When A Righty Writes A Left-Handed Apology...

Not long ago I read an article about why men cheat on their wives. I wasn't doing any research or anything but there are some sleepless nights when I think I get pretty close to the end of the Internet and the pickings get kinda slim. Anyway, one of the reasons provided by one of the interviewees (I think the name the author provided to protect the interviewee's identity was "Jeff") was that he felt like he could never win in any situation with his wife. Hmmmm, I remember thinking. That sounds kind of familiar...

Last post aside, Hubby's pretty terrific. Well, taking away the last post and the fact that I still can't print ANYTHING from my computer EVER. Someone could have a gun to my head and say, "Print me that page or it's your life," and I'd have to reply, "Can we please step out to Hubby's office right after I save this as a Word document and email it to myself so I can access it from his desk? It'll be just a moment," KABLAM! Too late-- I'm dead.

Actually-- wait, the last post, no printer and all the dead-slash-flickering lightbulbs in the house and garage aside. Oh, and the shoes that are still everywhere. See? See how easy it is? There are all these little things I live in each and every single day while he's at work that just nudge and prod at me all the time and suddenly my world (and therefore everyone else's) is all about the things that irk me.


But the deal is this: I don't want that life and I don't want to be that person because that shoe (just like all the others in the house) could just as easily be on the other foot-- and it probably is.

For example, this morning Biscuit totally overslept. All week he's been getting up and ready and making me look REALLY bad rolling out of bed, throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt and driving him to school. I blundered blearily into his room this morning at T-minus eleven minutes to blast-off and we got him to school just as the bell was ringing and I badgered him all the way to the parking lot. He flopped out of the Starship Margaret with a "Sorry Mom, hope you have a good day," and off he went and I felt absolutely terrible. I'd just spent a solid eight minutes telling this kid that he needed to figure out how to better manage his time in the mornings, that eleven minutes means eleven minutes, not eighteen minutes and that when there are only eleven minutes we do not spent three of them on the edge of the bed deciding to wake up.

On the way home I realized that some stuff doesn't matter nearly as much as I let it. Yes, Biscuit needs to get to school on time, but harping on him to do things more this way and less that way is really no help at all and it only puts me in a foul mood which I then pass on to the rest of the house.

So I shut up.

And I chilled out.

And do you hear that?

It's the sound of the world still spinning. Nothing fell apart today because I didn't worry about it enough. Biscuit and I stopped at the park on the way home from school today and let the Beans run around for a while. They even put leaves in their mouths. Neither one choked and died and although it's only been eight hours since said leaves touched their sweet little mouths, aside from some nasty teething pain they don't seem to have contracted anything fatal.

In fact, all my kids seemed to have fun today.

But the biggest surprise happened tonight as Hubby and I were prepping the Beans for night-night. Having had their flu shots yesterday and only one Happy Nappy today (more on that later) and the extra playtime at the park, they were in Supreme Meltdown beginning at about 5:45-- writhing, screaming, kicking, pulling hair, attempting to remove nostrils, tear off cheeks and exsanguinate anyone within arms' reach. I literally had to stay in their room with them to keep them apart. But that was what we had to work with today, so no big deal!

"Thanks for keeping your cool today. It was really nice when everything got crazy that you just stayed calm." That's what Hubby had to say about things.

Ordinarily I enjoy receiving compliments but this one was a little tart 'n tangy. I know I've not been nearly as cool as I used to be and I haven't stopped to consider how much Hubby might miss that. I know I do, so he probably does too. That's not to say that I think Hubby's going to run out and find someone else who is more awesome than I (because we all know that's just plain impossible) but our little exchange brought into sharp focus how daily stresses-- the ones we're too busy to notice because our partner is just not doing enough and we have to work that much harder to pick up the slack which in turn creates a few more of those daily stresses-- become the focus of the relationship and how is that ever going to be anything good?

Hubby would say, "Look, I'm doing you a favor. All the things you're harping on and on about-- the printer, the lightbulbs, the shoes? It's all for you. You worry about the dude holding the gun to your head to get you to print something but I've already got that all taken care of. He puts the gun to your head and then you run. He can't see you well enough to hit you because the lighting's too dim. He can chase after you but he'll trip over the shoes and you can escape. See? All that and you didn't even have to print anything for him, which had you sat there and just done what he said he probably would have killed you anyway. I'm such a great guy! I'm saving your life every day!!!" And then I would laugh and everything would be okay. But life would have been much more enjoyable without all the dizzying dips and dives of the Hormonal Post-Partum Roller Coaster and all the whirlwindy mood swings that oddly magnify myriad stupid little nothings.

