Mother of Twins & more

Hmmm..Has anyone else had trouble with Blogger?

2007-10-22T19:21:00.000-04:00

I was unable to get on the site to post in quite a while!

So, here is the 411:

I got the credit card back (after quite some effort) , the new school is working out rather well for the boys (TY Maria Montessori!) , I finally have sitting room furniture that I like (XXOO Ikea!) and all is well in general.

It's good to be away from all the stress and tension at the shop. It was kind of like a relationship: great at first, then progressively not. This is without pointing any fingers, and without taking all the blame on myself. "Mistakes were made" to quote our mad bad leaders in da gummint. Bad decisions were realized and arguments were had on such a regular basis, I really almost got used to it! Now that I have removed myself, I feel much lighter, am able to sleep better and can focus on the really critical parts of my life: my family.

The DH was diagnosed with a total cholesterol of 279. Yikes. We now have oatmeal and Smart Balance on our table with regularity. Baby B sees his own Tell-Me-About-It doctor twice a month and at school the little "issues" all children seem to have are settling easily. Example: Baby B got into an argument with another child in the classroom, the child pushed him, and Baby B went to tell the teacher. YAY!!!! Last year he would have screamed, hit the boy, pushed him back, or something. I see that the therapy, the asthma medication, the new eczema cream and age are all working well in combination. I told my Tell-Me-About-It doctor about this, and I said, "It's so great the way these situations just work out with time." She pointed out, yes, the passage of time certainly plays a part. However, my efforts in getting Baby B into therapy, going to therapy myself, taking my own meds, getting him on the right asthma medication and my being more available for talking, playing and so on during the day is the biggest part of it.

Gosh, but I love those sessions when I get patted on the head. Kinda nice for a change!

I hope to post again soon, but if Blogger is inaccessible again for a while, leave me a message in the comments and we can email to chat.

XXOO

MOT

2007-08-02T12:56:00.000-04:00

Okay, get this:

When I owned a shop, I used my personal credit card a few times, so as to have more buying power. These aren't the real numbers, but let's say the store had $10,000 worth of credit, I had a limit of $7,500 on my card, so there you go. I only ever used about $3,000 a month on my own card, so all was well and good.

Well.

Thanks to the new owner blocking the shop's bank account, the last check I wrote for business charges on my personal card was returned. Owing to incredible bad timing on my part, the check I sent for about $400 worth of personal purchases, on my own personal credit card, was also returned. (I did not realize a direct debit I had called to stop went out anyway.) The credit card company has a rule that two bad checks in one month mean the account will be closed.

Naturally I'm furious. This will reflect badly on my credit report. I am mad at myself for making the extra payment for my own $400 worth of purchases. I'm mad because I didn't even need to make that payment, I just wanted the balance to be zero. If I hadn't made a second bad payment, then I would not have lost the card and had a damaging line on my credit report. One mistake on my part, on my own card - I could deal with that. I cannot deal with the other bounced check.

Why, you ask? Why am I so angry about this bad business check? Why don't I just think, " Oh, mistakes are made, that's how you learn?" This is why:

I am pretty annoyed at my former business partner. The reason the new owner blocked the account, leading to a bounced check was because if her. She was supposed to open the store on Tuesday. She was not there at all that day. The new owner could not reach her at all that day, and neither could I. The following day, Wednesday, the same thing. No call, no show.

The last we knew, she went to a party out of town on Saturday night. The new owner was rather worried - she left town on Saturday night, and was not heard from for four days. So, he blocked the bank account, so she could not be forced to take money out of the bank and give it to her "kidnappers" or something. I don't know the real reasons, nor do I need to. The new owner wanted to block the account because his partner vanished, and he did.

Now, I am left with a little nightmare to untangle - I need to write to the credit card company and explain what happened. I need to convince the bank manager to write a letter stating that I did not know the account was blocked and had no control over the bounced check, and forward that too. I need to ask the new owner for a new check, from a new account, to bring my balance to zero, which is one of the provisions of me maybe getting the account open again. I need to do all this as soon as possible, so I don't get a bad mark on my credit score.

If I do see a reflection on my score, then I need to write to Equifax, explain the situation forward all the letter I hope to get, and chase down some more rabbits. This is a real pain in the neck. I sold the shop so I could take time for my children, not so I could spend hours on the phone and writing letters!

I called the woman at the shop, told her about this problem, and to call the bank manager. She said she would. I should hope so! Do you know the reasons she gave for not opening the store for two days with no call and no explanation? First, she was getting a mattress delivered, and her second reason was she was worn out and needed a day.

I can't even begin to try to understand. All I can do is work on making it all better, which is what I do best, thank God.

A few changes, et un petit peu de la meme chose

2007-07-29T12:35:00.000-04:00

Plus ca change, plus ca la meme chose.

The more things change, the more they are the same.

I'd assign the quote, but I fergit who said it.

The Celexa is working out really well, and is very, very effective. I know this for sure, because I forgot to take it the other night. I took my tab immediately upon rising, but it did take a few hours to hit me. In that time, I shrieked at the boys and felt as cross as two sticks until 12 noon.

Now, it is difficult, of course, to know whether I felt grouchy because I knew I had not taken the meds, or because there was no ciltalopram in my bloodstream. The power of the placebo is not to be underrated. I kind of think it was both, but mostly the lack of drugs made me feel different. I am so very, very sensitive to it all.

The first three weeks I was on the Celexa a literally felt a buzz on top of my head. It was like I had a small flannel soaked in warm seltzer water resting on my skull. Warm, tingly, and a teensy bit if pressure. That faded after a week or so, but after that, for almost a month, any time I was in a stressful situation I felt the return of the tingle.

It was as if I had a little chemical/robotic friend telling me, (read in a robot voice) "Halt! Halt! Do not stress! We are here to keep you calm! Nerr!! Nerr!!" I am a bit sorry that tingle is gone. It was pretty cool.

I've always been this way - sensitive to drugs. I avoid Ben-Gay, I'd rather use arnica if I get a bruise. I drink a big glass of water if I get a headache, one aspirin is usually too much. Ask my friends - two glasses of wine and I'm giggly, and half a tab of acid was always plenty.... Ha! Ha! I never dropped acid. Just micro-dots. Just once. And I didn't inhale.

My Dr.-Tell-Me-About-It has wondered if I feel calmer because I am away from the store, which caused me a lot of stress, or if it's the drugs. We agree that it's impossible to know which egg came before which chicken, because this all happened at the same time. I still have a bookkeeping tangle or two to unravel. In fact, the books have become a Gordian knot. I'm hoping my DH will be the Alexander and chop his way through it all. I should have hired a damn bookkeeper. Well, it's one more lesson learned.

I heard about a businessman who made a very costly error. His business had to fork over about 10 million dollars to make it right. A week later he went to the Board of Directors to hand in his resignation. The Chairman refused to accept it, saying, "Why would we get rid of you? We just invested 10 million dollars on your education."

I'm in the same sort of situation. I made a frost of the bookkeeping, and I had to pay a "fine". Hmmph.

This is very true: unless we make mistakes, we do not learn. This isn't to say, "Oh, made some errors, oh, well, I was inexperienced, so it's all okay. Whatever." No, it's more like, "Golly, I made some stupid mistakes, I need to really pay attention to what now know and learn from it. "

For example, now I know that when I start up my next venture, I will have a bookkeeper on hand, and only use a CPA for the taxes. I also know I will only start a business again once my children are in school full time. You know, like when they go away to college.

So, here I am still making mistakes, still trying to keep on keeping on, still doing my playgroups and still running and running around and still at home with the boys. Plus ca la meme chose.

The plus ca change is feeling better about myself and my life choices. Another change is my patience renewal. Another is my ability to sleep better and yet another is my relationship with my mother. It's better than it was; not yet great, but not terrible anymore.

But that story is another post. Right now, they boys and I are off to the pool for a bit if splishy splashy fun. I know, life is tough..

NOT!

Thank God.

My boys were expelled from school and I'm taking drugs...

2007-06-23T12:43:00.000-04:00

...but it's not really as bad as all that.

I'm now on an anti-depressant, and the boys are now seeing a therapist. The doctor is helping the whole family, which is great. The drugs are also helping the whole family, by really helping me, which is incredible.

Yep, I'm medicated. I admit, I feel a little bit of the inevitable, gosh-I-wish-had-done-this-ages-ago, but not too much. I know those thoughts are dangerous, for that way, guilt lies thick. What I am really feeling is simply more patient and less critical, with myself and with others. I would have never thought it possible. Those SSRI's really do the trick sometimes.

As for the boys' expulsion...I never really fit into the crowd at that snooty school anyway. I love the method of teaching, so we chose another school, about 15 minutes drive away, with the same philosophy. However, it's much less snooty, cheaper, and they know to look out for Baby B's terrible temper. I have high hopes for the combination of a new school, child therapy, mom-on-drugs and me not really working.

Yes, "me not really working" is what y'all just read. I am working on the sale of my business by the end of this month. I should clear a few grand, so no money will have been lost, and much peace will have been gained. As for work, I'm going to punch the clock part-time at the local mall for a few hundred a week. I've done it before, I like that kind of small ticket selling, so I don't anticipate too much stress. I hope to get a job by the end of the summer.

Thank you all for your advice and words of kindness left on the last post. Please stay tuned for more details!

As ever,

The Optimistic (I don't let the Turkeys get me down!) MOT

My booking at The Bad Place has been extended

2007-05-18T13:32:00.000-04:00

And just when I think it can't get worse...

Here we go with a major whinge.

Today I was called, at 10:30 am, to pick up Baby B from school. He had thrown a wooden block at a little girl, and had cut her eye. Today is exactly one week to the day after he hit another little girl in the face and cut her nose. She needed two stitches. It's simply baffling.

The teachers called me into the office and gave me a big lecture on how we need to work together. They asked me, "What are you doing at home to reinforce the lessons at school? What is your DH doing?" and so on. Needless to say, I was in tears by the time they had finished wiping the floor with me, and I left totally determined not to let Baby B get away with this.

As usual, most of his behavior is totally my fault. I get furious and impatient and I have thrown things at home. I too have screamed and have had my share of tantrums. However, I have never chucked a wooden block at someone, catching them in the face, gashing open an eye. Maybe that's because I'm not a very good shot. Whatever. I know Baby B has seen this and I also know he has inherited my moodiness and basic sense of discomfort of self. Perhaps he has also inherited my depression.

Right now he is in an extended time out until he will answer my question, "Do you know why you are bring punished?" Last time I asked he just shrugged his shoulders and whispered, "I don't know." I am supplying the answer for him, "You are being punished because you hit two of your friends in the face. You cut one girl's nose and cut another girl's eye." Until he says it, he's staying where he is.

When I first collected him he was somewhat contrite, but also very happy to see Mama. I asked him why he was so angry and violent at school. He said something interesting, "Everyone is talking and talking and making so much noise that I can't breathe and I can't make them stop."

Hmm. I called the Child Development Center where he had a few tests last fall and asked about panic attacks in four year olds. I had to leave a message, and hope they get back to me. Panic attacks are a logical explanation. It makes sense, at least to me. If he gets stressed, he can't breathe, and then acts out to call attention to himself. Or perhaps to shock others into silence. He is always telling me that Baby A and his endless chatter is hurting his ears. And he did just have tubes put in his ears when he had his Tonsillectomy/Adenoidectomy two weeks ago. It's likely he is still sensitive.

I wonder if he truly doesn't understand that he has hurt these girls. If he doesn't understand I have a lot of work to do over the next week or so to make him understand. If he actually does understand, then I have to wonder why he is not willing to talk about it? Is he ashamed of his actions, or worried about further punishment?

I wrote out a card for him that reads: "There is too much talking and too much noise. I can't breathe. Please help me find a quiet place!" I told him to show this to the people at school. Let's see if it works.

Just last night a girl I know said, "You know, you are exactly like your mother."

There is nothing anyone could say that could hurt my feeling more! I spent all last night, and all this morning (until the phone call from school) worrying about this. If I am like my mother, and I don't like my mother, then I don't like myself. This is very unpromising to my future happiness.

I fretted about the ways I know my mother and I are alike: We both force gifts upon people in a vain attempt to get them to appreciate us. We both act partially out of guilt, partially out of love and partially out of a bizarre feeling of obligation - I must take care of everyone before me!
Both of us are simultaneously intelligent and idiotic. We both like to think we are worthy of respect for the decency we display, but then we make the most caustic and withering remarks, which pulverize any respect in an instant. We both hide and cry when we are in a blue funk (she hides in the bedroom, I hide in the bathroom) and we were both pretty at one point. Well, to be precise, we were both pretty until we had children.

I know our children are another common point: We both can't help but regret having children at all. We both resent the demands those children place and continue to place upon us, and we both feel a strong sense of protection towards those children. In my mother's case, that desire to protect doesn't extend itself to actually spending time with the children, but I think it's there.

These are our similarities.

We differ in that I admit my mistakes. I actually I wallow in them and I can never forgive myself for the wrongs I have committed. I also do not spank or slap my children, like she used to spank and slap us. Nor do I insult and belittle my children: You are so clumsy/stupid/what's wrong with you/how could you be so idiotic, and so on. I remember those insults and still chafe beneath the labels fat and clumsy, so I will not do this to my two. I can tell already they will have enough emotional trouble. Having a depressed and neurotic mother is a burden in and of itself.

Case in point, if I had, when I was four, injured my classmates as Baby B has done, I would not have been put in a time out. No, I would have been scolded, spanked with a wooden spoon, and been sent up to my room with no supper. Baby B is sitting in a comfy chair, staring at the wall, being bored. I hope it's severe enough, but I can't bring myself to hurt him to make a point.

Yes, there are ways in which my mother and I are very alike, which is not very surprising. After all, I spent eighteen years in her company, every single day. She is a strong willed and demanding person, and, until I was about 25, she always got her way. Yes, that deeply affected the person I am today.

There are many great and wonderful things my parents did for their children: our education, all the traveling, the instillation of a love of good food and wine and music and books and culture. All that is to be lauded and I am grateful for it too. I am hoping my children will reap the same benefits, from a similar childhood. I just don't want the emotional price to be as high as the one I paid.

The emotional price was very, very high. A lot of my parent's behavior to us was unhealthy and crippling emotionally. This is why the comparison of my mother to me is so wounding and hurtful. I hate to think I will torture and cripple and intentionally wound my own progeny in a like fashion.

I don't think I can cry much more today, and still look quasi-decent for this girl party tonight. I weep in self-pity (I'm like my mother! I hate myself!). I weep in frustration (Why is my child so violent and why doesn't he care?) I weep with exhaustion (The same little monster who wallops his friends also kept me awake from 4:00 am until I crawled out of bed at 6:30 with his kicks and snores) and I weep because I don't know what else to do.

I am also crying because I can't stop thinking about the cream cake in the fridge. The effort of NOT eating it is actually causing me pain, and the fact that I am back to obesessing over food again hurts even more.

I am at a Bad Place again

2007-05-14T14:59:00.000-04:00

I have been on a low carb/high fat/high protein diet for the past three weeks now, and I lost about eight pounds. It has been a struggle and I was just on the verge of getting my energy back.

However, right now, I feel like exploding. I just found out - Baby B hit a child at school in the face, gashed the bridge of her nose, and she needed two stitches. And - Baby A still bites his classmates. And - for the past month I have been busy hurting a friend's feeling with my big mouth and cocky attitude and general all around poisonous personality, but she didn't want to say anything because she was afraid I would be even worse.

Therefore, I did what all of us with eating disorders do: I just gobbled down three ounces of cream cheese frosting intended for my children's banana bread, a ham sandwich with two thick slices of bread, four Lu Le Petit Ecolier cookies and four stale Mint Newman's O's. The last three cookies didn't taste very nice and were an effort to stuff in, but I managed. Now I feel totally queasy and I just know that I just gained it all back again.

So, please excuse me while I go get my husband's new 32 caliber Glock and make a genuine effort to shoot myself in the foot.

I'm such a freaking moron.

*****
Dear Anonymous -

So sorry for the mixup!! I just grabbed the nearest weapon.

I really meant the .32 Kel-Tec! I know it's a 32 caliber, because that's the number on the Speer Gold Dot 60 box.

The Glock 21C is a 45, which I did not use. It would have made too much of a mess out of the hardwood floor.

I just love these Anonymous remarks! They keep me on what's left of my toes.

MOT

The Pingvin lives on!

2007-05-11T16:37:00.000-04:00

Do y'all remember the long drawn out and agonizing tale of my boy's Pingvin from Ikea? If you were spared all that, but would like to wallow in the tale of an obsessive mother and her international quest for a stuffed toy, please see January 2006.

At any rate, I got a comment on one of those posts from an English Mama whose son loves his Pingvin. This boy, like many other two year olds, will not go anywhere without his favorite toy. He sleeps with the Pingvin, eats with the Pingvin and feels comforted by its presence. Enough build up? OK, English Mama wrote to me asking if I could spare a Pingvin because her son lost the baby of the set, and is rather upset. She is very afraid of what may happen if he loses the mama as well. She asked if I could possibly sell her one of my collection of 9 beasties, because I have so many and Ikea has none, anywhere in the world.

I thought about it for half a minute and popped two in the mail. I remember how long it took, how many calls and what a bother it was to get more Pingvin for Baby A, and that was in January 2006. These toys haven't been made since that time, so how could she possibly find one 16 months later? I am glad to know that I can be helpful, like the Scottish sales clerk was so helpful to me. The two Pingvin I sent are the two I bought on eBay. So they have now travelled from the Ikea factory to the shop in Canada, to my home in Connecticut and now to England. To Hertfordshire, actually, which is where Elizabeth Bennet and Co. lived. I wonder if those two will now be named Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam Darcy?

For flightless waterfowl, they sure get around.

I am also very glad to know I am not the only obsessed mother out there who takes quasi-ridiculous precautions to spare her child disappointment and upset. I'll bet the English Mama says, "just in case" to herself as she tucks that second spare pair of socks in her handbag. Just like me.

Well, I seem to be posting every few months now...

2007-02-26T20:23:00.000-05:00

Today I had a snow day with the boys. This was what we did:

Up at 6ish, as usual, for breakfast and early morning chaos.

The DH then went to work at 8:00, after taking 20 minutes to shovel out the car and clean the snow off the windows.

Around 9:30, after tidying up breakfast and getting everyone dressed, we played in the snow. I made a few business calls as I pulled them on a sled. (multi-tasking, as always) I felt obliged to explain to the vendors I was pulling three year old twins on a sled, otherwise they would not have understood my heavy breathing. Silk and cashmere blends at competitive prices are certainly exciting, but not that exciting!

Then we went back inside, had steamed milk and honey (warm milk and honey on stove top, steam cold skimmed milk in cappucino maker. YUM!!) and I made a few more calls.

After that, playtime (Lego, Magic Markers, running and screaming and chasing), then lunch, then more calls for the MOT.

Then, as the screams bordered on tears, in the car to the market for wheat-free-egg-free-taste- free waffles for Baby B (who still has allergies - boo hoo!!) I kept them perky on the way to TJ's by exclaiming in my excited voice, "Look! A snowplow! Look! A huge tree! Hey! It's a barn!" This usually will keep them awake so we can do the shopping before they nap. (The DH is even worse than I am. He'll yell out, "Hey, look! A TRAIN!" When they guys wake up and ask, "Where?" He'll say, "Just kidding." The rat.)

We did our shopping, (without taking any bags, thank you) and drove home.

(I don't take plastic shopping bags from the market, or even paper bags, anymore. When I remember, I bring my "Bags for Life" that I got from Waitrose in England. They are these really strong Gore-tex bags that are supposed to last a long time. Somehow, they are bio-degradable at a certain temperature, and don't out-gas noxiousness. I really am not at all sure how that works! So what I do, when I forget my Waitrose B4L, is simply fill the cart as usual, skip the bagging step and put the things back in the cart. Then I unload the said things into the trunk, and, once home, unload from the car (which goes into the garage) directly into the house. Yes, it's about three more steps, but my, oh my, do I feel good about saving the planet one plastic bag at a time...)

The boys fell asleep on the way home, thanks to a combination of the heater, Roxy Music and being tired, and they slept from 3:00 until 5:30. In that time I finished my last three calls, placing orders for clothes and making appointments for a New York buying trip, repaired my favorite espresso coloured Lilla P Origami wrap, tidied up my sewing box, made chicken soup (DEEE-lish!) got the fish ready for dinner and greeted the DH as fondly as a harried MOT/small business owner can. ( In other words, we got in three kisses and a tight hug before Baby A woke up hollering.)

Once the boys rolled out of bed, we had dinner, then I got on the computer to sort out the bills and print out the bank statements for the accountant. Thank Heaven for CPAs. I'd be in tears for a week if I had to do the taxes on my own!

Even with the DH working along side me, it took a little while to write ten checks, balance a checkbook on line, print three months of statements, break up a mini-twin fight, find a missing penguin (yes, the Pingvin is still an object of love and adoration - see posts from 01-07-06, 01-10-06 and 01-19-06) photo copy the expense reports, get the boys in their PJ's, brush and floss their teeth, make bread and butter sandwiches because they were inexplicably hungry, brush their teeth again, floss their teeth again, read Where's Wallace and settle them to sleep.

That is why it's almost 11:00PM as I post this "All in a Day's Work" entry.

When I think about it, I've put in a 17 hour day so far, and I'm not even ready for bed myself.
Sometimes I think I'd like to switch places with the single girl I once was (but where is my trusty time machine?) and get more sleep! But then I'd miss my joys and my five boys, (DH, twins, two cats) so I'll just keep on keeping on.

But I'm not making any promises...

Dear Blog,

2006-10-29T09:41:00.000-05:00

Dear Blog,

How are you? I am fine! I am really, really busy these days, in ways I never could have imagined last year!

As you know, I am the proud owner of a popular boutique in the downtown shopping district of my little city . Our first day we sold about $1,500 worth of clothes and have been busy ever since.

I have a business partner, a lovely young lady from our fair city, who really has a knack of finding really great clothes, and putting it together well. She does our window displays, the buying (with me) and Lordy, she is also just as good a salesperson as I am, which is rare! So few people know how to hustle these days. This young lady works during the day and I come by in the evenings, and I am there all weekend. Yes, we are open Saturday and Sunday too. The weekends are terribly busy! She is in her twenties and single, but she has seen a lot in her life. What is also important is that she wants what I want too - a boutique with reasonably priced, pretty and practical clothes in a wide range of sizes. We also both hope to open another shop, in another town in the next few years, so we do have a common vision.

I am the one doing the paperwork, and the organiziation, and it's difficult to find time to take care of my personal life, but I manage.

My DH, my DDH, is the on call Daddy all weekend, and he does about 90% of the laundry. Which is why my clothes are kind of linty these days, but that's okay.

I have a few plans to give me more time with my guys, apart from the hours after school and before the naps, which they usually take (blessedly!) from 3ish to 5ish every day. I can't afford to hire a housekeeper again, so I guess I have clean the bathroom instead of sleep, and clean the kitchen whilst the family eats. I need to learn how to play with/hang out with the fellas and let the rest of the house go to Hell, but us obessive compulsives have a hard time with that.

I will also really try to continue with the spinning classes and Pilates at my gym. The guys are only in school for three hours a day, so I will really have push to get the house cleaning and the shopping and the gym in in that time. The shop opens at 10 am, and I would need to leave by 11:30, so there's not much point in my opening, just to leave again. Besides, I really do need to take care of my children/husband/laundry/cooking/shopping/house/physical being, as well as mental self.

Speaking of mental selves, I have forgotten abut my appointment with my Tell-Me Therapist about three times so far. Which is terrible. I need to remain mentally fit in order to keep it all together . I think it's simply shocking I forgot about my appointment - how careless could I be?! My only excuse is that the times keep changing, and day too, so it's not a regular habit yet. I would like to go back to Saturday mornings, as difficult as it was to get up early on a Saturday, because then it doesn't force to me sacrifice a gym day. Dr. Tell-Me would like to meet at 10:00 on Thursdays, which would be perfectly possible. I could do what I have done so many times already, which is sit in the car and do my phone calls. But I'd rather be spinning. (Sounds like a bumper sticker...)

At any rate, I still have issues to work out, demons to battle and Thing to Get Done. The major difference now is that, unlike my plump little body, the boutique is really showing results, and is definately going to be what I want it to be. It's a hell of a lot healthier for me to focus a big part of my boundless energy, endless patience, reasonable intelligence and collection of neuroses on improving my business, rather than focusing it all on my plump thighs. I can overlook a juggle with enough distraction. Taking care of my three year olds, my house, my cat (which was run over by a car - my DH's car!!! That's another story) my health, my mental fitness and a soon to be very successful business is enough distraction for me!

Most of the time.

Bye for now, and come and see me sometime.

XXOO

The MOT

I am now a Proprietress!

2006-09-05T17:31:00.000-04:00

Ha! I compose my posts in MS Word (like most normal people who use Blogger) and spell check tried to change that to Procuress. Snort.

Yes, it is official. I have a lovely little boutique for ladies clothing and accessories, in the heart of my little city. For you locals, my store is across the street from both the school of architecture building and that church that was converted into the Rep Theater.

We are buying clothes as I type, from LA and New York and I have a few fabulous vintage pieces from the 1960’s, hand made in London and Hong Kong, coming soon! I am a bit nervous, a lot excited and golly, I am so glad I have a project!

My children have been to the shop with me several times, they like my partner and now they ask, “Are you going to the gym or the store?” when I get ready to go out in the evening.

That is another fabb-o part of this deal: the schedule.

I am going to work on PR and in the shop while the boys are in school. I will also work one evening a week, and I'll be on site all day Saturday and Sunday. I can still go the gym a few times a week, and go out with my buddies and all that. Best of all, I’ll be with my boys every day after school and before and after work, just like always.

Deep sigh. This is great.

Wow, It's been a long time

2006-08-20T11:41:00.000-04:00

Shouldn't "seminal" all girl bands, like The Go-Go's and Hole and The Bangles really be referred to as "ovarian"?

Just today I thought, "My, you have not posted in a looong time! Why not let the folks know what's up?"

This is what's up.

I have not posted in a while for several reasons; one, I was looking for a job; two, I have my children at home for the summer, and my oh my, do those little fellas take up a lot of time; and three, I really haven't had anything amazing to write.

However, since I am typing this on the computer at my new job, and since the children are with the DH and since I am working on a new and exciting project, a post was possible.

The new job is at a small boutique in the small city in which I live. For the past year or so I have been telling people (and Gerald) that I needed a job/a project/a "thing" of all my own, apart from my delightful family, of course. I was just stuck on the taking care of the children issue. I mean, what kind of job could I find that would allow me to work only weekends, and during the day for an hour or two? I also wanted a job that would lead to something bigger, better and even more interesting.

One would think I could get back into cooking easily. I made myself available, and was hired by a couple. They wanted three meals a week, for the two of them and their small son. I made three three course meals, brought it over and charged $150. It was too much, so I made four "one pot" meals, brought it over and charged $52.50. She asked, "Can I give you $50 even?" I thought, "No, you may not nickel and dime me to death!!" but since she is the friend of a friend, I just tool the money and ran. I am not doing that again. Yo, if you can't afford me, you can't afford me. I know what my talents, education, experience and time are worth, and it's not fifty bucks for five hours work. Besides, I simply don't want to get back into catering. It's simply too brutal and too time consuming and not very rewarding finacially. Nor do I find it "fun", which I have learned must be a part of whatever I do that will take me away from my children. I was thinking and thinking - what can I do?

Then I met Miss. Smith.

In May I was shopping at a small boutique and got to chatting to the store manager. I went back to shop and chat with her a few more times, and got to thinking about fashion as a career. She told me, after we got to know each other a bit, that she wants to open her own shop.

Then, on World Cup Day (Italia! Italia!), I was at my DS's house for a party (Forza Azzuro!) and got to chatting with one of her buddies, who manufactures fancy jewelry. The buddy agreed that I needed a project and talked up fashion as such fun and so rewarding. I went to the phone, spurred on my the convo, I called the boutique and offered my services. Miss. Smith hired me over the phone, for weekends only. How perfect! The DH had had the idea I could work weekends, so he could attend to the progeny. This is really ideal.

I have been here for about four weeks now, and so far, so good. I am a bit tired from a five day work week then a twelve to 18 hour work weekend, but I am managing well.

The new project also came from the World Cup Party (Forza Cannavaro!) when I told one of my sister's chums about my new (ten minute new) job. She got this look on her face, and said through a moue of distate, "You want to work in a clothing store?" I hastily assured her, no, I would not merely be working there, but I would really be getting experience to be store manager, and maybe, in a few years, open my own place. She looked relieved, and I felt thoughtful. Hmmm, manager of my own store? I went back to the party (Nice save, Buffon!) and got my mind to work.

I have done the "my own business" thing a few times before, and it was always missing something. I used to live in Atlanta, and had a lot of gal pals from my night gig at Clarins at the department store. Some of them also sold Mary Kay. They made it sound so great, and so easy, and cool and fun. Naturally all those job charactaristics were so appealing to a rather dizzy 20 something year old girl, which I was me at the time. Therefore, I spent the required $500 on products and display peices, and set out to make it as a Mary Kay beauty consultant. However, I was being new in town and did not have a network. I also have an obvious Northern accent, which really did work against me. Also, I did not understand that working harder was not the same as working smarter, so I got a bit burned out. As a result, I was not able to make it as a Mary Kay beauty consultant. I also tried to sell vitamins as part of a multi-level marketing scheme. That didn't work for some of the same reasons.

From those experiences I learned that in order to succeed in the retail world you need to have fun at work, you need to believe in what you sell and you need to genuinely want to help the people to whom you sell. That was why I was such a smash hit as a Clarins consultant. I truly loved the product and the customers felt the love. This is why I feel an upscale boutique is the right fit for me.

Therefore, I am working the store, checking out designers and fashion on line, really reading style magazines, watching what people are wearing on the street and I am enjoying myself.

That is, briefly, what I am doing these days. It's a very funny feeling to finally know what I am going to be when I grow up. I know there will be growing pains and mistakes made and problems. I know there are so many people to meet and talk with, and so many designers and styles and ideas to see and learn. I know I will get tired and exhilarated and have terrible days and fabulous days and I know this for certain.

It's going to be great.

What I really meant was...

2006-06-24T00:18:00.000-04:00

Tonight I spoke with a friend, about my last post. She said, in different words, this is not a quote, that I sounded whiny and silly, complaining about what most people would call a very nice life. (She said it differently, but I spoke to her on my way to catch the late show of An Inconvenient Truth. I am now so rattled and upset by the film that I can barely remember what anybody at all said to me today.)

My last post did not convey what I meant it to. I did not mean to upset Gerald, nor did I intend to complain. I was trying to write about being torn between feeling happy that I have time to pursue my interests, and feeling obligated to make life as comfortable as possible for my family before I take care of me. (The gym is not relaxation, it's really work - more on that later.)

I am fully aware I am a stay-home-mother, in the new classic definition of the term. I do not work for a paycheck, and the children, the housekeeping and the organization of those two are fully my province. If I go out at night, I make sure there is a meal ready to be served, and that the pj's are set out, complete with diapers, to make the post-bathtime moment as seamless as possible. I feel torn between wanting to embrace this role of SHM and excel in it, and feeling the futility of keeping the floor clean, and the like. There are so many parts of mothering a young family that are thankless and frustrating. For instance; the frustration I feel whilst attempting to diaper a wriggling, screaming child. Or the thanklessness of watching something you have just cooked/cleaned/tidied/put away/brought home/put on getting destroyed faster than anyone can move to save it.

I love my children. I delight in their voices, their expressions, their creative play. I relish the funny and sweet and crazy things they say and do. I adore how they show they love me; I love the noisy kisses and the choking hugs. I grin ear to ear when Baby A runs to the door of his classroom and announces to the world, alto voce, “Mommy is he-ah! Mommy is he-ah!” I feel the prick of tears whenever I see Baby B’s eczema flare up – I don’t want anything to hurt my baby. I have searched and researched the entire world to find something to help him, and I finally discovered that pure, unfiltered Shea butter from Ghana works best.

I love my husband, and I appreciate all he does for me individually and for the family. He is a hands-on guy, with the children and with the house and with me. (Teehee!) He is an amazingly devoted husband and father, despite our occasional parenting style differences.

