where they would inevitably sleep for a few hours.

Now that they're bigger, they eat, and want to, like, do stuff.

They're all, "hey Mom, we're gonna try to figure out how to work our hands for a while. Want to get in on this?"
And I'm all, "Nah, thanks, I'm actually gonna try to get some work done."
And they're all, "Are you sure? Because we each have, like, a bunch of fingers and it's totally cool when they move around. See? Plus they taste good.
And I'm all, "I'm sure they do, but really, I have stuff I have to get done"
And they're all, "well, okay, but don't go too far. Simon's going to try to eat his foot in about 5 minutes and he's probably going to cry when it doesn't work. Like...a lot."
And I'm all, *sigh*

But I can't really complain. They suddenly figured out that night is for sleeping, and have slept for 6 or 7 hours straight the past few nights.
It's glorious.
I always thought the most exciting day in my life was the day I got married (either time), or the day I bought my first horse, or my first trip to Disney World, or something like that. Turns out the most exciting day in my life involved me, my tempurpedic, and suddenly waking up, looking at the clock, and realizing we were an hour past the normal feeding time.
YESSSSS *fist pump*

In other news, now that I'm more rested and the boys are ever-so-slightly on a schedule, I've suddenly looked around for the first time in 4 months and realized that my house is a DISASTER. And everyone who knows me knows that I've set the bar pretty low when it comes to homestead organization. But when you're looking around your living room and it's strewn with clothes, baby equipment, dirty bottles, and what may or may not be a possum living under your coffee table, you realize that maybe it's time to take the house back.

I've started small.
I finally replaced our comforter. Which doesn't seem like a big deal, until I explain that the comforter were were using up until last week had actually been used to cover and transport a piece of furniture from Brian's parents' house to ours. They left the comforter, saying that we could probably use it as a drop cloth or something.
It ended up on our bed.

Disgusting, I know.
We're animals.

I also got a napkin holder for the table.

It's the little things in life, people.

It's funny how once you have kids, you suddenly realize you're an adult. And this realization comes with all these little unexpected reactions, like buying life insurance. And keeping on top of the laundry. And obtaining a napkin holder for the table.
Did I mention it holds napkins upright and keeps them clean of the crumbs that tend to accumulate on dining surfaces?
So Cool.

I also ended up with my first pair of mom jeans, although in my defense, I needed a pair of flannel-lined work pants for the barn, and these types of pants only come with a 3-foot-long front zipper. S0 while my barn jeans may come up to my ribs, I'm also warm up to my ribs, which is preferable to being cold down to my fashionably low waistline.

So as we round the final turn to our 4 month mark, I'd say that things are looking up. The boys are sleeping, and I'm making a concerted effort to be a grown up, as opposed to a raggedy 20-something who uses ratty, hand-me-down comforters and lets their napkins lay on the table to collect crumbs and dust, and allows their barely-covered midsection to go cold in the name of fashion.

And while I hope I don't continue to mentally age at such an alarming rate, admitting that I'm 30 and that it's okay to care about my house and forego fashion for warmth once in a while is probably a step in the right direction.

After all, I'm a mom.

Maybe I should start acting like one.

Spirit of OMFG Please Stop Giving Me Outdated Advice

I'm sure everyone either has, had, or knows of a grandparent like my grandmother.

My grandmom is about a million years old. She's tough as nails, having survived multiple wars, economic depressions, and several occasions where she thought it'd be fine to just take the car for a drive, despite the fact that she doesn't have a license and can barely reach the pedals. She distrusts doctors and most non-European races (especially Puerto-Ricans, or "the PRs," as she loves to say. And then she does high kicks and snaps her fingers and plots to overthrow The Sharks). She gets confused when I tell her I'll call her from the grocery store (until she assumes they must have a payphone) and she's pretty sure my iPad was developed by the Russians. Or Aliens.

In other words, she's from another era.

Cranky and evil-spirited as she can be, she loves my boys. She truly does. But with this love comes a form of parenting that leaves me in wonder and amazement that my mother survived to create the next generation. Of course, this started when the boys were still in utero, and she berated me severely for sitting with crossed legs.

Because everyone knows that if you cross your legs you'll kill your unborn children.

Of course, I tried to explain to her that we have this thing now called science, which has pretty much confirmed that I can cross my legs and breathe easy that my fetuses are doing the same. But then she started going off on how all doctors are quacks and how most don't even have medical degrees (I know - don't get me started). So in the end, I uncrossed my legs, and made a mental note not to wear a skirt to her house again.

