Addition, Subtraction, Multiplication, Etc...

Perhaps I should have glanced at the date on the last post before beginning today, but really, why? I know it's been a long time. A very, very long time. And for good reason(s), too. Sure, I could spend a good amount of time waxing poetically on the passage of time, and meaningful fleetingness of our earthly human relationships and all that blather but the only relevant blurbs I have to offer on those subjects are:

1) Mimzi's chemo is done and she's growing hair. You should see her eyebrows! Think Al Franken... or don't if you'd rather not.

2) Biscuit is now in high school, taking two honors classes and an extra period in addition to marching band, which practices twice a week. He doesn't get enough sleep. Neither does his alarm clock (that would be me).

3) The Beans are now 2 and GIGANTIC, verbal, and at least one Bean is pooping on the potty willy-nilly. Parki still loves nakedness, but Pipsi? Every time I ask her she answers, "No. Not yet."

About six weeks ago, little Sparki Parki finally got a cute little leg over the top of her crib rail. The rest of her shortly followed, along with an obligatory thump and a subsequent wail. Knowing this was inevitable (and that her twin would waste no time falling to the floor in a similar, slightly blonder heap) I was well-equipped with two crib tents to keep the Beans sequestered in the safety of their cribs until I was ready to remove absolutely everything from their room, cover the floor in that spongy-rubber playground cover and convert their much-abused cribs into toddler beds.

Once Parki made her escape, I pulled out the tents, ready to assemble and slap them on whenever necessary. But the funny thing was, Parki didn't repeat her feat for another week or so. Figuring it was a fluke (stupid me!!!) I let it go, but kept the tents in mind, telling myself that I needed to wash them and make sure everything was going to fit, blah, blah, blah-- oh hey, wait, I have to start dinner and finish the laundry or else everything's going to go to hell this afternoon and the kids won't have pajamas and I have to put a new sheet on Parki's bed because she whipped off those pants and poopy diaper AGAIN before I got her up from her nap and I still have to thaw the chicken... You get where this is going.

So, one Tuesday morning I emerged from a five-minute shower and heard Parki calling me.

"Mommy?"

I thought I'd left the TV on. I must have, thought I, because that little voice that sounds so much like little Parki cannot be, in fact, my daughter, because that voice sounds like it's right outside my door, and my daughter is in her crib.

Dripping wet, freezing, and freaking out, I yanked open my bedroom door. No Parki.

"Mommy?" Again.

I stepped across the hallway and gently pushed open the Beans' bedroom door. "Parki?"

There, in the doorway, wearing a gigantic smile (and, thankfully, also her pajamas) stood Pleased-as-Punch Parki.

"Hi, Mommy!" Oh, the cuteness!

Beaming down from her crib at her twin was Pipsi, tongue lolling out the side of her smile and standing on one leg, the other slung over the top of her crib.

"Hi Beans! Where are you going Pipsi?" I asked carefully.

"Out!" Pipsi proclaimed.

"Wow! How did you get all the way over here, Parki?" I asked Parker while picking up Piper.

"Climb out. Mommy all wet!" Parker answered and quickly changed the topic of conversation. She's so much like her daddy.

"Hair wet. Mommy hair all wet!" Echoed Pipsi. Hmmm. I could see where this was going.

"Yes, Beans. Mommy was in the shower when you started climbing out of your cribs. That scares Mommy! Please stay in your cribs until Mommy comes in to get you. We don't want boo-boos!"

"No! No boo-boos!" Pipsi agrees. Parki, already halfway down the hall as I begin speaking about the importance of crib safety, returns to poke her little bedhead through the doorway.

"Come on, Mommy. Juice!"

That was the day the crib tents were going on. Except for one little problem. Well, two rather significant problems. Fortunately, things like ill-fitting tents and missing parts are no match for a mother's resourcefulness when it comes to securing for herself a decent night's sleep and the tents have been (mostly) firmly in place for about the last month or so. We just needed to add a couple of parts, take off a couple of others and do it all over again for the next one.

And that got me thinking about everything that we've handled over the past several months. Everything our family's handled, that is. All the changes wrought by Mimzi's illness and forced placement on the disabled list, Biscuit's transition to high school and a true, devoted commitment to something he considers far greater than just an extracurricular activity, and the verbal and social leaps and bounds the Beans make daily now that the images of the two-year birthday cakes look ever smaller in the rearview mirror. Everything's about give and take, and adjusting sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, to get everything done and keep everyone happy.

We're lucky we're so happy. Sure, I've laid aside a few novel ideas for a time when I'll have more than a few moments to toss at them (I first typed "navel ideas", which they might as well be at this point), and I have to keep reminding myself that most all of what I put away now will still be right where I leave it but these moments with my kids will only be here today-- even when today begins at 5:37 AM and feels like it's going to last FOREVER. Bring it all on. I'm glad to have it :)

Okay!

For a while there I thought Parki was a pirate. Anytime I asked a question of anyone and she was in earshot and wanting to answer in the affirmative she would pipe up and say, "Aye". It was kind of cute. It went something like this:

Mommy: I think it might be time for some cereal.
Parki: Aye!

Mommy: Beans, do you want to go bye-bye?
Parki: Aye!

Mommy: Hmmm, what do you think about taking a shower?
Parki: Aye!

In the last couple of weeks, though, Parki has started using "okay" instead. But not just a plain, one-size-fits all "okay". She matches her vocal inflection of her "okay" to the amount of enthusiasm she has for whatever it is she's agreeing to.

Mommy: Parki, are you hungry?
Parki (indifferently): Okay.

Mommy: Parki, will you please take this cookie to Pipsi?
Parki (excitedly running down the hall): Oh-Kay! Piiiiip- seeeee!

Mommy: Parki, let's go get Soft Blanket for Happy Nappy.
Parki (snuggling up, murmuring softly): Okay.

Mommy: Parki, do you want to go see Grandma?
Parki (high, ascending, quick tones): Okay!

We get over to see Grandma each day, as long as Grandma's up to it. We'll bring her something from the grocery store, or some tastiness we've prepared or we'll visit to vaccuum or wash a scarf or just to chat. Mimzi was in the hospital from last Thursday until Monday afternoon with a couple of infections and severe anemia. After several days of antibiotics and two units of blood enjoyed in isolation she's home again. We giggle as much as we can about silly things but her condition's starting to get to her. Which is okay. Hopefully she'll keep the perspective that this is a phase and, like the Beans, she'll quickly outgrow it and get on to the next thing. I'll have to remember to point out the next time I see her that the Beans cried all the time when they were bald.