Because maybe what drives couples apart, especially when they toss so many kids into the mix, isn't the feeling that neither one can ever win but even just the sentiment that they are on opposing sides against each other. The last time I checked Hubby and I were supposed to be a team whose objective was to dominate the younger team which has us rather outnumbered and it was a feat accomplished much more easily today when one of us wasn't waiting for the other to screw up or freak out.

I'm looking forward to fewer bite marks. Yes, we still have a while to go before we're all the way through with that phase but at least now I won't get blindsided by a Bloodthirsty Bean while looking over my shoulder to shake my head at what Hubby's doing or not doing because winning an argument simply isn't worth our happiness.

Besides, if I did look the other way I'd probably just trip over his goddam shoes ;)

Cry For Help

One of the biggest obstacles to overcome as a stay-at-home / work-part-time-from-home / blog-whenever-possible mom is the overwhelming housework.

Guess what? I've been fighting the same migrating mess for an entire week now. Actually, it's probably been longer than that but if I were able to recall further back than a week I'd be dead because the whole miserable depressing picture would be too much to bear. And thinking about it would take too long when I have other things to do-- like clean.

I am asking nicely and for the last time for the two other fully-ambulatory, fully-articulate members of the household to please put their dirty dishes in the deeshwasherator, put clothing and shoes someplace other than the floorspace in which they're standing when they remove them, and wipe up stuff when it spills. Please STOP assuming that just because there's already crap on the counter / floor / sink that it's okay for you to add to the mess and assume that the maid will get it. The maid is about to shank you.

See, in our house, messes are like a day at the beach. Going there seems like such a great idea-- as in, "Hey, I'm going to go clean up that mess (pile of laundry that I need to fold / sinkful of dirty dishes to wash / piles of Craps on the dining room table) so I don't have to worry about it anymore. I don't really want to do it, but I don't want the mess either." But then you get there and the sand burns your feet, somebody next to you is smoking the smelliest cigar ever, the water is freezing and it totally beats you up, and you arrive home with sand in your car, hair, and all of your cracks.

But I'm fearless (and a little reckless and stupid) so off I go. On the way, something else catches my eye-- a dirty baseboard, perhaps. That means I need to clean the floor, too. Well, I should dust before I do the floors but before I do that, I have to get to the laundry. Well, if I'm going to do the laundry then I might as well wait to fold this pile because then I can knock it all out at once when the next load comes out of the dryer, right? So start a load of laundry and get to the dishes but make sure the Beans are going down for a nap and not just faking me out because they pooped in their pants and don't want me to notice. While I sniff around their door and wait for them to fall asleep, I'll do something quiet, like clear off the table. But wait, I can't do that because that involves walking up and down the hall to put away stuff-- so here's what I'll do: I'll organize all the Craps (which I should just throw away because that's their eventual fate anyway) into piles for each person to put away himself because those Craps belong to him, not me.

OK, so while organizing the Craps the Beans finally fall asleep. I can then start on the dishes and while doing the dishes, the bell on the dryer dings. Well, I have to get that done so I can turn over the laundry and start another load, so bring in the clothes from the dryer and note with dismay how insurmountably large the piles on the sofa and the recliner have grown and return to the dishes so we have clean stuff to eat our meals today. I look out the window and, surprisingly, notice there's still no line of people eagerly waiting to take on my job. Do I hear a Bean? Dry my hands off, run in and return a Binkie to a Beanmaw and return to the kitchen.

Did I hear my phone ringing? Oh yes, it's a work issue requiring immediate attention. Place a phone call and leave a message, then return to the dishes. Wash wash wash. Was that the phone again? Yes. I missed the return call. Call back and speak with the person. Resolve the issue and run over to the computer and compose and email notifying all parties of the situation's resolution. Yay! What's this? Oh, a Facebook message. Wow! Lots of other messages!

Reply to all that require attention and return to the dishes. Start the deeshwasherator. Start on the mountain of clothes. The dryer dings again. Turn over the laundry and the Beans start calling for me. Walk back to their room and note on the way that the Craps are still on the dining room table, the dishes that didn't fit into the deeshwasherator are still in the sink, and the pile of clothes all over the place has merely grown and I didn't even have time to consider the floors. By the end of the day, Hubby and Biscuit have dropped more Craps on the table, more dishes in the sink and shed their clothes into new piles on the floors.