I am very happy with my little house. This is the first place I have ever felt truly at home. I feel more at home after four years here than I ever did in the New York apartment in which I lived for almost ten years. My mother owned that apartment and never let me forget it. I take great pride in the prettiness, neatness, and organization of my own house. I have done a lot of work with my own little gloved hands, and I am, for the most part, rather pleased with the results of my painting, decorating, plumbing, construction and choice of artworks.

Tonight my friend asked me if I will ever be content. If she meant to ask, will I ever feel it's not necessary to cook something, or clean something, or organize something just because I have a free moment? Will I ever just rest, read a book, watch the grass grow or sleep? Well, I don’t know. It’s my personality to always be Doing Something, if I have the time in which to do it. I inherited that restlessness from my poor mother.

She also asked if I will ever be content with myself/my body. Well, right now the answer is no. I am not happy with my physical form, and never have been since I realized, at age nine or ten, that I was short and fat and had terrible, thick legs and stumpy, flabby arms. At least, I do compared to my “perfect” mother and stick thin sister. I was, and am, fatter and shorter, and always will be. I work-out a lot in an attempt to hold the obesity at bay, but because I have self-defeating tendencies, I over-eat. I over-eat when I am frustrated by something beyond my control, like the boys toddler fighting, or the cats endless miauing to come in or go out, or the hot weather, or the neighbor’s teenager with the stinky, noisy, oil burning car. I also over-eat when I am bored. Therefore, I keep busy. In theory then I won’t have time to get bored, and therefore I won’t over-eat. In theory. In reality, I run around, and wind up having lunch in the car. I am not comfortable eating in the car. I don’t pay attention to what I eat in the car, and often over eat, just to empty the lunch box, so as not have one more thing to lug about. I pack a light lunch, which works at times, but at other times I am just so hungry, I eat some of the boys lunch too. I truly do try to organize it well, but I am not perfect. Like you didn’t know that already, right?!

Gerald wrote: “Find another therapist and investigate the use of healthy coping and people first skills. Or better yet go, get a job” This is not constructive, realistic or practical advice. My therapist is excellent, covered by my insurance and was chosen after I had seen four different people several times each. I know I cope extremely well, given the stresses of daily life with young children. I don't excel, but I definitely cope. And, if I did not have people skills I would not have friends. (Like Gerald. Du-OH!) As for getting a job, I adressed that in my comment to the aftermentioned Gerald.

I wrote that last post at a certain moment, after a long, hot day, at about 10:00 PM, when I was tired and taken for granted. It was a moment, and yes, I was whiny and silly at that moment.

I am a tired now, and had another long, hot day, which included an ill-advised trip to Chuck E. Cheese to make a friend’s child happy. No-one was happy after the visit and I got a headache. Lesson learned. Whatever the late hour, I felt compelled to explain myself more effectively, if a bit long-windedly. Is “long-windedly” is even a word? I will have to research that, when I have a free moment, of course.

I have written before about the broken finger phenomenon. If one person has broken finger and another person has a broken arm, it doesn’t necessarily hold that the broken arm is more painful than the broken finger. To the person with the broken bone, size does not matter. The pain is real and present and hurts. Yes, I have a nice life, and even an easy life, but I still feel frustration and exhaustion at times. At those times, the pain is real and present and hurts. I see I picked the wrong place and time to vent that small hurt.

I will take some time off from this blog, and get back to it later.

Au revoir.

Woof

2006-06-21T10:33:00.000-04:00

Well, as I wrote before, the Dog Days have arrived, and I am "relaxing" and "enjoying" my "free time". I put quotes around all that because, as y'all know, so much is subjective.

Thanks to the five four-hour twin free mornings at my house, I have been able to attend to a bunch of projects - finally painting the trim in the playroom, finishing the sewing and getting those last spring plants in the ground. I have also been able to go to the gym, tidy the house AND go shopping all in the same morning, which is a treat. This sounds ridiculously obvious, but having four hours instead of three is SOOO much more time. Often, I almost feel relaxed.

Almost.

Yesterday, it was business as usual. We all woke up around 6:30, the DH and I had our breakfast, got dressed, got the guys breakfasted, dressed, and coated in sunblock, got the bags, the lunches and my list of errands in the car, and off we went. I took the fellas to school, sat in the car for twenty minutes and made some phone calls, went to the tailor to drop off some pants, took a 60 minute spin class, met with my trainer for an hour (we boxed - LOVE IT!), took a shower, coated myself with sunblock, sat in the car for twenty minutes and ate my lunch, whilst reading a book, and got the guys from school at 12:30.

Then we met some freinds at Ikea for lunch and the children ran around the store like mad. I did a little shopping myself, and around 3:30 we got in the car to go home. The guys were tired from all the running around, and I was looking forward to a few minutes of down time.

Whoops! I suddenly remembered I had a dentist appontment at 4:00! I called the DH, who met me at the dentist's office. By this time the boys were sleeping, so I thought it was nice for the DH; he'd have some time to get things done when he got home. I asked him if he was okay - he looked all pissy. He kind of grr'ed at me, "The traffic was terrible!", and took off.

I had my apppointment - no cavities - Yay! - and called home at 5:15 to let the DH know I was stopping at the crunchy granola shop to get my Stress Buster Yogi Tea. I asked what he was doing, and he said, "Laundry." I thought, how nice, did my shop, read my book for half an hour in the car, and got home by 7:00.

At home, all the boys were outside running around. The kitchen was a bit of a wreck, and the laundry was in the washer. But nothing else... I asked about the naps, and he said the boys woke up at 6:30.

Me: What were you doing for two hours?
DH: I got the laundry going.
Me: Did they eat?
DH: There is a pizza in the oven.

I can't help but think - what about the lunches for tomorrow? What about the door that needs a coat of sealant? What about the curtains that need to be hung? What about a martini for your hard-working wife?

So, today I dropped the fellas at school, came home, cleaned the bathroom, made some phone calls, organized a cake for a friend's party this afternoon, sewed up yet another pair of little pj's, folded the laundry in the dryer, hung up the wet laundry, fed the cats, cleaned up breakfast, vacummed the bedrooms and took a minute to post this.

I am a tiny bit annoyed that the DH leaves me to do all the house things, but I am a bigger part understanding. I know I do it better, faster and cleaner than he does. Besides, right now, the DH works in an office and I work at home. So, it is my job to clean, cook and sew. How nineteenth century! But in spite of therapy, reasonability and logicial thinking, I feel mixed. Should I be annoyed?

Anyway, let me post this. I need to get a coat of sealant on the door and start on the fruit salad for later. I hope I don't have any trouble getting that door off the hinges. I really hope I don't drop it either - it's kind-a heavy. And I really, really hope I don't - God forbid - break a nail. After all, part of my job description is looking good, and that is the hardest part.

The dog days are here...

2006-05-30T15:39:00.000-04:00

and my boys will be barking up a storm at the Montessori Summer program.

Yes indeedy, my parents suggested I enroll the twins in the five week Montessori Enrichment Program, which is specially designed to help the toddler transition from one classroom to another. With a name like “Enrichment” I had an idea the program was designed to improve their white blood cell count and fatten them up a bit at the same time, but no...

There was a little saga about their enrollment, because, as y’all know, nothing in my life can ever be simple and streamlined. In April, when the signs advertising the Summer Enrichment Program (SEP) went up all over the school, I looked at the price, winced, and didn’t look again. The deadline for enrollment was May 12, and the tuition was due, in full, on May 26. My parents came over on Saturday, the 27th, and my father asked about our summer plans.

Daddy: Hey, what are the twins going to be doing this summer?

MOT: Driving me crazy full time, me thinks.

Daddy: Why not enroll them in a summer program somewhere?

MOT: Well, there is one at their school, but it seemed kind of pricey.

Daddy: Oh, we can take care of that for you...OUCH! (My mother kicked him under the table)

MOT: Well, guys, I’ll look into it, and if there’s room, I’ll enroll them.

Mummy and Daddy together: Oh yes, we can help you with the tuition, no problem.

MOT: You do realize we’ll have to pay up front, because I missed the deadline?

M and D: Oh, yes, we can blah, blah, demur, demur.

Therefore, when I dropped off the fellas today I asked the administrator if there room in the SEP. She said there was, and I filled out the application on the spot. She told me I needed to get a check to the school Ay-Sap, andI said I would.

While I was at Stop and Shop after school, I called my mother:

MOT: Hi Mummy, I was able to get the boys into the Summer program, so now we need to cough up the tuition. Here’s how much we need...

Mummy: I don’t know how you expect me to pay all that, I am re-doing the kitchen, you know.

MOT: (keeping her cool AND her head) Mummy, I didn’t tell you guys about the program because, as I said before, I thought it was too much money. The DH and I can’t afford the full tuition on our own, as I said before. This was Daddy's idea. I was ready for them to be home- really. It’s fine; they don’t have to go. Will I see you this weekend?

Mummy: Now wait! I didn’t say I COULDN’T help you a bit, I think I might be able to stretch it to $1,000. Will that help?

MOT: That’s great, and yes, it will help. Would you mail the check to the school?

Mummy: (deep sigh) Yes, I will.

I think my sessions with Dr. Tell me About It helped me in that situation. I was all grouchy and shaky for a few hours afterwards – why does she make me jump through hoops all the time? Why can’t she fulfill her promises without trying to torture me? And if I refuse to be tortured, why do I feel guilty? Do I fell like I have deprived her of some fun? Or does she need to make me know how difficult it is for her? Or does she just want to me really, really appreciate her? Or does she simply like to belittle me and get me to beg?

I’m glad the boys will be in a program; I don’t know if I’d be able to have them 24/7 for 3 long hot months without a break. I don’t handle humidity very well. I only wish I didn’t have to feel as if I had done something wrong. The SEP was my parents’ idea; my father offered to pay, without any hint from me, but still the resistance. As infinitesimal as it was, it still takes a lot out of me.

I regret to report I cried a teensy bit, and was sensitive all afternoon. The boys are napping now, and I hope a snack and a nap work will work wonders for Mommy just like they do for babies.

I think I'll have some graham crackers and apple juice...YUM! Better already!

Out of the minds of Babes

2006-05-11T10:48:00.000-04:00

You know how it is when you are a bit tipsy, or a bit sleepy and you unintentionally say something that comes across as hilarious? Well, the other day, Baby B was just up from a nap, and at the yawn-y, heavy in my arms stage of waking up. I carried him outside, to where his brother was frisking and gamboling. We sat for a moment on the lawn as he woke up and looked around. He focused on the garden, pointed and said, “Thass a wheelbarrow.” My little Obvious Man.

Baby A is Obvious Man too at times. He was banging the plastic hammer from his tool chest on the table. Wham, wham, what fun! He paused, looked up at me and said, “This hammer really loud!” Hey, you are right. I wouldn’t have noticed.

Like many little boys, my two have a fondness for wheeled things, construction equipment and farm machinery. They have a small fleet of tractors and trucks at home, and they like to know the specific names for each vehicle; track excavator, mobile crane, front loader with digger, tractor and so on. Nowadays, before we go for a drive, each boy will request a particular toy. Baby A likes his “yellow fork-a leeeft” and Baby B like to play with this red combine harvester. Guess what he calls it? Yep, he’s two and a half and says, “Combine, please.” My boy is a genius - call Yale.

Miss Malaprop is SOOOO funny!

2006-05-04T17:53:00.000-04:00

My dear friend, whose husband calls Miss Malaprop, said just the funniest things recently.

Last night we all stood by our cars, saying "Bye, Bye" and "See you soon" and "What a nice time". I went from person to person, saying “Mwah, Mwah” and kissing both cheeks. This lady’s husband missed the second kiss I dished out, because he wasn’t expecting two kisses. Miss Malaprop said, “Oh Honey, The MOT swings both cheeks.”

What, when I walk?

A few weeks ago, at a playgroup, all the children were running around and doing this and that, and the parents were sitting and chatting. One of the children needed help dressing a Jessie doll. You know, Jessie? Woody’s girlfriends from Toy Story Part Two? A few of the parents started dressing these dolls and I saw that the family had three Woody dolls, of various sizes and materials. I commented on this, and asked why the dolls weren’t more consistent. Miss Malaprop said, “Well, you know, all Woodies are different.”

So I have heard. So I have heard.

A Half Assed post

2006-05-02T15:57:00.000-04:00

A quick update

Since I have been so busy lately with my one-hour nap boys (grr) and the siren song of the great outdoors and my flower garden, I have not been updating this blog that often. Recently I have had requests to do so, hence, this half-assed post.

I saw my new endocrinologist last week and my TSH went from 2.80 to .75 in one month, just by following her advice: take my meds at the same time every day, on an empty stomach. By empty, she means, don't eat anything at all for one half hour after taking the meds. Not even juice. I also added another pill once a week, so I am taking eight tablets a week; I take two on Wednesdays . I definitely feel less moody, but I still get pissed off when the babies throw all their clean clothes out the second story window onto the muddy grass. D’ja think that makes me unbalanced? Ha.

I had a nice lunch with my parents over the weekend. I expected nothing therefore was happily surprised. I didn’t ask for a lot and as a result got more than I had expected. My Dad did tell me I looked like kinda chunky, but since I won the Scrabble game, he might have been “getting even.” Ho.

I have been going to the gym a bit more lately; somehow I am able to squeeze it in and still do other crucial stuff, like scrub my bathroom, take the boys to the playground and eat and sleep. This week I went to a spin class on Monday at 9:30, worked out with my trainer from 10:30 to 11:30, then went back for another class that night – kickboxing. I took the spin class today and plan on going tomorrow as well. I meet my trainer on Thursday at 7:30, and then I have an appointment to have more blood sucked for another doctor. Then I am going to a friend’s house to help her prepare an impressive dinner for her in-laws before I collect the boys from school. I will take the yoga class that night. I plan on taking Friday off, because I meet with my Dr. Tell Me at 7:30 on Saturday (just for a few weeks, then we are back to 8:00 am), so I can take the 9:30 Saturday Pilates class at the gym. I need to get a schedule worked out for the summer - I will so miss those three hours three days a week of me/gym time...

So, as y’all can see, I am busy. In a happy way. It feels nice.

A Nutcase's Progress

2006-04-09T18:19:00.000-04:00

Just today I got a comment on my last post that expressed the opinion “your a nutcase”. Naturally, I disagreed and wrote the anonymous a little comment back. It should have been written "you're a nutcase".

As y’all know I have been seeing a therapist for the past month or so. I have also been taking an extra Synthroid once a week to boost my levels of TSH. The extra pill just once a week might be enough, because thyroid hormone is cumulative in the body. It was a good idea, and I think both are therapies are working quite well. I also attribute some of my “feeling better” feelings to the flower essences, which I take about three times a day. Man, do I love my homeopathic remedies!

Talking therapy is proving quite interesting, in that Dr. Tell Me How You Feel About That agrees with some of my self assessments, but also points out some obvious issues that I have not been able to see. For example, I have a bit of a rocky relationship with my mother. Many of us do. I am quite similar to my mother in many ways; we both like to be in charge, we both like to feed people and give presents, we both like to keep order in our homes, we both feel we can’t relax unless everything is taken care of first. Man, that’s exhausting. However, unlike my mother, I can admit failure and show weakness and I can yell, “HEEEEELLLLLPPPP!” as I have done just recently. My poor mother is unable to show signs of failure, which is a bit of an emotional failure in itself, don’t you think?

So here I am, discussing my parental relationship with Dr. Tell Me How You Feel About That, and she says (these are not direct quotes), “Well, I see that you are here.” She holds her hand to the left. “And I see that your mother is over here.” She holds her hand to the right. “You are both inhabiting rather small spaces, and need more room to be happy. Through therapy and through talking and by admitting the need for assistance, you are increasing your space. Your mother seems not to be able to do that right now. But you shouldn’t worry about crossing over into her living space. There’s enough room for everyone.” We discussed this further, and then she said, “Don’t be afraid of turning into your mother. Your ability to be self aware already makes you your own person.”

I thought that was great advice. I can be like my mother, without being a clone of her. I can be my own person, and my own charming self, but still can hold an echo of my parent. I can be a nutcase if I want to be one, and can continue to have a terrific relationship with my children. I can be like my mother without having to be my mother.

There is a lot I admire in my parent; her strength for one. My mother left her home country, left her friends and her brother and mother and moved to Canada. She had just been married two years, had a year old baby and was pregnant with me. She set up a new home and then my parents decided to move again. This time she moved with a 2 year old, a six month old and she got pregnant with my brother in about six months of settling into her third house in as many years. Everyone who meets her says how charming and intelligent she is; it’s once you know her for years that you realize she’s pretty self-centered.

Gosh, it’s scary how alike we can be! Y’all might be saying, “Gee, we knew this all along,” but self-realization is a powerful thang…

As good as this therapy shtick is turning out to be, I am also going to have my blood tested for TSH in a week or so, and see the endocrinologist again. I really need to be aware of how exercise, emotional changes, hormones and life with little boys in general can affect my thyroid. I wonder if talking therapy has boosted my cortisol levels as well. As you know, the adrenal glands produce cortisol. When you are stressed or emotionally taxed or injured or sick for a long time, the adrenal glands get over worked and are unable to make enough cortisol. As a result, people get tired and depressed and sick more easily. Adrenal hormones also help maintain blood sugar. I might have had an overworked adrenal gland, from feeling stressed and anxious for the past few years. This would explain the dizzy spells and nervousness, and panic-y feelings.

The lovely endocrinologist is having all these levels tested. She is the first one to do so, and if her hunch is right - stress was making my thyroid work too hard, then she has my undying loyalty.

I will let y’all know about my blood-work, in the interest of science. It will be interesting to see how quickly one recovers quickly from these kinds of adrenal/thyroid imbalances. I’m enjoying not feeling super moody and I am really looking forward to not feeling dizzy.

The Sense of Spring

2006-03-31T16:36:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, as the babies and I were frolicking about in our Music Together class, I suddenly felt a surge of light. I almost became teary; it was a clear, acute sensation. It was happiness.

I was holding one baby; the music teacher was holding the other baby, and we were dancing to this Canadian sailor’s song, Lukey’s Boat. Both Baby A and B love this song, and we play it 5 times in a row in the car. Baby A was laughing and clapping, and Baby B had the biggest smile on his chops imaginable. We were all singing away and I felt so light and bright, like I had a cloud in my chest.

I have had the same kind of sensation in the past, at other purely simple and happy times. It has been when I was doing something fun and interesting or when I was getting ready to go somewhere and I knew it would be great. At these times I get the feeling of looking down upon myself, but not in a removed sort of way. I am definitely still part of the scene, and can feel and see and smell and taste with an extra sensitive touch.

Perhaps it is the sunshine, or the scent of warmth and new shoots. Perhaps it is the therapy or the flower essences. Perhaps it’s the fact of Spring and the pollen; it’s making the DH sneeze, it could be affecting me too, but mentally.

The happy cloud blew away and I was back to my regular programming. I got the dinner organized, got the apple and strawberry tart together for the playgroup the next day, and did some laundry. By 8:30 I was ready for bed, but the boys were resistant. Baby B threw his fire engine down the stairs and nicked our new paint, and Baby A ran around yelling until about 9:30. But, eh, s’alright. B didn’t mean any harm and we can paint again. A was just over-excited about being alive, and he eventually put a sock in it.

So, I felt a bit crabby by late evening, s’alright. I’d be inhuman if a pair of whiny 2 and a half year olds doing a I-don’t-wanna-go-to-bed shtick after a 16 hour day didn’t make me feel a bit grouchy. I feel perfectly content, even if my fine, white cloud has dispersed. Now that I have been reminded of the feeling, I am sure it will come back.

It could be Monday's visit to the endocrinologist. My TSH was 2.74 in November of 2005 and in now, in March of 2006 it is 2.95. She increased my Synthroid by one extra 88 mcg pill every six days. I took the upped dosage that day, and it might be affecting me already. I am a sensitive blossom...

Only two days ago I spoke about this happy cloud and light sensation. I was just telling someone about a happy time in my life a few days ago, and how I used to feel as if I had a light bright cloud inside me that illuminated my life. A light that shone upon the best path for me to take and kept me from stumbling. How odd that I should feel it again so soon after verbalizing how much I missed that light!

White cloudy days are here again.

Well, y'all know I don't sunbathe!

Flower Power - available in England since 1930!

2006-03-28T07:21:00.000-05:00

Recently, between rushing around with the children to school and to music class and getting me to the gym for a two hour spin sessions to help work out demons, I had a few conversations with my lovely friend in Nashville. She and I are quite similar in that we both have a penchant for trying all kinds of New Age healing processes. (Cranial-Sacral massage! Fabulous! Make me an appointment, would’ja? Eye Movement Desensitization and Regression Therapy? Sounds super, and I think I actually know a practitioner! Honey, did I tell you about that Feng Shui reading I did on my house? Ever since I hung that mirror next to the door to help my Qi bounce back into the home, I have felt sooo much better….)

I called her as I was running errands, as she had left a message, concerned about me from my last post. (Gee, I wonder why? Heh.) Anyway, as she was telling me all about these flower essences she has been taking as part of her therapy, I walked into my local Happy Granola Organic Market. Just as she was describing the power of Oak extract, I walked over to the part of the market where all the natural cosmetic and vitamins are sold. What did I see before me? A whole shelf full of flower essences and mixing bottles and sprays of this concoction called Bach Rescue Remedy. Do you know how many times I have been in that store? Maybe 200 times in the past four years. It is the source for non-chemical skin care products, organic laundry soaps and the like. I get 90% of my vitamins from HGOM, and I have been to that section almost every time I have been shopping. Had I ever seen the selection of Bach Flower Essences and the enormous “Guide to Using Bach Flower Essences” hanging on the wall behind the register where I have paid for hundreds of purchases? Nope. They were just there, waiting for me to have my consciousness awakened.

I got several different essences and started taking them right away. I chose Crab Apple, Impatiens, Oak, White Chestnut and Willow. Here are the brief descriptions of each essence’s intended use:

Crab Apple helps you when you feel self-disgust, and cannot look in the mirror and appreciate how you look. Crab Apple helps you look at yourself without unrealistic critique.

Impatiens helps you when you get impatient and irritated with slow situations or people. Others appear slow and inefficient and you get frustrated; Impatiens helps you relax and cope calmly and diplomatically with irritating problems.

Oak helps you when are exhausted but you keep to struggling on. You are normally strong and brave, but because of your sense of duty you ignore your tiredness and do not allow yourself rest. You feel tired, frustrated, stressed and depressed. Oak helps you restore your energy and makes you recognize the need to take time off to relax and look after yourself.

White Chestnut helps you when your mind is full of unwanted thoughts and mental arguments. White Chestnut helps you clear your mind and get the thinking under control and can be put to positive use in problem-solving. Worry is replaced by trust in a positive outcome.

Willow is for those times when you feel bitterness and self-pity. It is also to assist you in forgiving past injustices when you feel resentful and critical. Willow helps you regain faith and optimism and. Feel that you are in control of your own destiny

There is another company, from California called FES , that sells slightly different blends and essences. I am quite interested in one, Buttercup. Here is a description:

Buttercup: For potentially self-assured people with a radiant inner light, who suffer from feelings of low self-worth, and an inability to acknowledge or experience that inner light and uniqueness. Buttercup helps rebalance the self-deprecating.

I’m going to get a gallon of that.

I am sure some of you might think this is all in my mind, and that drinking flower essences don’t really help anything. One of my friends actually suggested I get the DH to slip me a placebo drink for a few days to see if I notice the difference. I thanked him for his suggestion, but I’m so totally not going to do it. That is precisely the thinking that caused a bit of bother in the recent past.

You know, thinking my troubles are “all in my head” and that I should try the “just don’t worry about it” tack. Repressing my desire for help has led me to the edge of the cliff of mental instability. I have only been seeing my Dr. Tell Me About it for three weeks, but already I feel more confident in my abilities to decide what I need to do to help me. I will not let self-doubt and un-needed worry get me in my own way, damn it.

This flower essence thing has been around in its present form for about 80 years, and, obviously, has been used for thousands of years. It is working already.

Why, just the other night, I happily brought home my new oil paining, purchased from a real gallery, by a real artist (with a real price tag, 'natch). I leaned the painting, wrapped in paper and bubble wrap, against a low cabinet as I took off my shoes in the dining room. Baby A, who had not seen me in a few hours, was equally delighted to see me as the large amount of bubble wrap I had brought home. Before I could move, he knocked over the picture and stamped on it, to pop a bubble, of course.

Naturally I was a bit concerned for my picture, and took it into the kitchen to assess the damage. Of course it was damaged; there was a big dent in the top quarter, because, of course, when he knocked it over it fell with the picture up and the hollow space behind the stretched canvas down. When he stamped, the canvas went down that 1 and a half inches and left a dent. I fixed it by moistening the canvas right behind the dent and allowing it to air dry. This shrank the canvas and smoothed out the dent. But really, Baby A! Such violent exuberance. Please note, I did not freak out. The DH was on the cusp of flipping, I saw it in his face and heard his voice, but I felt oddly floral and calm. I really think the Impatiens Essence helped in that situation; I had just taken it a few hours before.

I am going to ask Dr. Tell Me what she thinks about flower essence therapy. She might tip her head to the side and ask me “What do you think I think?” but it’s worth discussing.

The Bouquet of Flowers

2006-03-17T15:23:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago I called my parents to see if my mother wanted to meet me at Ikea one day to look at kitchen cabinets. Two days later, I was beaten up and made an appointment to see a psychiatrist.

That night, a Monday, my father told me that I needed Prozac because I am deeply depressed. I pointed out that my thyroid was messed up and that I was weaning myself off coffee. He said, “You are depressed! Whenever we see you, you are always upset and angry!” I said I got anxious around them, but since my sister has scolded me about it, I was doing my best to be “normal” when I saw them. He agreed I had been better that last few times I saw them and then he told me that a TSH of 3 was just fine and my thyroid levels had nothing to do with me being moody. We got into a little squabble about that, when I said new studies show that a level of 1 to 2 is best for women. My father, with his 1967 medical degree, is a little bit stuck in is ways, and disagreed. He is a doctor, but he thinks homeopathy and naturopaths are twaddle. I also told him that I get dizzy spells and have periods of exhaustion, even after a night’s sleep. He said, “If you lived in Iraq you wouldn’t worry about dizzy spells!” Well, you’re right, Daddy – if I lived in Iraq right now I wouldn’t worry because I would probably be dead! What a comfort. Really.

A friend recently told me that she has had the same difficulty – reconciling her right to have problems with the fact that there are others who suffer too. My view is: my broken finger, while not as big or as painful as your broken leg, really, really hurts, and I have the right to say so. Everyone hurts, and has a right to feel it. I really do have an obligation to myself and my DH and my babies to go see someone. I am waiting so eagerly to see this new endocrinologist, and to hear what she says about the thyroid/moodswing/anxiety realationship. Because I really do have anxiety attacks and mood swings. I am not depressed – I never just sit and cry and feel incapable of doing anything. I know I am capable of doing everything and I know I need to get it all done before the babies wake up/go to bed/get out of bed/come home from school. I just can’t seem to get it all done and that makes me anxious, nervous and upset.

A lot of my “problems” come from me having unrealistic expectations and getting all flipped out about the failure to accomplish impossible goals. I have known this and I have tried to talk myself out of behaving this way for many years, but to no avail. For twenty something years I have been saying, “Now, MOT, don’t let it bother you!” But that doesn’t work. Therefore: the therapist. I hope that a trained professional will help me find what it is I am seeking, and help me find in myself. Then I can stop looking for fulfillment in cut abs, lean legs, flawless skin and a real conversation with my parents, because none of that is ever going to happen.

I have never been skinny, so why do I think I can do it now? I need to do some deep soul searching and discover exactly what I hope to accomplish by being a size 6. At the same time, do I really want that? If I really do want to be sexy, why do I them engage in self-destructive behavior, like eating? Why do I persist in eating dark chocolate on a daily basis? Am I trying to sabotage myself so I don’t have to find out what it’s like to be sexy, because I might not like it?

I have never had a great relationship with my parents. I was petrified of my mother’s disapproval for millions of years, and I still am. If she says, “Sit and wait”, I do. She was always late to come get me from school, or from the train when I was in college, but I would just sit and wait – sometimes for hours. I got a lot of reading and snacking in, as you can imagine. In the same conversation in which he made his Iraq comment, my father, told me that my mother is now afraid of me, and vomits before I come to visit. I make her that nervous. I find that beyond ironic – the child who was scared of her mother now terrifies her right back.

I wanted to apologize to my poor mother for making her vomit, so I called the next day, a Tuesday. I thought we should get this out of the septic system of our relationship, so I asked her, “How can you be scared of me? I am helpless and powerless! Why do I make you afraid? What can I do to stop you throwing up? How can I apologize? How can I be nicer?”

She told me that I made her incredibly nervous and twitchy and that she never knew if was going to get mad and yell. She also said she didn’t have any time to talk, as she had a busy day at the office and rafts of mail to open and so much to do and proceeded to tell me about her frantic lifestyle for the next twenty minutes. She completely avoided the reason I had called, didn’t let me say more than, “Yes, but…” and “Well, I …” for the rest of the “conversation”. By the end of it all I was so frustrated I was crying so hard I could hardly breathe. Her last remark was, “I always feel I never tell you what you need to hear.” I wanted to respond, “I don’t want you to tell me anything, I want you to listen to me tell you for once,” but I was choking, so I just said, “Don’t worry about it, goodbye.”

My babies were in school at the time, so I no one to distract me, or to get mind off the frustration I felt. I just got madder and madder. The DH was in a meeting and my sister wasn't home. I thought and thought and became somewhat hysterical. I screamed, I roared, I wept and sobbed. I screamed as if my mother could hear me, and I screamed at myself. I shook my fists in the air and then took them to myself. I punched my legs, my abdomen, my arms; everything I have always hated and been ashamed of. Then I slapped my face, over and over and hard, until I managed to get a grip. I beat myself up because I couldn’t force my mother to listen to me.

I beat myself up for being too weak to make myself heard, for being incapable of telling her what she needed to hear. Because I can’t, and never will, be able to slap my parents and say, “Stop ignoring me! I have a right to be,” I gave myself multiple bruises and two black eyes instead.

The next day, a dear friend saw me and cupped my face in her hands; I saw the start of tears in her eyes. I made to note to self: Call a shrink. I actually called five, have met with three, and have decided on one. This psychiatrist says, “Tell me what you think about that,” and “How does that make you feel?” She also pointed out, as I told one of my many stories, that my mother, as a young woman and a young mother was just holding on by a thread all through my childhood. Does this mean I am like her, or does it mean I have greater abilities because I am willing to admit failure? I am comfortable with defeat and with seeking professional help. I wonder if my mother ever saw a shrink? I am 110% sure her own mental discomfort is why she became a therapist. She thinks: If you are a therapist, you don’t have to go outside yourself to seek help. Unfortunately, she is not right about that.

Just knowing that I have a sympathetic, experienced ear to listen to me is a real relief. I am not sure if I will go the medication route – I will let the therapist advise what’s best for me, and not push her one way or the other.

Meanwhile, I am going to follow my brother’s advice. I asked him what he thought I should or could do about the unhappy situation with our parents. I asked what he would do if he lived just thirty minutes away and never really saw them, unless it was at their house, on their terms on their schedule. I asked how I could get our parents to come see me, to relax a little, to play with their grandchildren and listen a little. I asked what he would do. He said, “You know, my new daughter is almost six months old. They have been away three times since her birth and have not even considered coming to see her. They can’t be bothered. MOT, they will never approve and will never love you and pet you like you need to be loved. They care, but they can’t show it. They don’t know how to show it, and can’t be bothered to learn. It’s too hard for them to change at this point. So, fuck them.”

Let’s see what my brain doctor says about that; but, when I feel like I do now, I think my brother is absolutely right.

From the mouth of babes

2006-02-26T11:15:00.000-05:00

Baby B likes peppermint. He rummages through my nightstand regularly, because once I found a decrepit Star Brite Mint in the drawer and gave it to him. One mint, one time. Now he asks "Mommy, have it mint? Baby B eat it mint?" whenever we go into my room. During the holidays he would make a bee line for the Christmas trees in the houses we visited, would ask for a candy cane and crunch it up on the spot. He also likes to get his teeth brushed, d’ja know why? He wants the toothpaste. When it’s tooth-time he will say, “Candy cane mouth!”

