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.