Obviously now, everything's "Okay"!

Pretty Lucky!

It's almost 2 PM on Friday afternoon. The Beans are finally napping, the dishes in the dishwasher are clean and there is a six-pack of Dos Equis chillin' in the fridge. And I can't get over how lucky I am.

Putting it mildly, this week totally sucked. The Beans were grumpy from their shots, Mimzi was in the ICU for three days and Biscuit was on extended leave at his dad's because they came down with some form of nasty crud during his week there. Because Mimzi was cooling her jets in intensive care and because the Beans were already out of sorts, when Biscuit's dad called and said they'd been throwing up and coughing I had to make the sad decision to leave Biscuit in exile a little longer. The last thing we needed around here was the flu. I don't care if it wasn't officially the flu. If you're sick, you can't visit anyone in the hospital and the phone conversations I had with Mimzi were rather murky and confusing. Mimzi is not good on the phone since she likes to use pronouns without antecedents and hop around from one subject to another. Sometimes it's kind of fun. I like to see how well I can keep up, or how many other things I can think about while still following her circuitous path through her stories. And it's kind of efficient, too, because she can tell me three things at once. But through the black veil of painkillers, anti-anxietics (is that a word?) and anti-coagulants, ole Mimzi was making even less sense than usual. Not seeing for myself that she was going to be okay was just not an option.

I have to admit, I was pretty overwhelmed last week. Especially Friday. I spent a big chunk of the day visiting doctor's offices and labs with Mimzi, Beans in tow. They were very good (the Beans, not the doctors) but that was due largely to the fact that their mommy (me) exerted a ton of energy keeping them entertained in their stroller for a couple of hours. They had Dollies, Cheerios, cups, bowls, books, fruit snacks, my keys, my purse (ack!) and new faces every so often to stave off a meltdown. By the time we got home we'd been to the hospital, the grocery store, Mimzi's house and the DMV (don't even get me STARTED on the DMV experience). The Beans were pissed off and hungry and tired and I can't blame them one bit. We returned home to eat and I realized when we walked inside that the house was in absolute chaos.

They had lunch in their high chairs and topped off their tummies with a cup of milk each. I put Parki in bed first and zipped her all up before returning for Pipsi. Pippers was a little fussier and wriggled around in my arms when I picked her up, twisting around until her tummy was over my arm, when suddenly she burped-slash-barfed, splashing milk and turkey sandwich on the floor.

And that's when I realized how lucky I was. Yeah, my mom's carotid artery was full to the point of imminent stroke. Yes, I'd just spent a crappy, rainy morning running errands with two cranky toddlers. Yep, I'd just spent waaaay too much in late penalties at the DMV and my house was in utterly disgusting disarray with Craps everywhere. But Pipsi barfed in the one spot in all the kitchen that was the easiest to clean and not a bit of it hit any clothing on either one of us. Off Pipsi went for Happy Nappy. I returned to the kitchen, cleaned up the barf and thought to myself that things weren't great, but all things considered, they could be much worse.

I could have to work at the DMV.

In The Nudes-- I Mean, NEWS...

I'm happy to report that we do NOT have swine flu. At least not that we know of. But considering the way everyone's talking about that and nothing else I'm sure we'll all get it very soon. I'll be sure to keep everyone updated.

We do have other news to report though. No, we're not expecting any more babies. At least not that we know of. But we had a visitor on Friday the 17th. The Binkie Fairy came to our house. That's right! The Beans are getting to be big girls now and the Binkie Fairy decided they were ready to leave the Bink behind in favor of Bedtime Bears.

Stupid Binkie Fairy.

Hubby and I put the Beans to bed that Friday night and within five minutes I had left the house. After almost two years of getting up, sometimes several times, in the middle of the night to rescue an overboard Binkie and scrambling madly at bedtime to procure the requisite number (5) for night-night, I was totally okay with letting Hubby handle this one. I called Biscuit about forty-five minutes later and he reported that the Beans were still crying. I hightailed it home and heard...

Silence.

My timing was perfect. Saturday night I left, too. I just can't take the crying and I knew that if I stuck around I'd cave and that could mean still more months of getting up in the middle of the night and doing the one-eye-partially-open-looking-at-the-black-floor-sweeping-the-hand-blindly-under-the-crib-hoping-she-doesn't-wake-up-for-real-okay-got-it-back-in-the-mouth-falling-asleep-thank-you-God-I'm-going-back-to-bed-ow-goddam-shoe-oh-sheets-are-still-warm routine and I couldn't TAKE IT ANY MORE!!!!!!!

I miss them a little bit. I miss how one would pick up two Binkies and take the extra one over to her sister and pop it into her mouth, or how they would swap because everybody knows that Binkies taste better with a coating of your twin's slobber on them. Sometimes one would walk over to the other one and pull the Binkie from her own mouth, lean over and pop out her sister's and shove it into her own piehole while forcing her former Binkie into her sister's maw while she just kept playing with whatever was in her hands.

So now they're finding other ways of entertaining themselves. With poop.

Yes, poop.

On Saturday, the day before Biscuit returned from Disneyland, the Beans were down for Happy Nappy and I poked my head in to peek at them. What greeted me was the unmistakable aroma of Beanpoop and the color brown. Parki had, in the ten minutes since I'd last checked on her, filled her diaper with solid waste matter, stripped naked, pulled off her diaper and PLAYED WITH ITS CONTENTS. It was always a matter of not if, but when, and I really wasn't in the mindframe to deal with it on that lovely Saturday afternoon but there it was. And it was in the crib, on the sheet, on the blanket, on her clothes, and in her hair, under her fingernails, on her hands and smeared across her little butt which, coincidentally, was the part I saw first through the crack in the door since it was pointed right at whomever walked past.

Needless to say, every day since then Parki's gone down buttoned, taped and zipped seven ways to Sunday. But at least there is no poop whatsoever on Bedtime Bear and I got a great picture to use whenever and how ever I deem appropriate.

And, I'm really sorry to be taking such long breaks between posts. I don't want to do that because I forget a lot of moments that I really want to blog about but Mimzi's been pretty high-maintenance lately. She's got "triple-negative" breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy on April 7th. Did you know that Nordstrom sells prosthetic breasts? I didn't either! But their staff is absolutely fantastic and I cannot recommend them highly enough. And you know I'd snark on them mercilessly if the case were otherwise. Mimzi is scheduled to begin dose-dense A/C chemotherapy on May 7th, but she may have hit a snag with that because while receiving treatment for sleep apnea, the neurologist ordered an ultrasound on her carotid artery (the one that hasn't already been surgically cleared) and he found "significant blockage". Ole Mimzi might need to get that fixed before chemo begins.