They tend to scold the things that cause them injury, like each other, of course, and any furniture they crash into. From Baby B: “No! Bad Baby A! No biting! Naughty!” From Baby A: “Bad chair! No hurt Baby! No chair hurt Baby A!” And once, hilariously, from Baby B, as he was holding the cat’s tail, “No Meow Meow! Let go! Owweee!” The cat wasn’t too fussed, just puzzled. He gave Baby B a look to say, “Shouldn’t I be yelling at you, dude?” Thank goodness he’s so patient and understanding...and lazy. Methinks he just can’t be bothered to get up and run away.

Both babies say “it” a lot. They use it as a conjunction. “Baby B hold it fork,” "Daddy drive it car," “Baby A read it book,” “Mommy take it bath,” and so on. Sometimes, especially when Baby A is releasing on of his bizarre stream of consciousness sentences, “it” sprinkled liberally about gets confusing. Last night he said “Mommy hold it knife cut it Meow Meow outside it cold knife it no hold it Baby A.” I was cooking, didn't want him to touch the chopping knife and earlier I had let out the cat. You got that, right?

I wonder if the UN has a position for a simultaneous translator from Toddler into English? Now that would be a job for me.

I'm off the ledge, thank you.

2006-02-14T19:32:00.000-05:00

Well hello there, Internet. I’m off the ledge now, and ready to get on with my life, AKA The Survival of the Glibbest. I am sure it’s the weather/being cooped up/being a little unwell still/missing my spin classes for a few days that have made me feel crabbier and less tolerant than usual. I have my appointment with the crunchy granola endocrinologist, all set up. He has promised to look at more than just the lab results when dealing with my thyroid disorder. I hear he actually asks "How do you feel?" I have reasonably lofty hopes about this fella – I was referred by a fellow hypo-thyroidic woman, and I read some good stuff on the Internet about his approach. Maybe I really am a bit out of whack. (Now, Don’t say “Duh!” quite so loudly, Signorina Fiorentina…)

However gloomy as I have been, these past few weeks, I have not lost my all of my glib-itlities. Why just this afternoon I made a gal pal laugh out loud. I told her, when she called me on the cell, that I was taking my boys out for a Republican Party nap. She thought I meant that I had put them in the car for a drive because they were being so naughty – therefore – Republican. I actually meant that I was driving around solely to get them to nap. I didn't really need to be in the car, therefore I was unnecessarily burning fossil fuels. But her interpretation was kinda accurate. I hope I won’t soon be calling those drives ANWR Naps. Let’s cross our fingers as we watch C-Span, eh?

Glibness is a trait my boys have definitely inherited from their mama. Baby A charms his teacher at school by singing "Twinkle Twinkle" as he goes about his business all day, and the front office administrator told me that she was just in love with Baby A. He had broken away from his class, on the way in from the playground, had come into her office. He then proceeded to tell her all about her office – the books, the snowman picture, the flowers and so on. She said, “Oh, he’s just like a little man, who knows exactly what is going on! But he’s so small!” (Today was Valentine’s Day, so to seal this “relationship” I asked him to give her a big bunch of roses. He walked right up to her, and said, “Take ‘em!” and she was just so delighted. They were great roses, a light pinky purple, and he did look so sweet carrying them the door. I swear; all the oxygen was sucked out of the room by her intake of breath. I hope this means she’ll waive the late fee if I’m late with the tuition…)

Baby B has his own charm, and a way of repeating something I have told him, but for days and days and days and days. Over a month ago there was an emergency street cleaning/snow-clearing ordinance on certain streets in our fair city. That meant that all cars had be moved off certain blocks by a certain time or they would be towed. However, since the signs that explained all this were quite small, and only posted on two telephone poles along an entire three block “state of emergency” street, about fifteen cars were towed away at once. The towing occurred at 12:00, just as our playgroup burst out of the church where we meet, right before the watchful eyes of our playgroup. All the toddlers (my two included, ‘natch) were very concerned by this and needed lengthy explanations as to what was happening. Preacher Mom told the children that the cars were being naughty, because they were not supposed to block the street. That seemed to sink in, and we dispersed. It really sank in for Baby B, who, for weeks afterwards, informed me “No block street! Naughty Naughty!” every time we passed a line of parked cars. Yes, every time.

Also, there was a day when we drove past a car sliding on the ice lump left by a snow plow. You know what I mean – that speed bump the city plows leave blocking your driveway after you have spent two hours shoveling it all clear? Well, this poor lady’s city plow speed bump was solid ice and she wasn’t going forward or back. I pulled over, hopped out, and put a towel under the front tire. That way, when she started the car up again, and I gave her a push, the tire had something to grip. Two pushes and hey! Presto! She was on the road! Of course I had to explain it in detail to the boys. Baby B was really impressed and every time was pass the drive way he says, “Lady stuck car! Lady stuck car snow! Lady stuck snow!” Yes, every time we pass the driveway on the way to school, three days a week, twice a day, he says his thing. Every time…

I know all toddlers say the craziest things – so far mine have said -

Baby B “Tractor sleeping, sleeping with blanket!!” This is because there is an old tractor under a tarp in our neighbors yard. He wants to go for a ride and we had to explain why he couldn’t.

Baby A “Baby A no sleep! Need yip cream!” He calls his lips “yips” because he has a hard time with “L”. Baby A sees me apply a multitude of creams and unguents before I go to bed. One night I told him I couldn’t sleep unless I put on my night cream, so now, apparently, he can’t either.

Baby A likes to kiss things goodbye. He once kissed a Christmas tree “Bye Bye”, and then told me “Tree bite Baby A! No biting, tree!”

Both babies love the Yellow Submarine soundtrack. We listen to it often and they each have a favorite song. Baby B calls All Together Now “A-B-C-2-3!” for obvious reasons and Baby A asks for Hey Bulldog by saying “Yay b’dog! Yay b’dog!” until I play it.

Until the DH took away the TV, tired of the fighting over who watched what when, the twins liked to watch Bob the Builder. Now that they think the TV was broken, they ask to watch it on line, very occasionally. Baby B will refer to it as “Bada-bida”

Hey, this could work out…his aunt does live in New Jersey. When he gets older, she can take him take him to that bar – you know, The Bada-bing.

Uh-Oh!

110% of happiness

2006-02-08T22:44:00.000-05:00

Hello dear reader, thank you for the comment! I know what I have to do – eat, sleep, and exercise. Yes, I have done it. That is, on Monday, Tuesday and today I went to the gym but I really don’t feel any better. I just feel drained and overwhelmed by all these demands on me. Where are we going now? What are we going to do? When are we going to eat? What are we going to eat? Where are the socks/mittens/coats/cats? Where are my marbles? I can’t be the only one responsible for all this life! Why am I the one 110% in charge of everyone’s happiness? Do I have to be the one at fault for any mistakes? Or is that just the way it is?

Don’t any of you feel that this mothering gig is just way too much emotional effort for little to no return? When are they going to say "Thank you"? How old do they have to be to realize that I am making everything happen? How old do I have to be to give out? I mean, what is the good of all this sleepless drudgery? How much can you endlessly entertain and listen and talk and sing and dance and cook and clean and tidy and wash and fold and put away before you collapse in a frustrated heap at the feet of your messy, noisy, willful, ungrateful children?

Now I know why my mother dislikes her own children. She is just plain old sick of the sight of us all. She was a stay home mother for 12 years, and got completely burned out. Is the same thing going to happen to me?

I know there are mothers who think that being a “mommy” is just fantastic. They think that motherhood is so fulfilling and that their children are just the most amazing and delightful creatures on earth. They think that their husbands are perfect and their houses are dream-like, their friends are just so fabulous and supportive and understanding and on and on. I spoke with a mom like this at my school the other day. We wait in a gaggle in the hall, wait for the classroom doors to open and for our progeny to burst out and attack us. This one mother is hoping for her third child. I asked if that weren’t going to be a bit much to handle, three under age five, and she said, “Why? I just love having two children and I want another baby.”

Another mother is expecting her second in a few months and I tried to tell her how it can get so tough with two. She gave me a blank look and said, “Well I can’t see that it will be too different from having one.” Yet another mother, who has a six year old and a three year old said, “No, it won’t be too different. I have never felt overwhelmed or regretted having a second baby.” The pregnant lady was reassured. I was ashamed.

It all made me feel like some kind of freak. About a year and a half ago I wrote a post on how, in my own experience, with my own history and with lack of support I had at the time, I found it so amazingly challenging to just stay alive whilst nursing twins. I aslo wrote that it seemed no one understood me. Someone wrote an anonymous comment that basically said if I CHOSE to define myself in such a way that I suffered more than other mothers of twins, than yes, no one would understand me. I think she was commenting that if I said, “Woe is I! It is so much harder for me than anyone else!” I will alienate people and then yes, no one will understand, because no one will be listening. I am having a lot of those same feelings again – it’s harder for me to keep up with the boys and to stay above water than ever before.

For now, I no longer have anything to anticipate! Walking, weaning, eating at the table, going to school - it's happened. No longer do I have any excuses or reasons to believe it will get better! As soon as I meet some other mothers, as soon as it is summer/winter, as soon as we get through the hectic holiday season/the slow summer/the birthday madness - it's happened. No longer do I have a crutch to lean on! They are now two and a half. They go to school three days a week, for three hours a day. I belong to a gym. They are weaned and can sleep for ten hours straight. They can eat with forks and spoons and have a little group of friends to socialize with. We have three playgroups to choose from and people actually call me sometimes. So what is my excuse now? I see that life is going to be like this for years and years to come, and that makes me cry.

I am still fat, I am still tired, I am still overwhelmed, I am still frustrated, I am still depressed.

I don’t sleep with them every night, and I still toss and turn.

I have weaned them, and didn’t lose an ounce, let alone the ten pounds everyone said I would.

They are in school and I still can’t get jack done.

They don’t need me every second like they used to as infants, but I am still freaking worn out. I may still be tired from the illnesses we just recovered from. But isn’t that just another excuse?

The other day someone was over and saw my wedding picture. This guy said, “Wow. You have aged quite a bit.” The picture was taken a mere three and a half years ago. I look in the mirror and compare myself to that picture and I have to agree. In the wedding picture I could be twenty-five. In the mirror I could be forty-five. If I had know that having a baby or two would be so stressful, demanding, demeaning, messy, insulting, difficult, exhausting and headache inducing I would not have done it.

People ask me if I want any more children. “How about going for that girl?” they ask, with a smirk. I say, “I used to think I wanted three children – like the family I grew up with. Now that I have twins I realize - I want just one.” That always gets a laugh, but I mean it. The mother at the school door said she never regretted having her second child. I realize my remarks will alienate me from the rest of the world and therefore no one will listen, but I regret my first. I regret the loss of myself.

I lost myself before I even gave myself an opportunity to discover who I am. Now I won’t ever get that chance, unless I push my family away to get the space to explore. My parents did it to their children and I hated the experience. I won’t do the same to mine, so it’s me I give up on. I give up.

Deep signs abound - of relief and frustration

2006-02-06T21:55:00.000-05:00

The relief is from knowing we are all well and that no one is about to vomit in the near future. So we are good as far as our health is concerned. Baby A is eating like he has a hollow leg to fill and Baby B is back to his normal self. That is, he is loud and crazy and shrieks for no reason but to hear himself bounce off the walls. It’s so sweet. They both slept about eight hours last night, ate two waffles each for breakfast and finally went to school today. It was the first time I had been baby-free during the day in my own home for two weeks. I was going to start crying non-stop, instead of just intermittently, if I didn’t get alone time at home. I really need some peace, you know?

I am delighted the babies feel better, but I still feel like I was just cooked in a microwave – flabby, pasty and tasteless. As if all my nutrients were leached out by the 2,500 megahertz it takes to reheat a frozen Mama.

I know part of this is because I was sick, then the boys were sick and then I was overtired, but had to keep hopping to take care of them. Also I didn’t get to the gym for fifteen days straight. I know I am addicted to exercise - if I don’t work out, or walk or get moving at least three times a week I am grouchy, tired and moody. Plus I don’t sleep so well, which means I am not as efficient as I need to be. I had a little time to work out today and feel better for it, but I am still down and dumpy and lumpy.

And that’s just my butt.

And my abs.

And my arms.

And my thighs.

Basically I hate how I my body looks (and my eyebrows are pretty nasty these days as well) and there are days when I could just explode with frustration at the mirror. I work out, I eat less than I want to, I keep the fats and refined crap-ola to a minimum, I don’t drink and I still look like a trash can. I really do think those people who tell me I look “fine” either have extremely low standards for “fine” or they need to run to the optometrist, ‘coz that prescription ain’t workin’ toots.

It’s those darn short-stature-lumpy-heavy-legged-thick-arm-person genes I inherited along with my critical personality. It’s so hard to fight genetics! Yes, I know, I know I am hard on myself, but if I let myself get away with – Oh, I look fine, let’s have some banana cream pie – I will be a total troll.

No wait, according to Mumsie, I already AM a troll. Or at least a Troll Mama, which is the same thing.

Deep freaking sigh or frustration. Deeeeep freaking sigh.

DRYMYXX

2006-01-30T21:56:00.000-05:00

Isn't that a cool word? It came up as a "type in the box" for the Anti-Comment Spam thing.

A vomiting DH, a vomiting MOT and two sicky-sick toddlers. Isn't that yucky? Well, it's life chez nous right now. Last Sunday the DH threw up, then on the Monday Baby B got sick, with Baby A following suit a few hours later. Then, on Wednesday, around 4PM the MOT got the heaves, and I was still at it the next day.

Over the weekend I recovered a bit, but Baby A, who is on a course of Amoxicillin for a double ear infection, upchucked on Saturday night, on Sunday night and twice tonight as well. We took him off his meds late on Sunday, and the vet checked him out today. She said he's on the mend, but I think his little system is still in an uproar, hence the lack of appetite and the hurling this evening.

I am mighty glad I listened to my heart, and not to my DH, and insisted on rolling up my Oriental carpets after Saturday's projectile debacle. Last night he hit the bedroom floor, the hallway and the bathroom sink, wall and floor, and his Pingvin. Tonight he just got the bed, some clean laundry, the floor and his Pingvin.

(Good thing I have those 5 back-ups eh? We are on King Pingvin the III at this time. Old King Pingvin the I is in the wash and Young King P the II is on the line, drip-drying to preserve his fluffiness.)

After the second time, I tried to get him to upchuck into an empty wastepaper bin, but he thrashed around too much. The DH gave me a Look when I carried him into the bathroom last night and held him as he got the wall/floor/sink. He asked later, “Why not use the bin?” I couldn’t think of why I didn’t try harder to keep it neat; I was guess I was too busy with my arms full of screaming, puking, thrashing baby. Tonight, as the DH was folding laundry, Baby A woke up from his nap. I was in the shower at the time. The baby was fussy and unhappy, so the DH sat him on the bed and kept on with the laundry, chatting with him to keep him comforted. Therefore, when the heave-ho began, Baby A was in a prime position to hit the laundry on the bed, then the floor on his way to the bathroom.

Once everyone was changed and the wash was re-washing, I asked, “Why didn’t you use your bin.” He just said, “Yes, now I know what you mean.” Hmph.

I am worried about him; he only weighs about 25 pounds, and he lost almost a whole pound since his pedi visit last week. If he throws up again tomorrow, it was not the Amoxicillin, and I will officially Really Worried. I’ll take him right back to the vet for a more thorough check-up. (After seven days on meds his ears are clearing, so there’s no more need for antibiotics. I know, I know you are supposed to finish the course, but if he’s puking it up, he’s not getting the meds anyway!) I hope it was just a reaction; I know the suspension of the meds was too concentrated, because we ran out before the ten days were up. That is why I think the vomiting is a reaction, but get this:

I spoke to an irritating doc, who was covering for my usual lovely pedi, a few times over the weekend. I called the first time to let him know I had run out of Amoxicillin, and needed a refill. He said the baby needed to be seen before we could get another course of drugs and rang off. I had to call the service, have him paged and get another call back. Then I was able to explain the story - the pharmacy made the suspension to thick, therefore there was not enough volume in the bottle to last ten days, BID. He said okay, okay and called in a small bottle; we only needed enough for Saturday night, Sunday and Monday morning. Then, when Baby A had retched out the Saturday night dose and similarly the Sunday dose, I called again, and asked if I should take him in to the ER for hydration. I said, “My son is having a reaction to the Amoxicillin.” The doc said, “Oh, he’s been on it for about a week already! He can’t be having a reaction, you would notice a rash, or a reaction within the first few hours, blah blah blah.” I asked if I were allowed to speak, and when he shut up I told him about the Monday night vomiting, the loss of appetite, the listlessness and the violent vomiting the past two nights. Then he said, “Well, YOU were the one who wanted him on this drug!” As-IF! He then told me to fast him, and then give him one ounce of Gatorade every four hours for the night, then only give him one ounce at a time every hour for the next day, to see if he could keep it down. I said, “Oh, thank you for your advice!” I hung up and gave him three ounces of water, settled him to sleep, and when he woke up he had a cup of milk and some oatmeal. I am not going to fast a 25 pound (and losing) baby.

I know him, and I know what he needs. He doesn't need to fast, he needs to get well.

The Pingvin are in the building…

2006-01-19T14:35:00.000-05:00

Just yesterday a large box from Scotland arrived at our house. I had a strong feeling as to what was inside, and upon opening the box and seeing two shipping boxes from Ikea, I had to say, “Whoop! Whoop!”

Yes in deedy – we now have four amazingly clean Klappar Pingvin chez nous. They arrived just in time too; King Pingvin the First was in desperate need of a wash. Since Little Baby A has a nasty cold, and is feeling fragile, he refuses to let go of it for too long. Germ-o-phobe that I can be, I was not happy about the sticky, dirty, slobbered on stuffed toy in bed with me. Can you say "Cooties?" So we put Ver. 1.0 in the wash while the boys were enjoying a bubble bath/getting the entire bathroom drenched. The DH stealthily took out 2.0, removed his tags, and had King Pingvin II ready to be handed over right after bath-time.

The nice Scottish student who made this all possible sent me the sales slip with the parcel. Each bird was 6 British pounds and 99 pence, and the shipping boxes were two for 1.19. The shipping cost $19, or thereabouts, so with the current exchange rate, we paid $15.50 per Pingvin. That was a mark up of about $5.50 per bird, since Ver 1.0 cost me $9.99, plus 60 cents tax. I feel that was a completely reasonable price to pay for peace of mind and peace from screeching.

Dani, who wound up with three red plush lobsters, would agree, I am sure. I was having an IM conversation with my pal, Library Lil, just as the Pingvins arrived. I wrote I now had four back ups, and maybe I should set up a shrine? She suggested I use one of them as a Voodoo Pingvin; and keep it handy in case any flightless water fowl piss me off in the future. Clever lady...

My sister said, “Watch, you’ll go through all this trouble, and then he’ll lose interest.” Golly, I hope not!

But what if he does lose the love he now feels? What if in three months from now he doesn’t even want to see a Pingvin, let alone carry one everywhere he goes? Well, I for one can guess what y’all’s kids are gettin’ for Christmas.

What happened on Saturday

2006-01-15T17:25:00.000-05:00

Just so you know, the lunch on Saturday was fine. I didn’t have a fabulous time, but I never really do have a good time at my parent’s house.

However, this time I was mentally prepared to be “good” and I was not looking for, nor expecting, fun and games. Therefore, all went well. I decided that I was not going to be annoyed, stressed or bored whilst there, so - I wasn’t. I made up my mind not to let any comments bother me, so - they didn't. I also knew not to feel as if I should try to help tidy up, do any cooking, or keep the boys away from the birds, plants and antiques, so - I didn’t. I also determined to leave when I saw/knew/sensed-with-my-mother-radar that my boys needed/wanted to go, and so – we did. That certainly was a good move. Screaming toddlers just make everyone annoyed and stressed, including me.

We arrived around 11, the boys napped, I set the table, the boys woke up, we had lunch, watched half of the Wizard of Oz and by 3:00, in time for the boys to take another nap on the way home. I psyched myself up to tune out any irritants, and it really worked. Of course my mother made a few of her usual comments, but I just ignored them. This is my father apologizing for not calling me about my Great Aunt:

“I was on the phone for years to England and to my brother and you lot (my sister, brother and I) just weren’t on my mind. I am so sorry, but I simply forgot.” I knew that was just his way and was the best apology I was going to get, so I said, “It’s okay, I’m over it.” If I look into my heart I see, yes, honestly, I am.

Besides his apology, he also gave me two glossy cooking magazines with Post-It notes on about forty items from different stores and websites to get for him. This is also his usual way. He genuinely thinks I have a lot of time, and he does not realize that any time I get on line is spent blogging, or emailing or maybe shopping or looking for a Pingvin. Either that, or he knows I have this bizarre desire to make other people happy, so I am willing to go on line for him to all these different websites, and look for the Estonian birch wood serving bowl with mother of pearl trim he feels he really, really needs. The DH saw the magazines, saw the list I made of the websites, and said, “That’s going to take you about three hours.”

Yeah, I know, but I am being the “good” daughter now. I shouldn’t complain too much, he got my sister to find about a million books for him on line, and this was as she was preparing for her new semester's classes, editing her dissertation for publication and taking care of her two kiddies while her DH was overseas for work.

Our parents just do not see that we are adults in our own right, with lives to attend to and things to do and our own crises to cope with. I don’t think they ever will. This whole Great Auntie debacle taught me that if my relationship with them is going to improve it is entirely up to me to make that improvement. They are too wooden, too selfish and too "old" to make any changes or concessions. It’s up to me.

It’s so true that old is a state of mind. I have a friend who is 60, just a few years younger than The ‘Rents. She and I can talk about, and relate to each other on, a whole world of subjects. We are both still searching for the right career, the right state of mind and the right way to be. She is not "old" at all, but that’s because she keeps searching and learning and changing. She’s also a little unhappy, but that is what spurs her search. I wonder if my parents are really happy? Ya know, they probably really are…and they probably think, in complete honesty, that I am the only one in our relationship with problems. Humph.

So, I’d better get off this blog and get to the Web.

First stop – americancraftmuseum dot com, for the Indonesian hand-carved kamagong-wood salad servers. Here they are! Yes, I need to set up a new account, let's make up a user name, a password and key question. Now, here is my shipping address, billing address, credit card, security code, and mother’s maiden name…

Deep sigh.

Only thirty-nine sites left to go.

A bit about the 'Rents

2006-01-10T19:34:00.000-05:00

I know I should not get all worked up over my parents' failings, just as they should know not to get all in a tizzy over my failings! It's just that with Great Auntie's death I felt an enormous regret at my not taking the trouble to go to England to see her before she died. I feel guilty, just like a good Catholic girl should be!

Great Aunt R was my link to an era, my link to my Grandmother (her twin) and a link to a more romantic time. She had such stories to tell! About living in The Sudan and in Egypt, about working for the French Embassy in Montreal, about dating an Arab sheik, riding camels in the Sahara Desert and going with her sister to visit their own personal tiger in the zoo. When I lived with my Aunts and Uncle and cousin in London I would go with Great Auntie on her shopping trips and carry her bags and listen to her stories and I thought it was just great. I'm angry because I'll miss her and I'm angry because I should have taken more time to be with her. Having twin babies was a bit of a challenge in planning a trip, but I should have risen to that challenge. I feel hurt and I feel regret. I'm sure death brings up those feeling for a lot of people.

About my parents - I just had a conversation w/ my Dear Seester, who pointed out all of what just happened should come as no surprise to me. Our parents have always been like this. She also pointed out that I could be reeeeeeely selfish too. Now, that I already knew! I try not to be, but it's a big challenge for me. My poor friends tell me I just rattle on and on about me, me me a bit more than necessary, and I'm sorry about that, girls!

My sister also reminded me that, in her experience, with having a six year old, my parents get better with the grandchildren as the grandchildren get older and more fun to be with. Now that I can easily understand. A screaming baby isn't exactly a picnic for anyone, and it's especially unappealing to non-baby loving types like my folks. Heck, I am not a generic baby lover myself - I wonder if that is a hereditary trait?

I am not making excuses for them not telling me about my dear Great Aunt, but I am explaining that this is very normal, and very typical behavior, and The DS is right - I should not let it bother me. All these tears are being shed on barren soil. And a foul result of me weeping for days and getting all hysterical is that I burst a lot of blood vessels under my eyes and now I look like I have been punched. And I am all puffy and gross on top of it; from the face rubbing that goes with boo-hooing excessively. I look atrocious and have been forced into wearing sunglasses inside. Gag.

By getting all stressed about them and getting all upset about behavior I really could predict, I am not doing anyone a favor, least of all myself. They think I hate them and they think that I feel they cannot do anything right. As a result, they get all nervous and behave idiotically, and as a result, they don't do anything right, they say idiotic things to annoy me and I get all mad. Yes, I am admitting my part of the problem. I don't hate them, I just hate being judged and ridiculed and criticized and that is what I feel they do. But they are my PARENTS!! They can't possibly intend to ridicule and torture me, can they? Gosh, I am very sensitive, more so since the babies exploded into my life, I know. Perhaps this admission of guilt is Step One of Twelve?

SO - this weekend I am going to have lunch with The Seester, the BIL, the children, the DH and The 'Rents. I swear, as God is my witness, that I will be open and stress-free and will laugh at my mother’s lame, oft-repeated jokes. I will also refrain from hovering over my twins too much, and if they get into mischief, I will repeat to myself - It's not my fault. They are just two. It's not my fault. I need not stress. What I hope to accomplish is two things. One - I hope to show my parents that I am not so cold and unforgiving as I might be, and that I understand having a child very like yourself is tough! Two - I hope to make our relationship easier. I hope to ease the pressure of mutual fault finding by not contributing my share of the poison. A bad relationship is hardly ever the nasty one and the innocent one. It is always give and take; two nasties getting nasty and two innocents getting burned.

Of course, if either of them says anything really horrible, or if my mother calls my children trolls, I'll be sooooo tempted to get horrible right back, but Golly, I am going to count to ten and think before I speak. Maybe I am too damn touchy. Maybe I am too damn selfish...or maybe I am just still too damn tired of the terrible twos.

Gee, MOT, self-analyze much? Well, that what a blog/journal is all about, right? Let's see what lunch on Saturday brings; let's see if they really are as afraid of me as the DS says. Meanwhile, to prepare for the being a kinder, gentler and more Lovable MOT, I'll be praying for the strength to keep my flipping trap shut and my evil mind open.

Whatta you think, George?

The Pingvin is on the move...

2006-01-10T07:00:00.000-05:00

The upshot of all my calls and all my hunting for a soul who would help is this – I called the Ikea store in Edinburgh, and asked this nice person there to set aside a Pingvin or two for me, under my uncle C’s name. You see, when I called my mother after Christmas and asked her to call Uncle C. to help and she refused, she also refused to give me his phone number. She said she was simply too busy to look it up, being at the office and up to her eyebrows in mail and all. When I spoke to my Aunt L, and found out about my Great-Aunt R’s death, my Aunt L. said me she had spoken with Uncle C. several times in the past few days, that he was doing fairly well, and did I want his number?

I called him and asked him to go on a Pingvin Quest for me; he said he would do his best, but he was going into the hospital to have a stent put in, so he was not sure exactly when he’d get around to it. Well, that I can understand. It’s not quite as bad as having a mountain of mail to deal with, but it’s still pretty time consuming. But I hoped anyway, and called the Ikea in Edinburgh and reserved the Pingvins in his name.

Naturally, because I like to quadruple check things, and make it as easy as possible for people doing me a favor, I called the next day and left Uncle C. a message letting him know the address of the store, the location of the Self-Service desk, the name of the helpful person who had the Pingvins, and that I would be ever so grateful to see the birds sometime soon. I have not heard back, but I’ll call him when the time change is right to check up on him and his heart, and I’ll find out what he says.

I rather think he has NOT sent someone to shop for him, because when I called again on Wednesday, the 4th, the Ikea person said, in this thick Scots accent, “Och, no, the Pingvins are still here in a bag with your name on it.” As I flapped and fussed, the Ikea person said, “I know you really need these toys. Unfortunately, the only way you’ll get it is if someone comes in and buys it for you. If your uncle doesn’t come in by Saturday, I will buy them and send them to you.”

I was appropriately grateful for his kind offer.

On Saturday I called again, and spoke to the Self-Serve person yet again. He told me the birds were still in the bag, but now the bag bore his name, not mine, and that he was going to buy them at the end of the day and would get them to me, would I take down his email address and send him my shipping information? He is a college student, and he may actually be as busy as my parents (with all their mail to open) but he said he’d get the parcel in the post ASAP. We arranged to make the financial end of the transaction happen via Pay Pal. He said, “This will be my good deed for the year, you know, with Hogmany an’ all.” I said, “Now you have a valid excuse to drink and carouse instead of doing your studies.” Pleasant chuckles were exchanged and I let him go back to work.

Now it is Tuesday. I got the email to him and received my reply. It only remains nor for me to be patient, and trust a Scottish college student to do what it seems no one else can manage. I am mighty glad I finally spoke to a person with a heart!

My dear sister, who is jet lagged and fuzzy with a sinus infection said she didn’t quite see why I was so upset by our parents forgetting to tell us all about Great Auntie’s demise. My brother is practically apoplectic, so I know he feels what I do. I mentioned before that my parent’s excuse for not letting us know about the death was “I forgot.” A few reasons why come to mind.

One - they really didn’t care that much about Great Auntie, so her death was not really a big deal. Two – they really don’t care that much about anyone at all, so unless it directly involves someone they live with or work with, it’s forgettable. You see, if someone actually living in the house died, that might be hard to overlook, unless the housekeep was super quick in tidying it up. If someone in the office keeled over, well! that would be a disaster! Who would do the mail? And Three – since they only speak to their progeny when we call them, the death of a favorite Auntie of a venerable age is no reason to break the pattern. Therefore, they forgot.

What I feel is ignored, overlook, unimportant and hurt. I am upset by her death, and wounded by the callous behavior of my parents. It's salt on the wound. Yes, this is childish and yes, I feel rather juvenile, but in our youth obsessed culture, can ya blame me? It’s difficult to explain, but I feel as if by not being told about Auntie, I am being shown that I don’t matter.

When my grandmother died, my mother’s mother, it was 1997 and I was living in Atlanta, and not really doing much. Oh, I had two jobs and a boyfriend and a cat and all, but I had no real commitments, like I do now. I also had my parent’s AmEx card. They gave one to each child and said, “This is for emergencies. You know, if something happened to Grandmama and you needed to get on a plane or something.” Well, something did happen to Grandama, and when my mother called me and told me that she had died and that she was going to England for the funeral, I asked, “When and where? I’ll leave right away.” My mother said, “No, don’t come. We only want a small service and it’s going to be far away from London, so it won’t be easy to get there and I’d rather you didn’t, no don’t come.”

I wonder what she was trying to say?

When my father’s mother died in 1992, I was living in London. I not only attended the funeral, I also cooked for the forty odd people who attended it with me. I cried and talked with my Aunt L, her only daughter, and saw the grave and felt useful and close to everyone and felt closure. Neither my brother or sister, who were free wheeling students at the time, came over. It's not because they didn't care, I'm am sure it was a financial issue. I also think our parents gave them the same, “It’ll just be a small thing, don’t bother to come” line they gave me with Grandmama.

Now I have the resources, but not the freedom, and I could have gone to the funeral service, had I know more than two days ahead of time. I know how to get to the house (I lived there too for a while) I know where the cemetery is, and I know how to get to the church. I also know that Great Auntie was loved and respected and that Aunt L. is loved and respected, so any talk of "just a little service" is a load of hooey. I am sure they had a suitable party to celebrate Great-Auntie's life, to pay tribute and show respect. When I confronted my mother on this she said, “Oh, I am sorry I forgot, but it wouldn’t have made any difference as to whether you had gone over or not. L. told me she didn’t want your father and me to be there.”

Well Mummy, when I spoke to her she said she would love me to be there, with my organizational nature and cooking skills. I guess she just didn’t want you.

The March of the Pingvin

2006-01-07T19:45:00.000-05:00

There is a sweet little soft toy at Ikea, called the Klappar Pingvin. My Baby A, who turns up his nose at the trains and trucks that delight his brother, has decided that the sun rises as sets on his flipping Pingvin. The reason for the mild expletive is that there was a nerve-shattering day a few weeks ago when the Pingvin was missing for a full day. We thought it was at Stop and Shop and combed the parking lot for several hours before giving up. We found it at home much, much later. The Pingvin has been rolled up inside a tent, which was inside a toy box.

