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Attitude of Grrrrr-attitude

3 Dec

Whine: Morning and I do not get along. We never have. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of waking me up can attest to that–I once hit a girl who tried to wake me up on a long road trip (So sorry, Carmen). And yet, thanks to the magic of parenting, I no longer need an alarm clock.

Cheese: Despite an early-morning wake-up call, I haven’t hit anyone. Today. (Poor, poor Mr. Dad.)

I hate waking up so much that my mother used to come in my room blowing a whistle and banging to pot lids together like cymbals. And after I finally stumbled into a darkened bathroom to take my shower, I’d lay a towel on the floor and catch a few more minutes of shut-eye before my mom figured out that the shower wasn’t actually running and came back with her homemade marching band.

And here I am, a mother myself now. But I definitely have the opposite problem. These kids don’t need clanging cymbals to rouse them in the morning. The fluttering of a moth’s wings two doors down is sufficient. And forget about trying to use the bathroom between the hours of 5 and 7 am (which happens frequently when you are up with little babies) unless you want really crabby company for the rest of the day.

But mornings aren’t all bad. The fact that Brother Bear woke me well before 7 is the only reason I have time to blog today. So even though I grunted and scowled my way through the first few paragraphs, I’m almost glad to be awake. (It’s still before 9am; let’s not push it.)

That’s what we’re working on these days. Replacing cranky, whiny, stinky attitudes with gratitude. And the kids are working on it, too. At first there’s definitely a little more emphasis on the grrrr. But as we keep flexing our thankfulness muscles, finding the good stuff gets a little bit easier every time.

The other day, I wanted to try out this handy new reframing habit. I could hear the sisters were bickering in the back of the car. I couldn’t completely make out the words, but the tone was enough to inform me of their malicious intent. So I interrupted them and told them to each say something nice about the other.

Big Sis looked over at her beloved sister and said, in all seriousness, “Lil’ Sis, I like the way you have snot running out of your nose.”

Sigh.

In a related story, Christmas is a total beatdown for parents. Not just because of the hustle and bustle and teetering around financial pandemonium. But because of the challenge of teaching our kids to be content with a house bursting with toys and games they mostly don’t play with, despite the fact that they desperately need a whole ‘nother house filled with MORE toys and games for them to use once then ignore.

Which leads to pretty continuous conversations about what everyone else has and how much and how we can never be happy because she has the super-deluxe-edition dolly and I only have the regular-deluxe-edition one. Isn’t life SOOO unfair? And right as I’m schooling my sweetie that the best cure for a raging case of envy is to find all the good stuff you already have, I catch myself drooling over the souped-up 2011 minivan with all of its hubcaps that is driving by.

So I guess I’m thankful that I have kids that force me to face the sad, five-year-old state of my heart so we can learn contentment together. Or should I say grrrateful?

 

*Come back Monday for Part 2 of this post. Two posts in a week? Now that’s something to be thankful for.

 

Man of the House: Guest Post by Brother Bear

25 Oct

Whine: I don’t mean to brag, but I’m actually pretty good at this “whine” thing. I whine for milk, I whine for clean diapers, I whine when Mommy takes her undivided attention off me to check on whatever she’s burning cooking.  Mommy says I sound like this when I whine, so she calls me Wookiee. Isn’t she mean?

Cheese: She pretty much gives me whatever I want.  So I don’t really care what she calls me, as long as she keeps the food and snuggles coming.

Mommy is pretty busy these days. What with Big Sis constantly trying to remodel the house and Lil’ Sis working on her sly ninja skills, she barely has time to brush her teeth, let alone string together coherent sentences for the entertainment of the people. So I figured I’d step in today and give the lady a break. Mostly to make up for the fact that I may or may not have boycotted naptime last week and I’m afraid she might decide to let me ‘cry it out’ if I don’t pitch in.

I’ve been keeping busy since I last wrote. I’m still pretty much bald. I can’t sit up or scoot, but I look real cute rolling to hither and yon. I love to grab the diapers Mommy takes off me and try to stick them in my mouth. I’m really good at working hard in my baby office–I get a lot of important stuff done. Need me to push that light- up thingy? No problem. How about grabbing that other doo-dad? I’ll get it done by 5. I’m the picture of baby efficiency.