She also thinks that every time the kids move, they have gas. When my husband came home and Simon turned his head in the direction of the front door, Gramdmom declared that Simon had gas and I should try burping him.
The thing is - every time I burp the kids in front of her, she's convinced that I'm beating them to death.
Listen - I took a course in Burping 101 from the NICU nurses, and if you think I hit them hard, you should SEE the beating they administered to my 3-pound children in the name of gas liberation. It was like a Rhianna and Chris Brown reunion

What? Too soon?

But of course, try telling that to Grandmom.

So I patted them gently to release the gas they didn't have. And Grandmom heaved a sigh of relief that I wasn't killing her great-grandchildren.

Our most recent episode of Guess Which Century I Was Born In played out two nights ago when I told Grandmom that Isaac was teething. Explaining that I put something on his gums to help with the pain, she suddenly burst out, "Oh they still have Spirits of Nitre?"

...*awkward pause*...


And I'm like OMFG, here we go again.

So I say, "No, Grandmom, it's called Baby Orajel."
And she goes on (as if I hadn't even said anything), "All you do is turn the bottle over so you get a little on your finger, and then you rub their gums."
So I repeat myself (louder, because she's more than a tad hard of hearing), "NO, GRANDMOM, IT'S CALLED BABY ORAJEL. IT COMES IN THESE PRE-MEASURED COTTON SWABS. SEE?"

And I hold up the packet, which she squints at, frowns, and then mutters, "well, just make sure it's safe for the babies. It doesn't look safe."

And while I'm sure Spirits of Nitre was probably made out of formaldehyde and asbestos and mercury, and was just as likely to make you blind, deaf, and dumb as numb your gums, there's just no point in explaining the modern processes of the FDA to her. So I simply said "OKAY" and we moved on to more benign subjects, like how the PRs are ruining the country.

*sigh*

Of course, back in the day, giving your children substances that were more likely to harm them than help them was considered giving them character. I suppose it was a form of natural selection, where only kids who could survive food poisoning, exposure to toxic substances, and being hit with a belt for speaking at the dinner table survived.

And while I've been told that, for a new parent, I'm very relaxed with my kids (which seems to be mostly a good thing, provided they don't have any unforeseen allergies or immune issues), even I have some trepidation giving them any medications that have the words "spirit" or "tincture" or "essence" in the name.

But again, this is probably due to the fact that I was born in 1982 instead of 1882.

So while I love my Grandmom, let's just say that she won't be babysitting for me anytime soon. Natural Selection aside, I'm just not prepared to give my kids that kind of character.

Yes, I refer to it as "number twosies"

I think I hit a new low yesterday when I went number twosies with a child strapped to me in a Baby Bjorn because he was sleeping (finally!) and I dared not disturb him.

(I, however, was deeply disturbed by the experience)

It's amazing what one will do when one is left alone with two 3-month-olds day after day after day. It's like some sort of twisted Survivor, where instead of being on an island you're trapped in the house, and the challenges involve epic dirty diapers and diabetic cats and blind binkey searches, and the immunity idol is really just an ice-cold Magic Hat #9 that you would literally kill someone to obtain.

I'm not proud to admit that I have during one or more occasions encouraged Ike to suck his thumb because if I had to retrieve that G-D binkie one more time, I was going to lose my mind. I know I will sorely regret this when I see the bill for his braces 13 years for now, but at the time, it always seems like a good (if not desperate) solution to an ongoing problem.

I've also watched more junk TV than I care to admit. Hey, I feed babies for an hour at a time, every four hours, around the clock. It's not only boring, but if I haven't had enough sleep, it's coma-inducing. If I'm not being entertained, I'll often doze off. Or daydream about all the cool things I USED to be able to do before I had kids. Either way - very dangerous. So I watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians and Say Yes To The Dress and My Fair Wedding to keep from dropping babies or falling into a pit of despair. I also watch a healthy amount of Celebrity Ghost Stories, but I'm not going to put that show in the same categories as the others, because Celebrity Ghost Stories rocks. Of course, it also has me jumping at every noise and imagining that my bathroom is inhabited by a "shadow person," but I'd rather be hallucinating evil things in my house than watching them on TV while they bicker and drive around in fancy cars and kiss their famous basketball-playing husbands while stroking their perfect hair. *shudder*

I've also, unfortunately, broken the cardinal rule of parenting by just. letting. them. cry. Sometimes, (and this is a rare occasion) I just don't have it in me to deal with them. Every once in a while, after an endless night of getting up every 20 minutes to deal with this or that baby crisis, I just can't deal. (and BTW, these kids are about as dramatic as the Kardashians about what constitutes a "crisis," and for the record, being slightly hungry or scuffing your Manolo Blahniks does not.)
Maybe I'm a shitty parent.
Maybe I'm a hypocrite working so hard to have children and then not being able to manage them 100% of the time.
I dunno (and at this point in my life, I don't really care).
But there have been times where they been left in their cribs to whimper while I closed the door to my bedroom and went to my happy place for 5 minutes or so.

