MOT: one, Trolls: ZERO!

How to Fight the good fight.

Now while I realize I am an in-yer-face kind of person, who enjoys a good fracas now and then, I will not tolerate insults to my children. No one can say they're horrible, except me!

I went to my favorite shopping haunt today, Nordstrom: home of fancy shcmancy cosmetic lines and location of the nicest Ladies Lounges in the entire mall. Nordstrom also has a Café, that features a children’s’ menu and where one’s children are given paper placemats and crayons. I was sitting in a corner, on a bench seat, eating my $15 chicken salad sandwich, and Baby B and Baby A were being really good, for once. Baby A was amusing himself with the aforementioned crayons and Baby B was eating chicken and basically just standing on the bench seat and looking around. He has a bad habit of tossing things around, which is unfortunate, but HE IS TWO. He has no self-control and I am starting to respect that. It’s not worth hearing him scream bloody murder because I try to get him to sit down when he wants to stand up.

Well, he tossed a crayon a bit far and it landed on another patron's lap. This patron was one of those fat/skinny old ladies, you know, age 62, wearing a tight shirt with that fat roll along her waist at the back, and a long skirt that doesn't quite hide her varicose veined chicken legs. She had the nerve to actually stand up and tell me I should take my children to a restaurant that is more appropriate for children, or perhaps I could just eat in the Ladies' Lounge?

What!? Right away I said, “This Café does welcome children; witness the Children’s Menu and the crayons! Besides, I am not going to sit with the toilets and eat just because I have children. I will not be discriminated against.” She just looked at me, with this sneer, and said, “Your children are obnoxious.” I shot back, “Well, when you are in a nursing home they’ll be the ones taking care of you, so you’d better be nice to them now.” She left and I sat back down. I hope the other patrons heard me, because I know I am right.

Later, when I got home, I called the Café, and spoke to the manager. I explained what had happened and asked, “Am I not to come to the Café if my children are two, act like they are two and are twins to boot?” The nice manager, Adam, said, “We get that older element in all the time, your children are always welcome and I apologize. You should have come over and spoken to me right away – I would have taken care of it.”

Ha ha, Troll-Woman! Take that! Not only does the Café itself support my children’s behavior, but they were also ready to spot me lunch. So take that crayon and shove it, you old bag. You are the one who is unwelcome, and yer ugly too.

The How To, Part two - The cranky Baby

Wouldn’t it be just too dreamy if I actually knew the answer to soothing a cranky baby? Well, I might be on the right track with my Baby B; I know a lot of his moodiness comes from his sensitivity, both physical and emotional. The emotional fussiness I just have to deal with as best I can and be as patient and in-humanly possible until he’s able to communicate his needs better. But with the skin thing I can take pre-emptive action, and I think I have seen a brighter future already!

Just a reminder; Baby B is allergic to animal dander, eggs, peanuts and occassionally to his brother too. The eggs and peanuts are a breeze to eliminate. I am a perfectly good cook and quite imaginative too. I also know how to read ingredients, so we simply have an egg/peanut free house. That’s that. The animal dander...well, we are vacuuming constantly and brushing the cats even more than usual. My cats now resemble a sleek panther and his overweight white panther brother, and the carpets are bright and fluffy. My DH says he likes to vacuum, so I let him do it.