But she's a tough old biddy and, personally, I think she'll totally rock the bald look. Fortunately her lymph nodes were clear, so she's got that going for her. I'm thinking about getting her some of those thick plastic black-framed eyeglasses and having her dance around in a suit to some crazy techno music so she'll look like the creepy old dude in the Six Flags commercials. We could put it on YouTube and she'll be an Internet sensation. Or I could just get her a few cute hats and make her some homemade chicken noodle soup. Whatever she wants. If she starts jonesing for cotton candy and sardines I'll figure out a way to get her those too.

It's funny how something small, say, a three-centimeter tumor, can have such a tremendous impact on so many people. But what I think is even more important is how we're going to let it change us. Mimzi's taking everything one day at a time. DPSM's keeping his patent stiff upper lip, stoic in the face of new developments that seem to just complicate matters a little further each day. And I'm suddenly aware of a malignant specter lurking in the future that may rear its ugly head not just for me but for my kids, too. There isn't a "preferable" cancer, I don't think, but this one's particularly disheartening for a woman with twin daughters. That's six boobs to worry about. And I only have two eyes.

All in all, it makes me appreciate what's most important to me-- and I want to make sure that I accomplish everything on my list before I can't do it at all. I want to make sure my kids and Hubby know every single day how much I love them. I want to teach my kids to love completely and with all their hearts. I will never stop working to conquer my fears, and even though it may be extremely messy and smelly and get them in trouble sometimes, I hope my kids never lose their curiosity. But hopefully Parki's had her curiosity about poop satisfied. I'll be totally okay with that.

Therapeutic Clock and Balls

Twice a week for the past three weeks I've scooted out of the house for an hour for a physical therapy appointment. While the objective of the therapy is to get Frankenfoot functioning normally again (and it's working very well) the appointment also serves as a way for me to escape the house and the rigors of perpetual parenthood for at least one hunded thirty minutes per week.

Ahhh. Sweet relief.

But not on Monday. No, on Monday morning Hubby left for a meeting in Central California and was not returning until six o'clock, which meant that either I had to find a sub Beansitter, cancel the appointment, or lug 'em along. As the day progressed and I made some phone calls, the options dwindled and at around four o'clock I decided that the Beans were in a jolly-enough temperament to accompany me. With their butterfly bookbags crammed full of entertainment options, their cups full of water, and several various snackables, we piled into the stroller and walked four blocks to the physical therapist's office.

The therapists and their staff are in a converted office building that houses a pool, small gym and a few individual exam rooms. Most everyone's therapy takes place in the main gym which looks like it once held several blocks of cubicles but now finds itself chock full of exercise bikes, treadmills, weight machines, exercise balls, school-nurse's-office-style vinyl beds, and a bunch of other stuff whose uses I cannot yet identify. The Beans happily rolled along in Big Red back into the gym with me and watched intently as I climbed on the bike and began pedaling. They had their books, they had their water, they each even had an old cell phone to make pretend calls to Mimzi or Santa if they wanted. They were perfectly happy. For about 150 seconds. And then they wanted to do something else.

"Ouh?" Pipsi asked, pulling at her stroller straps and looking at me.

"No, no, Bean, Mommy needs to pretend to ride the bike for another twelve minutes. Watch! Isn't it cool? Where's your book? Can you find another book?" Already desperate, I yammered away at her until she turned away from me in boredom, sighing and settling back into her seat. Then it was Parki's turn.

"Ball? Ball? BALL?!?!?" Parki had discovered the ball rack over in the corner of the room. All kinds of balls of various sizes and colors taunted Parki deliciously from their corner. They knew she wanted them but that I'd never let her over there to touch them. They were bastard balls.

"BALL?" Parki repeated. Pipsi, as usual, had turned to look at Parki then looked around to see what all the fuss was about. She saw the balls too but knew better than to obsess about the same item of Parki's interest lest she suddenly find herself whacked in the head with said item. She looked around some more at the place and in a few seconds her eyes came to rest on one of the five clocks strategically placed around the gym.

"Cock! Cock!" Pipsi exclaimed, pointing and smiling.

It went like that on and off for the next hour with everyone's therapy punctuated by a couple of adorable little girls screaming "cock" and "ball" intermittently. Noboby seemed terribly bothered by it though. CPS didn't come barrelling through the door to sieze the Beans and arrest me for being a bad mom so I guess Hubby is right and I was probably the only one who really understood what the Beans were saying. Or maybe it's the status quo around that joint for little girls to mention cock and balls at the tops of their voices every few minutes.

We'll just count it as another new, exciting, successful experience for the not-so-little-anymore Beans. Hopefully we'll get to do the same this weekend when the Binkie Fairy pays our house a visit, taking all the Beans' old (and VERY beloved) Binkies and leaving teddy bears in their place.

We shall see. In the meantime, I'm going to have a sitter tomorrow afternoon and save myself the embarrassment of my publicly vulgar company.

Ever-Expanding Vocabularies

"No" is here. It arrived on Saturday, leaving Parki's little mouth and floating around ominously, just as one would expect from a proper harbinger of doom. Along with "no" tagged a couple of flailing fits, complete with faces down on the floor, arms wagging around and deep, heartwrenching sobs.

Those will, I'm sure, go over very well in public should we ever dare to venture out again. And I'm not sure we may. I gave potty training a cursory shot this weekend, too and yes, I know we're not really "supposed to" do that.

Parki weeweed in the potty again (which I suspect may have brought about the onset of "no") and we thought we'd see if Pipsi was game. She was very excited to get naked and sit down, smiling broadly and signing "chair" for about three seconds. Then she wanted to stand up and move the chair. Hubby and I were also preparing a bath for the Beans and, stupid grown-ups that we are, realized too late that this was one exciting event too many for the Beans. Pipsi went weewee not once, not twice, but three times on the hall floor between the potty and the tub and I pretended like she didn't go again once she got in the tub with Parki because there wasn't enough hot water left to refill the tub. I figured there couldn't have been that much anyway, considering how much she'd already expended in her efforts to yellow-flood the hall.