Deep sigh.

As a result of this experience, which happened at the same time as Dani had her experience losing her child’s precious squishy red stuffed toy lobster, see The Yellow wallpaper, December 21, 2005, I felt very worried about the lack of back-up Pingvins in my home. So the next day I hustled down to Ikea on my way to a book club meeting, and tried to buy another one.

Tried is the word. They were all sold out at that store. I asked the nice lady at the desk in Self-Service to look in her magic computer and see who had the required beastie. The on-line source kept freezing, so I collected the phone numbers for the four closest Ikea shops to me and called them all on the way to, as I was arriving, and during the beginning of my book club meeting, much to the amusement of my book club members. I was horrified to discover, after speaking to some very nice people in various states, that the Pingvin were all gone. The worst part is that this was a limited edition, and no one will get any more. Once the store runs out, they are Pingvin free from then on.

Well, that just won’t do for me. When it comes to Baby A, or Baby B, or the DH, or myself, for that matter, and something that is important to my little family’s quality of life, I will not let Hell bar the way. Nor will I let Ikea bar the way, when it comes to it.

So began my phone-calling career. Since December 20th, the day of the Great Pingvin Scare, I have called Ikea in New York, New Jersey, Georgia, California, Illinois, Massachusetts and one store in Canada. I hoped I might run across a Canadian with a heart who would be willing to help me. Did ya know, I was born there, eh?

I quickly realized that A, the stores that listed 5 to 10 or 20 Pingvin on line really only had one or two or none in stock, and that B, when it comes to the “No, we don’t ship our in store only merchandise out” policy, not a single Ikea employee would bend the rules. I asked, and so nicely too, that someone just buy some Pingvins and then sell them to me at a later date. I said, “You know, just like eBay; that’s not against the rules, is it?” The employee I spoke with sounded all stuffy and offended as if I was trying to buy a vial of controlled substances or something.

Besides calling my friends in New York, Atlanta and Chicago to enlist their aid, I also sent an email to my Aunt L. in London, England, and left a message for my mother to call her brother, my Uncle C. My friends all called back and/or said they’d go to Ikea to shop for me, but to a one, nobody could find any flightless Antarctic waterfowl at any Ikea around. Yes, the USA, as of December 31, 2005, is Klappar Pingvin free.

BUT – there are still Pingvin a plenty in two of the London stores, and over 200 in Edinburgh. The customer service rep I spoke with for Ikea UK said two of the three London Ikea shops have 100 and 120 each and Edinburgh just got their shipment before Christmas. My Dear Sister, who was in Italy over the Christmas and New Year holidays, was unable to help. Yes, there is an Ikea in Florence, but as I called her to enlist her capable assistance just as a freak snowstorm hit Florence, blanketing the city in a crippling 4 inches of snow (hey, yes it was crippling for Italy - it was the first snowfall in Firenze in 20 years!) She was not able to make the 45 minute drive over to the Ikea on Via Fracesco Redi for me.

Que palle.

So I tried to ask my mother. I know her brother, my Uncle and her only sibling, lives in Edinburgh, and my mother also runs a business restoring old houses in Scotland with this fella Mister A. I called her and asked that she call either her brother or her business partner, once Christmas was over, and ask them to pick up some Pingvins for me. Not only did she say that she thought I was being ridiculous, but she also said she was just too busy after the office being closed for a few days to make any calls. I pointed out that she could call any old time over the next week or so, but would she call some time soon, as these toys seem to be selling out fast. She said, “Darling, I can’t just call up people and ask them to go shopping for me. I am up to my tonsils in mail here at the office and my brother is so flaky and Mister A is worse – he wouldn’t know a penguin if it bit him. Besides that, I know him, and he’ll say, Yes, I’ll help, then he’ll go to Ikea and forget what he went for.” I asked why was she in business with such a moron and she got all sniffy and rang off. This was on December 27, and I gave up on her help.

I sent another email to my Aunt L in London, wondering why she wasn’t replying, and pinned my hopes on her. A few days went by, and I called a few more Ikea around the globe, but no one seemed willing to throw me a bone. Or a Klappar Pingvin either.

Finally, on January 3, I called my Aunt L. I don’t call her often, because rates to the UK are really expensive, but I figured what the heck, I’m burning up the lines to the UK anyway. I called and asked, “How is everyone? How is Great Auntie? Mummy said she was a bit ill on Christmas Day.”

My Aunt L. told me Great Auntie died a week ago.

I was shocked. Not by her death, she was my father’s mother’s twin sister, so that would make her about 99 years old. She had also been increasingly fragile for the past 10 of those years. When I lived with them in London in the early 90’s it took her most of a morning to run into town on the bus to do her shopping. It was amazing that she did so much; like take a bus at age 80 plus for 20 minutes, walk all over and take the bus home. She had had cataract surgery thrice, had fallen and had broken bones several times, had some other health issues, but seemed indestructible.

No one is indestructible – I had forgotten that.

I had also forgotten how incredibly self centered my parents can be. My beloved Great Auntie, my favorite Aunt’s only Aunt, my best loved Grandmother’s twin sister dies, and my parents don’t feel it necessary to tell me. I called my mother the next day, and her excuse was that she had forgotten to call. She had forgotten to call for EIGHT DAYS? She said, “Oh, the office has been so busy, I am up to the rafters in mail, we had such a hard time getting hold of your father’s brother, we just forgot about you! I apologize.” HMPHF!! Apologize, bull-oney. She also "forgot" to tell either my brother or sister, and she spoke to my sister the same day Great Auntie died, and to my brother only two days later, when he called her. I simply furious - I can’t speak to her right now.

I am going to have to get back to this post and let you all know about the march of the Klappar Pingvin. The march from Scotland to the USA, that might have begun today. I think this tale will end happily for my little boy, but for me, this tale is full of fury right now.

I wonder how Baby B will do on his SAT’s?

2005-12-22T20:05:00.000-05:00

Baby B and I share many traits; we are both emotional, lovable, self-centered, charming, fatter than our siblings and neither of us do well on standardized tests.

Yes, we know this now, just after his second birthday. How do we know?

Get this:

Baby B and Baby A were part of a study at our local famous teaching university. It took several visits and many, many tests to evaluate them as part of the control group for the university’s Autism Center. We went to the hospital three times, each time for about three hours, and met with a dizzying number of graduate students, MD’s, research fellows and Autism experts. The general results of all these evaluations and tests tell us that both babies are totally on track and just where they should be for their age. They are with the 55th percentile of 24 to 30 month olds as far as socialization, speech, comprehension, physical abilities (both fine and gross motor skills) and so on. Except in one area: according to the Center, Baby B has difficulty managing his emotions, especially those stemming from frustration. This is because he had two leetle toss-things-around-type tantrums whilst at the center. Once he did it because a test he was doing got too difficult and another because, well, it was 4:30 in the afternoon and he hadn’t napped yet. As his devoted mama, I know this, but the director of the center gently and solemnly advised me to call Birth to Three to see if they could help him out with Behavioral Therapy.

Well! I was a tiny bit disturbed by this information, but I also used it as an opportunity to see how the DH and I could help Mister B ourselves at home. After some observation and analysis of ourselves, it turns out that since Baby A does so much talking and since his speech is so clear and easily understood, both the DH and I were not giving Baby B enough time and enough opportunity to make himself understood. As a result, he was not getting what he wanted and was then getting pissed. Well, duh. It makes sense.

So, for the month following the Autism Studies until we has the Birth to Three program come over for an evaluation, we had been letting him take his time, and we were paying better attention to his speech. We both really do understand more of what he is trying to communicate. Of course, time is a factor, but extra concentrated attention to a 26 month old who is constantly in competition with his twin is also helpful. Baby A is fine with this – I think he likes it when we get Baby B to say what he wants and needs. It saves Baby A from getting stuck trying to “translate” for his oblivious parents.

Anyway, Birth to Three came over today. They met Baby B, asked some questions, and we all settled down to test the lad. He sat on my lap, because they had heard he was “uncooperative.” After playing two games with the nice lady, he got off my lap, settled down to concentrate in front of her and proceeded to charm her to bits.

Yes, in his own home and after a refreshing nights sleep, he is absolutely cooperative, un-tantrum-ish and quite a darling too! He completed all their tests, got everything right and totally disqualified himself from the program. It was so funny when they were asking him to repeat numbers back to them. I'm sure it was a fluke, but here's what he said:

Evaluator: Baby B, can you say one three?
Baby B: One Free
Evaluator: Can you say six four?
Baby B: Six four
Evaluator: What about nine seven
Baby B: Sixteen

We all got a chuckle from that. When I told the DH he said, "You know, he might just be a genius, and that's why he gets so angry." And here I thought a baby's mother was supposed give her child 200% credit...

When they were tidying up and saying "Bye Bye" to the boys and smiling and laughing at Baby A and B saying "Bye Bye" and waving back in unison, one of the evaluators asked me in a low voice, “And exactly why did the Autism Center feel he needed therapy? He is right on track and a nice boy too.”

I felt like I had wasted their time, but felt relieved too. With my 20-20 goggles on I can now see that the Autism Center caught Baby B at a bad time (pre-nap) on one day, and pushed him too fast on the following day. Add the fact that I wasn’t in the room when he went berserk, and you get a slightly skewed view of Baby B's emotional health.

Birth to Three saw him in his natural habitat, and pronounced him A-Ok. I guess all them doctors really don’t know ever’thin.

Snippets of conversations...

2005-12-08T11:18:00.000-05:00

...for your voyeuristic pleasure.

I was at a friend’s house, and Baby B was amusing himself with a toy work bench and tool set. Here is a sentence you will only ever hear in a home with a toddler:

“Be gentle with the hatchet, Honey.”

Deep sigh.

I was chatting with a man friend called J.J. He’s good looking, charming and a bit of a playboy. He asked me if I knew any nice ladies looking for a love package, and said he’d be delighted to be the one to deliver it. Of course I demurred – I ain’t no pimp, yo! – and related the conversation to the DH. He said, “You should ask the Friday ladies. It’s not called a playgroup for nothing!”

Har har.

I am doing some work for the NOMOTC, and read a lot of newsletters from different clubs around the country. There is one club named TV Mom. Naturally, with my exposure to the gay life, I immediately think, “Trannie Mommie would be a good name too.” Then I look more closely and see TV is for Tensonet Valley.

Oops.

A few of my favorite things, la la la

2005-12-05T15:41:00.000-05:00

(To the tune of The Sound of Music's My favorite things)

Hatchets and mallets and sharp little pliers,
Steak knives and bread knives and Daddy’s screwdrivers,
Fourth of July rockets tied up with strings,
These are a few of a toddler’s playthings.

Deep sigh.

Those of you who have, or have had, or those who know someone with a two year old, this is nothing new. It’s the familiar tune; is baby proofed and sparsely furnished, and everything dangerous, flammable and sharp is put away, locked away or given away. But they still manage to find a way to get their little paws into the dining room buffet and select a carving knife to amuse themselves with. The concern goes from choking hazard to stabbing hazard at this age.

At this age, they are also super stubborn, as y’all already know. A dear friend’s sweet daughter, the girly girl type, who has always been determined, is now following The Two-year old’s Bill of Rights in her daily activities We met at a café for dinner one evening last week, and this little one, who is two and a half, was wearing a Halloween costume with a witch hat. Her mother could only say, “She’s two.” Ah, yes. 'nuff said. I too am doing everything I can these days to keep myself and the babies happy, without sacrificing too much of my own, or their own, rights as people. For example, today Baby B decided he didn’t want to go to school. It’s true he was a little sick, he had thrown up in the wee hours. (It was my/his own fault; his advent calendar was on a window sill, in a location where, with a chair, he could access it, and he ate all 24 pieces of chocolate that were supposed to be consumed over a month to mark the days to Christmas. According to Baby B Christmas is coming early this year…) The long and short is he didn’t want to go to school, so I had a baby to play with for the three hours I had planned on using for the gym.

Deep sigh.

They are just so normal. It’s nice to know that Baby B’s temper tantrums, consisting of him throwing his body down, kicking his legs and pounding his fists on the linoleum, howling, is classic textbook material. It’s also nice to know that Baby A’s way of saying, “NO! No, Meow Meow down, no table Meow Meow!” is just the toddler way of establishing his superiority over a “lesser” creature. It’s also good to see that everyday they add more words and songs and games to their repertoire. (Have you ever heard a two year old sing the Beatles Hey Bulldog? It’s so hilarious, especially when they start barking.)

It’s also very two to want to help Mommy and Daddy around the house, and to want to keep the place neat and organized. Apparently the two year old thing is order and familiarity. They like to have the same things in the same place all the time. This suits me down to the ground. They know how to hang up their coats and how to put their shoes on the shoe rack so as not to track dirt into the house. Now all we need to work on is teaching Baby B to put his knives away when he’s finished stabbing the cats to death, and we’re golden.

Except he uses those plastic knives from Ikea, so the cats usually don’t notice, or they get up and walk away mid stab. It must be so frustrating to be a toddler, it’s so difficult getting anything accomplished...

Does this mean I am a flamer?

2005-11-30T21:57:00.000-05:00

I guess I have been watching too many episodes of Queer as Folk, back to back...

Tonight, after my Morris dancing class, I was a trifle peckish and went to my favorite Malaysian restaurant for a bit of satay. I brought a newspaper with me, to do the crossword as I nibbled and to catch up on world news, such as it is. I was seated at a small table near the bar, next to the window, with a romantic single candle in a glass votive. Do ya see where this is going?

I ordered, ate, and settled down with the paper. I was all absorbed in a story about a dishonest funeral parlor director who refused to cremate a body until he was paid in full when I noticed I was cremating my newspaper. Fortunately my boys are two, therefore I don’t panic easily. I crumpled the incinerating page in my hand, dropped it to the floor, and stamped out the fire. The other patrons were silent during this bit of excitement, but started a-buzzing as soon as the fire was out and their dinners were safe.

I had noticed a rather obviously gay group at the bar when I sat down. If their beautiful clothes, perfect hair and handsome faces hadn’t clued me in the following exchange would have:

Obviously gay handsome Man One: Jim honey, that is sooo something you would do!

Obviously gay handsome Man Two: But darling, you know I would have screamed and waved the paper in the air calling for help! Eeek! Eeek!

Me: I guess we all have our inner flamer.

Obviously gay handsome Men as a Group: Ha ha ha ha ha!

Then they told each other stories of how they set their most favorite tea kettles on fire and other harrowing tales. I took my charred bit of news home.

Inner flamer! Ha ha indeed...Emmett would have been so proud of me, keeping the flame buring bright.

Yep, they drive me crazy, but with a gym available, who cares?

2005-11-25T18:13:00.000-05:00

It’s funny how life can improve when one really makes one’s priorities clear to oneself. Like many, many of you, I compose in Word, so I can save as I write. (Blogger doesn't save very efficiently.) In MS Word, I had this loooong post all ready to go about my Day from Hell, with a description of how the boys flushed a sock down the toilet and attacked the cat and bit each other and put Play Doh in the cell phone charger (!!) and a blow by blow account of the twenty minute battle over the vacuum cleaner attachment. I decided against posting it.

Y’all know I spent a rough weekend without the DH, and y'all can imagine how difficult it was, but it’s over now. Y’all also know that I have joined a gym, and here's a bit of fresh intelligence: my mother gave me 12 sessions with a personal trainer as an early Christmas present. Yay!! Lately, I have really been utilizing “all that free time” for purely myself; going to the gym, grocery shopping and visiting friends. This means that I am in a much better mood from the endorphins and from the feeling that yes, I really do have a bit of my own thing going on. However, my writing and therefore you, my gentle readers, are suffering as a result. I am more able to deal with the terrible two thing if I have had a good work-out.

This may be worth some screen time: Do any of you have the same experience with two babies who sleep in alternate shifts? It’s pretty irritating at times, but it does mean I get to concentrate on one baby at a time. Why do they do this? I find the suggestion, "Just get them to sleep at the same time" pretty useless. If I could, I would, but I can’t, so leave it. They have their own agenda, perhaps they feel they have to stay up to keep an eye on me?

In the post about That Friday, I had written how Baby B pushed one toddler into a trash can and scratched another one, and after Baby A had a fit because I wouldn’t let him steal a toy giraffe from a 3 month old. (At the time I realized I was trying to make them stay in a social situation they were not ready to experience at the time. In retrospect I see what I must do is respect and understand their needs, yes, but I must also respect my own. hence, the gym membership.) Even though the playgroup started at 9:30, and we were there at 9:25, we left at 9:40. I got them into their coats and out the door. I put them in their stroller, gave them some crackers and some milk, and set out for a walk. Baby A was screaming and carrying on like he was being eviscerated the whole time, perhaps he was tired? He drank his milk, ate his crackers and fell asleep by 9:45. Yep, he WAS tired. Baby B, on the other hand, found the milk, snack and walk combination most refreshing, and perked up like a slug after rain. He yammered and chattered and giggled the entire 60-minute stroll, pointing out trees, cars, school busses and bikes, all objects of great interest, you see. He also said – Cold! as we got to the end of our walk. It was sunny, but a bit windy and only about 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Both boys were wearing all the required winter garments, including socks on their hands. (Recently, Baby B let me know that all the toddlers are doing the sock on the hand thing this season. Apparently, mittens are just soooo half an hour ago.)

We got back to the car and naturally Baby A woke up as I was getting him in his seat. (He only sleeps about 45 to 60 minutes for a nap) He did start the yelling again, but cheese puffs and apple slices soon settled him down, and his brother’s conversation kept him occupied on the way home. They didn’t sleep on the drive, but eventually Baby B took a nap around four in the afternoon.

This resulted in his staying awake until 10:00pm or so, while Baby A, who was tired after a busy day and only having a little morning nap, fell asleep at 8:30. They really must get their little heads together and plan this all out – it can not be pure coincidence! Does anyone else have this experience in common with us?

It's not bizarre, nor am I concerned - they are toddlers, and they are right on track developmentally. They are acting exactly as they should, which doesn’t make it easier to deal with at the time, but it makes it completely normal. Anyone who has a child, and especially those who have two children, will know all about the odd and irritaing little things toddlers get up to. Yes, they are little beasts, yes, they are totally exhausting, and yes, they are terribly charming, and as Bob Harris put it, “They are the most delightful people you’ll ever meet.”

What is also completely normal is my very real need for exercise and mental refreshment. I am so glad it has worked out with the boys in a good school and an inexpensive membership readily available at a gym located five minutes away from that school. The gym is also in the same plaza as a Super Shopping Market, which is Super Convenient. (If it were a Trader Joe's it would be just too perfect to be true, which is why the expression exists and it's not true, natch.) The point of all this, as if I need a point, is that once I decided to take time for me, and me alone, without feeling guilty about it, or apologizing, I felt better in almost every way. True, I am not writing in this blog/journal so much, but since I have the NOMOTC Notebook to work on, as well as my screenplay, I really don’t have that much time to spare anyway. I know that journaling is excellent practice, and that this blog has brought me to the attention of a few editors and has led to a teensy bit of publication (thank you, LP!), so I do plan on keeping it up. However, I shall not be able to post every few days, as I have been, because I am also working on my abs!

Back when the babies were a few months old, and all hell was crashing around me, I used to say - I have an “Instant Family!” Having twins is like getting a magic manic family powder; just add water, and voila! Siblings! Rivalry! Sleepless nights times two! How about some Scotch with that soda water, Mommy? Nowadays, thanks in part to my readers’ comments, thanks in part to my continued exercise habit and also thanks, in a small way, to an argument I had with someone who clearly doesn’t understand my experiences, lifestyle and family support, I see that the re-invention of the wheel is, unfortunately, the only way we new mothers can become mothers. I can see it, and I understand that different mothers have different solutions. Some attachment parent and some CIO; if it's right for your children, and keeps the family happy, it's right for you.

Our culture is not one that allows us to easily see the gory details of parenting, nor does our culture encourage the free and unvarnished exchange of experiences. Say too much, and new mothers or pregnant people think we are lying and/or trying to be scary. Say too little, and one is accused of lying, or hiding the facts. It’s difficult being a mother and way challenging being a mother of twins, and there is not a lot of information out there. (Oh, I know, I know, those glossy magazines have answers, but since I am not interested in making a cupcake bunny, (Baby B can't eat eggs, you see) those publications do not have the answers to the questions I am asking.) Therefore, I plan on keeping going with what I have worked out for myself. I don’t need therapy, I don’t need medication and I don’t need nasty people telling me my choices and opinions make me hateful and crazy and on and on. I am a normal person, with flaws and perfections and stupidity and smarts and warts (well, not really...warts - as if!) like everyone else. If I want to work out five days a week and eat organic chocolate and let my babies sleep in alternate shifts, I will do it. It’s the wheel I have invented for my family, and it’s keeping us rolling along.

C-C-C-Challenges Part One

2005-11-20T10:22:00.000-05:00

(An apology to my beloved David Bowie)

The past week has been the most challenging so far in my Mother of Twins career. I was somewhat accustomed to the routines of - we wake up way too early, eat waffles, go out, do something, then we drive home. Afterwards, they nap, I do something, they wake up, crying, I hold them, then we eat (waffles), then do something as a trio until the DH gets home, at which time I go to the gym, or the four of us chase each other around the house, eating waffles until it’s time for bed.

Well, it’s all changed now. Baby A now gets up even earlier than way too early, and yanks on me, yelling, “Mama! Up! Mama! UP! Mama! Up! Mama! Up!” until I comply. If I try and get a little more shuteye; it is only 5:30 after all, he gets all screechy and cross. So I do a Dolly Parton, and stumble outta bed and into the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition, and yawn and stretch and try to come to life…WO-rkin’ Five to Nine! What a way to make a livin’! Barely functioning, it’s all takin’ and no givin’…well, that’s not true. Baby A is big on giving me little tight-lipped kisses and big squeezy hugs. (Baby B gives me a headache.)

They are just so darn TWO! It’s bad enough that Baby A gets up at 5:45 and only naps once. What’s worse is that he likes to go to bed at 8:30, and Baby B, who has been a lot nicer these days, but still a little devil, goes to bed around 9:30 or even 10:00. It depends on whether he’s had a two or a three-hour nap, which rarely coincides with his brother’s nap. Yep - Baby A usually sleeps from 11:30 to 1:00 and Baby B can sleep from 2:00 to 4:30. So when does the MOT get to pretend she is a person in her own right, and do a little journaling instead of the teacher/caretaker/clean up fairy/laundry maid/cleaning woman/personal chef/first aid expert? The answer? Never.

Grrr. Any mother who says her children are always perfect is either lying or sedated.

Or both.

(Then one must consider my friend in Tennessee – she works part time and has her son in a day care. Must needs, and all. When she has to do something, or has an appointment, or has a major house cleaning project, the baby stays in the daycare until she is finished and can collect him. It’s not bad way of maintaining some personal time...hey, he’s already there and happy, so what’s another hour or two? She has the right idea.)

I have those three hours three days a week when they are in school. When people ask me, “What are you doing with all that free time?” I always have to stop myself from laughing. Free time, my Aunt Fanny. I drop them off at 9:00. I go grocery shopping, maybe run another errand and go home. Once home I will put away the shopping, feed the cats, sweep/mop if I must, clean the bathroom, put all the “things” in their rightful places, put in laundry/hang out the laundry, and maybe get a little walk, if I have time and it’s not raining. Then I try to answer emails, do some writing and now that I have a piano, I am going to slip in a 30-minute lesson once a week. Then I bathe (if I have a chance), eat (if I have time), and go get them from school by 11:45. It's not difficult to Get Something Done in 2 and a half hours, but it's a real challenge, and allows to time for relaxation. I used to relax at the gym with my spinning classes twice a week in the evenings, but the teacher is no longer able to teach at my old gym. I let my membership expire; if she’s not there, well, I’m not going there either!

The lack of exercise, the general, incessant demands of two two-year olds, and the feeling of the winter coming upon us have the combined effect of making me feel a bit low. However, rather than sinking back into the depression/Mean Reds of my first winter with twins, or the anxiety making cabin feverish second winter, I have made a few changes. Since I am fully aware that a common definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, I have done something different to achieve the desired different results. I bought a piano and joined a gym.

What that means is this – while they are at school, and I have “all that free time”, rather than doing a lot of little things, I am going to commit to doing one big thing twice a week - spinning classes and a workout. I will make appointments, run errands, meet friends and so on one day, and take classes the other two. I will also to go to the gym at least one weekend day, giving me more workouts than I had before. The piano purchase means I will take a lesson a week, once I find a teacher, and will practice as I can. The cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, and general housekeeping/management will just have to be done with the boys, as we used to, before they went to school.

Besides, it’s good for a toddler to help out around the house. They are old enough to put away some laundry, wash a few plastic things in the kitchen sink, put their own toys away and use a sponge and warm water to wash kitchen and bathroom surfaces. It definitely takes longer to have two little pairs of hands dipping into the housekeeping, but I want them to learn how to take care of their personal space and how to respect other people’s space too.

Let’s see how this all works out, with the work-outs and the adjusted use of my “free time”. I am not going to be feverish or Red or mean again this winter, I tell you, and I am making the changes to make that certain.

Stay tuned for more challenges - A Day from Hell is in the works...Preacher Mom, remember the vacuum cleaner attachment?

Sing a song of Sing Sing

2005-11-13T12:23:00.000-05:00

My sister and I had a funny little conversation about my twins the other day. We were discussing our children’s mischievousness, and wondering which one of us was more exhausted. Here’s a paraphrased conversational snippet:

DS: Your guys are pretty crazy, but quite different from each other. Baby A is a pretty boy, and seems calm, but he can be a devil. Baby B is openly a devil, and clearly going to spend some time in prison.

Me: Well, both of them are pretty clever. I’d like to think Baby B would wriggle himself out of trouble before he was convicted. You know, he'd be the type to call his roommate from the Academy who is now a police chief, and get out of trouble before the ticket was filed.

DS: No, I think Baby B will do some time. Baby A will be in college and Baby B will be in the big house, har har.

Me: As long as one goes to Princeton and the other to Sing Sing, it’s fine. They are pretty close. Or one baby could attend Columbia; that way I won’t even have to cross the Hudson River, ho ho!

Yes, we are close enough to be able to insult each other’s children and take it in stride.

Tits on a Toad

2005-11-08T12:53:00.000-05:00

I went to see my parents over the weekend, while the DH was away for work. He left on Thursday, at 8:00 am, and he was not due back until Sunday, at 8 or 9. Yep, I was flying solo, as The Yellow Wallpaper puts it, for 3 days and 3 nights.

The first night was pretty brutal; we were all tired, I was a bit nervous and Baby A was still wide awake and climbing the walls at 10:00PM. I finally gave up, turned off all the lights, except for one in the bedroom and crashed with Baby B, who had been snoring away like he was sawing down a tree since 8:45. It took Baby A about fifteen minutes to figure out wandering around a darkened house and chattering to himself was boring, and he climbed in with us and fell asleep. (But he was up at 6:00, as usual. Grrrr.)

Friday was a bit better; we had out usual playgroup in the morning, then we went for a walk with some friends. Afterwards we went home, raked some leaves and did our usual bath, dinner, play routine. They were both asleep by 8:30, and I went to bed at 9:00. We only woke up once each.

Therefore, on Saturday, when the three of us rolled out of bed at 6:30, I felt terrific. Which was lucky, because I had a bit of a trying morning. As I mentioned, I went to see my parents on Saturday. My sister had some relatives from Italy staying with her, and she had brought them to my parents’ house to show them a real New England autumn. I wanted to amuse my guys, give myself a little mental respite from being on on on call for the past 24 hours, and my mother wanted to see the twins. So, I did some grocery shopping in the early morning, came home to drop it all off, then carried on their house, which is about 40 minutes drive from my town.

We arrived at 10 or so, and went inside. My mother greeted us as nicely as you could like, but my father, who works hard and gets up early, or should it be, gets up early to work hard? was as cross as two sticks. He had arisen at 4:00 am (which for him is normal, so don’t get all sorry for him – he chooses to do so, and has chosen to do so for the past 30 years) and done some work. Then he came home and took a nap. When I arrived, with my hyper twin toddlers, he had just woken up and was on the computer checking his stocks. I greeted him, as nicely as you like, and got a “Humph” in reply. I was a bit nonplussed, but what with three cups of coffee and about 9 hours sleep, I was equal to it. I gave him some "space", helped my mother set the table for lunch and got the boys settled to play. My sister was due to arrive by 12:30, with her assorted family members in various languages, and we were to have lunch together. She had stayed overnight on Friday, and had gone out with everyone to pick apples in the morning.

Baby A was suffering from a little upset stomach, so I was doing the rice, banana, applesauce diet to help solidify his intestines a bit. He had eaten at 7:00, so by 11:00 I knew he needed another snack. I got the rice warmed up and a banana sliced, and asked my father to lend a hand.

Me: “Daddy, would you give Baby B a ride in this wagon while I feed Baby A some rice? He’s been a bit sick to his stomach, so I’d like to concentrate on him.”
Father: “Why do you have to feed him now? It’s not even 11:00!”
Me: “He’s sick, he’s two years old and he last ate at 7:00. He can’t go more than 4 hours without a bite to eat, and he needs rice for his diarrhea.”
Father: “Oh. Sorry, I can’t.”
Me: “Okay.”
In my mind: “Ooohh, that’s right! Checking the stock market is more critical than helping your own child feed her sick two year old. Silly me.”

HOW-ever, the tongue was bitten and Baby A had some rice to tide him over.

Later, as I was feeding the two of them lunch with my mother; my sister had not yet arrived, and my father was out cutting the grass; I asked my mother why he was being so crabby.
She said he’d had a hard morning, and all the confusion was making him more tired. I asked why he didn’t try to get some more rest, why he didn’t wake up later, and/or why didn’t he take a longer nap? He knows he gets tired, and he knew everyone was coming over, and has known about our visit for the past week. My mother pointed out that he is almost 70 and a bit of a mule. I agreed, we finished our lunch, and I got the boys in the car so we could go to our next social engagement. We had had a longstanding date at the local children’s museum for a book reading at 2:00, and I knew they needed a nap beforehand. Also, I did not want to be in the house when my father got back from his lawn mowing. My mother and I had heard the lawnmower break down, and I thought that would not improve his temper. Therefore, I skedaddled.

I was surprised, but pleased that my father called later to apologize for being grouchy. I was very gracious, if I say so myself. I told him I understood, I too have been tired, and I realize it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for me anymore. I also pointed out that when one is tired and crabby one generally feels put upon by everything and everyone. I also feel as if no-one can possible fathom how exhausted I am. Therefore, Daddy, I can sympathize. He said I was sweet, I agreed, he laughed, and we’ll get together soon.

It’s wonderful for me to see how much better I feel about my situation and myself. I really was a smidgen depressed for that first year and a bit with the twins. Breastfeeding is fantastic and wonderful and great for everyone, but it’s so hard on the mother’s nerves, and that should not be denied! I was constantly drained, mentally and emotionally, as well as physically, and I felt put upon by everything and everyone. I felt as if no one could possible fathom how exhausted I was, and I felt no one understood or cared. Perhaps if I had been blessed with just one baby instead of two, perhaps if they were less rambunctious and less noisy, or perhaps if they had been two girls instead of two boys, perhaps my experience would have been different. Perhaps not! It’s impossible to tell, as interesting as it is to speculate.

There are those who tell me I complained too much in the beginning, to the point of alienating those who might have helped me. Perhaps I did. I was too sunk into myself to know. There are those who tell me I was too dramatic in my description of the horrors and the trials of new motherhood. Perhaps I was - to them – but to me, having twins was like moving to a new town where one constantly gets lost; learning a new job, that is not only difficult, but a bit unpleasant; buying that first house and doing construction on it yourself and getting married, all in the same 6 months. Exhilarating? Yes. Amazing and joyful? Yes. Exhausting, stressful, difficult, emotional and frightening? Absolutely! George? Does this sound familiar?

