A Super Idea

A friend of mine is thinking about getting a kitten for her 8-year-old son. She sent a mass email to everyone in her address book looking for anyone who knew of an impending litter. This got me thinking.

My first thought was, “A kitten? Why the hell does an 8-year old boy want a kitten? He should be asking for a dragon or a flamethrower or a swamp in the backyard!” A kitten? OK. Do I know of anyone about to have kittens? Real kittens, not the kind of metaphorical kittens I have when freaking out about something of no consequence. No, I don’t. But wait!

Both of the Beans are very vocal little creatures. They love the sounds of their own voices. One of the Beans in particular has consistently explored the furthest reaches of her vocal abilities and, in fact, frequently sounds considerably like a demented kitten herself. I thought, “Wouldn’t it be a good idea for this little boy to experience what a kittened life would be like first? We could put the Bean under his bed all night and he could see what it was like to listen to demented-kitten yowling all night for hours on end.” Granted, the Bean wears a diaper that has to be changed while a kitten doesn’t, but we could just leave Bean’s diaper off and she could make a mess on the kid’s floor or the kid’s bed or the kid’s pillow or wherever she happened to be, just like a kitten. And he could clean it up in the middle of the night, just like he’d have to do with a real kitten. Then, maybe he’d rethink the whole kitten thing.

Then I realized that I’m a pretty demented person for thinking such a thing.

Then I started thinking that maybe Friend could talk her son into TWO kittens. Then I could maybe get a decent night’s sleep and maybe wake up a little less demented myself.

The Conversation We Always Have When We Go Out

"Are they twins?"

"Yes."

"Both girls?"

"Uh-huh."

"Are they identical?"

"No, we have one blonde and one brunette,"

"Oh, wow! They don't look alike at all, do they?"

No, they don't. Aside from both being girls and sharing the same birthday they are as different as two babies can be. Different skin tone, hair color, physical build, facial structure-- they both have blue eyes but they're different blues. Bean One has dark, dark blue eyes while Two's eyes are more of a slate gray-blue. They're both incredibly beautiful in their own ways but they could have come from two different families. And strangers LOVE to compare and contrast them.

"Oh, wow, she smiles more. She's going to be the rock star and this one's going to be the scientist!"

Sigh. Little does this person know, the smiling future rock star Bean (who, I have to say, is usually more reserved- read: grumpier- than her sister) happened to have slept much more that day while her sister was awake all day, teething and in pain, yet she still manages a little smile for the stranger who is so mercilessly judging her as taciturn.

I bristle at this. Every time. My hackles go up and I resist the urge to bare my teeth and snarl. What should I do? Do I explain this entire situation of teething and sleep deprivation? Do I tell this person to quit being an inconsiderate prick? Do I tell him about how much I hate it when people pigeonhole my kids? Do I go off on a rant about how, if people would quit judging others based on a moment in time, the world might be a better place? No, I don't.

"We'll see. Everybody's gotta be something," with a smile, thinking that if I were to sum up this guy's character by just this moment, I'd come away thinking he was a monumental asshole. Just smile. Always smile. And walk on. Because the Beans will get this all throughout their lives. And the better I am at dealing with it now, the better I'll be able to teach them to do the same. I don't need to listen to the judgments of strangers and neither do my kids, who can be whatever they want to be! There are so many things that I'm going to HAVE to make my kids do: school, vegetables, chores, blahblahblah. But the one thing I must absolutely ensure is that when someone speaks to them in such a way, I expect nothing other than for them to politely respond with a resounding "UP YOURS!!!"

And, of course, they'll also have to keep the Craps to a minimum. :)

What Makeup Means

Yes, postings have come less frequently over the past two weeks. This is not for my lack of trying. What happens is this: Biscuit is at school, Hubby is out in his office, and the Beans fall asleep. I take the opportunity to shower and try to tidy up the house, make the beds, grab a bite to eat or another cup of coffee, stuff like that. Then I grab the computer and begin a new post. Then a Bean wakes up. I put down the computer, get to her, pop a binkie in her mouth and hold my breath. Sometimes she goes back to sleep. Sometimes not. Thus, sometimes I can post and other times, alas, I cannot. Sigh.

