Sometimes KIDS Know Best

I realize that I’ve pretty much done nothing but moan and groan over the past two weeks with the hubby being out of town for so frickin’ long.  Can I help it, though, if my fairy godmother decided to go off on a bender and that the shadow of doom chose to make my household its bitch?  No, unfortunately, I cannot.  Surprisingly, however, there HAVE been two small incidents that brought about a much-needed smile across my tired, weary face.  When you’re at the end of your very frayed rope, little things mean a lot.

A couple of nights ago during bath time when I was on the verge of running off to join the circus, my son must have somehow sensed my desperation.  The dog had just chewed up my favorite slippers, the dirty laundry looked like Mount Kilimanjaro, and I had refereed more than my fair share of fights for the day.  So when I saw that my daughter had then turned the tub into a damn wave pool, I had no other choice but to begin my transformation into Mean Mommy.  My lid was just about to flip when I felt a little pair of arms envelop me from behind like a warm blanket.  I glanced over my shoulder to see my amazingly perceptive little guy smiling sweetly at me as if to say that everything was gonna be alright.  Just that teensy tiny little hug was all I needed to get me through the rest of that long day.

And maybe it’s a twin thing because my daughter, too, must have had a feeling that Mama was at her breaking point.  It was after yet another nerve-racking afternoon that she holed herself up with some paper and crayons and forbade me from entering the room.  She claimed that she was working on a surprise for me that was “super duper top secret.”  I grumbled about the wreck of a mess that had taken over the kitchen and struggled to keep my heavy eyelids open.  All I wanted to do was to crawl into bed and forget about all the madness of my frickin’ world.  And that’s exactly the point that my angelic little girl presented me with this:

I “fink” it was just what I needed to snap me out of my funk.

Kids really are amazing, aren’t they?!

Keepin’ The Romance Alive

When you’re married with children, it’s damn freaking hard to find alone time to spend together.  The kids and their continuous needs inevitably take top priority.  And trying to keep that spark alive isn’t the easiest task in the world when your spawn are always lurking over your shoulder, trying like hell to blow out the fire.  Take, for instance, our anniversary.  Now in a perfect soap opera world, my husband would’ve whisked me away for a romantic weekend on some remote tropical island to celebrate our 14 years of wedded bliss together, right?  Unfortunately, though, we don’t live in the fictional town of Port Charles, so there was certainly no whisking and absolutely nothing tropical about our monumental moment.

The night of our actual anniversary was unfortunately spent in a hot, crowded room with a boatload of other over-stressed parents, registering my daughter for the travel soccer team.  Real idyllic, huh?  I’d seen my husband for a total of thirty seconds throughout the entire day, and it was only prior to the meeting as we raced by each other on my way out the door.  The timing of the whole thing didn’t even allow us to eat dinner together.  I’d had to shove down some food with the kids and left him a plate of pasta on the counter.  We were holding out hope that maybe, JUST MAYBE, we’d steal some time together after finally getting the kids to bed.

Regrettably, though, our children have decided to boycott sleep these days.  Just when we think we have the all-clear, a little body pops up on the stairs, which is exactly what kind of scenario played out on the night of June 8.  Somebody was hungry; somebody was thirsty; somebody had a sore throat; somebody was scared; somebody had to poop — on and freaking on until I literally started threatening alien abductions to anyone who dared get out of bed again.  And wouldn’t you know that by the time we FINALLY heard the last peep outta the twinkies, I glanced over to find my hubby sawing some serious logs on the couch.  So much for romance.

Luckily, we were eventually able to escape for a quick sushi dinner together last night after my son’s baseball game.  We sat outside and even had < gasp! > an uninterrupted conversation!  Naturally, though, this blissful state of mind was poo-pooed the very moment we stepped through the front door of our house and heard the babysitter negotiating with the little vampires upstairs who were supposed to have been asleep by then.  I seriously think we may have to start hooking up in the car like a couple of teenagers in high school to avoid the inevitable interference from the shorties.  So if the wheels are a rockin’, please, for the love of God, don’t come a knockin’!!!!