A good friend recently told me that she too thought I was depressed when we first met. We both agree that the blog/vent, plus the weaning plus the three-day a week daycare/school are all working very well for my mental health. I also know that if I’d had my own dear sister closer than an hour away and my own mother closer than 40 minutes from my house and/or a bunch of buddies from pre-baby days living nearby, I would not have been so isolated and not have caught cabin fever. Or did I catch baby fever? I can really, honestly and truly really relate to my playgroups pals. They are all new in the area, having come from Maine and Wisconsin and Kentucky and California and Washington and all over to do their internships at a big name local hospital. The medical partner’s partners are all in new towns, in new houses, with new babies and need understanding. I am delighted to be there, I feel glad to around! I needed it, and I know what can help.

My point is this; my father was acting all crabby and unreasonable and was being about as useful as tits on a toad. I felt annoyed, of course I did. I went over there with certain needs, which went unmet. However, I could actually see what he was feeling, and knew by his tone of voice that he was pissed at nothing and everything and was super tired. So I understood, gave him space and left as soon as I could. I can’t waste my time with irritable people. I have toddlers to chase!

I have learned from my difficult experiences with staying home, alone, all day, everyday, and nursing twin babies, with no visitors, no family and no friends nearby. I have learned that tired people lash out, I was one in my time. I have learned that when you ask, “Will you help me?” and the reply is, “No, I won’t,” that is an honest reply, and not to be offended. I have been through it, and have the scars to prove it. Literally.

Does this mean I am going to be patient and understanding and gracious from now on? HA HA HA! No way! Um, err, umm, I mean, I hope so, but I might not always feel so well rested and so patient as I was that day. However, I am now much more aware, which, I feel, is a critical step to being more understanding.

Crisco sandwiches and Concealer

2005-11-06T14:18:00.000-05:00

I was very happy to see that I have been helpful to Ebony Mommy in assisting her in creating a revolting image to summon every time she feels the urge to eat an Oreo. Read all about her Crisco sandwich and The Gross Out Diet on her blog. Ha ha!!

I hope her children follow her footsteps and copy her healthy eating habits. I know most children like to do what their parents do, for good and for bad. I am friendly with several families that have one vegetarian parent and one meat eater. I have seen the children eating the diet of the parent who is feeding them at the time, without batting an eyelash, as long as they get to eat what Mommy/Daddy is noshing at the time. I also see children copying their parents’ mannerisms and using their catch phrases too. One Daddy I know says, “That’s clever,” when he hears of something, well, clever. I heard his six year old saying it too, and I thought that was just too cute.

In my own home, my little ones like to copy the DH when he uses a screwdriver, or pliers or sandpaper to do some “manly man” project. They also like to dig beside him in the garden. I too have put them to work; at their fancy schmancy Montessori school they have lessons in Practical Life. The October lessons seemed to involve a lot of washing of pumpkins, with brushes and soap and water. This turned out to be a very practical lesson for them to be taught! There was some muddy dust on the siding of my house, from the rotten weather we have suffered through these past few weeks. I wanted to wash it off right away, but didn’t get a chance with the boys underfoot. Then I thought, “Well heck! They like to wash pumpkins, why not siding too?” We each had a bucket of warm water, some dish soap and a sponge, and the three of us attacked the siding. About 20 minutes later, the mud was gone and we were having a great time. I should have thought of that sooner.

I know they like to copy me; during my "practical" chores they want to empty the dishwasher with me (Sure! Just be careful!), stir the soup in the pot (No! Too hot!), put away the groceries (The milk goes in the door, thank you!) and so on. They also love to watch me do my "lily gilding" chores too. I have an extensive tooth brusing ritual that is apparently fascinating. After watching me, mouthes agape for a year or so, they like to “floss” their teeth too. I say - Can I have an Amen? I am also hugely into skin care and moderate makeup; I wear SPF15 everyday (yes, even if it's cloudy) and if I go out I do the mascara, concealer, powder and lipstick thing. They love to hold out their little palms for a dab of skin cream when I put mine on. I have taught them to rub their hands together and pat it evenly to the face. It's the sweetest thing to see! Everyone needs to use SPF everyday too with those holes in the ozone layer and all.

But two-year-old twin boys do not need to wear mascara, lipstick and concealer! The other day I was getting ready to got to a party, so I had the mascara wand in one hand and the tube in the other. Baby B tried to take the tube of Diorshow out of my hand, and I had to give him a dry mascara wand to appease his disappointment. He tried to copy my application technique, and got a little pissed off in his vain attempts. (GET IT?! "Vain" attempts? Heh heh.) So I had to pretend to darken his lashes and then I exclaimed, “Oh, you look fabulous!” He looked in the mirror and smiled like anything.

This morning I was dabbing a bit of concealer on my chin. I have one of those stray hairs that quite obviously does not belong on my face, and I need to tweeze it into submission every now and then. However, I attempted a pre-emptive tweeze, the hair was not long enough to grab properly, even with a dust of powder, and I made a red mark on my face. Hence, the concealer. Both Baby A and Baby B were watching this, and had already put on their Olay SPF 15. Now they wanted some concealer too. I thought, “Ah, a dab of Clinique never hurt a fella,” so I gave them each a teensy bit on a pudgy fingertip. I told them, “Put that wherever you have a blemish.” Baby B patted his onto his upper lip and Baby A stuck his in his ear. Then they both admired the results in the mirror.

My friends tell me they are going to grow up to be metrosexuals. I hope so; I would love them to be fashion designers or something. Of course, it might be unnerving to have my sons critique my skin, hair, makeup and accessories, but we MOTs can take a lot of unnerving, and the rough with the smooth. Just as long as we look fabulous doing it, of course, and if my boys grow up and become Stella McCartney/Derek Lam/Carolina Herrera/Miuccia Prada, I will definately be so! I'll just have to make sure their samples are a size 12, and not a six. They do owe me...

The Moon Calendar

2005-11-02T20:23:00.000-05:00

As promised, here is the Moon Calendar, to make your life simpler. I found my first moon calendar when I was living in Atlanta, GA. It was on the counter of a crunchy granola health food vegan bakery/grocery store called Sevananda. Why Sevananda, I don’t know.

At the time the store was on a narrow street in the funky neighborhood of Little Five Points, and rather small. It was nice to shop there because everything was kind of jammed in and squashed around itself to make room. (Now they have moved to a big bright store, still in Little 5, but it’s about 6 blocks and a world away.) On the counter, next to the bulk herbs, and behind the slippery elm throat lozenges was a pile of these cardboard Moon Calendars. They cost $2.50, and had colorful hippy-dippy designs on them.

I got one, and man oh man, did it make my life easier! I used to have to laboriously count days and try to guess when Aunt Flow would next burst into the room and wreck another pair of underwear. Now, with the Moon Calendar I can just glance at it, and say, okay, we are D minus 3, and keep on going.

What you do is this: mark the first day of your cycle by circling the date. Then circle the last day. Draw a line connecting the two circles. Then, you do the same for the subsequent cycles. After two or three you’ll see a pattern, like a wave going across the Calendar. As a rule I am pulled towards the full moon (like most other lunatics...Get it? LUNA-tics?! Heh heh!) My cycle charts diagonally across the moon calendar, getting closer to the full moon each month. On the calendar in the picture I have the full moon highlighted in yellow, the new moon is grey and my cycle highlighted in pink, to make it more clear.

For example, in August, the first day was the 28th, 8 days after the full moon. In September, Day One was the 24, 5 days after the full moon. In October, it was the 21st, 3 days afterwards. Now that I see my pattern, I know that I will have D-Day in November on the 18th or19th, just after the full moon appears. So, once I have put the first cycle on the chart each year, I can tell when I’ll have my menses (a word which makes me snicker for some puerile reason) throughout the year, even up to in December. This is mighty handy when planning a romantic skiing holiday, you see! I just watch for the full moon as my warning sign, or my handy calendar if the weather is being uncooperative.

I have posted the photo of my calendar for 2005, I apologize for it not being madly legible. You may notice that there are no marking for January to June. That is because I was nursing the boys full blast at that point so I still had lactation-induced amenorrhea. The first period was irregular, owing to my poor female parts being in a state of shock I guess. However, we are now weaned, and I am back to the regularly scheduled program; 5 or 6 days in duration, starting between three and seven days after the full moon. Yep, just call me the Queen of Tides.

If you would like a Moon Calendar of your own, and don’t want to look up the Phases of the Moon every year and create an Excel spreadsheet, I will be delighted to send you a copy. Just post a comment that includes your e-mail, and I’ll email you back with a calendar for your personal use. You can manipulate the colors when you have the spreadsheet at home, using the Spilled Paint Can Icon/Fill option on the top tool bar. And, if you so desire, I’ll send you a fresh calendar for 2006 when I make my own. As my faithful friends, family and readers know, I am a lot of things, only one of which is helpful.

Spam-alot

2005-11-01T11:30:00.000-05:00

Do you get those silly pseudo sexy spam e-mails too? You know, the ones that promise to make your John Thomas 2 inches longer and your boobs perkier than a Jack Russell terrier puppy on speed? I also get financial spam emails, that recommend stocks and suggest I give out my bank account number, and yes, you can trust me! Humph.

I have noticed a trend in this spam: the “from” is usually the name of a friend, or the name of another e-mail spammer. This is obviously a sly trick to get me to open the email, because I’ll think (or so the spammers hope) “Hey! My friend Bonnie just sent me some advice on booking cheap vacations! Let me click on this link and check it out!” Usually I delete them without a second glance, but a few from/subject combinations have made me laugh out loud.

From: My sister’s name. Subject: Hot Euro Sluts!!!!
Is that because she just came back from a trip to Italy?

From: My friend, Preacher Mom’s name. Subject: Blond Babe in Black Lingerie.
And all along I thought she was considered a strawberry blonde…

From: My DH’s name. Subject: Various Pills, Low Rate, Money Back guarantee!!!!
This from a man who consistently forgets to take his vitamins and allergy medication?

And these ones, which I just saw through in one second:

From: Your Internet Provider. Subject: Password Changed!!
From: Your Internet Provider. Subject: Fees Over-due!!!!
From: Your Internet Provider. Subject: User Violation!!!!
Um, Spammer? My Internet Provider happens to be my Brother in Law. If I were overdue, or needed to change my password, he’d just, um…call me?

And every pair of shorts comes with a complementary cookie!

2005-10-25T23:55:00.000-04:00

I have been a little on the tired side lately, mostly owing to the lack of spinning class and the boys deciding bedtime is now 9:45, and not 8:30. The late bedtime is tough, but the lack of exercise is really tough! My teacher, the Fabulous Miss Silver, is no longer able to teach twice a week, and at best I’ll see her once a moth, so I am very sad about that. I'd go for long walks, but this darn rain...

I knew I was getting tired when I did some silly things, such as - I saw a cup on my desk and picked it up to take a sip of coffee. It was actually a cup full of pens.

Silly thing number two - I usually keep a bit of masking tape on my steering wheel to jot down a memo at a stop light. It’s easier than trying to find both pen and paper in a moving car. Well, yesterday I jotted down a note to myself, and wrote directly on the wheel. I guess my brain is saving itself for important stuff like inhaling and exhaling and driving safely and cooking nice, nutritious dinners.

I also have made a few extremely amusing oversights, one of which is this:

I went to Old Navy for more of those excellently-made-for-the-price and well fitting pairs of blue jeans. I wear the At Waist version, in a 14 short. Yes, I am small and plump. I also shopped in the men’s section, to see if I could get the DH something on sale. There was a lot of summer gear left over, including shorts. He wears a 30 or a 31 waist, therefore he can fit into a 16 Husky, in the cargo shorts style. "Husky" is what a little boy version of me (short and plump) will wear. I got the DH the shorts and me the jeans and took my loot home.

When I was unpacking I noticed there was something in the pocket of the shorts. Now, I have taken things back to a store after wearing them, who hasn’t? However, I generally make sure there isn’t anything in the pockets when I do so. Guess what was in the pocket? A chocolate chip cookie. I had to laugh, because it seemed so fitting.

I wonder what I would have found in the pockets of the returned size 0 Tall Slim Fit jeans? A 100 dollar bill and a gram of coke? I think I’ll go try on some second hand flash-dancer costumes next weekend. I might get something really interesting there.

I had a post with a quote from Nita

2005-10-25T08:27:00.000-04:00

But in the light of day, I realize she is not worth it. She has a version of our fight, just as I have mine. However, I will no longer torment y'all with my squabbling. I am sure that is not why you come here!

I am now busy in my MS Word, working on a post about Moon Calendars and tracking your monthly cycle and how useful Moon Calendars can be. When I get it edited to my liking, I'l stick it up.

Watch this space!!!

That cow shall be executed at dawn...

2005-10-24T09:54:00.000-04:00

I read a hilarious post the other day on a blog I love, Mimi SmartyPants .

She provides the funniest and strangest links on her site, and one of them was all about meatpacking and the meat industry. (No, not that kind of meatpacking! Get you mind out of the gutter. It’s squashing me.)

There was one section about condemned pigs and cows, and for what reasons meat is rejected as unfit. She called the section unintentional vegetarian propaganda. I got such a hee haw laugh out of the section on sexual odors of swine! The writers put over and over “such meat shall be condemned.” I kept thinking, “Man, these poor animals keep getting get condemned. They must have some awful lawyers.”

Unintentional as the propaganda was, I must admit: after reading some of the slaughtering techiniques used to prepare beef for those tidy parcels we see at Stop and Shop, I have passed by the meat section of the market, without taking anything home. How much protein is in tofu anyway?

MOT - One, Coca-Cola - Ten Billion. But one for me is good...

2005-10-22T19:58:00.000-04:00

Time is on my side. Literally.

Now you know being the insecure/conceited/self-depreciating/self-promoting thing I am, I would not be referring to my smooth skin, or clear eyes, or pearly smile. Or immature attitude, for that matter. No, alas, wrinkle free-ness is still a big part of my thought process. When I find the secret, I’ll let y’all know. I am referring to an article I read in a November TIME Magazine all about Coca-Cola. I was dee-lighted to see that in Coke’s Quest for Cool (the title of the piece) Phil Lempert, author of the Lempert Report on the Food Industry, argues that Coke needs to totally re-think the way they make and market what we all know is an unhealthy product. (Sorry, Preacher Mom!)

A quote:

Lempert and others argue that it’s time for Coke to tamper with its famous ingredient mix. Most Coke is sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup, yet kids in Latin America are drinking sugar-based, fruit sweetened beverages, he says. Lempert says the cola market will continue to dry up without a radical recipe shift. “The savior of cola, and I don’t know who is going to do it first, Coke or Pepsi, is the re-introduction of the core product, substituting sugar for the high-fructose corn syrup.”

Yeah, baby! Music to my ears! If the almighty Coca-Cola has industry analysts advising it to ditch the toxic HFCS in favor of good old nice n’ sweet sugar cane (which only has 16 calories per spoonful, BTW) I just might start sippin’ the Coco-Juice again. Next, Mickey Dees will start making baked sweet potato fries, and who knows? In a few years, the twins and I may take a trip to the Golden Arches for fries and a Coke.

But only if the Happy Meal includes a non-Disney related surprise toy made out of sustainable wood and hand painted with biodegradable paint by Benedictine monks. Then I'll be happy. Hey, who just said, "Fussy-Britches"?!

Oral Surgey is scary

2005-10-20T15:11:00.000-04:00

Some pals and I share the common disorder of grinding our teeth in our sleep. Since this causes gum recession (yikes) and may necessitate oral surgery (double yikes!) this is something we need to deal with. I have taken to doing relaxation exercises before bed. I have found that a few yoga postures and a double Harvey Wallbanger generally do the trick. I’m out so cold I can’t shut my mouth, let alone grind my teeth. Another friend wears a mouth guard, which she has bitten through already. (Triple yikes!)

The third friend, a new-bee in the world of tooth grinding, was recommended wearing a mouth guard by his dental care practitioner. Except this fella referred to it as an “appliance”.

Man, did I get a big he-haw out of that! I asked him if he could use any appliance he liked; a toaster, a coffee maker, microwave? I can just picture the poor guy with a blender strapped to his chest all night. Of course, if he decides to add frozen margaritas to his nightly ritual (for relaxation purposes only, naturally) a blender could come in handy. Or maybe he could try a freezer! But that might not count. It could be considered a “large” appliance. Hmm, let’s call Sears…

Blue Policemen are cool policemen....

2005-10-19T14:20:00.000-04:00

There is a town near me, with the weird name of Blue. I know, what were the founding fathers thinking? Anyway, the police ride around in these cars with "Blue Police" painted on the sides. I get a chuckle every time I see it. I think, “Ohh! Call 911, the police man is choking!” and “Better get some heat in those cars…” and so on.

With Halloween coming up and all, I had an idea! I should call in and suggest the entire force go as the Smurfs. That way, they really would be blue policemen, at least for one day.

D’ja think I’d get arrested for disrespecting a peace officer?

My car shrank in the wash...no, it was stolen!

2005-10-15T17:59:00.000-04:00

Recently, to save gas, I switched from my big old pale green VW Passat to my little old silver colored stick shift Jetta. I was just waiting for all my pals to notice and ask me about it. I had two clever stories prepared. That first one is as follows:

Well! It was the craziest thing! I pulled a Missus Bad Mother and left my children in the car, sleeping, while I went into Taco Bell for lunch. I was only gone for about twenty minutes, but when I came out, the car was gone! I was pretty mad about it. Of course, the babies were still there; they hadn’t been stolen. But here’s the craziest part of the story - they were still asleep! Ha ha ha ha! Of course, everyone would know this was a complete fabrication. I would NEVER eat at Taco Bell.

My second story is - With all this rain, the car got very muddy. So, I washed it in hot water, then put it in the dryer. Wouldn't ya know it? Not only did it shrink, but the color faded too! Hee hee ho ho!

Yessiree, I was all ready. Five days after I switched cars, someone finally did comment on the fact. What did I say back?

“Yeah, well, gas is not cheap anymore, and the Jetta is more efficient.”

I know, I know. I had my chance, and I blew it.

Judge-y Wudge-y was a bear

2005-10-07T13:05:00.000-04:00

The lovely state in which I live, and I am not referring to the state of bliss – har de har har, has recently added to the laws one that states no one shall operate a moving vehicle whilst chit chatting on a hand held cellular telephone. Since the surrounding states have had this law for some time now, so just a matter of time before we did too. Now here we are, my pals and I, all scrabbling around for hands free cellular devices and wiring ourselves, so as to continue to be law abiding citizens. (Of course, my DH would not call me a "law abider", because he recently had to pay a $200 speeding ticket for me. My job, whilst all consuming and all rewarding, doesn’t pay a dime. For more on this topic, please see Ann Crittenden’s The Price of Motherhood. It’ll make you MAD.) But what I was going to tell y’all is this: Just today, one week after the law went into effect, I am on my way home from my playgroup. What do I see? A policeman, in a police cruiser, zipping down a main street, yapping on a hand-held cell phone, for the entire world to see. Honestly, next thing I am going to see is a police car going over the posted speed limit…

Am I being judgmental here? A few nights ago, in my spinning class, my dear teacher, a very clever woman who I like very much, told me I was being judgmental when I told this other girl in our class how to cook sweet potatoes. This girl, let’s call her Annabel, is new to the class and was asking for tips on how to eat better. Since she admitted she likes Wendy’s the best (!) of all the restaurants around, I could tell she really needed tips, and fast. I did not, not even a little, launch into my tirade on the evils of fast food. She’s only 20-something and has cut her teeth on the stuff, so I’ll just let her see Super Size Me and be horrified on her own. What I did tell her was this;
“Okay, get a whole sweet potato, peel it, slice it or chop it into rough chunks or even-ish slices, toss it in boiling water and cook it until a knife just sinks into the pieces easily. Then you can mash the potato with a fork, or just eat the bits as is, with salt or maple syrup or whatever. Also, once cooked, it’ll keep in the fridge for about three days, useful, right?”

Apparently, her eyes just glazed over, and she nodded and Uh huh-ed and blanked me out. The next class, Miss Silver, the teacher, told me, “Ya know, MOT, you were being really judgmental to Annabel in the last class when you gave her a lecture on cooking sweet potatoes.” I was floored. Well, not literally, because I was on a spin bike doing about 25 miles an hour at the time, so it would have been dangerous. But still, I was a bit shocked.

I know I am mighty opinionated, and I know I have a burning desire to help people eat better and improve their way of life by improving their diets. Just ask anyone who has heard me gas on about High Fructose Corn Syrup and liver damage for an hour. My friend, Preacher Mom, called this my “Ministry”. (I thought that was great, I always wondered why the hell I was here on this earth!) I also know I have a big mouth and like to express myself and I love to teach and share my experiences, whenever I can. But judgmental? I don’t agree with that. To me a judgmental person is someone who condemns or categorizes someone else based on his or her actions or lives. I was not telling Annabel I thought she was a bad person, or a stupid person, for not knowing how to cook a potato. I was trying to teach her something she expressed an interest in learning. However, I got it wrong. According to my fellow student Carla, and our teacher, I was pushy and domineering and Annabel was not ready or able to hear what insights I had to share. Huh. Go figure.

I have a theory. I think that one of the reasons people disagree is that our brains are all built differently. There are all these receptor sites in our heads, and a lot of us have different sites than other people do. These receptor sites are where certain bits of information plug in and are processed. If you don’t have the site built yet, and/or have nowhere for the new site to go, you are absolutely unable to process the information given, because it just bounces off and slides away. If the site is partially built, you can get a bit of the information, but it doesn’t really sink in. Or plug in, to maintain the theory. This means that Annabel is missing the receptor where my sweet potato mash recipe could attach; therefore, she was not be able to retain the knowledge. Does this statement mean I am judging her? Does this mean I am being judgmental? Am I calling her a stupid idiot for being too young/too inexperienced/too disinterested to listen to me? Well, no. There are loads of people who don’t listen to me, for loads for reasons.

I hope it’s not because I am so judgmetal. George, whattya think?

Weaning myself and gaining the world

2005-10-03T11:11:00.000-04:00

As you dear readers know by now, I have been off the breastfeeding estrogen rollercoaster for almost two weeks now, with just one bout of nighttime nursing for each boy. My oh my, what a roller coaster it was! I truly didn’t realize how much my hormones all crazy, the physical demands of nursing twins, the constant pull of them on my emotions and the lack of personal space made me crabby, touchy, grouchy, fussy and a bit out of control. To all those I have screamed at, stomped on, yelled at, evil eyed and/or insulted in some way, I beg leave to apologize.

A few days ago, I had a conversation with a guy I know. Because he is intelligent and sensitive and a stay home dad, I know he really can relate to what it’s like to be a stay home mother. Of course, he didn’t get to experience the estrogen laden breastfeeding part of it, but he’s in touch. Anyway, I told him how much better I feel as a human being about life in general and how much more patience and emotional strength I have since I stopped being so drained by the boys. He said, and this was interesting, “Oh, I guess you owe our friend with new twins an apology, right?”

What he meant by that is this: I had advised, because she had asked, that our friend nurse her new twins for as long as she could. For her, that might have been a few weeks, or a few months, and not necessarily two years. She decided against breastfeeding at all, owing to their early birth and the experience she had in the NICU. I won’t share details, because it is her story to tell, not mine.

I told my guy friend, “No, I don’t need to apologize, because I gave her the best advice I could have given her at the time. When she asked, five months ago, I had just begun to wean, and was still totally into nursing the boys. So I was serious in telling her how wonderful breastfeeding is for babies. Science supports me here and I have not changed my mind on the value of nursing. However, I no longer feel it necessary to nurse for as long as possible, just nurse for as long as you and the baby need to nurse. If that means after one year of breastfeeding Mama is going bonkers, well, wean the baby at one year.”

It was an interesting and valid point he raised; here I am, telling all and sundry how great I feel now that I have stopped nursing, and a year ago I was telling everyone on the planet how great it was that I was still nursing. Hmm. Does that mean I am a bi-polar nursing freak? Don’t answer so fast, you there!

What I feel it all means is this: I did what I thought was best at the time, not realizing quite how powerful the mind altering hormones were coursing through my brain and body really were. It was not until I had stopped did I see that for the past six months at least, a lot of my anger and frustration at EVRYTHING could be attributed, in part, to lactation. This is not to say that all nursing mothers are touchy and grouchy, no, I am one of the lucky ones! Just like pregnancy affects different women very differently, and just as some men find pregnant women beautiful and others find them scary and gross, different women react to the hormones released by nursing in very different ways.

I have met and have heard about the women who love being pregnant and I have read about women who nursed happily for four years, then had a weaning party. (Yes, I really read that, in Mothering Magazine, ‘natch.) On the other hand, I basically hated every day of my pregnancy. Therefore, I am kind of a nutter for thinking I’d love nursing better. Oh, of course sometimes it was great, especially from month four, when they really had the hang of it, to about month sixteen, when they could come up to me and ask to nurse and snuggle. It was also super easy to get them to sleep by nursing them there, and it was so good for my reading! I spent many a happy hour curled up with my boys, reading book after book as they nursed and napped in my arms. It was a really special time, but I over-killed it a bit.

With the clear vision of hindsight I can see what happened. I got used to nursing and used to the physical demands of two boys and became accustomed to feeling unpleasant and weird. When the unpleasant feelings, the exhaustion, the moodiness and the fly-off-the-handle thing just stayed and stayed, even after they were able to tell me what they needed, walk on their own, play together without needing me 200% of the time, I did not even consider the nursing hormones as a cause. In fact, I even felt moody and grouchy once they had started school. You know, the big "break" that was supposed to make it all better. The fact that it is no longer 90 degrees in the shade and that I am guaranteed a 3 hour break from Mama-hood every three days is a part of it, but not that big a part of it. The first week they were at school I still resented them when I went to pick them up and still found the whiny-crying as irritating as a hair shirt. Now when they boo-hoo and screech Mama! I only want to comfort them. Naturally, I still want them to stop screeching, and it is still irritating, but just a little. It’s less “hair shirt” and more like an itchy tag in a new tee shirt. Since I know I am not going to be quite so invaded, I can hold a baby or two for twenty minutes at a stretch, if needed.

I have heard, from many, many Mamas that these are the wonderful years. When the babies are small and when they love you so much, and just light up to see you…this is the best time of your life. Now that I am not so miserable, I can see how many feel this way. I still don’t think I was intended by some grand plan to be a stay at home mother, but since I am far too lazy to go find a paying job, I’ll keep the one I have.

One of my favorite movies is A Man for All Seasons, directed by Fred Zinnemann. If you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend you do. There is a scene in which John Hurt’s Richard Rich tells a damning fabrication about Paul Scofield’s Sir Thomas Moore, sealing Sir Thomas’ fate as a traitor to the Crown, and giving Henry VIII the excuse to execute him. Sir Thomas sees Rich’s new chain of office and asks what it is for. Rich replies he is now a chancellor of Wales, or a tax collector of Wales, or some major figure in Wales. Sir Thomas says, "What shall it profit a man if he wins the whole world but loses his soul - but for Wales! For Wales!" When people said to me, “MOT, I know being a mother is difficult, but I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world.” I used to reply, "I’d trade it for Wales." However, I have since reserved my feminine right, and have changed my mind.

The Poison Ivy Weaning Method

2005-09-27T12:57:00.000-04:00

The boys are now in school. Literally, right now at this minute, they are howling the arms of their new teachers. We picked a Montessori school because it is only 12 minutes away from the house and has a very good reputation. The teachers are sweet, calm and tell me my boys are unusually intelligent, all of which I appreciate. They have been going for three weeks now, but we made a little mistake – we took a week's vacation and had them out of school for two days in their second week. As a result, they are howling again at good-bye time, just like the first week. Apparently, it takes about three weeks to get over the anxiety; so next week should be easier for everyone.

They are also in different classrooms, which I don’t think I’ll do again next year. It’s nice for them to get one on one time, but I have a feeling the separation from Mama and each other at the same time is making it harder. They are mighty happy to see each other when class gets out, let me tell you!

It’s actually difficult for me to leave them. I wouldn’t have thought so, I have been so sick and tired of being 24/7 with the boys, I thought I’d be more relieved than anything. But I guess I’m not such a heartless be-atch after all. I find myself lingering in the hall, listening to the howls and feeling just terrible.

However, I tear myself away, zoom home, vacuum, fold laundry and generally rush around. But not today. I forced myself to sit next door at the ubiquitous Char-Bux coffee shop and write a bit.

The real topic today: Weaning Twin Boys. I think I’ve done it, and there weren’t a lot of tears and there wasn’t a big fight either. What happened was this:

I noticed I was feeling all itchy under my tee shirt the second day of our vacation. Then I noticed a rash, on my ribs, my abdomen and on my boobs. Hmmm…how odd. Perhaps I’m having an allergic reaction to laundry soap? Or maybe I wore a shirt right from the package, forgetting to wash it before the first wearing? I had no idea. But then, overnight, on our second night away, I woke up SO ITCHY I felt like I was covered with ants. Dancing ants. Dancing ants wearing cleats. And woolen clothes. I scratched and scratched and wound up with red blotches all over. Great. Now I was itchy and in pain. But I had a brilliant idea! When the boys wanted to nurse next, I let them suckle for a few minutes, and then made all these ouch-ouch pain-pain noises. They got all concerned and I pointed out the red blotches.

“Mommy has an ouchy! Nursing has an owie! Nu-Nu has an owie,” I explained in uncharacteristic baby talk.
“Nu-Nu is owie? Nu-Nu has owies,” repeated Baby A and Baby B. Then when I said, "No more Nu-Nu", they hopped off the bed where we had been snuggling and went to play.

Amazing.

That night, when it was Nu-Nu time, I just said, “Nu-Nu has an owie. No nursing, because Nu-Nu has an owie. See?” I showed them the red blotches again, and they petted me very sympathetically and then settled to sleep without nursing.

It actually worked out. I didn’t nurse them from that Sunday afternoon for a whole week, then on Sunday night I felt a bit painful on one side. I called my nursing expert, My Sseester, the next day, and asked her advice. She said I might have a plugged duct from not nursing, and suggested I get a baby to nurse a little bit to relieve the pressure. I actually had done just that the night before, but it wasn't all that effective because I had coaxed Baby A to nurse in his sleep. He was really pretty much asleep, so he hadn’t sucked hard enough to relieve the pressure. I hadn’t wanted him to wake up, realize what was going on and think it was okay to nurse regularly again. So, last night I got Mister Vacuum Cleaner Baby B to nurse, and he was un-detachable for about 20 minutes. He sucked and snuggled and hugged me and was very happy. But he was still asleep; bless him, so he wasn’t fully aware. I eventually detached him and hey ho! He conked out again, all snoring and smiling. This morning, there is no pain, so soreness, nothing. Both boobs feel fine and look pretty good too, for which I am vastly relieved.

Neither boy seemed interested in nursing at all this morning, and both were pretty happy and peaceful. (That is, until we pulled into the parking lot at school.) I wonder if they thought the late night nursing sessions were a dream, and are happy because of it?

That would be nice. They could relax, knowing that they can nurse in their dreams, whenever they want to. It might make them happier to go to bed, and it might make them less upset with me for taking nursing away. I don’t really think they are mad at me for telling them no more nursing because I am in pain – they certainly understand getting an owie. They fall over and bump themselves all the time, which worked to my advantage in this case. The day after we stopped nursing, Baby B was running around outside, starkers as usual, and the poor thing fell down, scraping his naked bottom on the only rock in a ten-foot area.

“Yeeee-aaaaaahhhh,” he screamed. “Owie, owie owie!” Later I pointed to his bottom and said “Owie” and then pointed to my boob and said “Owie.” It was so sweet; he patted me gently and nodded understandingly.

It turns out the rash is some poisonous plant to which I had a delayed reaction. Three guesses as to how exactly I got poison plant juice all over my ribs, stomach and boobs? Baby A, Baby B and nursing outside? Ding ding! You got it…

So, nursing is over for another twin household. We exclusively breastfed for nearly six months before adding solid foods. They used to nurse for ten to sixteen hours at a stretch during the day and several times at night. No kidding, just ask my DH. We nursed about ten times a day and twice at night from six months to about 18 months, then several times a day and sometimes at night, until they were two. I had been trying to wean them from 20 months on, but it wasn’t until the rash provided an excuse was I successful. We stopped completely at two years and one week old. That’s not a bad run at all. I feel like I gave them the best I could for as long as I could, but I had to take the opportunity to wean when I had the chance. I don’t think they’ll be worse off for no longer nursing; perhaps they’ll even remember.