An aside: did I tell y’all about my mother and the vacuuming? No? Well, get this. My mother asked me to come by one day because my sister was going to be in town. Now my mother has a cat, with loooong hair, and a collie dog, also with really long hair. Added to the long hair, this poor dog has this chronic case of galloping dandruff/seborrhea. Most of the time he has a big bald patch on his back and these yellowish flakes of skin just fall off him when you get too close. It’s really nasty, but he’s a nice dog, and it’s not his fault. He deserves my pity more than my censure. Because of the dog bits all over the house I asked Mother Dear if she would be so kind as to vacuum before we came over. She replied she might not have the time. This conversation was on a Tuesday and the plan was to meet on a Saturday. She also has a housekeeper, who comes by on Tuesdays and Fridays. MD’s solution to the baby’s allergies was, “Just keep the kid in the dining room. It has a tile floor, so there's less fur in there.” Umm, in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s two, he is usually cheek by jowl with his brother, and they are passionately involved in everything. It would drive him wild to be kept in one room while his brother and his two cousins got to frolic from dining room to kitchen to living room and back again. Note: my parents’ house is kind of big. They have a separate wing, behind a door, of two bedrooms, a living room and a storage area, plus a bathroom. The cat would be perfectly happy roughing it in these four rooms for an afternoon. I suggested that she keep the cat in the other part of the house; he’s no stranger to this wing, his litter box is usually in the storage area, as is his food. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary…it would be hard on the poor cat,” replied MD. Okay, I am supposed to keep my baby (not just some “kid” off the street, but your own grandchild) shut in one room for an afternoon because you don’t want to upset your cat, nor do you want to run a vacuum. Okay, that’s fine. We did not pay a visit.

But MY home is shining: I feel the cleaning is helping, but the real breakthrough has been the sodium lauryl sulfate free bathing products.

Since I decided to go au naturelle, wink wink, I decided to wash his clothes and to wash him in the most natural products as I could find. I have Ecover laundry soap for him, which reduces his itchies and stops him from trying to pull his clothes off so much, but the REAL find of the day was on drugstore dot com. I was filling a prescription (yes! RX on line! No more double stroller in the pharmacy!) and I saw this concoction called California Baby. It was touted as all natural and able to soothe a cranky baby and a crabby mother in one fell swoop. I got some and wow, oh wow! It works.

If you have a baby who is allergic to eggs or has eczema, this stuff is da bomb. The two kinds we like best, so far, are Super Sensitive and Overtired and Cranky. Both contain essential oils, and both have aloe vera, chamomile, Vitamins E and A. This is all really good stuff. I also got some handmade soap at a farmer’s market, made by a teensy company called Voda. The Voda soaps are also made with essential oils. They come in hand cut bars and are made with oils of avocado, almond, comfrey and calendula, all essential for babies who have eczema.

For the past few nights, after Baby B had a bath with his California Baby bubble bath and had his hair washed with his Voda Soap, we have dried him with his washed in Ecover towel, applied his Earthworm Eczema Skin Salve and gave him dinner. We have had some nice evenings and he has been going to bed happy.

BUT – and here comes the miracle - he also wakes up happy, eats breakfast happy and wow, stays happy pretty much all day. Oh, he has his tantrums, as does Baby A, which is normal, but they were really mild by comparison to how he was before, and pretty short too. Really, it is like he is a different baby. If I have figured out why he was so awful, if I have relieved some of his allergies, if I have solved some of his problems, well, Golly, I am such a good mother...

How to shoot yourself in the foot.

I am now part of the National Organization of Mothers of Twins Clubs, and was assigned an article on "How To" for the next issue on their magazine. The topic was my choice. I decided to write on the Diaper Weaning process, because my boys are going to be two in two weeks and I have little potties for them all ready to go. Baby B has peed several times in his potty and Baby A once, so I was sure I would soon have tips and advice and bits of experience to share.

Ha ha! Ho Ho! Hee Hee! Snort Chuckle, gasp Hahahahaha! I forgot I was dealing with TWO-YEAR OLDS. And two year old boys at that. They have, mulishly, decided to have nothing more to do with their potties. Oh, the DH and I still sit them down, all hopeful and cheerful and say pee pee! Yes pee! Good boys! pee pee! like a couple of early morning morons, but no dice. I sent out a call to some other mothers of twins I know who have been successful and asked for stories and or tips, but golly, I guess they are just as harried/busy/depressed and overwhelmed as I am. I have not heard a squeak. (Except for Library Lil- but your article just made me realize how tough it is for all MOTs...)