In The Doghouse

It never ceases to amaze me how little it takes to entertain my kids.  Be it a plain old cardboard box or an empty freaking roll of toilet paper, and they’ll go to town with it for hours on end.  Lately, though, it seems they’ve decided that the dog crate is where the party’s at.

Now I have no earthly idea what first possessed my son to decide to crawl into the crate, but it’s surprisingly become an everyday ritual.  He plays video games, bounces rubber balls, and basically just chills out in there.  He’s also talked his twin sister into joining him in the dog’s den from time to time.  And if I call and call and can’t find him anywhere in the house?  Well, I’ve learned the hard way that I’ll more than likely discover that he’s hiding in the damn crate.  And would you believe the boy even attempted to hold a playdate in there?  Luckily, though, his friend wasn’t really down with the whole idea.  I ended up having to draw the line the other night at naked chilling in the crate, however.  A freshly showered kid in the buff most certainly does NOT belong in the 4×3 stank of the pooch.

And the dog isn’t really sure just what the hell to make of this new-found craze.  He stares at the kids through the bars like he’s been burglarized or something.  I’m sure he’s confused to shit about this sudden interest in his little lair.  The kids must have sensed his uneasiness because I heard them discussing whether or not they should make reservations with the pup in the future.

Now you’re probably thinking that I’ve just discovered the secret to success since my children are happily entering a lockable box out of their own free will, right?  And if I moved the crate in front of the t.v., well then I’d have THE definition of a live-in babysitter.  Slip some food in through the cracks, and voila!  Believe you me, I’ve thought long and hard about this and the many potential benefits it could produce.  Unfortunately, though, my children like to talk.  And I don’t think it would go over so well at school if they told their teachers that they spent the night in the dog crate.

Mother’s Day Recap

I wish every day could be Mother’s Day so my kids would behave and give me cute drawings that tell me they love me all day long. They were literally bursting at the seams to FINALLY be able to give me their “All About Mom” books they’d made for me in school. The first page was a portrait of me that, while sweet, left me a little disappointed at just how unattractive I apparently look to them. Check out my ORANGE bedhead hair and freakishly short legs in my daughter’s drawing. Supposedly, I’m the chick in the purple “tank top”:

And then there’s my son’s drawing of me in which he proclaimed that I have blond hair (it’s actually brown) and blue eyes (also brown). It seems I also have snowman arms and a REALLY long torso. He was thorough enough to include a height chart to show that I’m “about five feet tall“:

I also received love “coupons,” good for things like “a hug” and “a kiss,” and I even accidentally got another kid’s coupon from my daughter’s class that’s good for a “window cleaning,” which I’m totally planning on cashing in. I mean, I’m sure her mom won’t mind, right? My favorite thing I learned yesterday by far was that my son said his mom loves him because “she gives me a quarter if I eat my whole sandwich“. Yep, I wrote the book on parenting, alright.

This Is What It’s All About

For weeks now, my twins have been trying to kill me. They pop up out of nowhere LONG after I think they must be sound asleep at night and scare the living beejesus out of me. I kid you not, I’ve literally almost passed out from the shock of a little body appearing on the staircase when I least expect it.

And for the friggin’ life of me, I can’t understand why these children aren’t dragging ass by the time bedtime rolls around. I mean, good Lord, I’m practically crawling from room to room by that point in the day — how can they possibly be bouncing off every damn wall in the house? Are they snorting pixie sticks behind my back or something? And it certainly doesn’t help that they each have their own little angles they try and work to delay their much needed zzz’s for as long as they possibly can.

The daughter’s shtick is that she “just can’t go to sleep“. (Horseshit, I know.) We’re constantly walking her back to her bed and suggesting that she count sheep or sing a song or count backwards from 100. She moans and she groans until she finally just wears herself out.

And then there’s my son who always claims to have the late night munchies every stinkin‘ night. If he were a teenager, I swear I’d be ripping apart his room to search for his hidden stash of pot. But given the fact that he’s only seven, we’ve figured out that this is simply his version of a stall tactic. The little dude’s figured out that this excuse makes us second guess our parenting skills and wonder if the child’s getting enough to eat in order to grow. (Pretty smart, actually.) Unfortunately, though, he wore this thing out WEEKS ago, and we’re not buying what he’s selling anymore.