I’ve grown two teeth and I’m not afraid to use them. On baby food? No, that stuff is nasty. I like to bite stuff. And Mommy. Speaking of baby food, though, who eats that stuff?? Seriously. I admit, I was curious the first few times they gave me the cereal. But upon further review, zpfttttffffffffffffff [insert raspberry noise and violent spewage]. No way, Jose.

The world still seems to pretty much revolve around me, that much hasn’t changed since last time I wrote.  Mommy and I are pretty inseperable–I even get to go to work with her. I help her ‘type’ and ‘file’ and ‘take calls’. She’s pretty lucky to have me around. My sisters still operate by the 6 millimeter rule, which is that if I am around, at least one of them is within six millimeters of my face. But now that I am getting all grown up, I get to do more stuff with them than my last update.

My dad is pretty cool. I like to ride around in his (very manly) baby carrier and do man stuff. Like cook hotdogs on the grill. And clean the garage. He and I watch LOTS of sports together, but he gets a little scary and loud when the blue guys with the stars on their hats actually catch the ball. Then I get a little loud, too, but not in the same way. Ok, I admit it, I cry like a baby. But hey, I am a baby.

I really like Big Sis. She always gives me her blankie and her teddy bear, which is especially good for chewing with my awesome little teeth and is almost as awesomely gross as chewing a diaper because who knows where that blankie has been. Big Sis likes to drag me by my onesie onto her lap. Then she gets in trouble and has to go to timeout. But that doesn’t stop her from doing it the next time Mommy’s back is turned. Although today at the post office she stuck a postage label on me and told the clerk I was a package that needed mailing, so perhaps there’s some latent hostility in there.

I’m not quite sure about Lil’ Sis. She really seems to like me, although I think she’s trying to toughen me up. Seeing as how she gave me my first bloody nose. Mommy was reeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaallllllllyyyyyyyy mad. But I think mostly because she got blood on her shirt.

Now I have street cred for the nursery.

But Lil’ Sis also gave me my first bite of cake, so I think that pretty much makes it even. And surprisingly, Mommy was reeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaallllllllyyyyyyyy mad about that, too. But probably just because I didn’t spit the cake in Lil’ Sis’ face like I do strained peas.

And then there’s Mommy. I grin like nobody’s business when I see her. I just can’t help it. She’s my favorite. My favorite person to bite, to spit my sweet potatoes on, to wipe my snotty nose on. My favorite person to make kissy mouth at (or maybe it’s hungry mouth, I get confused), to try to escape from when it’s time to change clothes and to say “da!” to when we’re up at 5 am . She calls me “Aaron Earl(y) Bird”.

My Favorite Mommy

Also, this weekend was my Mommy’s  BLOGIVERSARY. So she decided to dust off her blog after a month of non-writing to celebrate two years of sharing the wealth of insanity with all of you.

As her BLOGIVERSAY gift to you, she wants me to hit some of the highlights of the last two years and to thank you for making the memories with us through your reading and your comments.

Remember that time Big Sis was potty training? Or the time Lil’ Sis locked us out? Or the time that Mommy got a root canal the week before I was born? Also, here is last year’s BLOGIVERSARY post. And one about procrastination (since it’s Monday and all) and ear infections (since it is sicky sick season).

I hope you enjoy strolling down Memory Lane, even if it is strewn with dirty laundry and amoxicillin. Here’s to another year of ‘good times’.

PS Mommy says to come back later this week for what she says is incontrovertible (isn’t that a kind of car?) evidence that my sisters are the most destructive little girls on the planet. And she says she’s got pictures to prove it.

LIFE IN ALL CAPS!

15 Sep

Whine: I CANNOT, CANNOT, CANNOT believe my little baby girl is five years old. Somebody must have accidentally hit FF on my life.

Cheese: Nothing illustrates this more than the hilarious reruns of Dukes of Hazzard I am currently watching. It seems like just yesterday I was sitting in front of the tv in my Daisy Duke Underoos waiting to see how long the General Lee would stay airborne. Or was that yesterday?

Having a baby is fun. Not the actual “having” part, but the getting to take one home with you part. Until they are up at all hours ruining your life, but that’s a rabbit trail for another day. But the really fun part of having a baby is that they turn into kids. And as they grow you get to try and figure out who the heck they are becoming.

You spend all your time speculating on every tiny accomplishment because that’s all you have to go on when they are 9 months old. “Ooh, honey, she threw her spaghetti on the floor with her left hand, maybe she’ll be an Olympic softball player and it won’t matter that we haven’t saved for college!”

