Private Parts

When my kids were younger and first started asking about their private parts, I decided we would call them the “hoo-hoo” and the “peeper” and explained that these were very special parts of them that only the doctor, grandparents, siblings, or parents should see.  It all seemed cute and even kinda funny in the beginning, but the charm has since faded for a laundry list of reasons.  For instance, they love to LOUDLY yell out an I-spy of my own adult hoo-hoo in public restrooms, which often generates a curious chuckle from innocent bystanders, much to my embarrassment.  They also have been banned from joint baths now, something that used to be so much of a time-saver for me. There was way too much compare and contrast analysis taking place in that tub. The latest nerve-grinding issue has been a sudden need for modesty — they each demand that the other not even so much as glance at his/her private parts. This is a constant battle because they both want to be in the same bathroom at the exact same time.  More often than not I have one of them screaming and crying that the other was doing way too much hoo-hoo or peeper staring.  I really thought I was doing a good thing with the whole “they’re called private parts for a reason” speech.  However, as is the case with most aspects of parenting, this is yet another conversation that has come back to bite me in the butt, no private parts pun intended!



Bedtime Banter


For the life of me, I can’t figure out why God gave kids all the energy rather than the parents.  By 8:00 at night, I am completely beat, ready to kick my feet up or pass out.  My kids, however, are like the Energizer bunny.  After all the running around they do throughout the day, you would think they would be happy for their little heads to finally hit that fluffy pillow.  But au contraire mon fraire….no sooner do I make it down the stairs after tucking them into bed than I hear the pitter patter of little feet down the hallway.  I then have to drag my tired butt back up the stairs only to find one of my twins (typically my son) hiding in the bathroom, trying to be sure that he’s not missing out on any action downstairs.  It then becomes a ridiculous game of cat and mouse.  I head back down to the kitchen, thinking all’s quiet on the western front and that I finally have a moment’s peace…until I hear more tip toeing overhead.  At this point in the day, I have both physically and mentally clocked out and have used every last ounce of patience that I can possibly locate in my entire being.  It usually ends up that I have to threaten to take the wii away if everyone doesn’t shut their traps and go to sleep, for cripe’s sakes! Mama is pooped and ready to watch “The Bachelor” — is that really too much to ask??!!

Here Comes the Bride/Groom

I could easily give Bill Cosby a run for his money on who’s heard more of the darnedest things from kids. My twins could provide enough material to create an entire season of that show.  They constantly crack me up with their perspective on certain concepts. Lately, they have been very interested in the idea of marriage. They ask everyone if they are married.  I really don’t think they completely understand what that actually means because my daughter asked me if she would be marrying her daddy when she gets older.  She also asked me if she could be a flower girl in my next wedding. And my son REALLY threw us for a loop when he proudly announced to his grandma that he & his little “boy” friend from kindergarten would be adopting a baby together when they get married some day.  We all did a double take with that one — I have no idea what ever prompted him to think about marrying a boy (not that there’s anything wrong with that), much less adopting a baby!  How about we just stick with being five years old and getting through kindergarten for now?


My Rock Star Moment

Coming home from any vacation is never easy, much less a child-free one. Talk about being thrown right back to the wolves!  There is absolutely no recovery time built in whatsoever.  That first blast of cold air in the face as you walk out of the airport is a major wake-up call that it’s back to reality. I have to say though that the absolute best thing about coming home is the awesome welcome reception I receive from my little devils.  As much as I dream about the peace & calm of being away from them for a few days, there is really nothing better than their ear to ear smiles & ginormous hugs when I walk in the door.  They appear to be in absolute awe over the sight of me in the flesh.  I almost expect them to ask for my autograph.  I am quite certain that it is about the only time I will ever feel like a rock star. Now, granted, this is all a short-lived experience before the bickering, whining and complaining begin, but in that brief flicker of a moment, I soak it up and appreciate every bit of that admiration because I know that I will soon go back to being the maid, cook, chauffeur and entertainer. Guess that’s my five minutes of fame…but, hey, I’ll take it!


Hasta La Vista, Babies!


It takes so much prep work to go on a kid-free vacation that I often wonder if it’s really worth all the hassle.  I literally find myself running around like a chicken with my head cut off the days leading up to departure.  I have to leave a novel of notes with schedules, menus, phone numbers, etc.  Then there’s the uber challenge of arranging for carpools for who’s supposed to be where and when, the logistics of which make my temples throb.  Of course, there’s also the frantic attempt to try to at least put some sort of dent in the ever-growing mound of dirty laundry (useless, I know).  And, inevitably, there’s the ten thousand trips to the grocery store to be certain the fridge is good and stocked full.  It usually ends up so over-loaded that it’s a risk to even open the door.  Then, on top of all this, I have to deal with the guilt that mothers feel for selfishly leaving their little ones behind for some adult fun in the sun.  However, once that margarita’s in hand as I relax by a pool that’s a million miles away, that guilt disappears faster than my tan lines will when I return home, and I think, hell yes, this is absolutely worth it!

Backpack Crap

As a kid, I swear I do not remember bringing home even a fraction of the amount of papers that my twins bring home from kindergarten. They have a special red folder in their backpacks where the teachers send home artwork, worksheets, newsletters, etc.  It is the parent’s responsibility to check this folder each day and collect all of these papers.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for oohing and ahhing over artwork and letter writing. However, what exactly am I supposed to do with a giant piece of white paper that has one big purple line across the center?  Am I really supposed to proudly display this on the refrigerator for all to see?  I’m not saying they’re the next Picasso, but I know my kids can at least draw stick figures!  I seriously think the teachers send home every single paper my kids barely even touch with their crayons or pencils.  I find myself emptying the folder each night and oh so casually tossing the majority of these papers in the round file cabinet.  I have been caught, though, on a few occasions throwing away things that apparently are pretty important to my kids. I just pull out the dumb card and pretend like it was an oversight or if necessary, blame it on my husband.  I guess I just thought the schools would be more into the whole “green” movement, but instead, it seems like my kids have brought home the Hundred Acre Woods in their backpacks. Sorry Mother Earth….


On Your Mark, Get Set, Shower!


I remember a time when I used to thoroughly enjoy taking a shower. It was such a relaxing, non-stressful experience.  Now that I am a mom of twins, that is all but a distant memory.  My time is so limited that I find myself racing to get as clean as I can before I have an audience of little people fighting (literally) for my attention.  On more than one occasion I have had to stage a sibling intervention, soapy and dripping wet, leaving puddles all over the bathroom floor.  (At what point do kids stop overlooking the reality that you are, in fact, naked?!)  And because it is a such a fierce battle for time, shaving my legs has become nothing short of a threat to my physical well-being. I am a stickler about smooth limbs, so regardless of time, I still insist that I at least make an effort.  However, just yesterday, I recalled exactly why it is that new razors and I just do not mix.  The gash on my leg should serve as a reminder for quite some time.  This is why on those rare opportunities when I can escape for a getaway from the kids, I could literally stand in the shower for a solid 30 to 45 minutes, basking in the glory of that uninterrupted moment of personal hygiene.  Who would’ve ever thought that turning myself into a dried up-looking prune would bring such pleasure?