While Pipsi isn't quite as verbally-inclined as her twin, she's definitely getting her point across more and more every day and is particularly fond of the vigorous headshake for "no" and a big, giggly smile for "yes". For example, we were able to get to the park Friday, Saturday and Sunday this weekend, and the Beans were just pleased as punch at having the opportunity to play outside with other kids so much. When we returned home on Saturday, Pipsi was making the "more" sign. Hubby and I kept asking her what wanted. "More crackers?" "More juice?" "More cookies?" We were looking around helplessly for what it was she could possibly want when she stared right at us, made the "swing" sign and followed it with "more".

"You want to swing some more? More swinging?" And Pipsi smiled and giggled.

So I guess the Beans want what all babies want: more time to play and fewer reminders about their waste management habits. For the moment I'm happy to oblige. As long as I know that someday I'll be done cleaning weewee up off of the floor.

Lost The Boot, Gained Some Laundry

Hubby emerged from his office long enough to watch over the Beans while I scooted to the podiatrist's office for the third post-op follow up appointment. She gave the thumbs-up to lose the Frankenboot (YAY!!!) but wasn't all smiles, prescribing a topical anti-inflammatory and a six-week course of physical therapy (boo!) because my big toe isn't listening to my nerves very well. It might have something to do with all the activity so closely following the surgery. I think she might be right.

Anyway, I returned home to hear the Beans awake but in their room and I assumed Hubby had put them down for Happy Nappy and retreated to his office. This was indeed the case. And it isn't usually a problem because Hubby has the monitor on and can be at the Beans' side in about twenty seconds but today was, of course, something different from the norm and the Beans like to keep things interesting.

I snuck up on the Beans' bedroom door expecting to find Parki (who had been acting grumpy and sleepy since about ten o'clock) asleep and Pipsi lying down talking to Soft Blanket. That was not the case. The first thing I noticed was a little pile of something on the floor beneath Parki's crib. "Hmm," I thought, "That doesn't look like a blanket." My gaze traveled up into Parki's crib where she sat upright, binking away and looking over at Pipsi, who was standing up in her own crib trying to see what Parki was doing. Next to Parki, in her crib, was what looked like a bunch of wadded-up paper towels and I wondered what the heck Hubby had let her bring to bed with her because obviously, it was preventing her from falling asleep. Then I got a closer look.

Oh, darn it.

Now, you all know that Pipsi's fond of that four-letter expletive that rhymes with something one does in a chair ("chair" being one of Pipsi's first and favorite signs). Parki has recently begun employing this same little declaration ever since last week when I accidentally used it after opening the refrigerator ("refrigerator"-- another favorite sign of Pipsi's) and a whole box of blueberries jumped out at me like a mad puppet out of a jack-in-the-box, popping open and allowing a billion blueberries to roll all over the kitchen floor, an event that in and of itself was nothing more than mildly annoying but became hilarious when, while I was crawling / squirming around the kitchen floor with Frankenboot sticking out awkwardly, the Beans kept yelling "Shit!" in ever-louder voices, echoing my earlier sentiment with the kind of glee one usually reserves for receiving flowers for no reason (although face it, you know there's always a reason) or winning the lottery or even just a cool raffle prize.

Anyway, since the Beans now practically parrot every little thing we say, I've been hyper-vigilant about everything I say and the way I say it. This afternoon, Parki beat me to the punch. As I stepped into the room, she looked up and saw me coming in and immediately started patting her legs and the mattress. I came toward her and realized that the something on the floor was the pair of pants we'd put on her this morning and the paper-towel-looking mass was actually her diaper and little Parki was sitting in a puddle of weewee. She looked up at me, pulled her Binkie out of her mouth and said, "Oh dowit, oh dowit, oh dowit," sounding very dismayed.

"That's right, Parki, oh darn it! Weewee goes in the potty!"

We weetreated to the living room, where we cleaned her up and weediapered her, then weeturned to the bedroom. Hubby stepped in just after we weeplaced her pants on her cute little legs.

In short, the mess was cleaned up and the Beans back down for Happy Nappy in just a couple of minutes. Hubby helpfully pointed out, "At least she didn't want to go in her diaper," but I couldn't help but shudder at the realization that now, since Parki can get her pants and diaper off, potty training is upon us.

Hubby returned again to his office and within a couple of minutes Parki's screeching beckoned me back to the Beans' room where I found Parki laughing zanily at Pipsi, who now had her pants off too. Pipsi smiled gigantically at me and gave up a couple of good giggles before we started diaper wrestling and I thought that maybe, just maybe, this whole stage won't end quite as badly for us as I fear.

It's either that or one of these days Hubby will venture into the too-quiet house to find me nothing more that an unidentifiable heap on the floor saying "oh dowit, oh dowit, oh dowit!"

Hairless Helps

That's Hubby out in front. This was his first road race and he was the first to cross the finish line. On the first lap, that is. He finished somewhere in the middle, which isn't bad for the first time out.

The hairless legs must have helped. That and all the time he's spent riding on the weekends-- all time spent strengthening those muscles with the additional wind resistance from all that leg hair that is no more. All that time over all those weekends when I stayed home with the Beans or visited the Farmer's Market all by myself.

You're welcome, Hubby.

Cleft In Twain

Yesterday was the Ides of March and six years to the day from Hubby's and my first date. Yes, we remember those silly little things but don't really celebrate them with anything more than an "Oh, by the way, Happy Anvil Nursery," pause, smooch, move along to fry our bigger fish. It shouldn't have been an auspicious beginning since it occurred on such an historically unlucky day but hey, whatever. It's only bad for the king who dies. It's great for the next guy in line, right?

The Beans had a perfectly happy playdate yesterday with another set of twins-- super-cute little boys born just three days after the Beans. These twins are also consonantly-named, and, like the Beans, one's just a little lighter-toned than the other. Hubby and I really enjoyed the parents, too. Very cool people, just like us ;)

For some reason, though, I was under the impression that Hubby knew these guys, but he met them at the same time I did which was yesterday as we approached the park. I've made a mental note (which I'm certain to forget) to double-check next time we're heading out the door whether or not we're going on another blind playdate. Alas, I don't think this will be the final surprise Hubby springs on me, but at least it's better than the last one and not as bad as the one he gave me this afternoon, either, when he broke a glass bowl cleanly in half.

When Hubby and I got married I kind of expected, albeit stupidly, to eventually feel like I knew my husband. After six years, I can say that I know to expect the unexpected. How to describe Hubby in general? Enigmatic is too strong a word and not even close to the mark. He's very easy to understand, though certainly not simple. He's easy-going yet still frequently high-maintenance. He's mostly happy-go-lucky yet occasionally petulant when he doesn't get his way. He has stratospherically high standards to which he holds himself and is ridiculously obstinate so in short, I guess we're made for each other since only we can annoy, amuse, abuse and adore each other all at the same time in so many different ways.