But today, I'm getting a babysitter. I took a shower early in the morning before taking Biscuit to school at the ungodly hour of 7:30 am, and I am wearing makeup. Did you catch that? MAKEUP! WOWZERS!!! Yes, it's the first day this year that I've even put on makeup. What's the occasion? I'm glad you asked. No, it isn't my birthday. Nope, it isn't our anniversary. No, I didn't win the lottery and I'm not accepting a prize for literary excellence in front of a mass of people. I'm not going out to lunch. I'm not going out to see a friend. I'm not going out shopping or getting my hair done or engaging in a public speaking event. I'm not going on a job interview. I'm not going to a party or popping into my old office to show off the girls or anything even remotely like that.

I'm going to a routine doctor's appointment and then to the bank to deposit a check. That's it. That's my big day. I'll be out for about ninety minutes and when I get home, that'll be all. My best friend in the world is coming over to handle the Beans and I get to leave the house in my cute clothes with my hair mostly done and makeup on my face and feel like a functioning member of society for an hour and a half. I can't believe how excited I am. It's almost a little sad, really.

This is one of those things that people who don't have twins rarely understand. I'm not complaining. I'd rather be Biscuit and the Beans' mom than anything else in the world. It's the most fun I've ever had. But anytime we go anywhere it's a huge production just to get out the door, and then the kids make such a splash with everyone who sees them that it takes twice as long to get anything done as it would take if I were flying solo.

I'm going to be a grown-up today for a few minutes. I hope I remember how. And now both Beans stir. Back to Mommyland until my brief respite!

The Saga Begins

The new house is great. We're close enough to walk almost everywhere-- the grocery store, Biscuit's school, Mimzi & Papa's, Biscuit's dad's house, the doctor's office, the park... the list goes on. And there is a lot I love about this place and few things I don't. But I've learned over the past few weeks that our home shelters more than just us-- it is also home to what has become one of the most foul of all my mortal enemies.

At first I thought it was just me. I thought that I was being overly sensitive and maybe seeing a problem where there wasn't one. Then it started happening more frequently. The laziness, the lack of motivation, the refusal to do what he's asked. Twice in ten minutes, three times in fifteen minutes-- it became more and more obvious as time passed. It was a cute a quirky thing to begin with but day after day, week after week, it's worn my nerves down to the point of raw, burning nakedness.

I can't sleep anymore. I lie awake at night fantasizing dark, evil atrocities of which I am the star offender against this loathsome beast. When I do sleep in short, interrupted bursts, I dream vividly of vanquishing the nastiness this monster has brought into our lives but then I wake to find that he's still there. Intransigent, monolithic, diabolical, he mocks me. I'll never be rid of him. We're players in a sick, twisted, dysfunctional comedy, he and I. We recite our lines and dance our carefully choreographed steps, sing our harsh, dissonant notes to each other and all the while I pretend he doesn't bother me while I'm secretly plotting his demise. I can't stop.

He never speaks to me but I know his name is Crane. He's supposed to save water and benefit the environment. He's supposed to be helping me preserve to environment for my children and the future generations beyond them. He's supposed to help me keep the utility bills low. But he's not doing his job-- he's there, squatting like a hideous toad in the hall bathroom driving me insane and one day, I'm going to destroy him.

Biscuit's Big Job

Kids say a lot of crazy things. Biscuit once told me he was afraid of 'grass knuckles'. He meant 'brass knuckles' of course but what was more disconcerting was how he was even aware of the existence of said object seeing as how he was only four or five years old.

We all had a very busy weekend, especially Biscuit. Saturday morning we loaded the Beans into the stroller and all of us trekked downtown to the Farmer's Market. All six of us, including the dog, who walked/ dragged Biscuit behind her for the first third of the trip. You know the kids you see on funny home video shows? That's how he looked. For about fifteen minutes. I think the experience was more entertaining for Hubby and me than it was fun for Biscuit but those are the benefits of being the parent.

Anyway, once we returned home from our outing we set Biscuit to work on his disaster of a room. He was not allowed to do ANYTHING until his room was totally done (read: organized and completely Craps-free). Fortunately for Biscuit, one of his buddies had offered to come over and help organize everything. It wasn't that his friend wanted to help out, he really wanted to hang out and have some fun and Biscuit had told him about the moratorium on fun of any kind until the room was clean. Now, Hubby and I were dubious as to whether this was a good idea. Biscuit and Buddy moving furniture, cleaning and organizing anything? But we figured that at this point, it was pretty much impossible to make the place any worse, so we decided to see what they could do.