The frustration over this nighttime circus routine has been building now for a while, and last night, when the anti-sleep games had reached an all-time annoying high, I was two steps away from pulling out the old duct tape and making damn good and sure everyone stayed in their mother flippin’ beds. My legs had had it with going up and down the stairs to tuck people back into their rightful places. The steam was pouring out my ears as I made one final trek to the second floor to really light a fire under someone’s ass. I was just about to go ape-shit when my eyes fell upon this sign hanging outside my son’s bedroom door:

And just like that, my heart melted into a thousand tiny little pieces.

Happy 7th!

There was a point in time when I wondered if I’d EVER become a mom. I prayed about it, I cried about it, and on April 19, 2003, I FINALLY got my wish. I can hardly even believe it, but my babies made their grand entrance to this crazy world seven years ago today. True to form, though, the stubborn little shorties had to be practically forced out of me, whether they liked it or not.

When a VERY pregnant woman is carrying not one but TWO babies in her massive torpedo belly and decides that it’s time for them to get the hell outta dodge, well, it’s best just to agree with every freaking thing she says and go along with the program. But when I started labor pains two days prior to my twins’ actual birthday, things were not really working according to my plans. My husband rushed me over to the hospital when my contractions were five minutes apart, only to be told that I wasn’t dilated enough. The nurse actually had the nerve to suggest that I waddle my Humpty Dumpty ass down the halls to try to kickstart things along a little more. I walked those damn hospital halls all friggin’ night long and about spit fire out my mouth when they sent me home at 6:00 the next morning to wait it out. If my husband would’ve let me steamroll the yahoo that discharged me, I would’ve done it in a heartbeat.

Nevertheless, though, I went home, bound and determined to get those kids out of me, somehow, someway. So, I dragged my husband out on a VERY long-winded walk throughout the neighborhood, and sure enough, my water broke thirty minutes after we got home. (Like I said earlier, you don’t mess with a determined mama of multiples!) We went back to the hospital, and eighteen pain-filled hours later, my world got a whole lot nucking futtier. We went from a family of two to a family of four just like that.

And seven years later, I could not be more proud to be the mama of such amazing kids. My daughter constantly amazes me with her kindness and ability to say “please” and “thank you” without even the slightest reminder, and my son blows me away when he holds doors open for complete strangers out in public. There’s not a day that goes by when they don’t make me laugh out loud or smile to myself. Sure they make me want to pull my arm hairs out one by one at times, but overall, I wouldn’t trade a single second with these incredible little beings. Happy 7th birthday to the two coolest people on the planet!!!!

My Funnyspoon Post

A great friend of mine from college contacted me a while back about being a guest blogger on her website.  She was always one of my absolute favorite people from my college days, and I was more than happy to contribute to anything that she’d put her stamp on.  Everybody say hello to Carrie:  

Carrie is a GORGEOUS mother of two wee ones and is one of the co-creators of an awesome cooking site called Funnyspoon.com.  Her site provides quick and easy recipes that aren’t a total pain in the ass to make.  In fact, their motto is “Seriously tasty. Seriously Easy.  Seriously Simple Cooking.” One of the things I really love about them is that they give you ideas for healthy dishes that don’t require you to run out and buy 10,000 different ingredients.  Many of them start with things you already have right at home in your very own kitchen.  I highly encourage you to spend some time on Carrie’s site — your dinner table AND your tummy will love you long time!

For my guest post, I told Carrie all about my challenge of getting my twins to try new and different dishes, as well as getting everyone to actually enjoy a meal all together. She provided me with some great feedback and suggestions that I will be guinea pigging with my family in the near future.  Check it out by clicking here:  Groundhog Day? Again?