Maybe my boys are not ready yet, but they seemed so interested a few weeks ago! They have always been fascinated by the toilets in public restrooms, but I am sure that has more to do with the fact that I yell – get your hands out of there! every time we use a public restroom. At home they like to chitchat with me as I pee, and I have been consistent in explaining what’s going on as I do so. However, they are wildly inconsistent with their interest in themselves, which seems odd. I thought boys were ALWYS fascinated by themselves. But I guess not. We have had mornings when it's okay and other days when they act as if I am asking them to sit on a potty made of red hot iron.

Just three days ago Baby B woke up first. At 5:55 am. Jeez. But, we stayed peppy; I took off his PJs, sat him down, and he sat there quite nicely. About a minute later, he peed in the potty and we all clapped; Baby B, Baby A and I. I tried the same with Baby A, but no dice. He yelled and squirmed away and wanted nothing to do with the potty at all. I guess I missed the window of opportunity that day, so I though I'd try again later. We haven't had a potty pee since then. Deep sigh.

Besides all this, poor Baby B has been extra specially crabby and miserable lately; I am sure it is his allergies. I am now on the hunt for natural care and homeopathic remedies to make him feel more comfortable and soothed and just happier. So far we have tried a tea of camomile, chickweed, burdock and nettles, which he drank quite well with milk and honey. I also got some Earthworm Herbals eczema salve, with calendula, chickweed, burdock and shea butter, which works well and seems to be soothing. Someone at the crunchy store advised I get him to take Omega 3 oils/fish oils. There is a product by Nordic Naturals called Strawberry Seas, or something, which is berry flavored fish oil in gelatine capsules. He'll suck out the oil and spit the capsule on the floor, but I think he's getting some of it. Do any of you have any more advice? George, whattya think?

Have twins, will travel. How else can I get by?

I have been feeling a bit better lately, but the Reds are still with me. The weather has changed, the air is fresh and the skies are blue. There is a slight cool breeze about and the temperature is at that sweet 70 to 75 degrees for most of the day. However, I do not cry Callooh, Callay, as I greet the Frabjous day - the boys are so close to being two, it’s practically here. Baby B is strong, willful and set in his ways already. Plus he says NO! to everything, whether or not he really means it. Baby A will set his little mind on something and scream until his dreams are fulfilled. One must admire their determination to succeed; I wonder if that determination will stay with them? I feel I need to find a safe place for them a few days a week, like a pre-pre-pre-school or something, just so I can think. Now I know why my mother is insane – my brother and sister and I drove her to it.

My father tells stories of the brave and determined things I did, and of my resoluteness as a child. Apparently when I was four or five a family friend was in the swimming pool and I was standing at the edge. He said, “Jump!” So I did. As legend and song would have it, I almost drowned the man by landing with my feet on his chest. Well, he said jump, didn’t he? We all become less fearless and more careful with time, so I must tell myself that my twins will not be so impossible for too much longer. And impossible they can be!

The other day, at the library group I used to attend, Baby B was feeling grouchy. He hadn’t slept well, and he needed food. However, he is getting another tooth, his mouth is undoubtedly sore, he won’t eat, and therefore he is a crank-monster. He arrived early and shuffled around the blocks and books for a bit, then wanted to be held. After a while, he wanted to be put down to examine the blocks and books again. He got into a little tussle with one of the other 2 year old boys over a particular item, and when the item did not come his way, he chomped down on the little boy. Man oh man, was it scream central!

Now, I am fully aware that a bite hurts; I have been bitten SOOOO many times I couldn’t even try to tell you how many. All babies bite at some point, out of frustration, out of pain from teething, or just simply accidentally. Don’t people know this? The boy’s mother was not understanding at all, in fact she barely looked at me as I apologized all over the place, hustled my babies out of the room and gave Baby B as stern talking to. Then I went back and said, “I am so sorry, he’s just a baby and he’s teething,” over and over to the little boy, who was still in tears. If my boys cried for twenty minutes every time one of them bit the other, I’d never have a second’s quiet in the house.

It’s too bad, but I won’t be able to go back to that reading room. Hump, and my boys like the things they had there. But I do still have my two playgroups and there are more libraries to explore.