To make a long story short, they knocked our socks off. Well, Buddy knocked our socks off. I was really scared when he came to me and asked where the vaccuum cleaner was. I panicked, thinking, "What broke? Is there glass involved?" I walked across the hall and into Biscuit's room and was struck speechless. Biscuit has not had a room so well-organized since before he could pull toys out of a box himself. Buddy had helped him put away everything and just get rid of a ton of Craps. He was only asking for the vaccuum so he could do that before they called it done. I practically cried.

I learned a lot about the kids this weekend. Obviously they're becoming more able and responsible for themselves. And that makes me really happy. I feel like I can really entrust Biscuit (at least when he's with Buddy) to take decent care of himself. And I also learned that the kids are probably going to say crazy stuff for the rest of their lives. Trust me, the craziest thing a mom can hear said to her son while he's unpacking and organizing his room is "Jeez, what's sticking out of your butt?"

My Great Internal Struggle

I really love getting a sweet deal on something. Who doesn't? Like the other day, I found jackets for the twins on sale for $4.99 each, regularly $19.99, from one of the pricier clothing stores. Such purchases make me very happy indeed, especially since, when it comes to baby clothing items I NEED to buy 2 at a time. But, I must admit to having occasionally purchased something I didn't really need when I bought it but I figured I'd use it sometime, so I picked it up because it was an irresistible deal. Sad, I know-- but I'm not alone! I can't be the only one who has a couple of boxes of home-pedicure kits and extra shower poofs, bottles of sparkly purple nail polish, a few tubes of flavored lip balm, a couple reserve dog collars and some cans of tennis balls (read: Craps) in the garage. I see inside other peoples' garages. I know you're out there, fellow Craps-hoarders. It's okay. I'm not judging you. Oh no. I identify with you completely. But I'm changing my life and soon, I'll post that all (or at least almost all) of the Craps are gone. Then, when other people see inside our garage, they'll wonder what's wrong with us.

Like how I sometimes wonder what is wrong with other people. Now, I have strong feelings about common courtesy. Some stuff is really obvious: hold the door open for people who are leaving right behind you, stop the car to let kids cross the street, stuff like that. Maybe I'm old-fashioned or just have a big stick up my butt. Don't get me wrong- I understand that occasionally circumstances prohibit people from extending the hand of courtesy. For example, if one of my children were bleeding profusely from the head or found his or herself suddenly missing a digit or a limb and Hubby was driving us to the hospital, I would be exceedingly peeved if he did anything other than mowing over anything and anybody who unfortunately found itself in our way. Sorry, but it's the truth. However, such instances rarely occur in our household which in itself is remarkably fortunate since we live with an accident-prone Biscuit. Therefore, we are pretty considerate people for the most part (someday I'll tell you about our former next-door neighbors and why, after we were in our house for about four days, I was NEVER compelled to do ANYTHING remotely nice for them).

Anyway, it seems as though my love of getting great deals and passion for common courtesy will never peacefully coexist within me. They will never allow me to thoroughly enjoy the experience of both sensations simultaneously, as I learned yet again yesterday. I can only have one or the other, and I guess I'm going to have to either accept this as fact or choose between them. Sigh. What happened was this: Mom (Mimzi) and I took the Beans to one of those big stores where great deals abound in copious quantities (read: big seller of Craps). Now recently, I've been very good (that's my opinion- I suspect Hubby may believe otherwise but this isn't his blog so I can paint reality according to how I want it to be) about not bringing home more Craps. After all, that would be counterproductive. At Christmastime, I did NOT buy a watch at Costco that was not only a steal at $35, it was supercute to boot. Look at that! I digress yet again... It's because what happened shocked me to my core.

You see, I'm the peacemaker in the family. I'm the last one to pick a fight and the first one to try to make everything nice between everyone. I'm the comic relief, the pacifist, the sunshine. But yesterday, I broke. Wow, what a buildup. OK, so, getting to the point...