I don't know the solution. I've considered forsaking my blog and my Pilates class and afternoon walks to pick up Biscuit from school but if I were in this situation and had no physical or creative outlet I'd find myself not only living in squalor but also fat, miserable and psychotic and considering how close I feel to all of that right now (because I seriously have not washed my hair since Friday) those things cannot give. It's going to have to be something else.

Seriously guys, I'm gonna shank you. And sadly, the knife is probably going to be dirty.

A Beans' Rite of Passage

Sometimes while gazing rapturously upon my Beans (generally this only happens when they're sleeping) all I can see is Hubby. Although they look hardly anything alike I see so much of him in them that sometimes, I admit, I feel a little diminished-- as though my genetic contribution didn't really show up in the end results. Occasionally though, one or the other will do something that smacks of Mommy, like Parki tickling herself (guilty) or Pipsi shoving a huge handful of something into her mouth (guilty again) and I'll feel a bubbly happiness in my heart at the unexpected bond I feel with that Bean. On Wednesday it felt so good I almost cried.


The Beans are finally walking around consistently well enough for them to wear real shoes. Being both a preparedness freak and a tightwad, I've already bought several barely-worn pairs from a couple other twin moms, however, I realized when I *tried* to put them on the Beans' feet last week that my plan was not going to work out as I'd hoped. In fact, it wasn't going to work out at all.


A quick count reveals no fewer than eight pairs of ridiculously cute, fashionable, girly shoes in our house between sizes 5 and 6 1/2, most of them either matching or coordinating (with another pair, not between themselves of course). Now that it's time for the Beans to wear them, neither one can wear any of them. Sigh. I was so disappointed that all my preparation was for naught. "They're twins," I had thought. "How much difference could there be between their feet sizes?" I had reasoned while buying all those lovely shoes that will now languish in the closet. But I'm also an optimist by nature and never, ever have I been a woman disappointed at the prospect of the opportunity that now presented itself:


SHOE SHOPPING!!!!


From the moment we discovered the hint of ladybits in the ultrasound (well, a little while after that actually, because discovering their genders made the entire "twins" thing suddenly terrifyingly real but that's another post entitled, "Oh My God, This Is Really Happening!") I had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of shoe-shopping companions. Shoe shopping is fun no matter who's getting new shoes. I like shoe shopping for Biscuit, and I've done it for pretty much everyone in my life, even DPSM and Uncle Mac. I'll even shoe shop for nobody at all because just the smell of new shoes is beautiful. But shoe shopping for little girls with all the cute, sparkly, shiny, pinkness and all the lights and glitter and happy butterflies and flowers that adorn the sweet little articles that will encase four of the cutest, softest, squooshiest little feet on the planet? I finally realized that this was why I'd spent so many countless hours of my adult life honing my super shopping skills to the finest possible point! That's the reason why when we arrived home from the "They're girls!" ultrasound that Hubby plopped his wallet on the counter next to me, mumbled, "I give up," and shuffled out to his office in the garage, shoulders slumped in defeat. I told you, he's a smart guy.


Anyhoo, as you know we have a Sasquatch and a ballerina as far as feet go. After feeling absolutely terrible about trying to stuff Pipsi's feet into anything besides Robeez (imagine trying to squeeze a kielbasa into a Coke bottle-- not a pretty thought, is it?) and searching fruitlessly online (do I buy four in different sizes and return three? or all of them if they don't fit? what do I do???) I decided this was one item to purchase at a real honest-to-goodness store, consult with a professional and, if necessary, pay full price.


So that's what Mimzi and I did yesterday. We loaded the Beans, Big Red and all their travel paraphernalia into the Starship Margaret and headed off to World of Shoes. We arrived and the Beans squealed in delight at the acres of shoes within their tight-fisted grasps while I felt that bonding feeling bubbling up inside of me. An employee asked if she could help us and I claimed her as our own for the duration of our stay. We did Pipsi first because she was squirmier and because Parki usually ends up going first.


"I think she's going to need something wide," I commented, disentangling her and Stick Fish from the stroller's straps and holding her, legs dangling, thrashing and kicking, above the obligatory professional shoe-store foot-measuring-fortune-telling device. Pipsi plopped one big beefy foot on it and stomped on it a couple of times for good measure (pun intended-- sorry, I can't help it!) before we were able to get her to shift her weight onto that one foot for an accurate assessment.