A Dad’s Perspective

So recently I began following this guy on Twitter who not only has his hands full with a toddler going through his terrible twos, but he and his wife also gave birth to boy/girl twins in January of this year.  (Yeah, I know, sucks to be him, right?)  Because the infant stage of my own little twinkies’ upbringing is pretty much a blur of a memory, I have been finding his sleep-deprived humor more than just a little funny.  His Twitter name is @havingtwinsnow and you can follow his hilarious blog by clicking on this picture:

I asked @havingtwinsnow if he would write a guest post for my blog, so he could shed some light on the insanity that’s an inevitable part of being thrown into the world of twin parenting.  I thought it would be a cool switch to see a male’s perspective on trying like hell to juggle everything.  And good God almighty, did he ever deliver.  Here’s what his brilliantly crazy brain came up with:

HOW TO SHUT ‘EM UP

Pretty much the first thing you notice as a new parent of multiples is that you are now the center of attention wherever you are in public.  And if you weren’t aware of your awesome powers, wipe the sleep out of your eyes, the puke from your shoulder and the dried puke from your cheeks that was put there from the wet puke on your shoulder which you’ve learned to ignore unless you can feel it actually ooze down your arm. With great medical, food and diaper bills comes great fucking responsibility!

How? You ask. I have no clue. But here is at least one situation that while completely ridiculous, will state the ignorance of some upright humans while allowing for a few laughs from everyone else.

When you are out at a family function or birthday party, you can pretty much say anything and those family members/friends will believe everyfuckingthing you say. Just this past weekend I was sitting next to my wife, feeding a twin alongside her, or “tweeding” if you’re a kitchy prick. We were operating in our normal manner, communicating with grunts, clicks and whistles, and spastic head movements, when a mother of one since grown and moved out son (who has now apparently moved back in) asked us flatly:

“How do you do it?”

I glanced at my wife and gave her the sign that I would take this one, which is a handless gesture for oral sex involving my tongue striking the side of my cheek which to a fellow immature friend would possibly look like a penis! In my mouth!

So I answered as flatly as I could.

“Three things actually:

1.) A schedule that we dare not impinge upon or suffer its wrath upon our very souls.

2.) Coffee, which is the nectar of the gods and we are actually researching to discern if it is, in fact, Jesus’s semen.

And 3.) Anal sex. Lots and lots of ass fucking. It is really quite remarkable the amount of butt humping I’ve managed to squeeze in in just a few weeks.”

I then playfully tilted my head to the right, removed the bottle from my kid’s gullet and proceeded to burp her over my shoulder gently.

Blank stares from all around the room greeted my rapidly blinking eyes.

It appears that using the term “anal sex” is a show stopper. The entire room stopped what it was doing and looked my way. So rather than curl up into a ball, I got technical.

“See, the amount of strain on Julie’s vagina and uterus was so severe during her twin pregnancy that anal intercourse was really the only way to experience any semblance of sexual pleasure. To go even longer without coitus would probably generate so much marital strain that we would grow to hate each other, and right now, and particularly at 3:16 am every morning, we’re all we have. We need each other. And if that means I put it straight up her pooper, by golly, that’s what I’ll do.”

Still more silence.

As I went to open my mouth for more bullshit, my lovely wife elbowed me in the kidney. Monologue over.

The conversation around us gradually kicked back up, but it was odd, we were never made to feel as if we were disgusting or smelled of the shit of the bull that I was allowing to spew from my mouth. No, these people BOUGHT IT! I wasn’t being disgusting to them, no; they perceived what I was saying as me allowing a brief, truthful snapshot, although pornographic, into our interesting lives!

The pity you receive as a seemingly exhausted parent of multiples allows you to say the most disgusting things without the fear of reprisal, judgment or backlash!  You should really try it!