I checked out a new one today. After the boys and I went for our 8:00 walk, and after we ran an errand in the next town, and after we hit Trader Joe’s at 10, we went to a nearby town’s story time at 11:00. Baby A, who woke up at 6:00AM, fell asleep on the way from T.J.’s to the library, so he was a bit crabby at waking up when I moved him to the stroller. Now before y’all ask yerselves, “Well, why didn’t she just bag the library and continue to the park? You can have a sleeping baby at the park” let me remind you Baby B was awake. He is Mister Determination and he wanted to go get the hell outta the car. He was totally letting me know, so my hand was really forced. When we got inside, I felt good about the decision; the story-reading librarian was extremely sweet and animated and the room is very pretty. However, an announcement was made: Story time is now on Mondays at 10:30! Darn! That’s in the middle of my favorite playgroup. Well, cross this location off. Second strike: the other librarian made a bit of a fuss when I changed a diaper (just pee) in a corner of a totally deserted arts and crafts area, while Baby A pushed a chair around the room.

“That baby is pushing chairs around! Hey! You ARE going to take that diaper away with you?” asked the grumpy librarian.
“Oh, yes. I'll stop him in a minute and I have the scented trash bag right here!” I held it up and put the diaper in it right away.
“Don’t forget to take that diaper away with you.”

Eagle eyed with crossed arms, she watched until I had dressed Baby B, put the diaper in my bag and took Baby A away from the chair. Then she sat down at her desk again.

Ummm, #1, I heard ya the first time, and thanks for making me feel comfortable! I have TWINS! I can't change a diaper and physically restrain a naughty boy at the same time. I'm not about to stop the changing process and let Baby B run around naked bottomed in a strange place to stop Baby A moving a chair! And Library Lady? #2, why were you just standing there? Why not stop the chair pushing if it's a problem? Why not just gently tell me there is a no-diaper policy on the children’s floor? Then, #3, how about letting me know that the restroom is on the first floor and there is no ladies’ room near the children’s area is on the third floor? Since I was obviously new, how the heck was I supposed to figure that out? I was a trifle upset by the experience, which was made worse by the fact I only had one new diaper with me. I hate being unprepared, and I had planned on being at the playground by 12:00 to meet a pal after the story time.

So I had to go all the way back home before we wert to the park, and as a result of the additional driving, Baby B feel asleep at 12:30. I managed to get him into the stroller and got to the play ground area and started Baby A on his belated lunch (it was about 1:00 at this point). Then Baby B woke up, all pissy. Whew.

We all did eventually settle down, they both ate, and another friend turned up. we had some cheese samdwiches, milk and popsicles from the ice cream truck. We finally left the park by 3:45 or so. On the way to the highway, Baby A feel asleep again. Good. But Baby B, who I really wanted to get to sleep, because I had woken him up too early from his nap before, was resisting. He was glazed like a donut and was yawing away, but he was also interested in the passing scenery and the sun shining. He was keeping himself awake by chit chatting away in his rolling barca-lounger.

Like a saner Maria Wyeth from Play it as it Lays, I took a ride on the highway, for because. I went past our exit on purpose and took the long way home. I drove my babies on the local highways, snug in our steel cocoon, the wind from the wide-open windows whipping about what’s left of my hair. I had the radio on and allowed the drone of NPR and the hum of the wheels lull the boy to sleep. It took him a little bit of time to fall asleep, but he did. Whew! Then I really needed to get home and go pee and just be alone with my thoughts for few minutes.

I got them home by 4:45 and managed to go to the bathroom (first time that day!) and get the groceries away.

Then Baby B woke up. Crying.

There’s no rest for the wicked, is there?

When Sally met Sally, and turned her down.

I had a conversation with my pal Silver the other day on the old subject of flirting and friendship between the sexes. We discussioned what constitutes flirting, and whether straight girls flirt with each other. We talked about what happens when a flirty type just acts natural, that is flirts, if it really means anything. And if those flirty type are married, are they emotionally cheating?