Confused yet? Don't worry, I'm right there with you.

Last July-- not even a year ago-- I encouraged my suddenly non-schlubby Hubby to join a cycling group. That's BIcycling, not MOTORcycling. When he and I met in college, his bike had just been stolen from his doorstep and he was bummed about it. Last May, one of the members of my mother's club offered up an old one and I responded with interest, promising that if Hubby didn't use it, that I'd donate the bike to Uncle Mac's school for adults with disabilities. After a couple of months in the carport, Hubby surprised me and took the gray-and-pink bike on the road and he hasn't looked back. He's now got killer legs, a decent tan in the summer months, a ton more energy, and his team is racing throughout the Spring. He's gotten really involved in the cycling club and is making a lot of friends in the cycling community and that's how he learned about our new friends with twins. He likes to go on the weekends, both Saturday and Sunday mornings which I don't totally love AT ALL, but hey, he needs a break sometime, right? Don't get me wrong, I've really been trying to support im through it but seriously, I feel sometimes like strangling him when he's all gung-ho to hop on the bike and pedal away with nary a backward wave on the weekends when I could so very much use ONE morning off, so the issue has been a bit of an obstacle. But, I guess I didn't know just how truly invested he was in the whole cycling thing until last week when he sprung the surprise.

Remember, I had my foot fixed two weeks ago last Thursday. Everything's still held together with stitches and therefore I have to bathe sitting in the shower stall of our bathroom with my foot sticking out the sliding door, leaving it ajar to suck in all the frigid air in the bedroom down low, where I sit, and let all the happy, cozy, steamy warmth escape up top. It totally sucks. And you know what happens when a woman tries to shave her legs in the cold. So, imagine my surprise/ shock/ horror/ resentment when Hubby announced his intention to go leg-hairless. My Hubby? Sans leg shag? I couldn't even imagine!!!

If you've never met Hubby, I have to tell you he's an Uber-Guy. He's never even looked at a Zima without laughing. Chardonnay will NEVER cross his lips and while he can quote Shakespeare with more ease and accuracy than I, he's also the guy who picked up another full-grown man off of me and set him bodily on the bench above us after the drunken idiot fell on me at the 2003 Big Game at Stanford, scaring the poor schmuck so badly that he behaved himself quietly for the rest of the game. Hubby is way more Hemingway than Hugh Jackman and he's always, always, ALWAYS been the guy in the relationship. You know what I mean. And I love that about him! And now, when I find myself so disgustingly unappealing in my Frankenboot and furry legs, he's going to go get in the shower, stand there in the nice warm stall with that delicious wam water cascading all over himself and out-sexy me!

I'm mostly over it now, on Monday. I still can't really think too much about it, nor can I look at those glistening gams in full light because it just gets too real. A couple of my girlfriends were appropriately sympathetic, goading me on with the man-hate and I really appreciate it. Guys don't get the mom thing and what the hell is he doing, leaving you like that AND going and shaving his legs, yadda yadda yadda. But I've decided to make the most of it. In spite of the fact that all of our kids are doing excceptionally well, I have to say that the past 2.5 years have been something of a personal low for yours truly. I've battled post-partum depression, a formerly-rocking-now-wrecked-body, the professional and financial stresses associated with my career going crash-and-burn and the subsequent home foreclosure along with the shift from busy full-time real-estate agent to the mind-numbing isolation of a full-time stay-at-home mom who finds herself on the consuming end of a few boxes of Girl Scout cookies too many.

Fortunately, as soon as the foot's healed-- probably next month-- the weather should be better. I'll get myself a bike, get the Beans a trailer and get myself back into the shape in which I can better appreciate myself. I harbor no illusions that Hubby will stay home while I go out and ride, but rather than letting my resentment fester and grow and divide us, I'll get out there and not kick his ass, but at least work until I can hold my own. As for Hubby, he'll continue to surprise. One thing I know I can count on, though, is the fact that he'll always be there to offer a hand up, just like he's been there through all the crap leading up to this moment. And that'll be good because if I ever try to climb up those slippery legs I'm going to slide right back down. PLOP!!!

(Some) WeeWee In The Potty!!!

Parki did it! For about the past month, she and Pipsi have been telling us when they have to poop or weewee. When we ask them if they want to do it on the potty they shake their heads and walk away and go have a private moment-- up until today.

This morning Parki told me she had to go and I asked the question she was doubtlessly expecting.

"Do you want to take off your diaper and go on the potty?" I asked, fully expecting the disinterested head-shake. But instead she held my gaze for a second, then looked over my shoulder at the potty and then back at me and took my hand and made for the potty.

Well there we go!

It wasn't really intentional, I don't think. She had to move the potty to a few different places and finally went in the hall in front of Biscuit's room while my head was turned toward Pipsi. I heard Parki cry and whipped my head around to see her rising up from a position crouched over the potty chair, removing her hand from the weewee receptacle with a horrified expression on her face, but the weewee was there. The poor little Bean totally freaked out and started crying, so I ran over there and picked her up (as-is and yes, it was gross, but more joyful than gross because I knew I had clean clothes for both of us) and we did the Over-The-Moon Dance.

Pipsi came running over to see what the big deal was about and didn't really seem that impressed with the potty's yellow contents at first, but then she decided that she wanted to try to do it, too. But did she want to do it on her own clean potty?

Of course not.

Pipsi started yanking on her pants so I helped her get them off, all the while holding Parki and constantly repositioning myself between Pipsi and the potty full of weewee. Finally, while carrying Parki on one side and holding Pipsi's hand with my free arm, I wrangled Pipsi over to the clean potty and tried to cajole her into sitting on it.

Mimzi happened to be here for the momentous occasion and was trying really hard to be a good wingman between bouts of laughter and cries of panic ("She's going for the pee!", "Where are the towels?", "Do you want a wipe?") but Mimzi's last warning came a wee bit too late while Pipsi was still standing beside rather than sitting on the potty.

"Watch out, she's pushing!"

And suddenly Pipsi squirted weewee all over herself and the hall floor. After the wet splash there was a moment of stunned silence. Pipsi looked up at me and released the breath she'd been holding and gave a big shudder. Parki immediately told me there was weewee all over the floor, saying, "MuhMuh, Pisha wahwahwah weewee!" and pointed with sweeping gestures at the floor.