I look forward to snuggling with them without being invaded and I kind of look forward to wearing real underclothes again! It’s selfish I know, I am glad to get some personal space back. I was just touched out. Now let’s see if I lose those ten pounds as everyone says will happen. As long as I refrain from ordering that jumbo deep fried chocolate glazed hydrogenated doughnut with my coffee in the morning, right? I’ll go for the bran flakes instead. I’m 158 pounds as of today, I’ll check again in a few days and let y’all know.

Bye Bye Nu-Nu. It's been fun.

Fun with fats - Just don't swallow.

2005-09-09T14:00:00.000-04:00

A conversation:

Who says health nuts can’t be funny?

There are some Daddies in my Friday playgroup, two rather good-looking guys in particular (you know who you are!), with whom I chit chat regularly. Today we had a conversation about hydrogenated fats that just deteriorated into such an inappropriately amusing talk; I just had to reproduce it here.

I asked these two if they had read my 2,000-word rant on the evils of hydrogenated fats. One Daddy, (the Yummy Mummy counterpart, a Hubba Hubba Hubby, if you will allow me to invent a phrase) said, “Oh, I read the first line, saw you were on a tear, and skipped to the next post! Kidding!” The other Daddy, Mister Last Weekend I Finished A Half Marathon In Under Two Hours, My, I’m So Slow (!) said, “Yes, you did come up with a long list of substitutes” and we talked about some different butter versus margarine situations. Then I said:

“Well, you know, according to my gay guy friends, Crisco is really only good for one thing…”
HHH: “Yeah, but you aren’t supposed to have unprotected penetration anymore, and doesn’t Crisco dissolve latex?”
MLWIFAHMIUTH,M,ISS: “What! Aren’t there better lubricants? People really use Crisco? What about the smell?”
Me: “I guess if you care about scent, you shouldn’t buy butter flavor. Apparently Crisco doesn't dry out too quickly.”
HHH: “Hmm, I have wondered why my friend has a big tub of Crisco in his pantry. I know he’s a cruiser, and I don’t think he likes to bake.”
Me: “Yeah, and Crisco is so much cheaper then Astroglide.”
HHH: “Not if you buy it by the case.”
MLWIFAHM..SS: “Man, whoever buys Astroglide by the case must have some serious nightlife.”
Me: “I just get the gallon jug, but it’s not exactly subtle on the nightstand. But the spray attachment I have connected to the bottle neck is really convenient.”
MLWIFAHM..SS: “Or you could get a camel back, you know, with the tube? Then you’d have all the lube you needed ON HAND.”
HHH: “Heh Heh Heh Heh Heh!”
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha!”
HHH: “It's too bad if you are health conscious, avoiding hydro-fats and using Crisco. You can’t lube up for oral play – you might consume some unintentionally.”
Me: “Reason number two not to swallow.”
HHH: “Heh Heh Heh Heh Heh!”
MLWIFAHM..SS: “Ho ho ho ho ho!”
Me: Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Then I mentioned that my DH just got his new bullwhip in the mail, and we got talking about whips and leather clothing and S&M and the conversation deteriorated again.

It was pretty funny. Man, it’s times like that, when I feel okay. The children are happy running around, the weather is gorgeous and I have two good-looking guys to have clever conversations with. Of course, the decent sleep I had last night didn’t hurt. But neither did the DH’s and my nocturnal activity.

Thanks to the Astroglide, of course.

Ba-DUM!

Edited to add: When we talked about this post, Mister LWIFAHMIUTH,M,ISS pointed out he actually ran the half marathon in 1:40 - so he's really not slow at all.

Bye bye comment spam...I hope.

2005-09-06T20:55:00.000-04:00

Sorry y'all, but I turned on the "word verification" option on Blogger. This means you have to type in a mystery word before you post a comment. It is supposed to stop the automatic posting of annoying comments by pre-programmed software. Let's see if it works, shall we?

How to Feed the Allergic, the Toddler and the Health Conscious, Part Two.

2005-09-05T23:31:00.000-04:00

Now, this section deals with my other favorite enemies – High Fructose Corn Syrup and Corn Syrup. I realize a little, a lot, or too just darn much corn syrup isn’t exactly going to kill you; but since it makes you fat, in my mind it might as well be a killer. Again, Dr. Sears tells all his patients about it, and constantly advises parents to avoid corn syrup and its derivatives when feeding their children, so who am I to ignore the good doctor?

Here are a few quotes from a few websites for those who want more information:

From the Health24 website:

Fructose and obesity: Most people are aware of the obesity epidemic that is swamping the world. New research is concentrating on fructose as a possible factor that contributes to this epidemic.

High-fructose corn syrup is very sweet and also inexpensive, which is why it is being added to foods such as canned and frozen fruit and sweetened cold drinks. This trend is particularly evident in the USA. It is estimated that more than 9% of the energy in the US diet is obtained from high-fructose corn syrup.

If we consider that the use of fructose has increased in the USA from 64 g per day to 81 g per person per day in the period between 1970 and 1997, it is perfectly feasible that such a dramatic change in food intake could have an effect on many aspects of metabolism.

From Weston Price on line:

Fat butts aside, there's another reason to avoid HFCS. Consumers may think that because it contains fructose—which they associate with fruit, which is a natural food—that it is healthier than sugar. A team of investigators at the USDA, led by Dr. Meira Field, has discovered that this just ain't so.

Sucrose is composed of glucose and fructose. When sugar is given to rats in high amounts, the rats develop multiple health problems...was it the fructose or the glucose moiety that was causing the problems? They repeated their studies with two groups of rats, one given high amounts of glucose and one given high amounts of fructose. The glucose group was unaffected but the fructose group had disastrous results. The male rats did not reach adulthood. They had anemia, high cholesterol and heart hypertrophy—that means that their hearts enlarged until they exploded. They also had delayed testicular development. In a nutshell, the little bodies of the rats just fell apart.

“The medical profession thinks fructose is better... than sugar," says Dr. Field, "but every cell in the body can metabolize glucose. However, all fructose must be metabolized in the liver. The livers of the rats on the high fructose diet looked like the livers of alcoholics, plugged with fat and cirrhotic."

There. That is my unabashed, unapologetic, unleashed take on healthy eating, for babies and adults.

Now I can hear y'all saying - Lady Miss MOT, thank you for making us all feel paranoid about the foods we have been eating for the past 30 odd years! According to you, what can we eat? What can we buy that’s quick and easy and tasty? My toddlers/husband/school aged child and I just like to eat Devil Dogs and Friendly’s ice cream and Cool Whip and Mc D’s French Fries and we enjoy Kraft Mac and Cheese! And what about my (sorry Preacher Mom!) Coca-Cola!? It doesn't mean anyone is a bad parent for giving a child a Quaker cereal bars! No, this is just a really looooong FYI.

Well, in my Part One post I listed about 25 different foods and drinks that are clearly snacks for y’all to enjoy. Since I also have a baby allergic to eggs, I know of many more foods, egg free, HFCS free, trans-fat free but flavor-FUL, that we gobble up regularly. After years of obsessive label readings, I have learned to only shop the perimeter of the supermarket, and I now know that the following 50 foods are okay in my book:

1. Lu brand Petite Beurre cookies
2. Lu brand Petit Ecolier cookies, with milk chocolate, dark chocolate and/or hazlenuts
3. Walker Shortbreads
4. Annie’s Shells and Cheese
5. Annie’s Spaghetti in a Can (All Stars, Bernie O’s and Cheesy Ravioli)
6. Annie’s Cheddar Bunnies crackers
7. Annie’s Bunny Grahams - regular and chocolate
8. Trader Joe’s Cat Cookies, both vanilla and chocolate
9. Trader Giotto’s gelato is egg free and comes in vanilla and chocolate - yes, I like chocolate!
10. Trader Joe’s turkey baloney
11. Trader Joe’s nitrate free bacon
12. Trader Joe’s nitrate free sausage
13. Edy’s frozen fruit bars are all juice, have no corn syrup and come in lime, raspberry and strawberry. Available in yer grocer’s freezer! PS Lime doesn't stain as badly as the other flovors...
14. Fage Greek style yogurt is just too scrumptious! It's thick and creamy and can be used for cooking. Try some, it’s only about 10 cents more than Dannon.
15. T.J.’s makes corn syrup free jams.
16. or get the Polaner All Fruit, or
17. try a fruit conserve, instead of a jelly. Unfortunately, all the grape jelly I have seen has HFCS, so if you meet a brand that’s corn syrup free, lemme know!
18. Enviro-Kids cereals, like Gorilla Munch, Rain Forest Crunch and Koala Crisp
19. Pirate’s Booty,
20. Smart Puffs,
21. Tings,
22. The whole line of Amy’s frozen Foods, like three cheese pizza and veggie lasagna
23. Crackers by TLC; ranch, cheddar and sesame
24. Late July biscuits
25. Newman’s own cookies are huge around my place. We get the Newman O’s in hint o’ mint and the Fig Newmans all the time. You can get Fig Newmans at Costco for $7.00 for three packs, instead of $3.50 for one pack at Stop and Shop.
26. Actually, I have found Horizon Organic foods at both Costco and Cub Foods
27. All the Apple and Eve juices are HFCS free.
28. All Knudsen’s juices are HFCS free.
29. All Santa Cruz juices are HFCS free too.
30. Most supermarkets, like Big Y, Kroger, Stop and Shop, Shaw’s, Albertson’s and Publix have their own store brand organic line. These lines are usually much cheaper than the big name organics and available in most stores, no matter where you are. I have found store brand organics in Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Georgia, Texas, California and Oregon. The names I know are Big Y’s Circle of Life (start singing, you Lion King fans), Stop and Shop’s Nature’s Promise and Shaw’s organic brand is Wild Harvest.
31. Get Turkey Hill Philadelphia Style ice cream, not the regular Turkey Hill; Philly is HFCS free.
32. Breyer’s ice cream is egg-less and corn syrup-less too, but not all the flavors, so read the label!
33. Heinz makes an organic ketchup, which is corn syrup free
34. Heinz also makes a “low carb” ketchup, which is also CS free. One translation of Low Carb is Low Sugar, and corn syrup is sugar, so
35. for that matter, look out for any low carb condiment to save on HFCS – like mustard, mayonnaise and salad dressings. A lot of the Atkins brand products are on sale these days; because the company is bankrupt.
36. Smart Balance makes a kettle corn, without corn syrup or trans fats.
37. Newman’s Own Ranch dressing and
38. Newman’s Own Olive Oil and Vinegar dressing are yummy,
39. or make the MOT’s dressing – crush a clove of garlic in a bowl, drop in a tsp of mustard and mix in 2 tsp of cider vinegar, a pinch of salt and fresh ground black pepper. With a whisk, beat in olive oil until smooth. Finish with a few drops of lemon juice.
40. If you are not allergic to eggs, put one egg yolk in the bowl with the garlic and mustard, then proceed as above. The dressing will be smooth and yummy!
41. Use regular cream or light whipping cream, instead of Reddi-Whip or Cool Whip. The calorie count is almost identical – one tablespoon has 50 calories for regular and 45 calories for light real cream as opposed to 50 calories for Cool Whip. Reddi-Whip is actually MORE expensive than real cream, has HFCS in it and doesn’t last as long in the fridge. Therefore, logic tells us to get real cream – save money, calories and reduce cellulite too! Cool Whip is sooo toxic; it has hydrogenated fats, high fructose corn syrup and corn syrup in it and has the same number of calories as real cream. It makes sense to switch.
42. Drink flavored seltzer instead of sodas. Store brand seltzers are cheaper than name brand sodas in every store, in every state. I know the caffeine/taste/emotional thing is not the same, but sodas are just not worth the corn syrup, to me. I’d rather stay fat eating candy.
43. If you like fresh squeezed juice but think it’s too expensive, get the Horizon brand juices, both fresh and frozen. They are sold all over, except in SD and WY, and taste just like fresh squeezed.
44. Cascadian Farms makes a lot of different cereals, including Clifford Crunch - yum!
45. Cascadian Farms also has a delicious frozen broccoli in cheese sauce – quick and healthy!
46. They also have, in the frozen food section, French fries with no trans fats or HFCS, as well as hash browns, shoestring potatoes and spud puppies – all designed to be baked, not fried.
47. Cascadian Farm makes frozen juices without HFCS, in lemonade, grape and apple.
48. Stonyfield Farm makes ice creams, frozen yogurt and non fat frozen yogurt too; all HFCS free!
49. Reed’s Premium Ginger brew is about $0.99 a 12 oz long neck bottle, and great fun to drink as you drive! I’m just waiting to get pulled over and for the cop to see the words "ginger brew" on the label! Ha ha! Hee hee! Ho Ho! It hasn’t happened yet...
50. And candy! What candy can one buy without HFCS? Well, a lot of the trail mixes are yummy and super sweet and have no added sugars...okay, I’ll shut up. I know, it’s not the same as a Milky Way – so I’ll eat T.J.’s organic 3 bars for $2.00 candy and hunt on line for cane sweetened licorice whips and watch in envy as you sink yer choppers into a Twix.

I actually went on the websites for Cascadian Farm, Horizon Organics, Newman’s Own, Stonyfield Farm and Annie’s foods and found they really are everywhere! Except there are no stores selling Horizon foods in South Dakota and Wyoming, and no stores selling Newman’s own in either North or South Dakota, Oklahoma or Washington D.C. Hmm. Annie’s is available in all 50 states, including Wyoming and the Dakotas, which I found rather reassuring. The sites for these organic foods usually have mailing lists and on-line give aways running. They always have coupons around to encourage you to try and buy their foods too.

Here’s a link to Stonyfield for coupons and free stuff: http://ecards.stonyfield.com/subscriptions.cfm

Here’s a link to Annie’s for coupons and free stuff:
http://www.annies.com/newsletter/e-news.htm

Here’s a link to Cascadian Farm and Muir Glen for shops and more information:
http://www.cfarm.com/

And finally, here’s a link to my Mecca; Trader Joe’s. I hope there is one near you!
http://www.traderjoes.com/locations/index.asp

Happy eating...

How to Feed the Allergic, the Toddler and the Health Conscious, Part One.

2005-09-01T23:04:00.000-04:00

(I started this post a few days ago, when I read yet another thing in the news about the evils of hydrogenated fats. I really feel passionate about this, and I know a bit about the subject too, so this is going to have to be posted in installments. So read up, and tune in for Part Two in a few…)

Recently a friend suggested I write a bit on healthy eating for the NOMOTC Notebook. Well, I would have loved to! I am always scolding my friends and family on the dangerous amounts of hydrogenated and partially hydrogenated fats (HF and PHF) and corn syrup and high fructose corn syrup (HFCS) they consume for about five years now. However, another writer for the NOMOTC grabbed the subject of healthy snacks before I could. Therefore, I will have to post a bit on the blog and hope that all mamas who wish to avoid such problems as heart disease, liver damage, kidney failure, bad skin, eye trouble, headaches, muscle spasms, hyperactivity, early on-set diabetes, in-growing hairs, corns, blotches, splotches, yellowed eyeballs, warts, bad breath, laziness and premature death in themselves and their families read and pay attention. Yeah, I am a bit of a holier-than-thou Miss Thing when it comes to food (unless it’s an OREO – if so, hold me back!) but the facts do support my wack-o ideas. I wasn’t always so caught up in good eatin’; hell, I used to be a professional chef, and we are a bunch notorious for eating poorly! But I read a bit in Men’s Health Magazine in early 200 about how McDonald’s will kill you. It got me thinking, then got me reading and got me to where I am today. I would also like to point out that high fructose corn syrup is basically liquid cellulite, and who wants that?! But for some reason, there are those who just don’t listen. Will y’all listen to Dr. Sears? We all love Dr. Sears, who backs me up; he calls HFCS and Hydrogenated Fats the Terrible Two, and lists 10 Junk Foods to junk on his website. Here is his list and here are a few quotes here to shock and horrify you about the “foods”, hydrogenated fat and HFCS:

From Ask Dr. Sears dot com:

10 JUNK FOODS

We define a junk food as "a food that is likely to do more harm than good to the body." We've used hot dogs as our, pardon the expression, "model" junk food. They're high in saturated fats, hydrogenated fats, added sugars, additives, food colorings, nitrates, and nitrites.

JUNK FOOD THE UNNUTRITIOUS, POTENTIALLY HARMFUL STUFF THAT'S IN IT:

1. Beef jerky high sodium, high percentage of saturated fat, high in nitrates and nitrites, added food colorings (Healthy alternatives are available.)
2. Colored, sweetened cereals hydrogenated oils, dyes: yellow #6, red #40, blue #2, blue #1 (Most don't contain whole-grain flour, yet may display the American Heart Association's heart-healthy seal of approval.
3. Doughnuts white flour, hydrogenated oils, icing, lots of sugar.
4. Potato chips hydrogenated oils, high in salt.
5. Gelatin desserts dyes, high sugar.
6. Candies hydrogenated oils, high sugar.
7. Punch dyes, high sugar.
8. Sodas high sugar, caffeine, dyes, carbonation.
9. Juice drinks or "cocktails" very little juice, mostly corn syrup and other sweetener.
10. Marshmallows mostly sugar, sticky for teeth.

Well, he makes it pretty clear, eh? Here are my ten alternatives to his Top Ten Foods to Junk:

1. A natural air-dried beef jerky, like Mojo Organic Beef jerky.
2. EnviroKidz cereals; replace your Cocoa Puffs with Koala Crisp, replace your Cap’n Crunch with Peanut Butter Panda Puffs and get your Kix with Gorilla Munch instead. For the parents, try either the Cascadian Farms cereals or the Kashi brand cereals. All are available at Trader Joe’s for about $2.50 a box, as opposed to $3.59 to $3.99 at most grocery stores. Yes, these are all 12 oz boxes…no funny business…
3. Jeez, try any of the baked sweets at Edge of the Woods, my local crunchy store on Whalley Avenue, or look for at a natural food store for the vegan equivalent to your favorite sugar coated snack bomb. When you see a Dunkin’ Donuts, train yourself to just drive on by. I’ll get one of those boxes of coffee there, for a playgroup, but since my little Baby B is allergic to egg, he can’t eat donuts. Ever. Oh well.
4. Instead of the ubiquitous Ruffles, get Terra Chips, Smart Puffs, Pirate’s Booty, Barbara’s Natural Potato Chips and Barbara’s Cheese Puffs, or pop some HF free popcorn at home and bring it along. Circle of Life (Big Y), Newman’s Own and Smart Balance all make microwaveable popcorn free of poison! Yummy!
5. Just avoid those Jell-O cups and pudding snacks. They are just chock a block with evil. I looked at a Chocolate Pudding Snack cup, which proudly proclaimed in large type: 0 grams of trans fats per snack! My my, I guess advertising really is legalized lying, because on the side, in the ingredient list partially hydrogenated soybean oil was right there in plain view. In 8 point type, of course. It’s interesting, I went to the Jell-O website to check some ingredients, but there are no nutritional facts on their website, except their claims that Jell-O pudding cups contain milk! Therefore, they are good for you! Yeah, well, so does a White Russian, but I ain’t giving one to my two year old…
6. Candies…I love candies…there are so many naturally sweetened candies out there! You just have to go to the site for O Naturale dot com, or shop at, you guessed it, Trader Joe’s, and you can find enough hydrogenated fat and corn syrup free hard candies, chewy candies, peanut butter cups, licorices and chocolates to put you into a diabetic coma. Pass the organic mocha truffle bars, would ya?
7. 8 and 9. Punch/Soda/Juice Cocktails…what can I say? Drink water, damn it! Oh, the children…well, dilute their Apple and Eve/Newman’s Own/Knudsen/Horizon/Santa Cruz Organic sugar free juice with some water, so the child grows up with a less than sweet tooth. You can also try the Reed’s Natural Ginger Beer, which comes in berry, extra ginger and apple flavors. All corn syrup free!
11. Marshmallow seemed difficult to find a substitute for, but you gotta love the Internet. Go to Vegan Essential dot com, and look for Ricemellow. You can use it for s’mores, krispy treats, topping hot chocolate, on ice cream, or you can eat it straight from the jar. The brand Fluff is pure Corn syrup, sugar syrup, vanilla flavor, and egg white. Ricemellow is Brown rice syrup, soy protein, natural vegan gums and vanilla. Guess which one we pick for Allergic to Eggs and super sensitive Baby B?

(I guess that the Rice Krispy Treats, made with Rice Krispies (Rice, Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil, Salt, Natural And Artificial Butter Flavor, High Fructose Corn Syrup, Malt Flavoring, Sodium Ascorbate And Ascorbic Acid (Vitamin C), Niacinamide, Reduced Iron, Pyridoxine Hydrochloride (Vitamin B6), Riboflavin (Vitamin B2), Vitamin A Palmitate, Thiamin Hydrochloride (Vitamin B1), Folic Acid, Vitamin B12 And Vitamin D) and Marshmallow Fluff, that we had at a recent picnic really were the cause for his breakdown that night.)

Now, that is a short list. I have many, many ideas for health snacks and fun treats for my family and myself. Dried fruit! Fresh fruit! Cut up veggies! People say, oh, babies need easy finger foods, like French fries and those Gerber Wagon Wheels. I say – Not! Gerber’s Finger Foods like the Veggie Puffs and the Biter biscuits, the Wagon Wheels and even Zwieback Toast all contain hydrogenated fat! I told this to a friend recently who scoffed at the idea of a company like Gerber putting something so harmful in a baby’s food. Yo, it's all about the benjamins... read the label and see.

Now, just how harmful is hydrogenated fat? That is the focus of this Part One. Rather than me gassing on and on, I have lifted a few quotes from these obviously well researched and well supported sites; one, Harvard dot edu, two, American Heart Assocation dot org and three, Web MD. Read on.

From Harvard: What are the health effects of trans fats?

Concerns have been raised for several decades that consumption of trans fatty acids might have contributed to the 20th century epidemic of coronary heart disease.2
Metabolic studies have shown that trans fats have adverse effects on blood lipid levels--increasing LDL ("bad") cholesterol while decreasing HDL ("good") cholesterol. This combined effect on the ratio of LDL to HDL cholesterol is double that of saturated fatty acids.3
Trans fats have also been associated with an increased risk of coronary heart disease in epidemiologic studies.4
Based on the available metabolic studies, we estimated in a 1994 report that approximately 30,000 premature coronary heart disease deaths annually could be attributable to consumption of trans fatty acids.4
In response to these reports, a 1995 review sponsored by the food industry concluded that the evidence was insufficient to take action and that further research was needed.5 Since that time many more metabolic studies have been conducted and additional prospective epidemiologic studies have been reported.
Because of the weight of the evidence, the FDA has recently issued a proposal for including trans fatty acid content on the food label.

By our most conservative estimate, replacement of partially hydrogenated fat in the U.S. diet with natural unhydrogenated vegetable oils would prevent approximately 30,000 premature coronary deaths per year, and epidemiologic evidence suggests this number is closer to 100,0000 premature deaths annually.

From The AMA: Where are trans fats found?

Trans fats are unsaturated, but they can raise total and LDL ("bad") cholesterol and lower HDL ("good") cholesterol. Trans fats result from adding hydrogen to vegetable oils used in commercial baked goods and for cooking in most restaurants and fast-food chains.

Cookies, crackers and other commercial baked goods made with partially hydrogenated vegetable oils may be high in trans fat.

French fries, donuts and other commercial fried foods are major sources of trans fat in the diet.

And from Web MD: What exactly are Trans Fats?

Trans fatty acids or trans fats are formed when manufacturers turn liquid oils into solid fats. Think shortening and hard margarine. Manufacturers create trans fats via a process called hydrogenation. Hydro-what? In a nutshell, hydrogenation is a process by which vegetable oils are converted to solid fats simply by adding hydrogen atoms.

Why hydrogenate? Hydrogenation increases the shelf life and flavor stability of foods. Indeed, trans fats can be found in a laundry list of foods including vegetable shortening, margarine, crackers (even healthy sounding ones like Nabisco Wheat Thins), cereals, candies, baked goods, cookies, granola bars, chips, snack foods, salad dressings, fats, fried foods, and many other processed foods.

Trans fatty acids are found naturally in small quantities in some foods including beef, pork, lamb, butter, and milk, but most trans fatty acids in the diet come from hydrogenated foods. So there is good news: When the new nutrition labels go into effect Jan. 1, 2006, it will be easier to screen these fats out of your diet. Until then, look at the package's list of ingredients. Products that contain partially hydrogenated oils or vegetable shortening may contain trans fats.

What Do Trans Fats Do Inside the Body?
Like saturated or animal fats, trans fats contribute to clogged arteries. Clogged arteries are a sign of heart disease; they increase your risk of both heart attack and stroke.

I'm not making this up, and it's pretty scary, isn’t it? Now, I know that everything should be done in moderation, and a little isn’t going to kill me and I shouldn’t worry so much about that cookie, but I do. I believe that by eliminating all trans fats, hydrogenated fats and partially hydrogenated fats from my diet, home and life I will be creating better health for me and for my family. Sure, there are going to be times when we consume bad fats unintentionally; at a party, at an airport (when we are desperate) or just in ignorance. That’s fine! I can live with that! Because those times are the “little that won’t kill me” and the “moderation” people like to advise. I want my children to grow up healthy, and by avoiding bad foods, I am doing just that.

Coming Next: High Fructose Corn Syrup gets taken to the mat and beaten to Jell-O.

MOT: one, Trolls: ZERO!

2005-08-31T14:48:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-30T22:12:00.001-04:00

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.

2005-08-28T13:41:00.000-04:00

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?

2005-08-23T23:48:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-08-20T09:53:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-15T21:54:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-11T22:43:00.000-04:00

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...

2005-08-04T18:27:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-01T16:10:00.000-04:00

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.

Outsourcing parenting?

2005-07-29T13:41:00.000-04:00

I just read a very scary article in everyone’s favorite doctor’s office read, People Magazine. The piece, by Brooke Slezak (sounds like sleazy, right!?) reports on the new phenomenon of parents outsourcing such onerous and stressful tasks as cupcake baking and potty training and dressing a child. I can understand some parents using the bike riding coach – I mean, if you are a complete and total klutz, with no bike riding skills whatsoever and may actually injure your precious pumpkin while running along next to his training wheeled Huffy, well, then, call the $60 an hour bike coach, if you have the cash to burn.

I can see how Stop and Shop’s on-line Pea Pod shopping and delivery service can be useful, sometimes with a baby, you just can't get out of the house. But what can one do if one needs someone to do the shopping, and get the dry cleaning and stop by the playground for a little quality time on the swing set with the kids? Well, you are in luck! For $15 an hour or so, Mother’s Hen Helpers can help you out, and perform these chores for you! How about helping your little girl get dressed, including a fashion and color consultation? $200 an hour gets your budding fashionista well on her way to looking like a page out of Toddler Vogue. Are your children ill mannered, messy eaters and poor conversationalists? Another $200 on hour can hire the help of an in-home etiquette specialist, guaranteed to get those elbows off the table in time for Mommy to come home from the spa, clap her French manicured hands together and say, “Oh my, Arizona Lee! You are doing so well!”

No time to make cupcakes for the class birthday party? Too ashamed to just go BUY something? Well, while Mommy and Daddy are just too busy at work/at the gym/at the spa/on vacation/meeting the Prime Minister, there are personal chefs ($80 an hour) who will do the time consuming cupcake baking for you. If you want little Whittaker the Fourth to learn how to make the cupcakes at the same time, for an extra fee, the chef will be sure to let him lick the beater blades. Just sign on the dotted line.

Ha ha, very funny, right? I was kind of horrified to see this was for real. The article also included contact numbers for experts to help you get those photos in an album, professionals to pack away out-grown clothes, coaches to wean a child from thumb sucking, a concierge to help your child with a school project, someone to sew on scout badges (!) and another to wrap gifts for parties. What the F**k? Where are the parents? What the hell are they doing with their lives? Who is too busy to wrap a gift or dress a child or go to the market and grab a box of Entenmanns’s frosted cupcakes for a school birthday party?

One of the mothers interviewed had hired the bike coach and admitted, “with a twinge of sadness, “It’s like watching her take her first step…I would have liked to be there.”” She said it with a sort of – oh, poor me, what else could I do? feeling. Well, for heaven’s sake, do what the rest of us do, lady. Do what you can during the day, do a bit more while the children sleep and then stay up late and get MORE done once your heir and spare are sleeping.

Just how much time and energy should a parent put into the active raising of your child? Well, as much as you have the time and inclination to, I think. I know there are some who must needs work two jobs and use a day care or a nanny. I also know there are those who feel the need to home school and be with their offspring as much as humanly possible. I like to think balance is the key. I am all for a bit of parental control as far as schedules and furniture arranging goes. What I mean is; I will try and keep my boys up a bit past nap time if I need to run an errand and I will give them a bath a bit early if we have a dinner out or something. I won't drag them, kicking and screaming, through a store, but I will give them a snack if it helps keep them awake when I need them to be. Their schedule is more of a routine and I have it so it fits in with what I would like to do. Like blogging and shopping and cooking and cleaning. By furniture placement, I mean I have a dining room that is used as a dining room/computer room and a bedroom for the DH and me that looks like a grown up bedroom. On the other hand, the TV room has an Ikea sorter full of toys and one bookcase with some toys and some board books for them to play with on the shelves. I don’t like to have 5 bins of things in every room; there is nothing wrong with that, if you like it and want it to be so, fine. I am a bit OCD and it would drive me mad. Thus, in my house, unless you are in the kitchen, the TV room or the boys’ bedroom, you might not know I had two children at all. Unless the 10,000 pictures give it away.

I unintentionally practice that Patient Parenting Style Preacher Mom mentioned in a comment. I will let them play with water in the kitchen sink while I cook, or just keep on eye out as they careen around the house and I check emails. My DH and I will garden for hours and let them amuse themselves with weeds and sticks. I am not ignoring them, per se; I am letting them do their own thing.

However, my DH and I are the end all and be all of our children’s lives, and we do everything for them. I take them to two playgroups, to at least one museum and out grocery shopping weekly, we have a weekly music class together and, on his own, the DH gives them a bath almost every night and does bedtime, three times a week on average. I cannot imagine hiring a professional to bathe my twinkies and get them to bed!

I wonder what kind of psycho-perfectionists we Americans are becoming to have it seem normal to hire an expert to potty train your toddler. We are at the 23-month mark, and the potty is going to be a part of our lives very soon, I feel. I am going to try and gently guide my boys when it comes to potty training time, and rely on my own non-expert knowledge of my own inexpert children. If I run into trouble, as an unprofessional potty trainer, well, we’ll wait a bit and try again. If that doesn’t work I’ll turn to the unlicensed experts I have turned to with all my other parenting questions - my sister and my friends. All are interesting, kind, full of useful information, good conversationalists, and no-one, fortunately, charges me a dime.

Allergies suck

2005-07-27T13:27:00.000-04:00

I am really not allergic to anything. I could pick a bouquet of poison ivy and drink swamp water and be no worse for wear. I have had some reactions, to irritants such as saccharine and once I had a reaction to gin, but aren't those poisons anyway?

My DH is allergic to pollen and certain flowering plants. My mother is allergic to ragweed and other plants as well. My DH, God bless him, takes medication in the spring and does his best to limit the irritating sniff sniff sniffing. His skin is fine, a little adult acne here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. My mother, grrrr, sniffs constantly. I know it’s rough for her being the allergy sufferer, but God, is it hard on the people living in the same house. Sniffing is like whistling out of tune or humming under the breath, or nose picking; it’s a fine habit as long there is no one around to think – STOP IT!! My sister’s baby is allergic to peanuts and has eczema as well.

With that history in the family, I am not surprised that I have a baby with allergies. Little Baby B has eczema and an known egg allergy, so he and I had an allergy workup today. You know, the visit when they stab your baby in the back with 20 different needles laced with the essence of potential allergens, and let it sit for half an hour to see what happens? Whew, it wasn't fun. I could see the wound marked EGG swell up almost immediately. The PEANUT site also got a little puffy. And, horror of horrors – the site for CAT got red too.

Now food allergies I can handle. If anyone reading this also knows me as a person, they will certainly be thinking – God, she is always reading labels and saying, “But this is hydrogenated! And there is cottonseed oil in this, as well as eggs! Throw these crackers in the trash!” I am all about eating the most natural food available, whenever possible, but I am not unreasonable about it. Why, just today, the boys and I shared a bag of plain M&Ms, and I have been known to chow down an Oreo or two. I totally prefer the Newman’s Os; all natural and so scrumptious and hydrogenated fat free, yippee! But, allergic to cats!?