"Wow, definitely a Wide," Nice Salesgirl commented. "How old is she? They? Are they twins?"


"Yep, almost fourteen months. And their feet are completely different," I responded, feeling bad for my pretty little Pipsi. No woman at any point in her life needs to have a "Wide" label applied to any part of her body. Ever.


"Okay, well she's right at a five-and-a-half, so let's try a six, and like I said definitely a Wide," declared Nice Salesgirl, oblivious to my wince.


Now, it just so happens that this shoe store (which, coincidentally has been the same exact store in the same exact place since probably before I was the Beans' age because I can remember my parents taking me there many, many times for shoes growing up) came highly recommended by several moms in the MoMs club-- fellow moms of wide-footed whippersnappers. It must be the case that all parents of wide-footed kids shop here because in all the styles we considered (the ones with soles flexible enough for the Beans to actually walk rather than plod stiff-footed), there was only one pair of shoes that fit our little Pippers, but that was okay. One was all we needed.


Nice Salesgirl got the little pink-and-white Nikes on Pipsi's great big feet, suffering blows to her fingers, wrists and forearms without batting an eye, tied the laces and Pipsi was off to the races, stumbling at first, but then finding her rhythm, taking off and dragging Mimzi along behind her by the finger, giggling as she went. Pipsi was pleased.


Then came Parki's turn. After writhing around in Big Red and voicing her displeasure at being held captive against her will while Pipsi got to run around the Shoe Playground, we set Parki loose and she ran up to a little boy nearby. She stood there in her little white socks, eyeing his toy. He saw her encroaching and picked up his toy, clutching it to his chest and saying, "Nooooo."

Parki was undeterred.


"Hiyeeeee," she said, the last part coming out sounding a little like a growl.


"Nooooo," again said her intended victim.


"Sorry, she's very outgoing. I think she wants his number," I said to the cute little boy's mother and (I assume) grandmother. They didn't seem amused. Parki and I returned to the very important, future-telling foot-measuring device and got the news.


"Oh, my gosh, they are completely different! She's just at a four, so we should find her a four-and-a-half, and definitely not a Wide," determined Nice Salesgirl. Four-and-a-half. So be it. Nice Salesgirl has spoken.


Of course there were no four-and-a-half-sized sneakers anywhere to be found. We tried fours: too small. We tried fives: too big. Pipsi occasionally dragged Mimzi over to our aisle, guffawing for a couple of seconds at her own cleverness before gallavanting off in her magical big-Bean shoes to explore the rubber-boot aisle, Mimzi in tow. Parki kept working on wriggling out of my grasp to go flirt with her new boyfriend, who was trying to climb into the Beans' stroller while his mom and grandma were looking the other way. Nice Salesgirl looked all over the store and finally reported back to us that the stock guy "doesn't even write for four-and-a-half".


"What does that mean?" I had to ask for clarification because I don't speak Shoestore (but considering the amount of time I've spent in shoe stores that is a little surprising).


"He doesn't even order them," she explained. Oh. Okay. Crap. Now what? This was not what we'd anticipated! It was supposed to be easy little feet and difficult big feet, not the other way around!


We bought Pipsi's shoes, not even bothering to try removing them from her feet, and will definitely shop there again anytime she needs more and we will for Parki too once her feet are a little bigger. I found her some tiny walkers on Amazon that'll arrive next week. Since we're planning their first visit to the pumpkin patch on Saturday, she can get by with some little boots that we were saving in the closet for her. The rest of the Beans' beautiful shoes will just be toys now until Parki grows into them so when we went home, guess what we played with?



Pipsi in her new Nikes


Parki in her Ecco boots, practicing for walking the pumpkin patch.

And if you're worried that Parki will have a hard time in boots that are a half-size large for her, you can see here that it isn't going to be a big deal.


I think the only thing we have to worry about now is keeping up with them. At least if we lose Pipsi we can just follow the biggest footprints we can find. Parki will probably be found smack in the middle of a bunch of cute boys.

But they will both certainly be well-shod Beans-- a trait they definitely inherited from their mom.

Again with The Magic Number 8

Each Bean has eight new teeth. All sixteen have either broken all the way through or will within the next day or so. As you can imagine, our weekend was absolutely miserable.