Identical Vs. Fraternal

     

     As a parent of twins, I’ve had to deal with my fair share of oddball questions throughout the years.  Some of them are legitimate, and some of them are really quite obnoxious (for example, “Are they from fertility drugs?”  Like it’s anyone’s freaking business how many needles I had to stick in my ass for three friggin’ years!)  By far, though, the most frequently asked question has always been, “Are they identical or fraternal?”  And let me just tell ya how many people there are out there who are completely and totally mixed up about this very concept.  So, rather than singling out those of you who fall into that dazed and confused category (it’s ok, believe me, you’re not alone), let’s have a little review:

     Identical twins form when a fertilized egg splits.  Fraternal twins occur when two different eggs are fertilized by two different sperm.  Same sex twins can be either identical or fraternal; however, different sex twins can ONLY be fraternal.  This tends to be what totally throws people off.  Just because a set of twins looks alike does not mean that they are IDENTICAL.  Just stop and think about what identical means for a second.  According to dictionary.com, the definition of “identical” is:  ”being the very same.”  So, if you have a set of boy/girl twins, why would it be IMPOSSIBLE for them to be identical?  Still not getting it?  Ok, then, what does a boy have that a girl most definitely does not have?  Ding ding ding!  We have a weiner, I mean,a winner!  So, now that we’ve cleared that all up, let me tell you about a certain confrontation I found myself in at Target one time way back when.

     I had my son and daughter in their massive limousine-sized double stroller in the checkout lane, just trying to do my thing and get the hell out of there without a major meltdown from the babies or from me.  Unfortunately, though, I got stuck with Loose-Lipped Linda the cashier who wanted to ooh and ah over the double dose of fun coming through her lane.  She asked a bazillion different questions, ending with the all-too-popular, “So, are they identical or fraternal?”  I tried to keep my cool by smiling and politely telling her that since they were boy/girl twins, they could only be fraternal. However, she felt it her duty to go into a whole long story about how she had a friend who most certainly had identical boy/girl twins.  Again, I calmly smiled and told her that they could not be identical.  Dipshit was just not having it though and continued to argue with me that these kids were by all means identically alike.  The sleep-deprived bitch in me took over that point, so I looked her straight in the eye and said, “If one child has a penis and one child has a vagina, there’s NO WAY they can be exactly the same now can they?”  That finally shut her ass up and I could see the squeaky wheels in her underworked brain trying very hard to process this new information.  

     So, in the future, if you run into someone who has boy/girl twins, you can go ahead and save yourself from asking a question that doesn’t even need to be asked.  Nobody would dare question the difference between a taco and a hot dog, right?  All it takes is just a little bit of brain power to determine that the two are, in fact, very very different.  (And might I add, thank God for that!)

Things I’ve Learned This Week

 

    I’ve decided that every Friday I’m gonna try something new here on my blog — it’s gonna be called “Things I’ve Learned This Week” and will allow me to reflect on all the shit that’s been thrown my way over the past seven days.  So here’s what enlightened me this week: 

** Getting bitten on the ass when you get out of the shower is not as arousing as it may sound.

** If I want to take a little nap, I should flip on this season’s “American Idol”.

** Apparently, it’s really funny when you puke on your parent’s face.

** My car automatically finds the slowest person on the road to get behind.

** Caffeine is WAY better than sex.  Well…not really.  But it certainly was this week anyway.

** I really shouldn’t be trusted with a razor.  Ever.

** Girl Scout cookies are laced with crack.

** My bras are highly entertaining to six year olds.

** There’s a conspiracy amongst the members of my household to act like bafoons when my husband goes out of town.

** If I need to learn how to properly throw a tantrum, I should give Jay Leno a call.

** Four o’clock a.m. is most certainly NOT my favorite hour of the day.

** My dog’s been studying the Kama Sutra to spice things up with his girlfriend, Betty.

** I will NEVER speak the language of Starbucks correctly.

** I will be wiping my kids’ asses until they’re 45.

** Sid the Science Kid makes me grateful for earplugs.

** There’s actually green stuff (I believe it’s called GRASS?) underneath all that snow on the ground.

** I could really use twelve sets of arms.

** The Bachelor is a typical douchebag guy who only thinks with his penis.

** The dishes in the sink DO NOT put themselves away overnight.

** A seven year old kid does not make a good air traffic controller.

** I could cook a Thanksgiving turkey with all the heat I radiate while I sleep.

** Despite what I may think, God does not give me more than I can handle.