Hopefully, they won't be scarred for life. From the neglect OR being witness to my bodily functions. And personally, I AM scarred for life from having these kids. But isn't that part of being a parent? Earning your scars? Surviving the low points? Being able to say "when they were babies..." while rolling your eyes to the heavens because you were there and you survived to tell the tale?

Of course, there are high points as well. And boy, they are SO WORTH the struggles. But only a parent would deprive themselves of sleep and sign up for endless diaper duty in exchange for a smile, no matter how miraculous that smile may be.

So this post isn't going to end on a funny note. Because while there are a lot of emotions that go into parenting, humor is vastly overshadowed by the simultaneous pain and pleasure of raising your kids.

I have no regrets. And I have more joy in my life than I ever dared to dream of. But I also have poopy diapers and screaming fits and all the day-to-day realities of child rearing. So you'll have to excuse me if I sometimes slip and lament my position instead of enjoy it. Because while having children is the best thing I've ever done...it's also, BY FAR, the hardest.

And sometimes, you just need a Magic Hat #9 at the end of the day, if you're going to survive the night.

Bribery and Denial

Well, that was a nice break.

After 12 nervous breakdowns, 11 bins of paper recycling, 10 baby temper tantrums, 9...well, you get the idea...we can successfully check Babies' First Christmas off the ole' milestones list.

Some parts of it were great. Turns out you can get away with damn near anything if you have twin infants. Like not cleaning the house before you throw a 13-person holiday party. And expecting the party-goers to bring all the food and drinks and hold/feed your children. And taking a nap in the middle of it all

And the baby outfits, of course, were delicious.

But the boys decided to party for 3 days straight, refusing to sleep for 12 hours at a time and then spending the nights in a state of sleep-deprived mania that led to copious amounts of fussing and more than episode of gratuitous parent begging and bribing. Turns out my children either have impeccable moral standards...or have yet to pick up on the subtleties of a good "extra bottle of formula" bribe.

So we survived the holidays. Hip Hip Hooray.

The boys also turned 3 months old a few days ago. And I'm embarrassed to admit that I thought that by 3 months, they'd be able to do more. Like sleep through the night. And hold their own bottles. And detail my Ford Focus. Okay, maybe not detail my car, but honestly, you've been alive for 3 months and you have yet to figure out how to hold a bottle to your mouth?!? That's kind of ridic.
And my mom's all, "well, they've been GROWING, and that takes a lot of work."
And I'm all, "well, detailing my own car takes a lot of work too, but you don't see me asking Brian to put my scotch in a sippy cup."
And then my mom looks me straight in the eyes with that I'm concerned about your parenting skills look and asks me how I've been holding up.
Whatevs.
All I know is that they'd better be sorting their own laundry by the age of 2, or I'm selling them to the circus.

Other fine points of parenting:
Before one freaks out over a potential child injury, one should inquire if one's spouse has been eating hot sauce.
Yes, those red spots all over your baby's onesie could be blood...or it could be the Louisiana Volcano Sauce that your husband holds near and dear to his heart.
Know the difference, people.

In other news, I re-homed my wonderful horse, Mikey. Turns out there's little point in paying for a horse you never use. Also turns out that Mikey's kind of a slacker and prefers lessons with little girls than the rigorous training schedule I had him on.
Go figure.
So he fell in love with a pair of girls (twins, ironically) who were leasing him over the winter, and I decided that the only thing dumber than paying for a horse you never use is paying for a horse you never use who is also a two-timing bastard who falls in love with someone else and suddenly treats you like yesterday's hay.
I kid.
I have nothing but love for that big galumf.
But because I love him, I decided to let him go. It was the right thing to do.
And I am in NO WAY looking for another horse.
Nope.
Not at all.
So if anybody knows of a reasonably priced jumper prospect, DO NOT tell me, because I'm NOT interested in possibly coming out to take a look at him.
No sir.
Not in a million years.

(call me)

So I've got a couple of 3 month olds that are GROWING (if not appropriately versed in hand-to-mouth motor skills), and a husband who likes to use them as hand wipes. We've survived the Holidays and our first 3 months together. I like them, and despite that I've resorted to tying the binkie to their heads with an old backpacking bandana (I'm not even lying about this), they still seem to like me.

I guess at this point, that's all that a new mom could ask for.