Don’t get me wrong, it has it’s dicey moments. Like when your three-year-old walks around like a mini-mobster swinging a sock full of batteries and all you see is a future of long visits at the state penitentiary. Or when it seems that her most viable career option might be as a graffiti/tattoo artist.

As they grow, though, more and more patterns begin to emerge. As I’ve watched my precious firstborn, a few things have grown remarkably clear.

Big Sis lives life IN ALL CAPS. She could teach us all a thing or two about living in the present. And speaking of presents, if you are ever having a bad day, just give this girl a present. Anything, even just a pair of Cinderella socks from the dollar store. She will jump and yell and glow like she’s on the Oprah show getting a new Pontiac.

Right before she ran and threw her arms around me and made me cry.

She gets excited about making a plan then making it happen. Like planning her Candyland Cake four months in advance (I really shouldn’t let her watch Cake Boss anymore) or elaborate building-block Eiffel Towers. Or perhaps filling a 5-gallon jug with water to get a drink. Or using her new grabber toy to reach the donuts on the top of the fridge. Occasionally, cleaning up after “inspiration” strikes is a little more than we bargained for. I think I may know how Thomas Edison’s mother must have felt. And they didn’t even have Magic Eraser back then.

Eat your heart out, Cake Boss (& thank you, Kiki!)

Her hyper-planner side has another downside as well, namely that things that do not go according to plan usually result in unparalleled devastation. I have NO idea where she gets THAT from.

Her enthusiasm extends to everyone she meets, usually in the form of an enthusiastic assault hug. She loves to play dress up with her friends and her brother and even with her sister. She shares her toys with her friends and her brother and not so much with her sister. I love watching her mind work, even if I don’t always understand exactly how she comes up with the things she does.

Big Sis aka Jessie the Cowgirl

She hugs with gusto (heimlich, anyone?), laughs like her life depends on it and somehow convinces me to go play in the rain even though I hate getting my hair wet. I hope she never decides to live her life in lowercase.

Need I say more?

Laugh Track

28 Jun

Whine: I just finished my yearly summer gig (It pays! Can you believe it??). Which means that the two weeks I spent waking the kids up and shipping them off to various babysitters was just enough to train their little bodies to be up and at ‘em right at 6:15am. I like money as much as the next gal, but I’m not sure it was worth if they keep this up.

Cheese: You get a whole lot done when you start your day before Matt Lauer has even had his coffee.

Did you ever see the episode of [insert name of favorite sitcom] where [insert name of male character] had two dates in one night? Somehow this lovable goofball [I'm imagining Kirk Cameron as a young Mike Seaver here, although my extensive archival research did not produce evidence of said Growing Pains episode] had managed to get himself in quite a pickle, with one lovely girl waiting for him at the table of the Italian restaurant and the other standing by the punch table at the school dance. The camera cuts to Mike Seaver [or whoever] changing his tie and pocket square as he runs back and forth between venues, trying to call the right girl by the right name, often with the assistance of [insert name of awkward yet loyal best friend].

I always hated the two-dates-in-one-night episode. First, because I really hate tension. And what’s more tense than two angry girls in 80s shoulder pad dresses sparring over the adorable yet slightly-chagrined leading man? But I also hated those episodes because they were just. so. unrealistic. Nobody pulls off being in two places at once. Ever. Not even for the thirty (twenty-two without commercials) minutes of a sitcom. But apparently the live studio audience always bought it hook, line and sinker because they laughed with every close call and pratfall.

I live my life now trapped in a sitcom cliche.

Except for instead of two dates in one night, I’ve got three kids and one me. I run back and forth from room to room, putting out fires. Some are figurative.  Big Sis is in my bed in timeout for dishing out some unauthorized Swift Justice on Lil’ Sis. I turn on World Cup Soccer just to make the consequences that much more severe. I call it punishment by vuvuzela*. Lil’ Sis is sitting in the empty bathtub waiting for me to finish cleaning up the “oops I forgot I don’t wear diapers anymore” spot from the hall rug and come hose her down. All the while, Brother Bear lays screaming  in his bed as if his toenails are being ripped off by a hungry troll. Which is only partly true; I fed the troll this morning.