After deleting three different drafts of this post, I realize that I'm still not in a good enough mood to write it. Perhaps after a little attitude adjustment, and after the welts go down (mine, courtesy of the Beans' teeth, mostly Parki's) and after a nap or two I can do something better but for now, this is all I got.

What's really irking me is that all these teeth are just going to fall out anyway and then we're going to have to pay for two orthodontic treatments, treatments that will no doubt be at times painful for the Beans and perhaps keep them (and therefore me) up at night, so in short, we're going to go through all of this again.

Stupid teeth.

Peek-A-Boo Beans

It sounds like our awesome economy is going to get worse (ouch) before it gets better. That's no fun, but hey, it's always nice to have another reason not to sleep at night besides paranoia. We're pretty familiar with the concept of "worse before it gets better" around here too. Take Monday, for example.

On Monday, as is the case many other days, the house was in shambles. I'd been out and about the three previous days and had seriously neglected pretty much everything other than the Biscuit's and Beans' immediate needs. In other words, laundry was done but in big, wrinkly mounds on the sofa, recliner and every other surface raised far enough from the floor to prevent it collecting enough dirt and dog hair to merit another wash. Food had been prepared but the dishes were "saved for later" (isn't that a cute way of putting it?) and the floors were, oddly enough, not terrible but in need of another visit from the Darling Dyson Dear.

Pretty bad, right? Sounds like it couldn't get any worse, right? Hahahahaha! If only that had been the case!

Hubby had had it. He was all done with the messiness. Every so often, when his wife (that's me) lets the messiness get the better of her and spends more time blogging than cleaning house, the creature who courted me rears his handsome, lunch-box-shaped head. This is the Bachelor Creature, the one who would hurriedly stuff everything somewhere and wipe down all visible areas with something that would make his place smell lemony-fresh so pre-married me would think, "Oh! He knows how to clean!!!". And that he does. He just really doesn't care for it-- kind of like someone else I kow.

Anyway, Hubby and I were both thinking that the place couldn't look much worse. Craps were everywhere but the worst offenders were everything in the kitchen and all the clothes covering each and every available seating surface in the living room. Hubby requested oh-so-nicely for me to please put away the Beans' clothes because that particular messiness was giving him the howling fantods. Knowing that howling fantods are no trifling matter, I respectfully set about fulfilling Hubby's very reasonable request but first, I wanted to explain how so many heaps of clothes arrive and overstay their welcome in the living room.

"I can't put them away while the Beans are up because the closet door has to be open. When the closet door's open, they yank everything out and scatter it all over the floor of their room, the hall... stuff gets everywhere," I began. "It would only take a couple of minutes if you kept an eye on them so I could just get it done," I suggested.

In retrospect, this must have been the point at which things went awry for me. You see, I think Hubby and I differ on our respective interpretations of the phrase "keep and eye on them". I think it means, "play with the Beans, sit with them and read to them, sing with them, keep them occupied and away from whatever it is I'm trying to accomplish at your request". I think Hubby thinks it means "I'll stand here on the other side of the gate until I have to pee or go outside and then they'll find where you are and proceed to make a bigger mess than the one you were originally trying to clean". I may be wrong. But I kind of doubt it.

So, guess what happened? Yep! I started hanging up all those Beanclothes and a couple of minutes later...

Parki delished on black patent Mary Janes but Pipsi had the hardest time choosing between a bathing suit and furry pants. Decisions, decisions! I'm proud of her though, because look at all she had to choose from:

...and that's all that would fit in the frame.

Don't worry, everything is now in its place but obviously we had a mess of epic proportions. When I hear about everything happening, economically speaking, I can't help but visualize the Beans playing in the closet with a few toys while the rest of the closet's guts are strewn about all over the floor. And I think about how every mess is manageable and after the exhausting cleanup life goes on about its business and we get to see things like...

The offspring of Cousin It and Chuck Barris, AND...

Said offspring following written instructions, AND

Nick Nolte's mugshot.

Nick Nolte-- now there's a mess I would never, EVER want to clean.

Cha Cha Cha

A few years ago, when Biscuit was about eight or nine, he and I went through a phase (one of many) during which we would follow each sentence with the phrase "cha cha cha". It went a little something like this:

"Biscuit, what do you want for dinner? Cha cha cha."

"Um, pizza? Cha cha cha."

"No, we already had pizza this week. Cha cha cha."

"But we love pizza. Cha cha cha."

"Yes, but too much pizza isn't good for you. Cha cha cha."