So now I had one potty full of urine at one end of the hall and a slowly-seeping puddle of it at the other, two diaperless, weewee-covered 18-month-olds in my arms, and I was feeling all the wetness from their bodies seeping through to my skin while my mother was AWOL on the hunt for some towels.

And I had to look closely to make sure none of the weewee had made its way onto my left foot, which is still obnoxiously bandaged from the bunion correction I underwent twelve days ago. Didn't I mention that? Yeah, I've only been walking since Friday evening, so all of this happened while I was lurching about on Frankenfoot, attractively shod in one of those beautiful blue post-op Velcro boots.

The fun just never stops. And apparently, neither does Pipsi's bladder regardless of whether or not she's on the potty.

Attitudinalism

I hope Steve doesn't ask me why I didn't friend him.

He gifted her with a gorgeous ring for the holiday.

She's pimping her choo-choo.

These are sentences I've heard or read over the past few weeks that, when they travel into my head and arrive at my brain for processing, are the equivalent of the Wicked Witch of the West dragging her fingernails down a chalkboard.

Or should I say, "fingernailing a chalkboard"? Don't get me wrong-- I'm not one of those crazy purists who thinks that lingustically, change equals corruption. But come on! These are NOUNS, people! And you're making them into VERBS! You're VERBING NOUNS! Oh, it feels so squickily wrong. It makes me wonder what language will be like when the Beans reach my old (or Hubby's even older) age. Will it have (d)evolved into a system of pointing and grunting? Will my daughters' future husbands just club them over the heads and drag them off by their hair?

It's everywhere and at every level of our culture. Last year for my birthday, Biscuit and Hubby found a card with a little George-Bush-soundbyte that rambles on for a couple of seconds, then pauses, then George says, "You gotta catapult the propaganda".

What?


Seriously, I know that deep down inside I am a complete grammar snob and yes, I occasionally cringe when in the company of someone who is completely oblivious to even the idea of linguistic structure, or the idea that sometimes words have to be in a specific order for a reason-- namely so that the person listening can understand the point. But I also know that it's an instinctive thing and not much of the human population shares my enthusiasm for honoring correct grammar and that's okay because on most levels, diversity is a very good thing. Where I really find myself exasperated though, is when I and my children are forced to listen to a big, long stream of meaningless chatter that's really only there to fill airtime before the next scheduled commercial break and is, I think, secretly trying to waste the precious hours of our lives.

The other day, the local morning news was on and the Beans were sitting in their highchairs eating breakfast. The news was running a segment by one of its on-site correspondents about the weather (rain-- in February-- how unusual and newsworthy) and the reporter was just butchering the English language. It was so sad. I don't even really want go into detail because even thinking about it makes me want to cry. It was like he wasn't even thinking about what he was trying to say! He just kept saying word after word after word and the abuse just kept on coming!! Oh, the agony!!! What finally got me to turn off the boob tube in favor of tolerating the rain drumming on the roof and the garbage truck lumbering along outside were phrases like, "the rain is just torrenting down the sides of the creek here at this time where I'm standing and has been for quite some time without any signs of letting up anytime soon judging from all the multitudes of gray clouds here". (You have no idea how painful that was to even think, let alone rewind and replay just to make sure I heard what I thought I did.)

Seriously? It's really dramatically exciting news for a suburban drainage ditch to be running fast and high during a rainshower? The same ditch that the same reporter's covered before because once it even flooded one single, solitary side street and it might happen again if the rain continues for, like, twenty more hours?!? I could understand if aliens had just landed or if Jesus stepped from the foamy waves of the Pacific onto Waikiki Beach that then, maybe someone on the scene might lose his or her power to articulate himself out of sheer awe or disbelief. But to practically wee-wee in his pants and blither-blather to the point of abusing viewers at home over some RAIN???? Puh-Leeze!

Sometimes I wonder how much the Beans will share in my (and Hubby's, because he and I are on the same word of the same line of the same page with this stuff except I'm a better speller) intrinsic grammar-policing. Biscuit is, himself, very much like his old mom in this respect and has been ever since he began talking. I think the Beans will be cursed with this burden too. Why, you ask? Because when I paused the TiVo and replayed that most offensive bit of verbal tripe and then turned back to offer the Beans some more oatmeal, Pipsi looked at me, pointed to the TV and said, "Shit."

And that, my friends, is something everyone can understand.

Deadly Diaper Rash Ointment

I really, really try not to freak out too much. Most of the time we're all good around here, but the past month has been quite the challenge. As you may have noticed, there's been a bit of a gap between this post and the last and that's for good reason: I now spend far more time trying to prevent my dear little Beans from accidentally killing themselves or causing themselves or each other significant bodily harm.

They're climbers. They climb on EVERYTHING and suddenly I see death everywhere. I never thought, when bringing most of their myriad toys into the house, that I'd have to remove them for the sake of the Beans' safety. Notice how no photos accompany this post? That's because now, when the Beans retreat by themselves to their room for three minutes, I saunter in to investigate and find that Parki has chugged one of the Learn 'n Groove Choo-Choos up the the Dresser Station, climbed up onto the train and is attempting to leave the train for the platform-- a.k.a. the top of the dresser. It would make a great photo, I'm sure, but it would be kinda difficult to explain to Child Protective Services what I'm doing taking a photo of my daughter climbing on the dresser when I'm in the ER with her getting a cast on her arm / leg / head.

We've expanded the Beans' horizons and not a moment too soon because we were all going totally stir-crazy being confined to only their bedroom and the hallway. Totally nuts. Out of our minds. Cabin fever to the nth degree. Now they also have unfettered access to the living room and all its wonders. And suddenly I realize that I suck at childproofing and that therefore, my life is a little miserable. Not totally, but a little bit, at least for this phase of the Beans' development. Gone are the days when they would play quietly in their room for ten or fifteen minutes, long enough for me to do the dishes or run a load of laundry. Those moments have been replaced with howling-fantods-inducing displays of bouncing on the sofas, trying to climb up and sit on the windowsill (where Pipsi will precariously perch herself and proudly present me with the sign for "chair"), climbing up and sitting on the piano (which I sincerely hope is not a foreshadowing of one or the other's future as a lounge singer, though they both have the pipes for it, I'd say), and squeezing through the gate yet again to get a good look at and taste of Hubby's books which he stubbornly refuses to box up and put away until we're through this dark, unholy time.