Scenes like this litter the sitcom of my life. Running back and forth, trying to remember whose name is whose and where exactly I was going in the first place and why there’s a bag of cheese under the pile of unopened mail. Except there’s no laugh track. And all the time I spend cleaning up bodily fluids in real life would be conveniently edited into a thirty-second montage complete with quirky background music. Good grief what I wouldn’t give for some quirky background music. The laugh track I can live without because cleaning up pee is never as funny in the moment.

But give it a couple of hours (days if it’s a really bad one) and I have edited the whole thing in my head down to what it really was, just a sliver of time in my twenty-two minute episode (I get NO commercial breaks around here) where I lost the numbers game (Kids 3, Mom 0) , sandwiched between the ubiquitous moments of character building and requisite sappy ending. Then I bring it you, my live studio audience, and we can all have a good laugh. I hope.

Mr. Dad reading to his live studio audience.

*Vuvuzela, in case your household calendar does not orbit the local/international sports schedule as mine does, is the sound of thousands of atonal horns being blown without skill like the droning of a stadium filled with tone-deaf bees. Also known as the South African fans at the World Cup. Trust me, it’s torture.


Life’s a Beach

11 Jun

Whine: People should not drink Coke Zero at 11pm if they wish to go to sleep anytime before 2am. People should also not leave their 4 year-olds unattended in the kitchen the next morning while they are sleeping off the late night, lest little hands decide to cook their own “syrup toast” in the toaster oven.

Cheese: At least some 4 year-olds come tell on themselves when the smoke from the scorched syrup fails to wake up their mommy.

Let me give you a word of advice: When that nagging little voice inside your brain finally manages to break through your permanent baby-haze and warns you that you are in over your head, be smart enough to stop and listen to that little voice. Or at least grab a life preserver.

So when my mom decided that we should all go to “the lake” (a one-acre man-made glorified swimming pool) for the day when my sister and her family came in town, I should have thought twice.

Then, when Mr. Dad asked if he could go golfing in the morning before our lake day, thus leaving me alone to pack swimsuits and waternoodles, apply multiple coats of sunscreen to slippery little urchins, and somehow get out the front door without causing harm to a child (with or without intent), I should have thought three times.

And when we finally arrived with fourteen bags full of swim diapers, trail mix, arm floaties, and diet cokes to a cloudy, drizzling sky, I should have just stayed in the car.

But, I am a Mommy. I can and will do anything for the amusement of my children. Including, but not limited to dancing a jig in the middle of the grocery store aisle, making cupcakes to celebrate the fact that it’s Tuesday, and checking out 700 books from the library and keeping them two weeks past their due date, thus incurring a fine of approximately 1 million dollars.

So against my better judgement, I got of the car and began to set up camp while the rain sprinkled down, doing my best crazy-lady-who-mutters-under-her-breath-about-life’s-injustices routine. I hid Brother Bear underneath an umbrella and the girls scampered off with their aunts and cousins undeterred by the rain.

Within minutes, the rain had been completely scorched away by the glaring, hateful sun and my preparations were hindered by the fact that I could not see through the streams of sweat pouring down my forehead and into my eyes. I continued my muttering routine, while trying to keep an eye on my children who like to run off and get themselves into mortal danger. (Death by fiery syrup toast, anyone? How about by imbibing three gallons of dirty lake water?)

I finally got settled in, only to realize that it was time to feed Brother Bear (again). Big Sis had also had an unfortunate going under/lifeguard rescue moment and was completely OVER this whole lake thing, which she emphasized quite vocally until I let her lie down in the backseat and read (thank goodness I shoved some library books into one of my fourteen bags) while I sat in the front to feed the baby. Some lake day. It makes me laugh at my former self, whose biggest beach worry at age 14 or 19 or even 27  was the fact that I looked a little jiggly in a bathing suit. Hahaha, I thought that was jiggly?

Eventually, we coaxed both Brother Bear and Big Sis back into the water. I found my happy place in a hot pink raft shaped like half a barcalounger, complete with two cupholders. One for my trailmix and one for my Diet Coke. Brother Bear slept peacefully on my chest, while I scooted us around like an uncoordinated sand crab and watched the girls splash and slide and jump in the water.

But then the reality of potty breaks (or not, I sure hope they clean that water. . .) and hungry tummies and more sunscreen broke into my personal nirvana and I was back on duty.