"OK, how about hamburgers? Cha cha cha."

Silly, right? Sometimes it would happen during coversations we were having very quickly and it sounded even sillier:

"Biscuit, get your shoes on! We have to leave right now or you're going to be late for school! Cha cha cha!"

"I'm tying them as fast as I can! Cha cha cha!"

"Well you need to tie them FAAAAASTER! Cha cha cha!"

You get the idea. It made no sense at all, neither one of us knew why we did it, but it was one of those things we did that's a funny memory now. As the Beans are growing and changing daily, they're beginning to do funny things that I hope we remember, though I'm sure we'll forget more than we keep stashed away in the files alongside the "cha cha cha" phase and the time Biscuit accidentally sprayed Uncle Poopypants square in the face with a mouthful of milk (in Biscuit's defense it was a complete accident on his part, and Uncle Poopypants acknowledged that he had pretty much brought it upon himself, though that didn't diminish the gross-out factor-- but, moving on...). Today each one of the Beans did something hilarious. Naturally, Hubby missed both of them but hey, at least now I know a blog can be good for something other than an alternative for therapy.

The Beans and I went to Target together today. It was just the three of us and I expeced the norm-- lots of oohs and ahs and "Oh, they're so cute!"s. That didn't really happen today. Why? Because Pipsi saw shoes and was not allowed to eat them. Woe was Pipsi! And she decided the whole store, nay, the whole universe should know how displeased she was with Mommy's coldhearted unwillingness to allow her to eat all the pretty shoes.

That was the quickest Target trip we've taken in the Beans' time here on Earth. It was also the loudest, with the greatest number of people looking at me with a mixture of pity, annoyance and revulsion. Yes, she's a tad upset! We'll be leaving now!

We arrived at the register and the clerk immediately dropped the bottle of Clorox I was intending to purchase smack on the floor. She picked it up and dumped it onto the counter, where it dribbled miserably all over the place.

"Ew! Um, this one's broken. I can sell you it but maybe you want another one?" The inflection in her voice made it sound like a question but the syntax was really better suited to a statement, however, since one of my Beans was still playing Wahmbulance and managing to squeeze out a couple of almost-real tears, I decided not to point out that sometimes a person can truly enjoy a mellifluous agreement between syntax and inflection and that the two, when used well in conjunction with one another can vastly improve one's communication skills. Instead I flipped the (jogging, fortunately) stroller around and spun off back into the Aisle of Cleaning Products to procure a new bottle of Clorox that wasn't in need of a diaper. Because I don't want to have to diaper anything else in my world. There is, after all, only so much I can take.

Pipsi was pleased by the quick-moving ride and offered everyone in the store a respite from her malcontent and I am forever grateful to Dan Dan the Trainer Man's Pilates class for the fact that I made it halfway across the store and back at a jog and arrived back at the register not even breathing hard. Huzzah!

But wait, what was this? Alas, the clerk was checking out another customer. My hurry had been in vain. Drat! Foiled again! Maybe I should have stuck around and offered the lecture. At least I would have enjoyed it.

"I'm just checking her through? She only had cards?"

Oh, God! I couldn't take much more of it!!!

"No problem," said I, standing laid-back and carefree at the foot of the register with my now-mellow Beans.

Lady With Cards was finished and the Beans and I returned to the batter's box after our first foul, ready to knock this one out of the park and get the hell home.

"Oh, um, this one doesn't have a tag? Do you remember how much it was?"

Finally! A real question! What?

"Oh, yes. That's nine ninety-nine."

The Asker looked at me dubiously and returned her gaze to the item in her hand, an item I could not simply forego because it was part of a gift and I had no idea when I'd again have time for another Target run.

"Well, I'll try to put it through but I don't know if it will?"

The knot in my back up near my left shoulder blade was getting really tense. I was hungry, the Beans were sleepy and The Asker was wearing on my very. Last. Nerve?

I bit my tongue very hard and ran the card through while The Asker watched her screen really hard, frowning with effort. After a second she heaved a big, dramatic sigh.

"Sorry, you need another one? With a tag?"

Happy to move away from The Asker's presence the Beans and I traipsed (did you know it's possible to traipse in a gigantic red jogging stroller? It is, just in case you ever need to do it) back to grab another one of the tagless items and in so doing, flew through the shoe section.

Oops.

