Right now, my expression is pretty much a dead ringer for the right-most Easter chick. Brian looks more like the chick on the far left, only because he's been
FYI, my happy place is clean, uncluttered, and doesn't reek of farts. Not even a little. It's like a padded cell that smells like cinnamon buns.
Heaven.
It was one of those days where the high point of my parenting was when I managed a smile and praised one of my children instead of just sort of glazing over. The low point? We don't talk about the low points.
And of course, as is par for course on those days where the kids are hell-bent on making me regret my life choices, we always run out of milk.
GAME OVER.
The boys get about 90% of their calories from milk (the rest being from chicken nuggets and sandbox sand, of course). So without milk, I'm pretty sure they'll start withering away and by lunchtime someone will have called CPS on me.
So off to ShopRite we went, which is a lot harder than it sounds. Just getting my herd out of the car, across the parking lot, and into the store is a feat worthy of some sort of medal (or at least a solid high-five). The closest analogy I can come up with is putting several territorial, poorly socialized Saint Bernards in a canoe and telling you to paddle across a lake with them.
Tricky is an understatement.
And then when we're in the store.
Oye...the comments.
I mean, don't get me wrong. I enjoy a lot of the feedback that I get when I take my three-ring circus on the road. I love when people tell me that my children are beautiful and that I'm so lucky because occasionally (okay, like 99% of the time), I forget that they are and I am. Which is sad but I'm sorry, sometimes that message gets lost while I'm pulling raisins out of their noses.
And I love when people give me a sympathetic look and comment on how tired I must be. Because then I'm all "OMG, how did you know? You are a mind reader. You get me. We are totally connected. We are like soul sisters. Do you babysit? I can pay you in waffles..."
But I often get comments that fall into this third category. I call it the Do You Hear The Words That Are Coming Out Of Your Face?? category. These are the questions that are either two dumb to warrant answers or just so bizarre that I have no answers. For example:
1. Are they twins??
No. I can see how you'd be easily fooled into thinking they are twins, what with the similar features, identical height, and obvious equivalent age. But no, we just had two kids in quick succession and decided not to feed the first one until the other caught up. It sure has saved us a lot of money on groceries! We've already decided not to feed the baby until we get our fourth child!
2. Are they identical??
Depends on how you define identical. I personally define identical as originating from the same egg and therefore looking like carbon copies of each other. But if you define identical as having the same color and texture of hair and a similar wash of jean shorts....then yes. Yes, they are identical. Pay no attention to their faces. It'll only confuse you.
3. Aren't you glad you got your girl??
This could go either way. I could respond, Yes, thank god she was a girl, or we would have had to wrap her in a blanket and abandon her in the woods to be raised by badgers. Or I could say: No. I wanted a boy. I cried for days when I had her. Do you want her? Either way, I bet they'd regret asking.
4. Wow you must be busy. How do you do it??
There is no answer to this one. I want to say Well, get woken up at 6:00 am by children who need to be fed and clothed and played with and changed and supervised and fed again and changed again and entertained and kept safe and changed again and fed again and stimulated and bathed and changed again and fed again and put to sleep, but I'm pretty sure I'd lose them by the third changed again. And on bad days, I want to pour my heart out to them and tell them that I DON'T KNOW HOW I DO IT and I often worry that I'M NOT DOING IT RIGHT and I don't know how on earth I'll find the fortitude to WAKE UP AND DO IT AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN. I want to tell them that I need encouragement and support from them, even though we're strangers. That I'm so tired that I could lean on them and cry, even though we're strangers. That I'm so frazzled, I'd let them help me get the bags in the car and the kids in their seats, even though we're strangers. That, hell, I'd even let them come home with me and cook me dinner, even though we are complete and total strangers.
Of course, if you catch me on a good day and ask me that question, I'll just tell you it's easy and strut myself and my three angelic children back to the car as if we're walking on air. Because those days are so awesome I don't even mind getting asked stupid questions.
You'd think I'd be used to the dumb questions. They started when people, staring at my pregnant belly, found out I was having twins.
Oh, are they natural?
Well, why don't you pour yourself a glass of wine and sit back while I tell you the romantic story of how they were conceived with just me, my husband, my IVF doc, and a surgical staff of about 15.
I do understand, at least on some level, that I'm being persnickety and even...dare I say... a curmudgeon. OBVIOUSLY these people aren't as dumb as their questions would have you believe. After all, they're not walking around with their underwear on over their clothes, so clearly they have an IQ over 70 and therefore must understand the basics of reproduction and child rearing.
I guess I'm just tired and cranky.
Understandably so, after dedicating my life to raising my non-identical twins and the girl baby that I may or may not wish I had.
But a word to the wise. If you're going to ask stupid questions, be prepared for a stupid response. Or better yet, skip the questions alltogether and help that tired mamma get her three screaming banshee children into the van.
(I hear she pays in waffles)
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