I am pretty upset about this. How can I keep Baby B away from my cats? There is no organic alternative, no egg free version and no peanut-less cat available. If it were possible I’d be sure to use a squirrel substitute, or a mouse stock base in my cooking to replace the cat. I’d even get a partially hydrogenated animal, if I were forced to. But, unlike the Newman’s Own brand of snack food, or the Annie’s Bunnies we all know and love, there is nothing to replace my sweet felines.

I am not going to do anything drastic. I know a lady, who is not an animal lover, who, when told a story about a dog or a cat problem, invariably offers the same solution, “Get rid of it.” She is quite right, of course; humans should take precidence over cats. But, since I love my cats, I think I'd better not tell her about my baby’s allergy to them; I don’t want to have to try and explain my affection for my beasties. It defies explanation.

I found one of the cats when he was ten days old, or thereabouts. He was half dead, covered with dirt and bugs and had a serious infection in his nose and eyes. His mother had abandoned his sister as well. I took them both to the vet, and although the sister kitten died about four days later, the boy cat survived. I named him Shed, because I found him near the woodshed, and he is now 18 pounds of white silky fur and has one golden eye. The other was lost during his battle with the upper respiratory infection. I bottle fed him for a month and smuggled him into my office so I could feed him every three to four hours as needed. Therefore, having snatched him from the jaws of death, I am not about to get rid of him like he was so much trash.

My other cat, Worf, came with the name. Apparently, Worf is a Klingon on Star Trek and the nicest of a warrior-like race. My cat Worf is black, slinky and utterly beautiful. He has green eyes, a Siamese like meow and little graceful paws. He came to us when he was 6 weeks old, from the vet/orphanage. At the time Shed was 12 weeks old, and now they are inseparable. I would have no troubling finding a home for Worf, he’s very affectionate, but also self-reliant. He kills flies and bees and eats them; he eats mice and moles and has caught a few squirrels too. He single-pawedly keeps the street free from vermin. One of my neighbors commented on how her lawn is so lush and mole free now that Worf patrols the neighborhood. But I would not split them up; after three years of companionship they'd miss each other too much. Shed and Worf just go together; like apricot jam on a turkey sandwich, or a dash of bitters in a glass of champagne.

I am going to try this: My DH said he’d brush the cats every night to keep the loose fur to a minimum and I will vacuum every single day. Together we will do what we can to keep our already clean house even cleaner and see if we can push through to Baby B’s magical age 5. Age 5 is when a lot of allergies spontaneously subside, as long as the person is kept free from irritants. I will also try and keep the baby away from the cats as much as I can, but that will be very difficult.

My poor baby! He loves chasing the cats, tackling them and wrestling them to the ground. Then he will lie sprawled across them, yelling triumphantly at the ceiling. Poor cats, I am sure they love being taken down by a toddler too.

Ebbing and flowing; waxing and weaning

2005-07-26T18:23:00.000-04:00

Well, after 2 and one half years of lactation amenorrhea, the Crimson Tide is back in my life. No, I am not referring to the University of Alabama Athletics. I mean, if I had ever had any doubt of the efficacy of baby led nursing as a form of birth control, I am in doubt no longer. For as long as my boys nursed when they wanted, for as long as they wanted and wherever they wanted; I did not ovulate. About three weeks ago I started saying, “No nursing right now,” at the playgroup, and at music class and in the coffee shop, etc. About two weeks ago I started not nursing them at all at night. That is, I am trying not to nursing at night; it works about half the time – I still nurse the baby if he is feeling hypersensitive and Daddy just isn’t doing the trick. My point is: I woke up on Sunday, feeling tired and grouchy, and hey nonny no…Hey there, Aunt Flo.

I am absolutely positive it was the endless, day and night, baby led nursing that meant I was not ovulating. The moment I said, "No," took over and no longer let them dictate the parameters of the nursing relationship – whammo! I release an egg (or knowing me, two eggs) and have the resulting period. I know several women who have had a menstrual cycle whilst nursing, but none of these women co-slept and nursed on cue. I feel that to be an effective form of birth control, referred to on-line as The Lactation Amenorrhea Method, or LAM, the baby must wear the pants. Or the Huggies. Or the Pampers. Or the washed at home cloth diapers held up with pins. Or whatever. Lactation amenorrhea is a physiological result of nursing, but it must have an emotional cause as well.

I recently read The Nursing Mother’s Guide to Weaning, by Kathleen Huggins, an emotional book, which basically lets the reader know it’s "best" for the baby to let the baby wean when the baby is ready. One of the reasons given for not weaning is a delay of menses, and all the messy, expensive inconvenience that goes with it. Well, it’s just hunky dory for the baby to wean when he’s ready, isn’t it? But it's not always best for mama. In my case, Baby B is ready and willing and able. Today, for example, he asked to nurse when he woke up, I complied for about twenty minutes. Then we had a busy day – went to a friend’s house, had a nap, ate lunch, went swimming, had ice cream, played outside, and he didn’t ask again until about 5:00. He was hungry and tired and missing his Daddy, so he asked to nurse, I said no, he hollered for a minute, then was happy to eat his nice couscous and fresh garden vegetables with his Daddy, who brilliantly showed up just as the meltdown detonated. So that means Baby B has nursed once so far today, and will nurse again for about ten minutes before bed. He will have nursed only twice all day, with about twelve hours between sessions and he’s cool with that. I'm cool with that; I could nurse twice a day for the next month, easily, and save nursing intermittently for soothing an injury or for an emergency. The Nursing Mother’s Guide would tell me that Baby B is ready and to gently guide him to wean.

However, nothing is easy in motherhood/this life/my household. Baby A, to be ornery, has asked to nurse about ten times today, and cries bitter tears every time I say no. I let him nurse a bit in the morning when he was freshly awake and groggy and confused and pissy, and he almost killed me suckling on the painful side. I have had to work very hard on distracting him from the breast today. I know when he gets a chance to nurse he will be so over eager that he’ll latch on with the force of a limpet mine. Lately, it takes real effort to pry his jaws off my nipple, and he’s bitten down a few times in an attempt to hang on. Yes, it hurts, and yes, darn it, I still have an infection on one side because of the force of his latch for the past two weeks. Now I know he’s not ready to wean, but I am not going to wean one baby and not the other. It may seem counter-intuitive to you; with all the cruncgy granola reading materials I consume. Why not let the babies wean when they want to? And if it’s not at the same time, why not let one baby keep going? Well, number one, I no longer want to nurse, it hurts again, it's becoming difficult and, when Baby A nurses at the playground, it prevents me from standing/walking/running and parenting my active non-nurser. Number two, I feel that Baby B is only nursing because he sees Baby A doing it, gets jealous and wants a piece of the action. Also, I AM a part of this nursing relationship and I say it’s over. I long to be able to run after my boys and not have to hold my boobs still. Oh, to wear a real bra again!

If, in the early days of tears and struggle, I could have seen today, and the tears and struggle, would I do it again? Would I nurse my twins for about two years? Absolutely. Without a doubt, there has been a lot of joy and a lot of peaceful snuggling and there have been many, many nights when I co-slept very well and was very happy with one or two babies attached. But now they are much bigger, much stronger and much kickier than they were as infants. I am totally tired out; I can no longer sleep with them attached. I can no longer sleep beyond 5:30 am; it’s not that I wake up then, it’s that they paw me awake to nurse!

I just read an article in Mothering Magazine about an unrelated topic: Passive Parenting, by Nora Rock. In a section urging parents not to speed up the maturation process, a few lines struck me:

“But in the raising, so much is lost…child logic, child language, child priorities - in our haste to grow our seedlings up. If we wean our breastfeeding children before they speak, we will never hear them describe an experience lost to memory for most of us. If we teach them too soon to tell time and live by our schedules, they will lose touch with the rhythm of their inner selves, the same rhythm that carried them into the world when the time was exactly right, hours or weeks after the midwife said simply, "trust".

Okay, I get it. I am not to rush my children headlong into adulthood. I am not to push them faster than they are ready to be pushed. I am not to hasten them away from a magical time in their childhood, a nursing time. I can just hear my boys now, age ten and recalling to each other the details of nursing; how it felt, how it tasted, how loudly I yelped when one of them bit me, how Baby B kicked Baby A in the eye and it swelled up for two days, because Baby A had Baby B’s favorite breast and wouldn’t let go… ah, memories indeed. Somehow I cannot imagine my boys engaging in a discussion of breastfeeding techniques, from the toddlers’ point of view. But then again, I also cannot imagine them ever letting go of their right to nurse, so perhaps they will talk about it someday.

I wonder what Baby A will say if I tell him, years from now, how hard he fought weaning? I wonder what the repercussions of his breast-centric youth will be? Twenty years from now, will Baby A bring home a woman with huge boobs? If he does, I guess I’ll know why.

Playground types and conversations

2005-07-23T02:43:00.000-04:00

I go to two playgroups, one on Monday and one on Friday. Some of the Monday parents have also joined the Friday group, and we have infiltrated a Tuesday reading session at a local library as well. There are about ten of us who travel from group to group, from playground to playground, from town to town, hungrily seeking adult conversation, intellectual stimulation and fresh air.

In this group I have registered three parent types: The Hover and Rescue Parent, The Watch and React Parent, and the Oh, He’s Fine Parent. The Oh, He’s Fine parent is generally the one who gets to enjoy comparably lengthy conversations, while the Watch and React Parents find it tricky to finish a line of reason. The Hover and Rescue Parent can’t finish a sentence, let alone a thought. Of course, we are all a bit of all three playground parenting types, depending on our progeny’s activities at the moment. If a two year old is hanging upside down on a playscape labeled AGE FIVE AND UP, Hover and Rescue it is. If a three year old is going down a slide in the TOT LOT – AGE 1 TO 3, Oh, He’s Fine.

In general, I am in the Watch and React Category, especially when I have my peeps, my posse, my friends nearby. There are four mamas, and two daddies, with whom I share enough similarities to feel super comfortable, and enough differences to have fodder for discussion. Of course, having real discussions, with points made and conclusions drawn and everything, usually only happens over a bottle of wine out in a café somewhere. Either that or over the phone, or through the windows of the car, or in a driveway, when we are guarding our sleeping tots. These parents and I act as each other’s village, and we all run interference as needed. It’s lovely to know that I can go to the Porta-Potty in peace and have my babies watched for me, and then go back to a nice chat. We always try to get a talk in, because we find each other so interesting. We have had enough adventures between us to furnish topics for innumerable discussions; enough to furnish a salon, or a living room. (Get it? A salon? Never mind…lame joke...) Well, this group understands that differences of opinion do not a bad person make.

We have had some very interesting conversations lately, or rather; we have begun some interesting conversations lately. I am sure informed parents all over our land are talking about the Supreme Court, the London Transit bombs and the price of organic milk. (Just so ya know, Trader Joe’s Organic Whole milk was about $5 a gallon and at Stop and Shop the Northeast farms’ milk is $4 a HALF gallon. So, well, I mean, THAT’s worth discussing, right?) Unfortunately, as interesting as our conversations can be, we never really get time to finish what we are saying. There is always a toddler to rescue, a fight to break up, a sippy cup to distribute and sun block to reapply. (Yes, I really do reapply sun block after 90 minutes of vigorous play as directed. I really do!) In the past little while, I have started chats about weaning from the breast, sleeping though the night, playing Scrabble with a club, pet insurance, motorcycles, bullwhips, tattoos, swimming pools and toddler safety, new restaurants in the area, housekeepers who quit, lawn care, the Renaissance in England, books, music, blogs, slogs and frogs. BUT, as soon as the interloquation gets weighty, meaty or seamy, depending on what I am discussing with whom, oops! An interruption, and thought process is shut down.

It took me about twenty minutes last week to get out the dramatic Scrabble tale of my 203-point word. Yes, you read that right; I played QUILTERS across two triple word scores, yowza, and knocked the socks off my opponent. As I related this dramatic tale, soon to be preserved in legend and song, I kept having to cut myself off, rush over and help Baby A climb a ladder in order to go down a slide and then rush to Baby B in the sandbox, who naturally wanted the sand shovel another baby had, because it was just soooo much more interesting than the one I brought from home. Exhausting.

There is a mother who comes to the groups occasionally, a sweet lady and a very loving mother, who really never leaves her daughter’s side. The girl has just turned three and is quite active and athletic. Having a conversation with this mama necessitates you be quite active and athletic as well. In just half an hour we can go from sandbox to slide to swings and back. It’s hard to keep talking when you are out of breath!

One of my peeps, a gal pal, had an amazing talk with two consenting adults a few nights ago that left her breathless. They had a little wine, some common ground, and no children in sight. They were able to talk for TWO HOURS without being interrupted or distracted. At the end of the conversation they were all shaky and drained from the sheer volume of words exchanged and the importance of the conclusions reached. I told my friend that it’s called mind sex when it’s really good like that. She got all funny about the fact she has had mind sex with a mutual friend’s husband. I reminded her that it wasn’t anything to get funny about; there was a performance artist involved and several witnesses. Then I thought, oooh, that would make her evening a mental ménage a trios. Or would the witnesses make it be a mind orgy?

Lucky girl. The steamiest mental action I have had lately is via the Scrabble Club, the club where I played my 203-point word. Hey, it was worth repeating! The club has four dedicated members and about seven fringe players. One of the fringe members is a nice guy, who doesn’t talk much. I have played two or three games with him so far. One of the dedicated players told me that the nice guy was asking about me; he asked, "Is she available" and all that. The dedicated said she’d ask me and why, was he interested? "Well, yes," he said, "because she is so hot." Well, well, well. I was rather flattered by that. It’s nice to be a 36-year-old mother of two and still be seen as a hottie. I attribute that, in part, to the fact that by the time the Scrabble Club gets underway I have been away from my boys for several hours. Since they are not yet fully weaned and still nurse five times a day, I am still a milk factory, and therefore, I get “hotter” as the afternoon progresses, if you know what I mean.

I tried to tell that story to somebody at the playgroup today, but bless me if I didn’t get distracted by a baby! Oh well, there’s always Monday, and another discussion to attempt. When the boys are out of house for school I will be so unused to real conversation I’ll probably not know how to talk anymore. “Ha!” those of you who know me are thinking. “There’s no way to keep the MOT from yakking away!” Well, I kind of hope so – I don’t want my train of thought to get derailed; it's hard enough to find time to get it to leave the station.

My dear sister knows how I feel...

2005-07-19T13:40:00.000-04:00

I just had a conversation with my dear sister about the weekend, cartoons and our mother dearest. She said that she, the DS, doesn’t get as mad at her, the MD, as she used to. She just pictures our MD alone in a new country, with three children under five, no friends, no play-dates, no park, no playground, no videos, hell, no TV, no parents, no grandparents (they were back in the old country), nothing to do. My Dear Sister always reminds me of what I really should know by now: do not to expect anything, like assistance, love or compassion from our mother, but know that she will surprise you on occasion. So, I don’t expect help anymore. I really really really don’t. But, on occasion, I will give the MD a chance to prove me wrong, and God bless me if she doesn’t prove me right.

Case in point: As y’all know, on Friday my DH went away for two nights and three days to a local lab to be the guinea pig for a new cholesterol medication. (Yes, he got paid for it.) He left in the early afternoon on Friday and was not due back until Sunday morning. I spoke with my sister on Wednesday last week, and we arranged to have a day at her house, with all family members accounted for, next weekend, when the DH returned. We had planned on having a get-together on the weekend when the DH was away, to help me out in my temporary single-parenthood, but we decided the combination on a road trip and no Daddy would be too much for the little tykes. Therefore, my DS and I settled on the following weekend for our family lunch. With me so far? So, on Thursday, D minus One, I called my mother to ask her a question, pass the time of day and basically just chat. You know, reach out and touch someone. Well, the touch slid off the woman like the hand of a drowning person on the hull of a sinking ship.

Me: Hi, Mumsie dearest! How are you?

MD: - yap yap yap – I got a ten minute monologue on the latest antics of the cat.

Me: Well, you know my DH is away for two nights and I am going to be all on my own and my MIL is not available, so I will be on my own for three whole days this weekend, which begins tomorrow. I spoke with the DS, and she would rather I not come over and stay with my boys and no DH, because it could get ugly. So, I will be all alone this weekend, staring tomorrow, for two whole nights.

MD: Oh. Hmmmmm.

Me: I guess I’ll see you next week then, at the DS’s house, when my DH is with me?

MD: Yes, yes! Your father and I will be there. This weekend is not good for us anyway; I have so much gardening to do, I will be busy busy busy both Saturday and Sunday all day…– Then I got a ten minute monologue on the newest flowering shrubs set to grace their property.

Me: Okay, well, have fun digging in the dirt. I’ll have fun all on my own with my two babies and no husband for two nights. It’ll be great fun, I am sure.

MD: Yes, it is fun to garden…Bye!

No, I was not hurt, because I really wasn’t expecting a different response, nor was I expecting an offer of a visit or an invitation to come over. I know she’ll never change. But I got to thinking, what is going to happen to her when she has driven away all her children and grandchildren, as well her friends? What is going to happen then?

I wonder if she’ll call me up and try to get me to come over and visit her in her loneliness. Will I be a big-hearted person, forgive her for all the slights and hurts she dishes out today and toss her a bone tomorrow? Or will I, in turn, just go on and on about the twins’ latest antics for ten minutes and then hang up on her as she does to me now? I wonder if the power dynamic will ever change. I know she never will.

My Dear Sister, in her wisdom, said I would figure that out later. I will know what to do if it ever happens. And again, she reminded me that, like our mother, I could be snobbish and elitist and annoying and demanding. She reminded me that when it comes to our mother I am very demanding – I want assistance, love or compassion, and our mother cannot, and will not, give it to me. So I become angry and upset, but why? Our mother has always acted this way, why do I expect anything different? Is it because I feel I am growing and changing and maturing, and therefore she can too? Is it because I have such a need for a mother’s support right now?

When the twins were infants it was difficult enough, and now that they are two times terrible two and taking over every part of my life and brain, I need my mother more than ever. I ask for help and I am rejected. I call and whine a little and she hangs up. I do my best to be a grown-up and be big about it all and not be hurt, but I feel it a little, I must confess, I do. The DS says it’s my fault for having high expectations; she is right and I know she is right. But I am like a mosquito; the insect knows she will get swatted if she bites, and she understands that biting is painful and itchy, but she bites anyway, because she doesn’t have any other way of getting what she needs. My mother hears me on the phone and can’t wait to get off the line. Maybe she thinks I really am a mosquito, and am out for blood.

The Non Diet, Part Three

2005-07-17T21:24:00.000-04:00

One of the brilliant books I have in my library is entitled When Women Stop Hating their Bodies. Gee, could that be a little more direct? I have gone up and down about my body image, and the distortions if it in my mind, ad nauseum, I know. I have just finished rereading the book, and had a bit of a breakthrough, which may be obvious to y’all who know me, but I was kind of amazed.

I spoke with my mother this morning, and asked her to meet me out, on this misty, rainy day, at a fancy department store, to keep me company while I shopped for black heels. I thought she wouldn’t possibly be gardening in a downpour, but, as usual, when it comes to Mumsie Dearest, I was wrong. I was turned down flat, scolded for asking her to come shopping, “when you know I hate the mall!” and summarily dismissed. Maybe she didn’t know the DH was back from doing his imitation of a guinea-pig , and was afraid she might have to hold a baby or something. It’s funny how she hates the mall now. My mother has every Wednesday, for four months in the winters, to spend on her own while my father goes to his continuing education classes. I remember, when I was a single girl, we would spend those Wednesdays together. I think we went to the mall about 15 out of the twenty evenings for two years in a row. But, sorry, I guess that does mean she hates the mall. What was I thinking? But I digress. My breakthrough.

I had just put the phone down, hands trembling, when I was struck by a desire for chocolate. Fortunately I had a lovely, rich, dark chocolate truffle from Nordstrom Habits on hand, so opened the yap, and inhaled it. Actually, I almost choked; it was a big truffle. I felt a little better immediately, but as usual, I also felt a twinge of guilt for eating when not really hungry. Then I thought, “Wow! My mother, the one person in this world who is supposed to love me and want to see me, would rather pull weeds in a downpour than be with me for an hour. So, I go for something sweet to erase the bitterness. Could this be more plain?”

So that’s my breakthrough; the realization that I feel rejected and I get “hungry”. I know it’s not just my mother, although she is a powerful part of my problem. It's simple: I feel hurt and then I stuff myself full of sweeties to dilute the bile in my throat. I wonder what a therapist would have to say about that? Did I tell you my mother is a therapist? Oh, the hell with my mother and her innumerable problems. She deserves my pity, poor woman. I must be kinder to myself, and not get so hurt by her. This breakthrough could be very good, since recognition of a problem is the first step to a cure.

Pass the candy.

The Non Diet, Part Two and a half

2005-07-15T17:15:00.000-04:00

More on body image, and how others see me...

I must be exuding good vibes or something. I seem to be surrounded by sympathetic men these days.

Just this morning, at another of my playgroups, I was chit chatting with a stay home Daddy I know, who has a little girl. He and I were discussing children and their propensity for nudity in public places, like the park, the library and the playground. I commented on my nudie biscuit, Baby B, who had spilled apple juice on his shirt, and demanded I remove it. Then, as a result of feeling the refreshing breezes on his skin, he decided he wanted all his clothes off; hence the name – Nudie Biscuit. We both think it’s great that little children have no shame about their bodies, and he is concerned about his little girl, because his mother in law is highly critical. He hopes she doesn’t get all crazy about her figure as she grows up, and I hope my boys stay happy about being naked for a long time.

I said, “It’s so sweet to see him, naked and happy in a public park. I wonder when the shyness will emerge, or if he will ever be ashamed of what he looks like. I hope he is never ashamed, but who knows? I’m pretty confident as a rule, but feel embarrassed of my body a lot.”

My friend said, “Shame is a learned behavior. There must have been someone on your life who made you feel less than worthy because of your appearance.”

I said: ‘Yes, my blog beleaguered mother can be fingered as the one who gave me a complex, by constantly telling me I was fat, short and clumsy.”

He said: “Well it must be nice for you to see her these days, because right now, you look fantastic.”

Is it okay to be a little bit in love with a guy from a playgroup? At least, I was a little emotional at that moment.

The Non Diet, Part Two

2005-07-14T18:35:00.000-04:00

Observation on others and how they see the diet dilemma...

I met some friends this morning, two guys and two dolls, for a trip to the museum with our children. One of the mothers who was there is like me, and concerned about her figure. And like me, she goes from feeling just fine, thank you, to feeling like a blob. We agree that we need to exercise more, and we both do our best to go jogging between blogging.

One of the guys had read my last post, on the Non Diet, Part One, and had read about my problem with the morning moose in the mirror. He left a comment that mentioned he is a serial snacker and finishes off the kids' meals for them. He also wrote he wants to get to “pre-baby weight.”

What a sweet and empathetic man! I mean that in a completely non-sarcastic way. How many men do you know who not only gain sympathetic baby weight, but also share in his woman friends’ obsession over losing it?

Yo baby, dope dope smoke smoke dope

2005-07-14T07:04:00.000-04:00

Give me nickel dime, help me clear up me mind
Give me nickel dime, help me clear up me mind
Give me red wine because it make me feel fine
Make me feel fine all of the time

After UB40

Yesterday I went for a walk in a local park with a gal pal and her little girl. The three toddlers had a great time running up the stone steps, playing in the fountain and tearing around on the ten acre lawn. It was hotter than a crotch in leather pants, so we the Mamas were a bit lethargic, as we stood in the shade and watched our progeny frolic.

As you know, toddlers will see something interesting, stop dead in their tracks and stare at the thing for several minutes. This happened a few times, once as one of my boys was on the stone steps, next to a balustrade. I asked my Mama friend,

“What is Baby A playing with?”

“Oh, it looks like a plastic bag with some dusty green stuff in it.”

Lethargy forgotten, I flew over to the baby and took the mini zip lock bag of drugs out of his little paws. It was indeed pot, and it looked like a dime bag. Not having “partied” in about 20 years, I am totally out of the dope smokin’ loop, not that I was ever really in one. I just saw a few things in college, ya know…. Therefore, I asked my equally experienced collegiate friend, who came over to see what the baby had found,

“D’ja think this is a nickel bag or a dime bag?”

She said, surprised, “Oh, THAT’s what they call a nickel bag! Hmm, there’s a lot in that little bag, that’s a good deal.”

She has a supportive spouse and a pretty house, and a little tucked away I think, so I suppose $5 for a joint would seem like a good deal. For me, it’s simply not worth the money, or the risk, so I put the bag on the balustrade, where the babies couldn’t reach it.

Later in the day, as we were talking about our brush with the illicit, I remarked what with pot being illegal and all, even that little bag could cause a whole lotta trouble.

“Can you imagine getting arrested for having that nickel bag in your pocket? What a drag, going to jail over five dollars worth of pot.”

“Oh, you mean “nickel bag” is really means a FIVE dollar bag? So then a “dime bag” would be ten dollars!? Well, that’s not really a bargain after all!”

Oh, I forgot; she is accustomed to a 25-cent price point. She likes to shop at tag sales.

The Non-Diet, Part One

2005-07-10T16:20:00.000-04:00

Okay, okay! I admit it! I have fallen back into the journal versus blogger trap. You know what I mean; a blog is an unedited, navel gazing, spit-out-what's-on-your-mind stream of consciousness, and the journal is generally made up of a series of prettied up, clever phrase sprinkled posts. The journal is the Elizabeth Bennet version of the Internet, where one is unwilling to speak, unless it is to amaze the world. You have read Pride and Prejudice, no? Really? Oh, it’s sooooo good! I’ll suggest it for my book club’s next project.

Trapped or not, blogger or journal-er, be that as it may, I am also aware (thanks Yellow Wallpaper!) that I am back to posting once a week. Now not intending to resemble the sex life of a couple who have been married for thirty years, I am determined to get back to the three times a week as a general rule posting schedule. With that commitment in mind – here is the first of a series I shall entitle – the Non-Diet.

The Non-Diet, Part One and a Half.

If you have been following my fun fun fun life for a little while, either on line or in the flesh, you will know I have a teensy weensy problem with obsessive eating and my self-image. Basically, on good days I think I am pretty and youthful and pretty youthful and as stylish as a mother of toddlers who insist on still nursing can be. On bad days, grump grump, I look in the mirror and see a gigantic moose, wearing a ratty tee shirt. As a general rule I avoid the mirror, unless it’s to perform an eyebrow operation (my brows are another teensy weensy obsession) or to fix my Eton-cropped hair.

Just today, as the boys napped, I beat the heat by hiding indoors. I saw the film Super Size Me; that documentary by the fella who eats at McDonald’s every day for a month, gains 20 pounds and almost has liver failure. It got me thinking about diets and exercise and all that. You might recall a post from March about a French book I read that recommended moderation, and outlined how that is the key to successful dieting. Well, for my birthday a good friend gave me two books about compulsive eating and body image obsessions and how diets can be fingered as culprit for these problems.

Hmmmmmm! I have one book that extols gentle dieting and mild delusionary tactics as the French way to thinness and happiness. I have another book that praises a woman’s decision not to diet at all and outlines how to love you for you and how to be happy however you look. I am trying to find what will work best for me. I do love love love to eat, and I really like to cook. Actually, right now there is a batch of croissant dough on my kitchen counter, growing and thriving like a live thing. I like fine foods and interesting meals and good drinks and champagne, and I also love to work out. I jog and I love my spinning classes and I really do think lifting weights is fun, so I am not concerned about getting enough exercise.

But I am concerned about the way I see myself. Some days I simply hate the way I look and some days I think my body and my style are totally fine. Other days I see my tiger flap, and just want to cry. My spin instructor, my gorgeous friend and the co-founder of our Double Entendre Club, says that I am losing weight and getting fitter. But I really don’t see it at all.

My logical brain tells me it’s all in my mind's eyes, and can not a reality in the mirror. I mean, it’s simply impossible to gain or lose forty pounds overnight. But honestly, that's how I feel. I come home from spinning or running or lifting, go to bed feeling light and happy and wake up feeling globular and grotesque. That's not weight gain, right?

I am going to re-read the books I was given and the French eat-your-croissants-in-moderation book too. I am going to take notes and pay attention to how I feel. I am going to pay more attention to ME and not let myself get swept aside by my precious pumpkins. I’ll let you know what conclusions I draw, or paint, or sketch. I might draw a blank, but I’ll keep you posted.

Get it? Draw or paint a conclusion?! Just a little play on words for y'all. Obessive compulsive disorder and body image distortion notwithstanding, I do make myself chuckle…

Nip in the bud? What about pruning a full grown blossom?

2005-07-04T16:07:00.000-04:00

Today I had a discussion with the stay home daddy of my playgroup on the subject of biting and hitting, my latest obsessions. I let him know that if, at any time, he saw one of my boys biting or hitting another child, he was to feel free to clamp down on my boy, whether his child was the object of abuse or not. My tack now is to remove the biter/hitter from the child they have injured and set him down for a time-out, back to the group, so he gets that awful left-out feeling as punishment. I hope it’s not too traumatic, but I must stop them from being violent.

I was glad to see this worked very well yesterday. Baby A clamped his teeth down on the naked tender shoulder of a little one-year old. The one-year old was pretty exposed, being shirtless and all, sweet, pink baby skin in the sunshine. Baby A bit him when this baby tried to climb onto the rocking horse Baby A was enjoying. Now I can understand why he would want to bite him; one, the baby was cramping my boy’s style by climbing onto the toy he had first and two, the baby was just so yummy looking, but I cannot condone it. Therefore, I picked Baby A up and said, “Do not bite babies! You are being bad!” I put him down, with his back to the group, and stood aside. Baby A extended his arms to the side, clenched his fists and shook them before him as he yowled in rage and frustration. He was clearly thinking, “That baby was pushing me! I was just defending myself! What the hell, man?!” I didn’t leave him in the time-out for too long, but scooped him up and took him to play elsewhere. He did not bite another child the rest of the afternoon.

Today, however, I think he might have chomped down on a little boy’s hand; I am not sure. I did not institute any time-outs; I didn’t see a bite and I am not sure what went down. But there was some crying and some incoherent accusations made by a two year old, and Baby A was in the thick of it. I immediately thought, “Oh, he bit someone,” which might have been unfair of me, and might have been an unjust thought, but I am unhappily used to him biting by now. This was the instance that prompted the discussion with the stay home daddy.

I told this friend how much trouble it causes me, emotionally and mentally, to have a biter for a child. He agreed it must be difficult and said, ‘You need to nip this sort of thing in the bud.” That made me laugh a little as I cringed a little; this biting thing has gone past the bud stage, it’s in full bloom. I don’t need to nip anything; I need to prune this wild underbrush behavior before the kudzu of violence gets me banned from my playgroups completely.

So that’s what I am trying to do, uproot the biting tendencies from the gardens of my children. Any tips? Does anyone have a weed-wacker? Or should I use Round-Up? George, any thoughts?

Toddler who hit and Mothers who find it just too much to bear

2005-07-02T15:21:00.000-04:00

The other day, at a playgroup, Baby B walked up to a baby in a stroller, pointed and said “Baby!” raised his hand, and whacked the baby on the top of his little head. Naturally, the baby, about 8 months old, started crying. Just as naturally, the mother of this baby, who is a friend, thank heaven, was able to quickly soothe her the little one. I hope he was more surprised than hurt. When the crying subsided, Baby B looked at me and smiled, and lifted his hand to try it again.

I picked him up, looked in his big blue eyes, and said in my mean mama voice, “No hitting! Do NOT hit a baby! You are being bad!” I put him down and pushed him away from me and turned to his brother who needed a diaper change. What I had previously been doing was saying, over and over, “no hitting”, “hitting is bad”, “hitting hurts” and the like. I had not told the baby he was bad, just the action was bad. But I am so so so SICK of the hitting and so sick of the biting and so grouchy and intolerant these days, I suddenly decided to take the hard line.

Baby B was rather upset. He cried and reached up to have me hold him and wept and followed me around, and again tried to get me to pick him up. Again I told him, “Hitting is bad. You are bad when you hit. Do not hit,” and put him away from me again. He walked over to the infant in the stroller again and said, “Baby?” He had a look like he was going to hit him again, so I went over and removed him from the infant. Baby B got his arms around my neck and held on tight. I knew he was upset and I hugged him back and told him I loved him so much. I know he understood that, but I wonder if he understood the no hitting thing?