After hot dogs and chips and de-sanding and changing diapers and clothes and finding missing blankies, we piled into the car and headed home. The backseat was eerily quiet, as everyone immediately slipped into unconsciousness when we shifted into drive. Mr. Dad took the rare moment of quiet to ask me if I’d had fun.

Fun? Well, that’s one word for it.

Off the Charts

2 Jun

Whine: While feeding Sir Eats-A-Lot takes up many hours of my days (and nights), I am no longer the calorie-burning machine that I once was. I am actually going to have to cut down to two desserts a day and no more, I mean it, if I ever want this extra layer of baby blubber to come off. It’s not like I live on an ice floe and need the warmth for crying out loud, it was 98 degrees today.

Cheese:  On a positive health note, the children were making me sooooo insane the other day, that as soon as Mr. Dad got home, I left them and went jogging. That should illustrate exactly how crazy I felt because I really hate jogging. But exercise is exercise, even if you are doing it out of spite.

I took Brother Bear to the doctor today for his two-month check up.

Let’s just say he’s doing fine. Ok, more than fine. Alright, I’ll admit it, he’s spectacular.

After the nurse came and measured him, the doctor came in and plotted all Brother Bear’s info onto the growth chart. Or, in regards to his height, more accurately OFF of the growth chart. As in, here’s the 100th percentile over here, and there’s Brother Bear way over there. That kid is tall. (I told you so.)

His jammies have little weiner dogs all over them, just to illustrate the fact that he is an unusually long baby.

And so of course I’ve been beaming and bragging all day about my exceptional son. As if my genes have anything to do with that. And as if being tall is better. Because as a [ahem] petite woman, I would beg to differ.

No, I think I am just excited because I finally have a piece of paper that proves what I have known deep down in my heart from the minute the nurse settled all screaming nine and a half pounds of him into my arms just two months ago. My son is extraordinary.

Of course he is. He’s mine.

And I’ve watched him grow and change since before he was even born. Watched him blow tiny bubbles through the grainy screen in the sonogram room. (Now that I know him, he was probably snoring.) Watched him shed that flattened ‘just born’ face and turn into a handsome little guy. Watched his expressions change from those hazy newborn gazes to the sweet, responsive smiles he saves just for his Mommy.

How could I not think he is the most amazingly gifted kid on earth? Even though I read the Expecting books and know that kids all over the world have been growing and smiling at their Mommies for all of time, getting to watch it happen in front of my face makes me think that no other person could possibly understand what a prodigy he is. ‘Look, he can turn his head away to protect himself from the sister onslaught now. How sweet.’

People keep asking me how it feels to have a son now. At first, besides the obvious need for much quicker diaper changes, I thought it really wasn’t that much different because he was small and wrinkly and cute, just like his sisters. Not old enough to reach for the Tonka instead of the Cinderella, I really felt like he was more baby than anything else.

But then something caught me by surprise (although I’d been duly warned). I fell in love with the little booger. (He already has a lot of those, is that weird?). I certainly don’t love him more than his sisters, it’s just different. I love having that tender mother-daughter connection with my girls. So with a son, missing all that handy estrogen, the bond comes from another place.

Already, so much of what makes him him comes directly from the person I love most in this world. His daddy. The red hair. The incredibly long legs. The snoring.

Baby Mr. Dad

Is it just me or do I have clone situation on my hands?

I think there’s something about seeing my beloved hubby in miniature form that just makes any response other than melting adoration inappropriate, if not impossible. And I’m sure someday the charm will wear off, at least a little bit, but it will be replaced by the gratification of getting to put at least one of the very adorable, but trying men in my life in time out.

Mr. Dad and his brother Ngo Minh. I can't decide which of them is more adorable.

Look alikes? Case closed.

All of this is to say that even though your kid may or may not be tall, when it all comes down to it, we all think our kids with their long legs or giant heads or amazingly accurate impressions of a scarlet macaw are the best.  And they are. Because our love for them is what makes them off the charts.

PS Speaking of off the charts, Aaron’s vocal range in this video is amazing. Too bad he was born a few generations after the Bee Gees.

PPS Yes, I am a horrible, horrible person for recording this. But the cuteness was just too much.

PPPS He’s fine now. I promise.

Gratuitous

20 Apr

Whine: Four am is definitely not the time you want your kids to figure out that they outnumber you. Last night Mr. Dad and I had to switch from the man-to-man defense we’ve used up until now and implement the zone.