To get to the entrance of the store, Mimzi and I had to navigate both the Beans' limo (a gargantuan, tandem double stroller which is incredibly unwieldy) and a shopping cart with a couple of items to return (read: Craps which Hubby wisely vetoed when I brought them into the house-- sometimes I still can't help it!) along a sidewalk through an obstacle course of trash and bright red shopping carts. Talk about frustrating! I had purposely parked close to a cart return area because one of the items (Craps) to return was an area rug and there was no way I could carry it all the way into the store. I couldn't believe the number of shopping carts strewn throughout the parking lot. It was as if a bunch of mischievous Titans had played a cosmic game of marbles with them, scattering them across the far reaches of the parking-lot/ galaxy. Really. The thing I didn't get was that there were three cart return shelters that I could see from where I stood. Three. And they were all very close. It wasn't as though one would have to trek across a desert of parking lot to put a cart where it belonged. Whatever.

Mimzi and I made it into the store with our Beans and our Craps and exited with stuff we needed, like laundry detergent, socks and bibs. Boring, but useful. Along the journey out to the car, a couple following behind us noticed the twins. "Wow, I bet that's a lot of work. That's pro'lly why she's so skinny," I heard the woman say. That stuff gets said pretty frequently and since we were pushing it schedule-wise, and since she didn't bother to really talk to me, rather, she just spoke to her guyfriend or the air or her imaginary friend (don't know, don't care), I didn't bother to answer. Mimzi and I arrived at the Durango and she stayed on the sidewalk with the Beans while I opened it up and wrangled the Beans and our sacks of new Craps inside. The couple took their time getting into their truck, which was a beautiful, brand-new, midnight-blue GMC quad cab. It was so new it still had the paper dealer plates on it. This couple only had a couple small bags of Craps themselves, but they certainly had numerous extra pounds of flesh on both of their bodies. Which I'm not saying is a terrible thing. People's lifestyle choices are entirely their own business. All I'm saying is that a little bit of walking would have probably done them some good.

Anyhow, they took their sweet time getting themselves into their gorgeous new truck, never engaging me in conversation, but commenting all the while on the difficulties I was having hoisting the Bean-laden carseats up into the backseat of the SUV, folding the stroller and loading it and our other stuff into the cargo area, and returning the cart to the shelter. In the time it took me to do this (and I don't amble or meander, mind you-- after all, we have lots of things to do) they dumped their shopping cart off of the sidewalk and into the parking lot, loaded the backseat of their truck, climbed in and started the engine. I was walking briskly back to the Durango, which was facing them dead-on and I surveyed this situation with what had to be obvious disgust on my face. Now, I'm sorry to keep digressing, but I must make the important point here, since you don't know me, that I do not EVER expect anyone to go out of his way to make my world an easier place to live. But we have to go back to the common courtesy thing here. How friggin' difficult is it to walk a shopping cart to the shelter so that other people don't have to accomodate the inconvenience of driving or walking or pushing a Bean limo and another heavy shopping cart AROUND it?!? These people just pushed the thing for miles and miles inside the store in pursuit of their coveted Craps and now they can't go the extra ten of fifteen steps to put it back where it belongs? They laugh and carry on about how much work I have on my hands, yet I still manage to put something I used back in its place whereas they can't be bothered to do so-- wouldn't they be incredibly pissed off if they were to pull their pretty new truck into a parking space and hit a shopping cart that wasn't supposed to be there?

All of these words were spewing from my mouth on the brief walk back to the Durango. I was irritated beyond belief. What's wrong with these guys?!?!?! I strode across the sidewalk, yanked the cart back up onto the sidewalk and pushed it across the aisle to the shelter, talking all the way- not shouting, but projecting my voice loudly enough that I'm sure they could hear me. On the way back I counted my steps off on my fingers, one through ten. I arrived at the Durango's driver's side door and held my fingers so they could see through the windshield. And they were watching, believe me. Watching slack-jawed at this crazy, skinny, irate little woman who was holding up all ten of her fingers and undeniably waving said digits in their direction, crying fervently, passionately, "Ten. Ten steps. You can't walk ten steps? Shame on you!" and making that motion we all learned in kindergarten forever ago, scraping one index finger over the other. And with that I climbed into the Durango, feeling a little guilty about just having yelled at someone I didn't even know for an infraction of a nonexistent rule but dammit, they didn't need to ADD to the problem! And then I decided that I really needed to get something to eat because I was getting REALLY cranky. So I took my Beans, my Mimzi and my new Craps and went home, no longer a pacifist but an activist, a soldier, a crusader in the war against public discourtesy. A battle-weary crusader seriously in need of a snack yet still triumphant--the baby socks had been found on sale.