What can I do, apart from really stay on top of them? Baby A is the biting boy and Baby B is smack happy. They do it to each other at home and I will tell you; the screams of pain when they bite each other and my feelings of helplessness to stop it are just a few of the many factors that cause me stress these days.

I thought that seasonal affective disorder attacked people in the winter. You might have heard this disorder called SAD, or the Winter Blues. According to the website for The Northern County Psychiatric Associates of Baltimore, Maryland, “about 70-80% of those with SAD are women. The most common age of onset is in one's thirties, …and for every individual with full blown SAD, there are many more with milder "Winter Blues." There seems to be interplay between an individual's innate vulnerability and her degree of light exposure. For instance, one person might feel fine all year in Maryland but develop SAD when she moves to Toronto. Another individual may be symptomatic in Baltimore, but have few symptoms in Miami. Some individuals who work long hours inside office buildings with few windows may experience symptoms all year round. Some very sensitive individuals may note changes in mood during long stretches of cloudy weather.”

Well, this is all very interesting and neat and great, but how does it explain why I am moodier and crankier and less tolerant of the babies now, in the summer, than I was in the winter? Do I have a unique case of The Summer Reds?

A simple answer to my moodiness is two fold. One, the weather has been a bit humid and oppressive these past weeks, and I am feel squashed by the blanket of moist air that is squashing the entire state. And two, the boys are being very clingy and very pissy and very moody themselves, clearly trembling on the brink of another milestone. I think they are going to suddenly wake up one day and start speaking full sentences, and their little minds are feeling the strain.

So here I am, with violent twins, a hot summer and a permanent headache from all the screaming and whining. I wonder if I am suffering from some kind of disorder, or is it just that any human being in the same situation would feel cranky and moody and stressed out? There is that part of me that wants to be the all capable caretaker, to call up the testicular fortitude, and just get a grip and deal with it. There are days when I do just that, but it seems so hard to get the energy when it’s hot and sticky. It also seems that the boys, at 22 months, are a lot more work these days.

There is so much I need to do and want to do during the day; cooking, cleaning, laundry, writing, shopping, errands and so on. There is so much I would like to accomplish with the boys; reading with them, playing brain-nourishing games, encouraging them to eat interesting foods. I want to take them to the zoo, the park, the aquarium, the library, the museum, the ice cream parlor; but it all seems such an effort.

It’s easy to blame the heat for my apathy, and the stress of nearly two years alone with twins, but it seems like a cop out. When I hear about other people and what they do and get done, I feel as if I am letting my boys fall behind developmentally. I mean, at what age do they stop hitting and biting? At what age can they feed themselves? At what age can they listen and stay near me in a store and not run across the automatic door opener and then out into the parking lot? At what age will I again feel the joy of motherhood, or feel that the joys are slightly outweighing, or at least on the same level as, the stress?

The quick solution is to leave them at a day care center, go get some little job somewhere and remove myself from the situation. However, me knowing me as well as I do, I know that would cause a bit of stress in and of itself. By the time I got it together, got us all out of the house and to the day care, to the job, and back again, I’d have no time to do all the little that mean so much to me. Or I’d have to stay up past midnight, instead of past 11:00, as I do now. It’s amazing how much time and energy it takes to keep a home organized. And if I had a job that took me out of the house, I would really not have any time to assist them with their mental and emotional development.

Oh, these Summer Reds, these Summer SADs, this moodiness. Apart from getting away from it all for an evening of exercise twice a week, what can I do? Apart from calling up reserves of tolerance and patience, how can I deal with the stress? And apart from doing the best I can, how how how can I get my children to stop biting and hitting? How?

At 1:00 am Teenaged boys make as much racket as twin babies

2005-06-26T11:39:00.000-04:00

If this is what teenaged boys are like, I am not going to be getting any sleep for the next 17 years…

Last night, or do I mean very very early this morning? I was peacefully nursing Baby A, and thinking about the excess of bratwurst I had eaten that afternoon. I wasn’t sure if I was awake because of my rumbling insides, or because of the snuffling baby attached to my outsides, but either way, I was up. Which is why I heard every little noise that came from below the bedroom window, in my normally silent suburban neighborhood. At first there were voices, and then the rattle of the latch on a gate. My lovely next door neighbors have a fence, to contain their dogs (yeah, great watchdogs they have been proven to be…hm hm) and I have the same type of fence with the same type of gate. I know the neighbors have two teenaged boys, so I didn’t think it unusual to hear young men’s voice at 12:30 am.

But what was unusual was the yelling and then the crashing and thumping noises that followed the gate opening and closing. A bit peeved, I detached Mister Baby, who was a bit peeved by being unplugged, and went to the window. My my! What shenanigans were before my eyes! Three hoodlum types were attempting to open MY gate and making threatening noises to someone inside my fence inside MY own private bucolic Eden, aka, The Backyard!

Well, I wasted no time at all. I threw open the window and hollered, “Well, excuse me! Who are YOU?!”

Hoodlum Number One nearly jumped out of his athletic gear clad skin. It would have been very funny to see someone jump straight up in the air like that if I weren’t so angry at having my peace and my backyard disturbed. He landed on his feet and took off across the neighbors’ front yard. There were two other Hoodlums waiting for him by a tree and they ran to their getaway car. The foolish lads called out to each other, “Hey, Dobson, better get going!” “Okay, Jake!” as they trampled the nice neighbors’ newly sown grass. Since I am such the shy blossom, I yelled, “Watch it, Jake and Dobson! I’m calling the police on you!” as they zoomed away.

By now Mister Baby A was thoroughly awake and pretty annoyed at having his late night nursing marathon interrupted by Mama hollering out of the window. I picked him up and went down to the kitchen to call 911. Just as the dispatcher answered the line, I heard a knick knock on my back door. Hmmm, who could this be behind door number one? Ladies and gentlemen, it was a slightly intoxicated, extremely tall, sweaty teenager, also clad in athletic gear, but with only one sneaker.

Me (in a frosty voice that sounded eerily like the one my own mother uses when she is dealing with riff raff): Yes? And who might you be?

Slightly Intoxicated, Extremely tall, Sweaty Teenager (in a shaky voice with a Southern accent): Ma’am, I really hate to disturb you and all, but I’m kinda scared. My name is John Lawson, and I’m real sorry to wake you up and disturb you.

Me (still frosty, but thawing out a bit): I’m on the phone with the police.

SIETST (still Southern): Good, that’s good, Ma’am. Can I come in? I’m so sorry to disturb you.

I thought he sounded pretty shaky and he didn’t really look too criminal, and I was on the phone with the police the whole time. So I called up to the DH, who came downstairs to be my backup and let the guy in the kitchen. I got him a glass of water and told Five-O what had gone down.

The teenager kept on and on about how he was from South Carolina and was at house party and how his girl needed to get home, so he walked her home, saw her to the door and was promptly jumped by the three hoodlums (Dobson, Jake and their crony) who swatted him with a baseball bat. Why, I am not too sure, perhaps he looked at them cross-eyed. You need to be careful with hoodlums these days, I suppose.

Anyway, Baby B woke up, funny how babies can sense disturbance, and I went upstairs to get the boys back to bed. The DH stayed in the kitchen with the teenager, gave him water and waited for the PD. By the time they showed up Baby B had gone back to sleep, but Baby A insisted on coming downstairs, meeting the policemen and putting in his five cents.

There we all were, on the front steps at 1:00 am, the DH, the SIETST, two policemen and Baby A and I. The SIETST was telling his story, which involved a party, an empty house, the three hoodlums, another Southern couple and quantities of intoxicants. The DH, who can be as nosy as I am, was drinking it all in, and I was asked to tell my Eyewitness News version. Baby A kept up a running chatter; pointing out the lights and the trees and the moon to anyone who cared to notice and eventually we dispersed. The SIETST got a ride home, and our little family went back to bed.

At least that what I thought would happen. But nooooo. For the next two hours, Mister Baby A wanted to be up! He looked out one window, then the other, to make sure there were no other invaders. Then he played with his bears and his dolls. Then he wanted a snack, at least I though he did; he pointed to the kitchen and made the sign for “eat”. However, when I offered him yogurt, milk, banana, applesauce, peaches, cheese and juice, he became agitated and decided to nurse. So we went back upstairs, and did it all again until 2:45 or so.

Finally he conked out, and I was at a place where I couldn’t sleep either. Maybe it was the bratwurst, or maybe it was the fact that I was still pretty annoyed at having my garden invaded, or maybe it was just paranoia that the three hoodlums would return and try to “get back” at me for called the PD on them and finish their trampling antics. The upshot is, I was up until 4:00 am, but woke up at 6:30 as usual.

My oh my. If this is the type of thing teenagers do, I am not going to get good night’s sleep until they move out. A Stay Home Daddy Friend of mine (you know who you are!) got to hear one of my tales recently, involving a old gal pal of mine, her husband and a rabid dog, and commented, “I never have crazy stories like that to tell! Never!”

Well, SHDF; perhaps you should open the window at 1:00 am. Maybe you’ll see something interesting, and have a tale of your own. Unless, of course, you like to sleep at night, but as Baby A was clearly saying last night, who wants to sleep when there is sooo much going on?

George, I wish you had been there. You’re such a tough guy all three of those hoodlums would have levitated at once.

As Cecily suggested

2005-06-25T22:20:00.000-04:00

Here is a list of blogs copied from Cecily’s and I wasted all that birth control. She is a funny, smart, caring and totally cool lady, who has been hit with some major sh*t in her life. However, she remains a funny, smart, caring and totally cool lady, so check her out!

What we are supposed to do, in this exercise, is act like journaling bees pollinating the literary flowers of the Internet. So, remove the blog at #1 from the following list and bump every one up one place. Then add your blog's name in the #5 spot; link to each of the other blogs for the desired cross-pollination effect.

Marti http://marti2212.blogspot.com/
Melody http://melslifeinanutshell.blogspot.com
Sheri http://deerledge.blogspot.com
Cecily http://zia.blogs.com/wastedbirthcontrol/
MOT http://motheroftwins.blogspot.com/

Next: select new friends to add to the pollen count. (No one is obligated to participate, but go ahead, BEE crazy and do it. Heh heh heh!! Ah! The Double Entendre Club lives on...)

Indigo Girl http://indigogirl.typepad.com/linda/
Library Lil http://library-lil.diaryland.com/
Mimi S. http://smartypants.diaryland.com/
Chez http://chezmiscarriage.blogs.com/
Excruciating Minutiae http://acbowm.blogspot.com/
Dani http://www.theyellowwallpaper.blogspot.com/

Okay, blogging bees, get BEE-zy, get to work, and read a new post or two! Or go make honey. Or something.

Yo! Your highbeams are off center...

2005-06-24T13:40:00.000-04:00

I am one of those people who notice every little thing about everybody. This is not to say I am a shallow, superficial, petty and uncaring person, no, not at all. I can be friends with people with terrible eyebrows just as easily as not! I just happen to notice their eyebrows and might mention it at some point.

A friend of mine is absolutely the opposite. She’ll notice things like the clouds are gathering overhead, and that it might rain. She’ll also observe how well a child is playing with another child, and notice what they say to each other. I’ll see them playing and think, “Hmm, I wonder where her parents got that nice Absorba sweatshirt.” I will also notice what they are saying, and how they are playing, of course! But I will see the clothes and hair thing at the same time.

Anyway, last week I noticed one of the women in my gym was committing a total gym fashion don’t. She had the matching stretchy shorts and bra top going on, and the socks were a good color for the ensemble. However, she had not adjusted her boobs in that pretty bra top, and as a result one was pointing up and the other was pointing to the side! Ooopsie! Number one, ouch!? And number two, my that looks funny! But how on earth to you go up to a total stranger and tell her that her nipples are all wonky? I’m pretty bold, but not that bold.

Dear Miss Manners, I have a little problem. A woman at my gym is distracting the entire floor with her off center nipples. How can I tell her she’s distracting us, and needs to adjust her cups? Thanks for any tips! Sincerely, Can’t Stop staring at a Strange Woman’s Crooked Boobs.

Of course I checked myself out, and my alignment was A-ok. Guys have it easier. In gym clothes, or in any kind of stretchy clothes, a guy can dress to one side or the other or can even dress “up”. It all looks fine. But a lady should dress to the front, or get herself a bra with a heavier lining. Oh, don’t worry girlfriend; if I see your boobs are out of whack, I’ll be sure to whisper a hint. I am one of those people who do notice these things, you know.

The Double Entendre Club

2005-06-21T14:53:00.000-04:00

I have a running joke with my spin instructor. We are the Double Entendre Club, which means we make these awful puns whenever we meet. The original joke runs as follows:

A woman walks into a bar and orders a Double Entendre. The bartender gives it to her.

Ha ha ha! Of course, not everyone gets it, and even if they get it, not everyone thinks it’s funny. Anyway, Miss Silver, the Spin Mistress, thought it was hee haw funny and The Double Entendre Club was born.

One day the joke was a play on a fellow spinner’s name: Otto. We kept it up for a while, “He drives a pretty nice OTTO.” And, “He’s late today, he OTTO try to get here on time!” And the best, Miss Silver’s line, “This class seems quite natural for him, I’d say it’s OTTO-matic.” Ha ha! Snort snort! Hee hee ha ha ho ho! We nearly fell off the bikes.

Another day, we had fun with geography jokes. We started this by talking about an Irish band, then I said, “This spin class is a good way to get your heart rate DUBLIN.” Miss Silver countered with, “I-RISH we could cycle all night.” I commented, “Let’s cycle Bel-FAST-er.” And we just went on and on.

The last run of puns was on the energy of the class, or our Chi. Miss Silver started us off by saying, “Our energy is CHI-riffic.” I said, “Yes, and in this class CHI-ting is a good thing!” Then she said, "If we were in Kansas we’d have to meet in Wit-CHI-ta." Groan groan. I said, “We could always go to Russia, and meet in CHI-ev.” When we got control of ourselves, I then said, “Let’s stop now. I think another pun would CHI-pen the humor.”

You may think these puns are just terrible, but we think we are simply CHI-larious.

Sometimes even the best of intentions get you messed up.

2005-06-18T08:51:00.000-04:00

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."--Ralph Waldo Emerson. May I paraphrase that into - Irritating inconsistencies are the troll-goblins of my parents' minds?

As you may know, those of you who are long time readers, my parents have this thing about not being disturbed. Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays are all very important days that must be kept scared and sacrosanct. You know those garden rocks you can buy from those horrible Lillian Vernon catalogs? There are one that read Welcome Friends, and others read Garden of Peace, or some such tripe. I want to get one for my parents that reads Go Away.

They usually leave parties and other social gatherings after about two hours; it seems to be their limit for interaction with others. I am not sure how they manage to keep going for the full day at the office. They might take the occasional fifteen-minute time-out for the sake of comfort. I also feel they like to leave my parties early so they don’t have to help clean up, but that may actually be secondary to the two-hour time limit thing.

Anyway, I have been hearing this Do Not Disturb thing for quite some time now, and especially since the babies exploded upon us. Last year, when I was completely shattered, my mother was coming to see me, from 10:00 until 12:30, but that’s better than never, three Tuesdays out of the month. I was going up to see them every other Thursday, from 10 is until 2 ish, but I think that got a bit much for the folks. There was one memorable day that put the kebosh on this weekly jaunt. About three months ago, my dear Dad had a bit too much wine at lunch. I had asked him to help me with the boys’ lunch. His job was to pick up what they tossed on the floor and to keep them distracted so I could shovel their applesauce and Annie’s Mac and Cheese into their gullets more efficiently. His idea of helping, in his tipsy state, was to watch them toss everything on the floor and when they clamored to have it back on the table, they were 17 months old at this time, he told them, “Life is rough. You need to learn you can’t get everything you want.” Of course, they said, “Ahhhh. Ah Ah Ah!” right back. I pointed out that they were in a relatively unfamiliar place, they were past due for feeding, so they were a bit tender and that I really needed his assistance.

Then the dear old man started going on about the necessity of learning life is rough and hardship is a good thing. Then he said I am too rough and how I have been been really angry lately. Wait, Father Dear, how did we get from lunchtime to me being angry? Actually, since you aren't helping and the dining room is a mess and Mumsie is sick and can't help us tidy up and the boys are screaming and I still have two babies to feed, and now I also have a kitchen and dining room to clean up and a tipsy granddad who is not lifting a finger, I really have the right to be annoyed right now! I got the boys organized, cleaned the house and left soon after.

Be that as it may, that was then and this just happed yesterday. A brief time line: the past three weekends have been rather busy. Three weekends ago we had a party in New Jersey for my sister, who just completed her PhD and walked at her graduation ceremony. I agreed with her that the parents kind of had to be there. The weekend after was my fabulous birthday; since I am now 36 and all and so mature, didn’t make a bit of a fuss when they skated out without helping clean up; besides, I’m used to it by now. I had heard, several times, how they were exhausted at that point, what with two Sundays in a row gobbled up by social events.

Then, just this past Sunday, they went to New Jersey again to see my lovely little niece, who is very pretty and very sweet and very five, perform in her ballet recital. I was not able to go; my babies don’t do very well at sitting still for 45 minutes, unfortunately, but I am sure she will perform her dance for me in private at a later date. My parents did go, as part of their grandparenty duties, so this meant three Sundays in a row without their essential total avoidance of all other humans.

Now this Sunday is going to be Father’s Day, and I had asked if they would like to have the babies and me up to their house for lunch or something. I was told, by my mother, that they had been invited out for lunch, and would not be able to see me, even though they would like to. Oh well.

As a result of hearing how exhausted they are for the past three weeks, I thought, and stop me if this sounds nutty, that they were kind of exhausted and wanted to be left in peace and might not welcome me and two toddlers dropping by unannounced. OK, OK, I know – where did I get that idea?! The upshot was, on Thursday, one of their sacrosanct days off, I sneaked by to drop off my father’s Fathers Day gift. I drove up the driveway, parked carefully, opened the door really quietly, wrote them a note and put the note and the package on the dining room table. I could see my mother through the window from the dining room into the kitchen and could hear my father yelling a conversation with her. She claims not be deaf, but she didn’t hear me and the old man was a’talkin’ mighty loud...

Then I left. A few minutes later my cell phone rang, and it was the parents.

Me: Hellllooo!

Daddy: When did you drop by? Why didn’t you come in? That was so silly! Where are you? Come back and stay for lunch!

Me: You guys said you wanted to be left in peace and have had too much socialization in the past little while, so I thought that meant you wanted to be left in peace and have had too much socialization in the past little while.

Mother: No! Not at all! You should have stopped in and said hello! Just stopping without saying hello is very foolish.

Hmmm. I can remember several occasions when I had arranged to have my parents or my mother meet me at my house for various reasons. Invariably they would either stop by for somewhere between four and seven minutes, or, and this has happened more than half a dozen times, they just LEFT A NOTE and had not stayed or come in at all.

Me: Well, parents dear, I have been doing some thinking about our relationship lately, and have rediscovered that you don’t treat me as I would ideally be treated, but neither do I treat you as you say you would like to be treated. I am going to be better. I really thought you’d rather not be disturbed! But please remember that I love it when people come by, so next time maybe you guys could come in for longer than a minute?

Parents: uuuggghhh hmmmmm ahhhhh, oh well, we are so busy and just exhausted…you really should have come in, and we aren’t free on Sunday, don’t forget! We want to just be alone. We are exhausted.

Me: I know, and I am not planning on coming by, that’s why I dropped off his gift today, you see? Do you get it? But I thought you were invited out somewhere on Sunday?

Daddy: Oh, no! We just don't want to be disturbed!

Parents: Anyway,you should have come in!

As my dear sister would say, since the completion of her PhD had made her more articulate that ever, What the F**k?

Help! I've been robbed!

2005-06-12T22:10:00.000-04:00

It was a little bit my fault, but Jeez…

The other day I had a busy busy morning scheduled. You know, the type of day that makes most people start to sweat, but for me, The MOT, it’s just another day of errands to be completed before 11 am. I had to go to the bank, close an account, go to another bank, get the title for my car (yep, all paid up! Thanks, DH!), go to T.J.’s and pick up a few organic bits and pieces, go to a consignment shop to see what kind of money I could get for the babies’ old Absorba and Catamini/Minimini outfits, and go to Old Navy to load up on V-neck tee shirts in perfect fit. They are 3 for $12, and since the boys yank the hell outta everything I wear, I might as well wear cheap-o tee shirts with my Isaac Mizrahi skirts as not.

I had to get all the above completed before 11:00 am, because I had an appointment down town to have my hair restored to its convict length. It’s just too darn hot. (According to the Kinsey report, every average guy you know, much prefers his lovey dovey to court when the temperature is low. But when the thermometer goes way up, and the weather is sizzling hot, Mister Pants for romance is not…because it’s too darn hot! It’s too darn hot! It’s toooo daaarrrn bad I have to burst into Cole Porter in the middle of a blog as well as in life, please excuse me.)

Song and dance aside, I was doing well. I got a load of laundry in the washer and the clothes from the washer on the line, made a few calls and got outta the house by 9:00. The DH had taken Mister A and Mister B to the playground, so knew they were safe and happy. I stopped at Bank One, then at Bank Two and then went to the consignment shop. That’s where it all went down.

I entered the shop carrying my wallet in one hand and two bags of clothes in the other. I put the wallet and the bags on the counter and started discussing the clothes with the female there. She said she’d give me two dollars per outfit. Hellooo? I pointed out that these outfits cost, on average, $75 each new. She looked a bit taken aback. Now, just so y’all aren’t taken aback, or a front, or any which way, I got the clothes for about $20 each on eBay. I’m not a complete sap. Anyway, I said, and this might have been a tactical error, “I guess I’ll take these things to a shop in Old Saybrook, or somewhere more snooty. Ha ha.” I really said the words “Ha ha” to let her know I was get a-foolin’, and she smiled back, but now I think she was not amused.

I got into my paid-off car and went to T.J.’s. I parked and reached over on the car seat for my little red wallet, but...it wasn’t there. I knew what had happened; I had left it in the consignment shop! I called them up right away. I had the number in my cell phone because I had called as I was driving over to check what time they opened.

Me: (all friendly) Hi! I was just there with some children’s clothes and I left my wallet on your counter!

Woman on phone: (sounding unimpressed) Oh, let me look, Honey. (Pause of two seconds) Nope, no wallet here.

Me: Thanks.

I zoomed back anyway, all the while praying to St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things, to help me find what is missing, Nel nome del Padre e del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo, Amen.

I zipped into the store and saw the same three women were there, helping a few customers. I asked and asked and looked around, but no one saw a thing; so they said. Now, just so you know, I had called between 10 and 12 minutes after I left the store, all my errands were in the same neighborhood, and I got back to the shop about 20 minutes after I had first left. What can happen in 12 minutes? Two situations come to mind. One: the wallet fell on the floor, and, due to the plushness of the carpet, I did not hear it drop. (That’s sarcasm by the by. It’s a cheesy shop and the threadbare carpet wouldn’t muffle the footfalls of an ant.) A customer, who came in after I had departed and left before I made the call, saw it and scooped it up. Situation two: The woman who was manning the counter saw me leave it there and either didn’t notice at first, or didn’t like my snooty remark and didn’t tell me it had left it behind. Then, once I was gone, she took it. Shehad a look inside, saw it was a Coach wallet, full of cash, I had just closed a bank account remember, saw my big ole birthday check from Mumsie, saw the gold Amex and decided to teach the snooty be-atch with her fancy clothes a lesson.

Naturally, I would like the think the former, but the latter situation is somehow more plausible. A friend, to whom I related my take of woe, told me of a study performed by his alma mater. The study was a test of basic human honesty/decency. A wallet, full o’ cash money and some ID, was left in a public place. A hidden camera recorded what people did upon the discovery of the wallet. About 70 percent picked it up, took a peek and took off. Only a small percentage of the people tried to return it at all, a slightly larger percentage took the money and returned the ID.

Hmmm. I tend to believe in the basic greediness of my fellow man, so I have no expectation of anything being returned. However, membership does have its privileges! Did you know that Amex not only got me a new card, Fed Ex’ed overnight, but they also called my Master Card, Nordstrom and Discover for me? AND, the best of all, they faxed the DMV to get me a new driver’s license! I love Amex, I really do. If that weren’t good enough, later I discovered I had tidied up the wallet, and had taken my childrens’ pictures and the gift cards for B and N out and put them into the pocket of my handbag. I was relieved not to have lost my photographs, let me tell you!

This was also an interesting robbery from a historical perspective. Many years ago, when I was mightily insecure and not yet convinced of my worth as a human being, I used to date this freakin’ scumbag, who totally brainwashed me into thinking I was unable to live without him. Or get dressed without him, or speak without him, or get a haircut without him, you get the idea. Anyway, this troll, who shall go by the alias Tommy Rodriguez, used to also get me to pay for all the grocery shopping. One time, as I was getting all the shopping bags into the car, I put my wallet on the car roof. Yep, you guessed it, I was so busy thinking of this that and t’other, and so busy being insecure, I drove off. By the time I realized it, it was almost half an hour later and the wallet was definitely gone; I lived in the big city at the time. I was VERY upset, because it was not only a wallet, but also a Filofax, with all my addresses and some photos and my lovely lapis lazuli Waterman pen clipped on the side. I actually cried. As my chips were down, this freakin’ slimeball had the nerve to say, “Oh, mi amor, are you going to leave one of our children in the parking lot too?”

I was THIS close to smacking him, lemme tell you.

The DH, man of my dreams, could not have been a bigger contrast. I called him and told him I had been robbed, but it was a little bit of my fault and so on and so forth. He said to come meet him, because he knew how much I wanted to keep my hair appointment and lunch date. I hooked up with him, and the boys, at his parent’s house. He gave me a hug and a kiss, told me how much it sucks to lose a wallet, handed me his spare credit card. Then he took all the cash he had, without counting it, and handed it all over. (Wow. I think I'll get "robbed" again next week.)

What a man.

I met my lunch date, aka Preacher Mom, after I had had my hair restored to the felonious length I prefer, and told her the story. She was suitably sympathetic, and a bit surprised that I wasn’t more upset. I told her I was letting it go and that I felt I might have deserved it a bit and she was kind enough not to agree! I had to tell her, since she is a minister and all, about my cyclical prayer to Saint Anthony en route back to the shop, and what I said, in my head, as I left the shop.

En route to the shop: Dear Saint Anthony, please help me find what is lost, Amen. Dear Saint Anthony, please help me find what is lost, Amen. Dear Saint Anthony, please help me find what is lost, Amen...

En route from the shop: Well, F**k you, Saint Anthony.

I also reassured her that, yes, I did apologize to the saint, the poor guy.

A lesson "they" have yet to learn...

2005-06-08T13:26:00.000-04:00

I was at the playground the other day with my posse of three mothers and our five children, of assorted sizes and flavors. One of my twin-lets, Baby B, decided he wanted a Popsicle, and ever one to please, I let him have a luridly colored rocket pop. He wanted to hold it by himself, and, like many other twenty-month-old toddlers, he made a right royal mess of himself. I wasn’t particularly bothered by the red, blue and green slobber ornamenting the front of his white tee shirt. I have finally learned to let it go. Some other mothers in that park that day still need to learn that lesson.

Baby B is an independent, social creature, so he went over to another child, to chat and make friends. This other child was about six or seven months old and seemed happy to meet him; but the child’s mother was absolutely not.

I could see trouble was brewing; mother and baby were sitting prettily on a pale blue blanket; the baby was dressed in a madras romper (immaculate) and the mother was in beige shorts and a white shirt (spotless). Here comes my Baby B, full of bounce and go and coated with Popsicle drippings and sand. I let him "visit", as they say down South, for a few minutes, and then went over.

Me: Hi! I guess I had better get my little one! Your baby is sweet; is he your first?
Mother: (with a look of eww-what-a-gross-dirty-toddler on her face): Yes, he is and yes, I think you had better take yours away.

Me: (inside my head): Ok, Be-atch. I know my toddler is a bit sticky, and your baby is neat and tidy, but as soon as that baby of yours starts to walk/eat/be a more of a person and less of an inanimate life form, you will know why I am out in public with a dirty, messy baby, yo!

Me: (in reality): Hee hee, come on Baby B! Say bye!

It’s funny how I could have said x, y and z! I had such an opportunity of making a point. I could have taught her a valuable lesson; namely, don’t give other mothers that holier than thou look when you are not in the same place! I know! Because the universe will bite you in the butt, as sure as toddlers toddle. The more you feel and act above it all, the more of a come-uppance you will get, my dear! That’s just the way it goes.

I had a chance that I might have taken six months ago and totally would have taken a year ago. But I have softened with age, and showed such restraint! Being 36 is really wonderful – maturity comes so naturally now! But don’t fret, my friends; I’ll still post the what-I-really-meant-to-say inter-loquations on my blog. You know, in private for the whole wide web to see. Yo!

Happy Birthday!

2005-06-03T12:36:00.000-04:00

Or not really, but it was a nice day.

Yesterday I hit the big 36, and woke up feeling a bit unwell, with a nasty hoarse voice. The babies were a bit worse; Baby A threw up his breakfast and Baby B had the kind of diarrhea that no diaper created can contain. I changed the bed, changed the babies and changed myself, put everything in the washer, and Baby A threw up again. I didn’t analyze it too much, I went with the gut, and called up my favorite knight in blue dress pants and button down shirt. (Shining armor is no longer de rigueur, thanks to the advent of business casual.) The DH came home lickety split, like the good man he is.

He took one baby out with him to get some bananas and some bread, to fill in the gaps in our pantry. (You know, the BRAT diet – Bananas, Rice, Applesauce and Toast. It’s perfect for an upset tummy baby, all parents agree.) I went back to bed for an hour with Mister Vomit Baby and woke up feeling better. I got the laundry on the line, had a little cereal and the baby woke up when the DH came home.

Then our nice day began; we spent the rest of the day putting in some bedding plants, snacking on bananas and drinking a lot of water and really, really watered down juice. The boys were very happy to have their Daddy home, and, man! An extra set of arms is really useful! Everyone took an afternoon nap, and I felt well enough to go the gym in the evening.

So, it wasn’t a bad day, it wasn’t a fab-o day, but I did have a nice day. I also got a bouquet of flowers, two cards and some sweet phone messages, one of which is worth saving. That Preacher Mom has a lovely singing voice, and her dogs barking in the background added immeasurably to the song.

Happy BARK day to you…

Sympathy and Compassion

2005-05-31T18:12:00.000-04:00

In the comments attached to the last post, Preacher Mom asked me if taking allergy medications by mistake and suffering the fuzzy headed, drowsy, what’s-going-on effects of the drugs made me more sympathetic to the DH's plight as an allergy-ridden person.

The question was: am I now a more sympathetic person?

Let me think about that….hmmm. I like to think that in situations where I recognize the suffering, I am as sympathetic as one can be. Suffering I have experienced, like new motherhood, new motherhood of twins, new motherhood of twins and breastfeeding them through a six week nipple infection, will bring out the giving spirit in me. So, now am I more sympathetic to those suffering allergies? Well, yes. The mental stagnation I felt those days on Zyrtek-D is not to be willingly repeated. But am I more sympathetic in general to suffering that I have not experienced? Well, no. Does that mean I am a selfish and bitchy person? At times, yes, but that’s what y’all like about me, right? Hah!

I will freely admit that whilst in the midst of suffering and being thick headed and sleepy and runny-nosey, I was not really aware that I was suffering from reverse allergies. Therefore, I was not really paying attention to how it felt to have allergies, not being swift enough to analyze the situation. It is just too ironic that the reason I was not able to think about how I felt as someone who suffers allergies is because the medication made me too wooly brained to think that deeply into the situation. How crazy.

Therefore, I must admit to you, my gentle readers, that now I am “allergy free” I am, in some ways, back to my previous state of mild impatience with those who sniff instead of reaching for a tissue. Part of it goes back to my childhood with a parent who sniff, sniff, sniffed all freakin' day long, and another part is just an aversion to boogers. However, you poor dears who get the headaches, the drowsiness, and the what-day/time/week-is-it stupidity that can, unfortunately, go with the allergy pill…you have my deepest sympathy.

I’m still not going to let you drive my car; that bottle does suggest avoiding heavy machinery. I’m sympathetic, not dumb.