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*
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
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)
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.
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.
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.
Friday, June 15, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
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?
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?
Saturday, June 9, 2012
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.
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.
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