Damn the Plunging Dollar!

I'm a horrible proofreader. Really, I shouldn't even allow myself that title because I'm so thoroughly embarrassed about publishing a post with judgment misspelled "judgement" in that last one. Yikes! I must fall back on the old standby excuse of pregnancy brain. That and the old PPD have certainly given me a run for my money this time around. Therefore, my official and profuse apologies go out to all the militant grammarians and sensitive spellers whom I've offended. At least you got me on a repentant day. Most other days you would have gotten nothing more than a "Huh! Up yours!" Moving on, though...

This morning, a lovely lady came by our house to check it out and give me an estimate for a weekly cleaning. A house cleaner is an extravagance in which I never, ever thought I would indulge. Or so I thought BT (Before Twins).

Everything about our lives changed when we found out about the Beans. Anyone who's had kids will say the same. Anyone who's had twins will say the same twice, with double the circles and bags under her eyes. Don't get me wrong! I'm not complaining that I have kids. I know tons of people would kill for the family we have. But oh, my GOD, families make a lot of messes.

At our other house, a friend of mine, who owns a residential and commercial cleaning company, helped us out by sending her girls over to clean our house for her cost. In other words, from the time the Beans were six weeks old, we paid $30-$50 per week for our house to shine top to bottom and I never had to worry about it. I cooked, did dishes and laundry and everything else magically took care of itself once a week. And, I know I had a swingin' sweet deal. Alas, it looks like that is no longer to be.

I really liked the gal who came over. She sounded so nice on the phone. She was sweet to the Beans and to my mom, who was over for the morning and lunch. She had such a nice smile and seemed really good-natured. Then she gave me her quote and I decided that she really wasn't that great. Honestly? Really? Is that in US dollars? I mean I know the dollar is dropping, but you gotta be kidding me! It isn't like I'm asking her to milk snakes' venom or scrub Hubby's underwear or juggle flaming chainsaws in the nude on the roof. I'm going to have to shop around and that's going to suck. Allow me to illustrate just how sucky said suckiness shall be.

I'm Super-Duper -Ducky-Lucky to belong to a local Mothers of Twins Club. It's pretty fantastic, I must say. No matter what comes up, if it has anything to do with kids someone has been there, done that, so I almost always have an answer before I even ask the question. Now, I'm a pretty decent problem-solver on my own and haven't had to run to the group too often. Once, though, I had a smell that I just couldn't handle on my own. Here was what I posed to the group:

While I'm here and the girls are napping, I have another question. One of my awesome girlfriends gave me her daughter's highchair, which was wonderful and i love her for it. However, when I was cleaning it up to get ready for my girls to use, it has a FUNKY smell in the seat cushion that I can't get out. It has a leatherette cushion and the part that's stinky is the fabric sewn around the passive restraint hole. Ordinarily, a little stinkiness is not a problem but I can't begin to describe how truly fetid the odor is that's emanating from this thing. It made my 12-year-old son gag and he's a tad hygiene-deficient himself every now and then, to put it nicely. The thought of one of my darling little girls' bum smelling like this (even with as stinky as they get themselves) gives me the howling fantods. I've tried all the old stand-bys and still it stinks. It's black vinyl, so i don't think i can go with bleach and i'd rather not buy another cushion for practically the price of a new high chair. Any suggestions? Let me hit it with your best shot. Thanks in advance!

Now, this is an extremely well-experienced group of moms and you probably wouldn't believe the sheer numbers of responses I got, let alone the details of how to remove the smell and the moms' individual retellings of their own stinky experiences. I tried everything. Nothing I did got the frickin' stink out of that cushion. And yet right at this moment Bean Two sits in it, coincidentally, pooping. Does it still stink? Well, at the moment, yes. But once Bean Two's poopy keester is removed from it, no, it won't. Why? Why, you ask? Because one of my incredibly fantastic cleaning ladies got the stink out. How? I have no idea! All I know is that I mentioned something to her about how I was going to have Hubby tack it to the back fence and powerwash the hell out of it and by the time she left the thing went from stinking like a mixture of Hubby's undies, my feet, Biscuit's hat-head, and some super-nasty puked-up cheese left out in the sun on a polluted beach to smelling really rather minty fresh. I think of it fondly as my cleaning lady's Christmas miracle to me.