She said, “If a man flirts with me, it’s because he wants to get busy. If he’s a married man then that’s wrong, end of story, there’s no in between.” I had to point out that men find her distracting because she’s so gorgeous, but I suppose that’s no excuse. I said I have men friends, and married men friends, who flirt with me and with whom I flirt a little, but it’s not because we want to get busy, it’s just that we enjoy joking around. She said, “Well, if a man flirts with me and he’s married, I feel he’s cheating emotionally, and the marriage is in trouble.” I am not totally sure about that either; I don’t think it’s always an indication of a marriage in trouble. There are men who talk with me in an animated way, who may pat me on the arm, or give me a hug or what-not, but I really, really don’t think it’s because they have designs on my tired ol’ body. However, I know some women with designs in mind...

There was one particular woman I knew from my heyday in New York, a definite flirt and who definitely flirted with me in a “let’s get busy” kind of way. Admittedly, I was attracted to her too back then - let’s call her Roxy. There was a sort of casual self-consciousness about her that got a lot if people interested. She also dressed well and had that New York brashness that can be a lot of fun. But that was in 1995, when I was completely hedonistic and totally irresponsible a decade ago. When I got a call from her last year I thought things might have changed; we are both a wee bit older. I agreed to drive up and visit her at her country cottage and I brought my then 7-month-old twins with me. I really don’t know what she had expected to happen, but I know now she had something definite in mind.

We showed up at the house, it was about an hour and a half drive, and she was not there. She’d left a note on the door, saying back soon or something, so I parked a little away from the cottage, not wanting to block the driveway. When she pulled up, with her dog and all the groceries for lunch in the car, I was sitting on a patch of grass with my two infants, a blanket and a bag of baby paraphernalia. She was just as pretty, a bit plumper and now was a redhead instead of a brunette. She had the ubiquitous khaki pants and the oh-so au courant paisley shirt on, and these cool paisley flip-flops. She walked into her house and called out, “Well, hi there! I want to get the food in the fridge, so come on in!” Right away I could tell she was clueless about babies, and clueless about twins. So I struggled with the boys (who were crawling at that stage but not much else) and the bag and the blanket and the photo album I had brought as a gift into her house, and collapsed. Right away she put on this loud music and started making lunch, talking up a storm. The boys were very interested in her cottage and staggered like drunks around her living room. I got the coffee table arranged so they didn’t knock themselves unconscious, and I also took the precaution of putting a few of the more breakable things up on the bookcase. Roxy gave me a lingering hug and we cooked and then ate lunch.

It sounds simple, but if you add up a long drive, a large dog, two crawling babies, a stressed out new mother, loud music, a hot day and a very flirtatious hostess, it equals a bit of uneasiness. It’s not as if I was offended by her comments; “oh, you are still so cute and still so attractive,” and "you were such a great cook, but then most sensual people are good with food," and “I remember how much fun we used to have in New York, we can still have fun now, right?” and “I wonder why we never had a torrid affair?” it’s more like I was still unused to having twins and I was just so tired in those days.

We went for a walk; each of us with a baby in a sling, and only Baby B fell asleep. We settled him on the sofa to nap and played with Baby A and got him to eat a bit, and then I just had to leave. The music was giving me a headache (I should have just asked her to turn it off, but I wasn't thinking clearly) and Roxy's suggestions that we all lie down a bit did make me a smidgen uneasy. So I got the boys into the car, packed up my bits and pieces and waved bye-bye as I drove away.

I have never heard from her again.

At first I imagined she thought it was just too much bother dealing with the twins, and that she might want to wait until they are older before getting together again. Hell, my own mother doesn’t want to be bothered with my boys and they are a part of her family. Then I thought, she is too busy – she travels a lot for work and is out of town for weeks at a time. Then I thought, maybe I offended her by not complimenting the lunch/her house/her dog/the lemonade she served sufficiently. But then, a few weeks later, I had another thought.