Pipsi saw all the rows and rows of unattainable, pretty shoes again and remembered that she was pissed off at the whole entire world for keeping her from eating the beautiful shoes of nummy goodness. A couple of whimpers gave me false hope that she wouldn't crank all the way back up to full amperage, but no, we weren't getting out of that so easy. We sped through to the other department and took the longer way through the store back to The Asker (because at this point, she and I needed a little time apart) and along the way, every other human in Target got to think, "Wow, I'm SO glad that's not MY kid." Yes, yes, good for all of you. You'll have your turns! I was just happy not to have TWO screaming simultaneously. See? Always looking on the bright side!

We returned to The Asker and she quite ungraciously took up the tagged item, scanned it, plopped it in the sack, asked me the total, "Thirty-seven fifteen?", and once she took the receipt and dropped it in one of the bags, she simply turned around and walked away.

I couldn't have been happier. It was the perfect ending to our dysfunctional relationship.

I went to grab the bags but noticed the pungent scent of bleach and a wet spot on the counter and realized that The Asker had set the bags in a puddle of bleach. Lovely. I dropped the bags inside a couple of others (sorry, environment, but I can't bleach the Beans!) and we were off.

Pipsi was finally happy outside. She was happy getting into the Starship Margaret. She was happy while I loaded Parki, even holding hands with her while I stowed Big Red (the stroller's name is actually Willa, but she's kind of proud of the "Big Red" nickname) and we were finally off on our way home.

"Did you have a good time, Pippers? Sorry you didn't get to eat the shoes," I didn't have to console her any longer. She was a happy little Bean.

"Nayimyimyim. Yablekablugblugyuerg," Pipsi said to herself.

Pause.

Then she laughed.

"Yigayigayigayigurarararara,"

Pause.

Chuckle.

Pipsi laughed at her own joke.

And, as often happens, one Bean laughing gets the other Bean going, so pretty soon the back seat was full of giggles, punctuated by Parki barking like a dog and Pipsi joining in. It was pretty cute.

We stopped at Mimzi's to pick up the extra two gallons of milk that live in their garage fridge when space is at a premium in our own and got home, changed diapers, had a bottle and the Beans were down for Happy Nappy. Parki didn't sleep as long as Pipsi, so by the time dinner rolled around, Parki's patience was coming to an end. It wasn't all giggles, sadly.

The Beans eat "dinner" in their high chairs-- usually a couple jars of veggies, then they retire to the family room playard while Hubby, Biscuit and I try to distract the Beans with Baby Einstein long enough to eat our dinners (you know, food on plates). Hubby and Biscuit usually finish first because the Beans insist on consuming what they feel is a fair share of what's on my plate.

Tonight was no exception. I could see that Parki was getting full and sleepy because she was doing her usual I-thumb-my-nose-at-you-and-your-silly-food-Mommy thing when I offered her a bite and I knew I shouldn't have snuck that last one into her mouth. Pipsi was just graciously accepting my offering when Parki toddled over to my side of the playard, her eyes fixed on me, mouth working on something. This was not going to end well for me. I sighed.

Parki approached the end of the playard, brought her pretty, petite little hand up to her face as her tongue ejected the contents of her mouth into it and as she arrived at the wall, she threw a sticky, soupy handful of chicken and rice right at me, landing with a soft, splendid SPLAT! right across all five of my bare toes.

Then she looked up at me and let loose with a big, bawdy laugh, like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen. Well, maybe it was.

It's days like today when I realize that the reason why I've probably forgotten more about Biscuit's little childhood than I remember is because I was probably a little crazy then, too. The Asker ordeal is funny now because in the hours since it happened I've happily forgotten how irritating those five minutes were and how agitated I felt when Pippers wouldn't stop screaming at the top of her lungs in a public place. It shows just how close I live to insanity's abyss. But it also gives me a little insight as to how I turned out (and continue to evolve) as the parent I am. A long time ago I read a paragraph in a parenting-advice article that one of the best things a parent can do is "keep it light", and during really stressful moments when nothing is going right and I'm perilously close to a poop catastrophe, public meltdown or temper tantrum, there's nothing like a good giggle to break the tension. Yes, there are moments when levity is entirely inappropriate, but there aren't many of those; the majority of time spent parenting is much more quotidian than anything else, but that doesn't mean it has to be boring or drive one insane.

Because if the Beans and Biscuit have taught me anything at all, it's that there's always something happening at any given moment that can make somebody laugh. If not, make something up. Cha cha cha.