So, what I'm trying to say is that I'll really miss those girls and no matter how greatly I appreciated then, it could never have been enough. And that's that. I have poopy pants to change now. Au revoir!

Finally! Moved...

When we were in college, I helped Hubby (then Boyfriend) to move twice. It was not fun. Both times there were hills and stairs involved which inevitably led to bruises, aching bodies and broken stuff. I thought those moves were the worst ever. I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

We were only in our last house for two and a half years and moving in really wasn't that bad. And I don't think that I just don't remember how bad it was. Really, though, when is moving NOT bad? So, of course, I mean that it was COMPARATIVELY not bad, considering that the loan didn't fund on time (which is another post entirely) so we had to move twice-- first to a storage unit while staying with my parents for a week, then into the new house. But even then we were getting our own house, our own little piece of the American dream. Oh, it was so easy and fun to be romantic back then.

The worst part about moving is, I've determined, the Craps. In no way, shape or form can I be romantic about Craps. In fact, Craps suck all the romance and even, sometimes, the amity out of my marriage to darling Hubby. Because moving is the time when one truly realizes that his or, in my case, her, life has become completely overrun by Craps. I don't mean crap in the generic "stuff I don't really need but keep around for no logical reason". I mean Craps, that dark universal force, that evil, living, undulating entity that at first seemingly innocuously, then insidiously, takes over one's life.

Allow me to grab my stick and draw a crude pictogram in the mud. When we moved into our last place (the home from which we just moved) we moved from a partially furnished 3-bedroom home, so when we arrived it was with three beds, two offices, a kitchen, one sofa, and a ton of miscellaneous Craps which lived their lives undisturbed in the garage for pretty much the entire time. Moving out, we had accumulated furniture to fill the nursery, dining room, living room, family room, and our gargantuan bedroom and bathroom. We also, along the way, managed to hang onto a ton of new Craps. We had ten boxes worth of Craps in the bathroom alone. I look at those boxes, only half of which are stacked in my bathroom now, since it is smaller than my closet at the old place, and I wonder what the hell is in there. Really, what is it? I don't know! I don't know HOW we could have accumulated so much stuff and not have any idea what it is. I'm surviving perfectly well without it so I'm considering just chucking it. Doesn't that sound liberating? Just throw it out!!! Throw out the Craps!!! It's probably just all containers with a little bit of soap, toothpaste, shampoo or hair products left in the bottom. The kind of stuff that I go to throw away and a little voice tells me not to be wasteful so I reluctantly return it to the medicine cabinet, or under the sink, or in a drawer. Do you know what that is? That's the Craps talking. And next time we go to move (which is hopefully never again, or maybe just one more time and then never again), viola! A ton of new Craps! Well, not new Craps, but a ton of Craps that's less old than the previous ton of Craps. Sigh. I hate Craps. I want them to die, but I think they might want to kill me more. I think maybe that's how I'll go-- drowning in tons and tons and tons of Craps.

Forgetting about Craps for a moment, The Beans and Biscuit have fared VERY well with the move. Note that I'm not even throwing the "all things considered" caveat in there. Biscuit's room is, of course, a disaster but then, he is 12 and has been at his dad's this week. When he has been here, he's been really excited to play with the stuff he's rediscovered. Of course! Biscuit is easily distracted by bright, shiny objects (read: Craps). They seem to send him into a sort of fugue-like state in which all the world apart from said bright, shiny object no longer exists, time stops and he's in his own little happy-land. Not that I'm one to criticize, seeing as how I'm here behind my desk in the family room, typing away, happily (and selectively) oblivious to the fact that I'm still mired in tons of boxed Craps patiently awaiting my judgement. What will it be for you, boxes of Craps? Will you survive the Great Craps Purge of '08? Probably not. But you can hope. I'm cruel like that. And I want to be cruel to these Craps. Oh so very cruel. Maybe my procrastinative nature will earn you a brief respite to the garage, Craps. Enjoy it, Craps-- your days are numbered. What's that? I might be able to use a pound of hot-glue sticks? I'll surely find use for four packages of unscented tealights? Five-year-old bubblebath might still be usable? Up yours, Craps!