Perhaps Roxy was really offended by my disregard of her passes. I know she doesn’t have a lot of friends with children. If she had she would have realized trying to arrange a seductive stage while there are 2 seven-month-olds crawling all over the set is not going to work. I am not indicating I would have been available for seduction, no; I would have turned her down even without the boys around. But Jeez Louise, at seven-months my infant twins acted as a damper for me and my lovely husband, to whom I am wildly attracted. I think I have not heard from her again because she was angry and hurt at being rejected.

I called her a few times and left messages, but I didn't say anything about the fact that her pass fell flat. I just tried to be friendly and light and invited her to come over and have lunch at my place, where the babies would be more at ease and less distracting. No reply. I called and wished her well over Christmas, but no reply. Then I left her a message asking if I offended her and to call if I had, but guess what? No reply.

Hey, just because I don’t want to get busy, it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Or does it? Silver would say that that kind of flirting muddies the watering hole of friendship much too much to make a “just pals” swim possible. Silver would also say that I really can’t expect Roxy to want to be a little friend if she really wants a little action. I wonder. Can a gay woman and a straight woman be friends, or is it like the man/woman friendship/flirting thing? What about a gay man and a straight man? And, for that matter, what about two flirty men? Roxy would be able to tell me, but since she is clearly planning on never speaking with me again, I guess I’ll never know.

President He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his ilk can not last forever

I had this thought the other day; the wheel is not necessarily man’s greatest invention, but very well might have a been a woman’s.

I had this thought as I pushed the (wheeled) stroller, loaded up with two babies, a lunch bag, a diaper bag and a handbag and dragged a (wheeled) shopping cart behind me. How could a busy mother at the grocery store cope without wheels? Can you imagine trying to carry all that?

Yikes.

I also had a thought that it’s not really the children who are the future, sorry Whitney, but the parents of those children who are creating the children’s future by being active and educated about the world's issues and events. Now, before you think, oh, this sounds a bit political, let me tell y’all about a conversation I had with the boyfriend of a relative a few years ago.

Boyfriend (in a snooty British accent, as he looked down his nose at me): Well, as the token American in our group, what is your opinion of this mess in Afghanistan your President has got us all into?

Me (in my Yuk Yuk, Hey Thar! American voice): Well, I don’t reckon I got an opinion.

Boyfriend (even snootier, if that were possible): Somehow I don’t believe you don’t have an opinion on a subject!

Me (in my normal, if that is at all possible, voice): Well, of course I have an opinion. But I am not prepared to discuss it with you.

As you can see, I generally keep my politics to myself. However, the other night, as I was returning from a trip to the mall with a gal pal (we were both infant free that night), we got into a discussion of the next Presidential election. She expressed grave doubt that the GOP would release its Vulcan-like nerve pinch on our country, and sorrowfully spoke her fear of our children's futures as Americans. I made a hash out of explaining what I think will happen, so perhaps it’ll come across better in written form.

The children are our future, right? Teach them well and let them lead the way, right? Show them all...whoops. Let me start over.

The children are our future, right? Teach them well and let them lead the way, right? And who does most of the teaching these days? The children’s primary care giver. And a vast majority of the time, that primary care giver is the child's mother/mother figure. Now stop me if I am totally off the wall here (I know, too late!) but from what I have read in print and on line, and from what I have heard in my three playgroups/library groups, and from what I have seen in films - most mothers would rather not go to war, and would rather hash it out with a good long talk. From what I have experienced, most mothers try to be fair and do their best to be mature and to listen to both sides of an argument. That taken as true, won’t the **children** of these active, involved, thoughtful, intelligent, outspoken, peace-loving mothers/parents grow up learning these lessons?

Since children nowadays are not only seen and heard, but also respected, won’t these children of the 21st century listen to their parents' lessons and act upon them? If that logic follows, by the time the 2018 elections come along, the brain-dead septuagenarians who put He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in office might very well all be dead, locked in an Alzheimer’s ward somewhere, or otherwise prevented from voting. The slack at the polls might very well be taken up by the freshly minted voting youth, whose parents’ lessons could very well have made an impression, thereby changing the face of political America.