Some days, seriously, I'm barely making it. Nothing gets done around the house while they're awake. Now, I'm not citing either one as a favorite here, just stating the fact that while Pipsi just wants to be loved, cuddled, read and talked to all the time, her twin inherited every single bit of Hubby's (considerable) and my (little bit of) obstinance and unwillingness to accept to word "no". And that combination, one wanting to be cuddled and the other just waiting until I'm looking elsewhere for five seconds, keeps me busy during each and every one of their waking hours.

On Friday, Mimzi came over for a couple of hours so that I could run errands and have lunch with a friend. I returned home, Mimzi left, I ran to the potty for a total of about 100 seconds and rushed out to the living room because Pipsi was screaming and crying like her heart was broken, which happens about eighty times per day. The alarm bells were going off though, because I didn't hear Parki's corresponding Laugh of Triumph. I scooted up the hall to the living room and saw the tube of diaper rash ointment in Parki's little paw, and a finger coming away from her face. She saw me coming and went for the front-door alcove and hunkered down, squatting and holding the contraband between her body and the corner.

You know when that dreadful ball drops down into the bottom of your belly? This was one of thse times. I remember thinking, "Oh, dammit! If only I hadn't chosen that moment to excuse myself, none of this would have happened! Now what???" I grabbed Parki, flipped her over and pulled the tube away (which, fortunately, had been almost empty anyway) and inspected her face. Yep, white smears on her upper lip, a bit in her nose and a clean finger but a bit of white residue under her nail told the tale. I grabbed a wipe, cleaned off her face to prevent any more from entering any orifice and sprang over the gate to grab the Hubby Hotline.

"Hello?"

"Hey. I was in the bathroom for, like, a minute and a half and came out to find Parki with the ointment in her hand. There was some on her face and I don't know if she ate any."

"I'll be right there."

Click.

I stepped back over the gate and over to the Beans' play kitchen atop which I'd set the ointment tube, flipping it over to read what I already knew was printed on the back: "If swallowed, get medical help or contact a Poison Control Center right away".

Awesome.

Hubby came in and picked up Pipsi, who had been howling like a banshee this entire time. He peered at Parki who, knowing she was totally busted, was playing cutesie, cuddled up against me with her head on my shoulder, singing gently like she was so sweet and innocent and could never, ever do anything that would worry her mommy, she loved her so much!

"I'm not sure she ate any," I began, and then Parki started spitting, sticking her tongue out of her mouth, closing her lips around it and dragging it back into her mouth, like something really nasty was stuck there and she wanted to get it off.

Hubby frowned.

"The tube says to call Poison Control," I began.

"We should probably just take her to the hospital," he countered.

Hubby is usually right in these situations, but I did an admirable job pushing the panic rising up inside me back down before it could take over. I made my way, Parki on my hip, over to the computer to look up the number for Poison Control wondering whether I should call the pediatrician first and trying to figure out how I became this mom all of a sudden. Not calling Poison Control could be very bad if the advice was going to be, "Call an ambulance right away". Operating on the assumption that I might hear those words, I decided to follow the advice of the tube of deadly diaper rash cream. After all, it was the only one in the room that knew the true depth of its potential evil.

The phone call went surprisingly well. We didn't have to take Parki to the emergency room but Jay, the nice, calm, knowledgeable owner of the soothing voice on the other end of the line, informed me that since the ointment contained 10% zinc oxide, Parki might puke or have some diarrhea that night if she'd consumed a lot. Otherwise, she might get by with just a tummyache.

Fortunately for everyone, it must not have been that much because she fell right to sleep just after seven that evening. And although I was awfully tired at 1 AM when she woke up screaming and even tireder still when she finally went back to sleep two hours later, I was so happy it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

If we keep up that trend, I might be able to keep them alive at least until kindergarten-- but there definitely won't be as many pictures between now and then.

Just Since Christmas

Ah, the holiday season! It's behind us but the Beans find ways to keep bestowing little gifts upon an undeserving Mommy. Gifts of general cuteness:

The gift of finding a new place to play:

The gift of sharing carbs:

(some might call it "shoving bagels and cream cheese up the nose" but I don't see it that way, so there)

Yet more sharing of carbs:

and showing off the carbs:

The gift of focus and concentration:

Time spent watching Baby Einstein together:

A little confusion...

Fairy Ears:

Paparazzi-Evasion Techniques:

Coming clean with the contraband... even if it was on accident:

Finding her own snack:

Yummmmmmmmm!

And giving me one good reason....

(opening the cabinet below)

To move the kitchen into the garage:

(to climb up onto the counter all by herself).

11 AM Hangover

It isn't that kind of hangover. All I remember after the initial shock of the smell, the Bite-Down-On-This-flavored cardboard, and the first stinging whir of the supersonically-charged magical cleaning wand was someone saying, "Please don't kick me," and the dentist herself coming in to turn the gas all the way up. Then something funny occurred to me-- the more kids I have, the more gas I need.


Let's see if I can work down to the root of the problem- yes, pun intended. I'm just spitballing here but my severe dentophobia (and we are so far beyond the howling fantods here it isn't even funny) probably has a little bit to do with the time I was nine (I thought I was twelve but then remembered that I was in fourth grade when it happened and the gas still has me a little foggy). Anyway, it was time for braces and all the BIG teeth coming onto my little mouth needed more space, so the upper deciduous bicuspids had to go. Sayonara! We went to the family dentist who numbed me thoroughly, no complaint there, but who neglected to tell me that I would hear all kinds of stuff nobody should ever hear going on in her own mouth, especially not when she's nine. Metal on enamel, a crazy, wretched wrenching sound emitted when part of the body protests its removal before the natural course of events were allowed to take place, and the people holding my head and even strapping it onto the board, holding my arms down because after he finally yanked out the first one, he actually expected me to LIE STILL AND LET HIM DO IT AGAIN-- it was so terrible. Seriously, some of the worst nightmares I have to this very day involve dental issues.

So after I divorced Biscuit's dad I went to the dentist after about five years and had a ton of shots in order to get a couple of cavities filled only to wake up the next morning with my first-ever migraine, an intense, blinding pain accompanied with severe light-sensitivity and vomiting for the next 36 hours, vomiting that lasted until DPSM took me to the emergency room where I barfed spectacularly in front of beautiful medical personnel who took pity on the overly nauseous girl with the black towel over her head and thoughtfully quelled the raging beast within me with a generous shot of morphine.

The next time, about three years later, another dentist got a great idea and replaced everything the last guy did in addition to some original work of her own. That visit was the first one ever with gas and it went much better; however two of those fillings fell out within a week, prompting a return visit and leaving my bite, to use a clinical term, jacked up.