Cheese: (cue music) The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup. . .

gra·tu·itous  \grə-ˈtü-ə-təs, -ˈtyü-\
1. not called for by the circumstances : unwarranted

Cuteness

Serious Cuteness

More Cuteness

It's almost too much, the cuteness.

Gratuitous.

Sorry for the short post, but I figured with pictues this ridiculously cute y’all would just pretend to read the words anyway, so I figured I’d save us all some time and leave the pictures as is.

Sugar and Spice

10 Mar

Whine: I’m not sure how Lil’ Sis knows about the Terrible Twos, but she does. All day today I kept hearing emphatic variations of the same thing. “I. Don’t. Like. Church.”  and “I. Don’t. Like. Cars.”  and “I. Don’t. Like. Pizza.” (who doesn’t like pizza??)

Cheese: At least she’s using appropriate sentence structure.

The first thing people notice about Lil’ Sis is her hair. Her fiery orange hair. In fact, it was the first thing the delivering OB noticed before she was even all the way born. Now that is some red hair. And after people stop me mid-aisle in the grocery store to tell me how pretty her hair is, they quickly follow that first observation with a correlating second. “Red hair. Got a temper, doesn’t she?”

She does. But it rarely shows. Most of the time Lil’ Sis is sugar. You know as in sugar and spice and everything nice. . . She shares her toys with her cousins, and tries to make peace when tempers flare.  If Big Sis is sad, Lil’ Sis is the first to run to her aid with a blankie and a hug. And best of all, she insists on helping me unload the dishwasher.

But occasionally Lil’ Sis is spice. And by spice I don’t mean cinnamon. We’re talking cayenne. Possibly tabasco. When she was a little baby, people would ooh and aah over how sweet and mild she was. The nursery workers thought she was a dream. But Mr. Dad and I knew better.  At home we called her “Wild Thing.” She was very adept at letting us know when she was too hot or too cold. Her lion’s roar was just a little louder and more intense than all the other kids’ (it’s not a ten, it’s an eleven).

And today, as she sweetly helped me in the kitchen, all sugary and sweet, hints of her spicier side slipped out. She toddled to the dishwasher and handed me the spatula to be put away. Except I put it in the wrong drawer. And boy did I regret it. That sweet little angel hollered and yelled at me in righteous indignation until I put the spatula in the exact right place.

I love her sweet side. I really, really do. I mean, who wouldn’t like a kid who happily (and very accurately) unloads the dishwasher? Watching her gently tuck her baby dolls into bed or look in every room until she finds her sister melts my heart. And we die laughing every time she runs out of a room with her purse and waves as she says “Berightback.” But her spicy side is nice, too. I know it sounds nuts, but that little extra oomph in her cry yell when someone she likes has the nerve to leave our home to go to their own is pretty endearing. And it shows how fiercly she loves. Her indignation over not getting to do something herself makes me chuckle (well, sometimes). At least I can be reassured that Lil’ Sis will someday (probably sooner than I’d prefer) be an independent woman. But mostly it’s the way she attacks me when she hugs me and the way she dances her heart out to Farmer in the Dell that I like. Because what’s life without a little spice?

Sugar.

Spice

Everything nice?

That's what little girls (and wild things) are made of.

So I’m sending a birthday roar to my little Wild Thing. I love you, Lil’ Sis. The day you were born (although it was VERY long) was one of the best of my life. I cannot wait to see how you grow and change and make me crazy over this next year. Happy birthday to you. And just because you’re so darn cute, one more picture.

All dressed up (well, almost) and nowhere to go.

The Evil Twin

10 Feb

Whine: I’m mourning the loss of Big Sis’ afternoon nap. For one because she’s not used to it and whines from afternoon until bedtime. And now during what used to be Mommy Time (read: sit on the couch and recover from the morning), I am the Chief Entertainer and Supplier of Really Fun Stuff. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

Cheese: At least she falls asleep well before midnight now. I guess it really was time to drop that nap.

Some mornings I wake up and I just know. That if I know what’s good for me, I will not pass go, I will not collect $200. I will put my sweatpants back on, turn on cartoons, throw some cheerios at the children, then hastily go lock myself in my room before they eat me alive.

But I don’t. Even though I see the evil glint in their eyes when they wake up. The same adorably precious little angels I tucked in last night have somehow transformed from my sweet little Honey Bunnies into the Trolls that Live Under the Bridge – albeit very cute trolls, but ones with a nasty bite to match their bark.