Of course, I might be totally off the wall here; it has happened before. But I, for one, am going to hope for the best, and continue to teach my little ones the life lessons I hold dear. Stay out of the sun; too much causes cancer and can kill you. Don’t eat hydrogenated or partially hydrogenated fat; it causes heart disease and can kill you. And, be politically active, learn about the issues and pay attention! Apathy leads to constrictive governments run by Right-Wing Nut Jobs, who go to war on spurious reasons and lie to their people and systematically rob individuals of their rights, and if THAT doesn’t kill you, a draft just might, young man.

Now finish your nice organic free-range veggie burger. Honey, one more bite won't kill you.

Crab-a-licious

Okay, it’s still summer, it’s still hot and I am still crabby. Add to that, I have been feeling flabby and tired too; I have not had a spin class in two weeks now. Part of it is owing to my own foot-shooting miserable-ness, (I was feeling too tired and grouchy to go to class two weeks ago, so I didn't make an effort) and then the instructor leaves me a message that she is taking a vacation, and would miss the following week! What! How dare she have a life of her own when I need her to be around every Monday and Wednesday for me and my piddily needs! I know – I’m nuts.

Most summers drag for me, but yikes, this year I have a REALLY adhesive case of Mean Reds. While I have managed to shake it a bit, I am feeling rather low still. My friend and fellow blogger, The Yellow Wallpaper, is also a bit glum, which, selfishly, is good for me. It's good to have another slightly off person around, and she does a great job of helping perk me up by example. Check out her latest post on the new mother. Hee hee ha ha!

She’s like me; grimly hating the summer, but still writing, still going out and still being a fun lady anyway. We both belong to the fake it ‘till you make it club. But, I have been wondering…

Should I continue to fake it, as long as the Reds have their hold on me, or should I concede defeat and go see some one? Or is it defeat if you see a therapist? Does it mean you can’t hack it on your own, can't sort it all out in your own mind, and that you are weak? Or does it mean you understand you have limits and have certain needs and that you just need a little support. You know, like a good husband or a good bra; smooth, flattering support that other people don’t necessarily notice. Then again, perhaps there is no need to be so dramatic. Perhaps I am not once again peeping into the abyss of insanity; it could very possibly be the hormones associated with that wretch, Aunt Flo, coming back into my life. In that case, the gentle weaning thing is really not working. I am back to nursing four times a night or more, the boys have decided that they want to nurse during the day again, and I am definitely ovulating, so the bonus of amenorrhea is gone. DEEP SIGH. I think I need a vacation from my life.

I am one of those annoying people who really do not like to be proved wrong. My mother said, way back in February, that she thought I needed to be drugged; I was being such a be-atch with the stress of the twins. After a few months reflection, I still think it’s my relationship with her that makes me so snippy to her, and not the babies, but you try explaining that to a professional therapist who is never wrong and who is also your mother…

I am not sure what to do about this emotional heave–ho and my summer-y crossness, and the weaning to-do. Maybe I will see a shrink, or maybe... I’ll just continue to self medicate. Gotta love that Toblerone.

Baby B is amazing...

Everyone has the right to feel that his or her own baby is the most amazing baby that ever lived. Quite often, the baby who is being lauded is just yer average baby, no more amazing than any other, and the slobberingly bestowed laurels on its tiny head are not exactly deserved. That being said, I am about to launch into a slobberingly laudatory post about my own little one, so get yer airsick bags handy.

As a new mother, I think my babies are more beautiful and intelligent than any one else’s babies could ever be. I do my absolute best not to fawn all over them ad nauseum; I find those, "My baby is this and my baby is that" conversations a little dull. I am also a little on the hypercritical side and will point out my boys’ flaws just as quickly as I’d call attention to their achievements. It’s all part of my not wanting to irritate my fellow moms. However, little Baby B has shown himself to be quite amazing, and I must let the whole planet know about it.