Then I didn't go for a little over five years. About four years ago, I broke a back molar. Not a problem, said I. I can chew on the other side! And I have. For about four years. Hubby nagged and nagged, saying, "It'll only get worse" and now it is. Boo Hoo! Woes me!!!

ROOT CANAL.

I return Friday for the nasty part. But she gave me a prescription to mellow me out beforehand. I think it's for the safety of her staff.

The One I Took for the Team

Really quickly, I have to post this before I forget it.

Next year's Christmas cards are going to totally rock. How can I be so sure, you ask? Well, my friend, here's the deal. When we take our Christmas card picture, everyone gets dressed in whatever Mom (that's me) told them to wear or put on them, in the case of the under-2 crowd. We sit in front of the Christmas tree and a cool friend / family member snaps some pics. We put them all on the computer , edit the red eyes and cut and paste a little extra tree in the bare spots, paste the photo into a card at one of the online photo printers and they arrive in a couple of days.

The problem this year was the fact that there were living, breathing people in the picture. It was a silly little hangup, really, but one that nonetheless threatened to ruin the whole thing this year. And said little people were not into the whole experience. We ended up taking about fifty photos and there was only one in which all the kids were smiling and looking at the camera. Hubby also happened to be looking at the camera but not smiling. So he got to be Scrooge this year and I got to be...

Mrs. Claus.

Mrs. Claus? What do I mean by that? I mean that the only photo that captured the kids well was the one in which yours truly looks about twenty pounds heavier than actual size. Awesome. I don't know. Maybe red's just not my color. Maybe I was pulling my head back on my neck to avoid falling over. Maybe it was water-weight. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't flattering.

But it's great! I've seen two friends on the Christmas card list since the holiday and they've both seemed surprised, saying things like, "Wow! You look... great!" and I'm always so pleased and happy until I figure out that they're comparing the me before them to the Christmas-card me. "Oh, yeah, the cards... We just picked the best picture of the kids. Did you notice Scott didn't even smile?" I ask. The inevitable answer is always "No, I didn't notice that," and it figures.

So I figure that no matter what we end up sending out next year it'll be great. Because there's really no way I could possibly look any dumpier / washed out / more beat-down-and-haggard than this year. So I will look absolutely awesome (right!) and Hubby will probably still not smile--because he will be what? What was that? OOOOOOHHHHHHHH! HE'LL BE FORTY!!!!!!! Bah Humbug.

Non- Verbal Communication-- In Other Words, Passive Resistance

The holidays have come and gone. They were fun and happy and joyful and I'm so glad they're over. The Beans and Biscuit thoroughly enjoyed everything-- the food, the festivities, the company, and of course, the new toys and blinking-lights shoes.

Along with the new year comes a lot of new developments for Biscuit and the not-so-little-anymore Beans. Biscuit is doing admirably well in endeavors of his own and we're very pleased and proud. And Ghandi wold be so proud of the Beans and the new manner of passive resistance they've learned to employ.

Language is a funny thing. It enables us to build institutions like marriage (what were early humans thinking?!?!) and declare George W. Bush the President of the United States (what were present-day humans thinking?!?!). But language does a lot more than just that. I'm not talking about just the words we say-- I'm also referring to the language our faces and bodies use to get a point across, particularly when we can't speak yet.

The Beans have quite a few signs in their vocabularies. Little Pipsi Christmas, obsessed with the Christmas tree signs both "tree" and "lights" incessantly from the moment she wakes up. Both Beans say "shoes", "Dada", "Mama", "Gary", "ball", "Katie", "Grandma", "block", "baba", "uh-oh", "more", "tree", "shower", "bath" and a few others I can't think of right this second. Some are clearer than others but they're getting pretty good at getting the point across. Both Beans are terrible flirts and SparkiParki is particularly adept at looking up at someone from under her long, gorgeous eyelashes-- and both she and Pipsi getting good at another form of body language.

The Beans are daredevils and either one is never more so than when her sister has me occupied with a diaper change. Lots of toys end up in time-out as a result of this and I go to bed more nights than not with three big tension knots in my back from the stress of keeping them alive all day, saying phrases like, "On your bottom, Bean! Sit on your bottom," uttered with one eye on the Bean climbing on the ride-on toy or the sing-along chair that's currently a makeshift ladder pushed up against her crib, looking back over her shoulder at me with a self-satisfied grin on her face while one leg's working its way up the crib slats, and my other eye is on the mound of poop I'm desperately trying to clean off the other Bean while simultaneously trying not to smear any on myself to be found at a later, inopportune moment when someone asks, "What smells like poop?" and then gradually her eyes follow her nose and come to rest on yours truly.

It's the little grin I get, sometimes accompanied by a little chuckle, when they're in open defiance of the "sit on your bottom, now" bit that gets me. It's like looking into the mirror a few years ago, or like the photos of a semi-smirky Hubby from his childhood. It's the echo of a word they have yet to utter yet it oozes from their very essences:

"No."

The most extreme example of this came the other night. It was a first for the Beans and me: our first time for me to give the two of them a bath together, unassisted by either Hubby or any of those handy-wandy bathing gizmos that cost a fortune and end up moldy and disgusting and looking like nothing you'd want your child coming into contact with, especially in the endeavor of getting them clean. The little Beans were in heaven. Just like the younger Biscuit and any other little kid, Bathtime is the most fun ever and they were having a blast. The only glitch was that Bathtime was coming at the end of the day-- a single-Happy-Nappy-day, and they were becoming a bit oncooperative toward the end. Pipsi was in front of me on her bottom and I was rinsing her off when quick little Parki scooted over toward the faucet and stood up with her hand on the spout. I repeated the phrase I'd already said about a billion times that day, "Parki, sit on your bottom, NOW. That isn't safe,"

Parki, standing with her back to me, turned her head halfway so that she could just see me out of the corner of her eye, turned her face back toward the faucet, and ripped a short but very loud fart. Immediately she whipped around to face me with a huge smile on her face and Pipsi burst out in a big belly laugh and started pounding the surface of the bath, splashing water and raucous laughter everywhere.

While the words may be coming slowly, the Beans obviously still find ways of communicating, even things as complex as open defiance. It's frustrating for all of us sometimes, hilarious at others and occasionally it's a little bit of both, but the most encouraging thing I find in it is the emergence of a great sense of humor in each one of them. And we're all going to need that because Parki is not the only person in the house willing to employ the Fart of Defiance. I'll just leave it at that today.