I’m speaking, of course, about the phenomenon of the Evil Twin.

There are mornings when I know that one, or heaven forbid, both of my darlings have been replaced by their cranky, horrible counterparts. How do I know? Oh, I just follow the clues.

Generally every word out of my mouth (horribly offensive things like “Good Morning, Sweetie.” and “How was your sleep?”) incites a firestorm of shrieks and cries. Oatmeal for breakfast is the Worst! Thing! that has ever happened in the history of the world. And the sky is the wrong color and clearly it’s all my fault.

On days like this, getting anywhere is next to impossible. Every request for compliance is met with the stamping of feet too tiny and cute to be capable of such rebellion. And the task of getting out the door and into the car (let alone with coat and shoes on) requires a certified mediator and a two-pound bag of M&Ms (one pound for my sanity, one pound for bribing).

Dealing with an Evil Twin requires lots of patience, compassion and a hidden stockpile of goodies that they can’t see or reach.

Recently I went to pick up Big Sis from preschool. In an uncharacteristic response to my usual “How was her day?” the teacher paused and looked directly into my eyes, which was definitely not a good sign. And just as she was midway through explaining that my darling dear had had the worst day at school that she has ever had, I yelp in pain. Lil’ Sis, who I was holding on my hip, had inexplicably just taken that moment to bite me. That little twerp bit me. Out of the blue with no provocation. I took both Evil Twins, now crying from being reprimanded, set them firmly on their behinds in the hallway, and went back to the teacher to hear the rest of the grisly bad-day details.

Well, come to find out the next day after a trip to our trusty pediatrician, I had nasty double ear infections to thank for the appearance of my Evil Twins.

Sometimes there are ear infections or a bad night’s sleep to blame. And on those days it’s at least a little bit easier to have some compassion or to give an extra hug even though they fight it tooth and nail. But other times there is no discernable cause for the emergence of an Evil Twin, and I have to grit my teeth and pray, oh how I pray, that God will keep me from eating my own young.

But I have to admit that as much as I dread the Evil Twin days, I have them myself. Days when I wake up knowing that if someone so much as lets the fizz out of my morning Diet Coke I’m going to yell, then cry, then do everything in my power to keep it together for another twenty minutes or until someone brings me a new Diet Coke.

So on days like this, I’m glad to have Mr. Dad, my kids and my friends to give me some compassion and extra hug even though I usually fight it tooth and nail. Although most of the time, I don’t have a good reason.  I mean, I haven’t had an ear infection in like, twenty-five years.

She looks harmless enough, but don't stick your finger in the cage. She bites.

Magnetic Personality

21 Jan

Whine: I woke up this morning at 6:30am because I could not stop sneezing. Why in the world did my nose decide after lying in  the very same bed all night, that all of a sudden it was a hotbed of allergens? Stupid allergies.

Cheese: Today Big Sis said, “I think you’re great, Mommy. Great and awesome.”  I was really touched, so I pretended like I hadn’t heard her and asked her to say it again. Then I wrote it down, made her sign it and got it notarized. She may need to be reminded of that someday.

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Back to our regularly scheduled post:

I think Lil’ Sis’ feet might just be cute little magnets for excrement. Another case in point: The other day we went to play in the backyard at a friend’s house. We headed out and did a preliminary check for any doggie <ahem> remnants. The coast looked clear and I set Lil’ Sis free to roam.

Then I heard shrieking from inside the house. Using my highly-tuned Screamometer, I determined that the shrieker (Big Sis) was in actual, physical pain (as opposed to the usual Extreme Emotional Trauma), so I went running inside the house to discover a boo boo on the knee that required immediate kisses and hugs.

When we all settled down and headed back outside, I realized that my delicate Lil’ Sis was wearing her brown shoes again! Except the ones I dressed her in that morning had started out pink. How she found a pile of grossness (again) where none previously existed and trailed it into a path (again) is beyond me. All I know is that for the second time in a week, I was cleaning up poop, which in my opinion, is two times too many.

As my friend and I sanitized and sterilized our way through the yuk, we tried to hold a conversation to distract ourselves from our grim task. At one point we realized how ridiculous we sounded, two grown women talking like cartoon characters because we were both breathing only through our mouths. I hear that skill is very valuable when you live with boys, though, so I guess I’m glad for the practice.

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