Baby B likes to swim. That is he likes to swim on his own, without a hand under him, or even a parent too close by. Three weeks ago I got my boys those little suits with the flotation devices sewn in. IThey look like neon versions of Edwardian swim costumes, with life vests built in. Baby A likes to splash about, but also needs/wants to be held in your arms. Baby B will kick away from you and dog paddle around on his own. It only took three trips to the pool for him to want to get away from whomever was holding him, and now, a mere six trips to the pool total, he can jump off the deck, go under and come up paddling.

Naturally, I do not turn my back to him, nor do I let him leap unattended, but golly! What baby swims at 22 months! He has an excellent sense of balance as well. I have one of those green plastic rocking larvae from IKEA, and he will stand on it, arms out to his sides, for, like, a whole minute before he hops down. He will also stand on the see-saw at the playground until he is knocked off by another child waiting to play in a more conventioanl way.

Yep, my baby can swim already. He also can balance on a dime held sideways, do a chin-up and leap tall buildings in a single bound. He’s obviously bound for greatness; 2016 Olympics, look out. Baby B is ready now.

More on Outsourcing Parenting

Since I am a bit obsessive compulsive and re-read what I write about ten times, I was checking the last post on out sourcing parenting. I noticed I did not ask a crucial question: why are parents so afraid of making mistakes when it comes to school? And why, if a mistake is made, are we so terrified of the repercussions?

I understand the desire to do the best you can for your progeny, but who says a child will be permanently scarred, plunge into a life of crime and spend time in the Big House if his parents fail to get them into "the" school of choice? I cannot believe that the happiness of one's later life depends absolutely on which pre-school one attended. The country is full of parents who put their children on a waiting list for pre-school, not because of a lack of space, but because the pre-school itself is so fabulous, and leads to the right kindergarden, then the right elementary school, which is, of course, a critical part of the Junior High School experience... Please. Don't a child's brains count for anything? Is it really only location, location and location? Don't the social skills learned in a playgroup mean anything? Do parents think the life-lesson chops earned by learning how to get along with a sibling mean anything? I feel that if a parent listens to the child's dreams and hopes and fears, pays attention to who the child is becoming it will lead to an understanding of the child's personality. That is important in finding the right school for that child's needs. That seems more critical than the school itself; whether or not the school suits the child.

I can understand someone wanting their child to go to a great school, but I am not going to hire a coach to teach my child how to behave during a nursery school interview. If they have to falsify their personality for admission, they will then be forced to be a fake child while attending the school! Nor am I going to bribe an administrator in the admissions department, as I have heard is done. Nor am I willing to move into a new neighborhood, into a not so nice house, without the comforts I enjoy now, for the sole purpose of altering my demographics to boost the chance of little King Kong getting into the local kindergarten.

I read a book in which parents discussed their pre-schooler's future earning potential. Yikes. Dr. Spock, in his 1954 version of The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care, writes, “Trust your instincts. You know more than you think.” The 2005 version should be retiled The Baby Book for the parent with what used to be common, but has become increasingly rare - sense.

I am fully aware that school is important, and I am also fully aware that parents make a big difference in their children’s scholastic experience. There are those parents who actually do all the homework themselves, and others who hire tutors to do it. I know some parents who check the homework and help out when needed and some parents who help, but try and get the child to think on their own. Of course, there are other parents who just trust the child to get done what needs to be done and leave it at that. I hope to be a combination of let the boys do their own work and let me help you, without being cripplingly overwhelming about the helping part.

Right now it’s easy for me to plan what kind of parent I will be to a school-aged child; I don’t have any! My toddlers are just learning the alphabet; Baby A can say A, B, B, B, E, E, E in tune, but that’s about it. I must needs wait and see what kind of children they will be before I can accurately describe how I will go about helping them with their homework. But I can tell y’all for sure, I won’t be hiring tutors to enhance my four year olds' future earning potential. I’d rather save the money for tuition.