NaBloPoMo Acceptance Speech

Well, I made it (almost).

You made it.

Thirty days of posting, for those of us who attempted it, and thirty days of reading mountains of posts, for those who played along. 

For having (almost) made it through NaBloPoMo, I have to thank the following:

1) Julie's Hump Day Hmmm and Maypole's Monday Mission, without which I would have been left to my own devices and reduced to posting pictures of the dustbunnies under the bed.

2) My wonderful job which allows me to stare at a computer all day, slipping in the occasional blog post on the side.

3) My equally wonderful husband who patiently put up with the click clack of the keyboard all during prime time TV (except for Project Runway which he doesn't admit to watching anyway).

4) Hen-Bug and Ty-Baby for providing material.  My camera for taking pictures of them when no words would suffice.

5) My computer keyboard who made it through the month managing to loose only the "4" key.  Way to go!

6)  And, you.  Thank you for reading.

See you Sunday!  Or maybe Tuesday?  Wednesday? 

Christmas Comedy

While our relatives were still in town, we went to see this movie.  We had our choice between only two comedies.  The movie that we chose and Dan in Real Life.  We made our selection based pretty much solely on the basis of schedule.

I really enjoy a good comedy.  Although my first choice for movie genre would be science fiction/ fantasy, G. has to be dragged to one of these.  My husband left Fellowship of the Ring voicing confusion over Frodo's failure to throw the ring in the fire.  When I mentioned that this event would leave the two remaining movies without much of a plot, he noted that he thought that the other movies would focus on the other rings.  "It is called Lord of the Rings, plural," he said and he had a point.

That one comment was funnier than the whole of Fred Claus.

Fred Claus seemed to be amusing enough, but it had set pieces that had been done better and funnier elsewhere.  It also featured entirely too much Vince Vaughn.  The only time I laughed was during the montage of all the food that people had put out for Santa to eat after coming down the chimney.  There were cookies, cake, and one shot of flan.  I find flan funny.  Christmas flan?  Even funnier. 

The funniest movie I've seen has been a Fish Called Wanda.  Aside from Harold and Kumar go to the White Castle (with it's one unwatchable scene), I haven't seen anything truly funny, recently.  Gross-out humor only serves to gross me out.  It doesn't make me laugh.  Super Bad was mildly funny.  Maybe it's the infertile in me, but I didn't quite get the point of Knocked Up.  So, I'm wondering if you've seen any funny movies lately.  What makes you laugh?

Our First Nanny

I'm going to a baby shower, on Saturday.  Our neighbors are throwing the shower for their nanny, who's expecting her first child.  The expectant mother found our current nanny, whom both I and the boys adore.  I was looking forward to the shower, to getting out of the house, and to chatting with this group of women whom I like but don't get to see that often.

However, I just found out that our first nanny will be there. 

This is our first nanny we basically let go on the advice of the expectant mother, who, in the course of her nannying duties to our neighbor's children, saw our nanny be impatient with our one-year-olds.  She spoke to them in anger.  She left them in their stroller and walked away.  She told the expectant mother (several times): "you deal with it; I cannot."

Our first nanny does know that she was let go and she did not want to leave. She does not know that our decision was based on information geaned from the expectant mother. 

I'm not looking forward to seeing her again.  It turned what was going to be a fun afternoon into an awkward one and goodness knows, I've had enough of them to last a lifetime.  Plus, there probably won't be wine at this shower.  Submerge awkward in enough wine and it ceases to be awkward; too much wine, of course, only increases the awkward.   Chances are, however, you won't find out about it until the next day.

As I was thinking about this entire thing, and dreading the helping of unavoidable awkward coming my way, I couldn't help but put it in context of Julie's posts about gossip.  I'm pretty sure that the expectant mother's telling me about what she had seen wasn't gossip, but I'm wondering what differentiates the two.  What if she heard about my nanny's behavior from another party and then told me?  It might be gossip, at that point, but would the validity of the information be eroded enough to make it worthless?  I would like to know if there was even a whisper of our nanny not treating our children as I would (actually, better).  Is there such a thing as good gossip?

Gone

They left this morning.  My MIL, FIL, and BIL left and are on their way home.  Although I'm glad that they came, the lightness in the house is palpable.  I think that three or four days is probably the limit for visitors here.  At six days, the traits that were okay in the beginning become impossibly annoying.

My mantel-piece stocking holders spell "NOEL."  For the duration of my BIL's visit, however, they spelled "LEON."  I'd come downstairs.  I'd arrange them to spell "NOEL."  By the time I came from working at the coffee shop, there would be "LEON" on the mantel.

I don't know a LEON.  I don't want to know a LEON.  NOEL suits me just fine, thank you very much.

My house is also a bit trashed from so many people living in it.  Spots have appeared on the carpet.  There are cigarette butts on the deck.  Fruit flies have spontaneously generated in our kitchen.  It's like the aftermath of a frat party except that nobody got drunk and nobody (I think and hope) had sex.

It's going to take some time to set the house back in order, but it does feel a little better already.  I think, next year, we're going to pony up the extra cash for them to fly back a day or two early.  And I'll know exactly how my parents are going to feel when we descend upon them for six days for Christmas.  At least, we don't smoke.  Or carry fruit flies.  I think.

Fuzzy Head

I don't know whether it's the in-laws being here or trying to get back to work after having most of last week off, but I can't seem to keep a single thought in my head for more than one minute.  This means, of course, that I have the attention span of a toddler. 

Quite frankly, I don't see how they're ever able to get anything done.

So far, I've been distracted by the internet, coffee, lint on my sweatpants, the various spots on my jeans, and so forth.  I have things to talk about, but zero cability to put fit them together. 

As a result, I bring you photos and questions about photography. 

There's a funny and interesting post up about photography equipment on Nomotherearth where I learned that I have the same camera as Sin (yay, me).  However, I'm still learning what to do with it.  I'm still entirely bemused by the fact that the pictures that come out of my camera don't seem to resemble those that I see with my heart, brain, or eyes.  What do you try to do when taking pictures (aside from focusing and avoiding red-eye)?  Do you arrange people or look for the candid shots?   What, in other words, goes into taking a "good" picture?

I like this photo, but find it somewhat disturbing....

A bit better one of the Bug...

It's a little easier to take pictures of things that don't move...

The "I" in Alphabet

I admired the way Flutter approached this meme.  Given that, and the fact that five days of houseguests has left me creatively bankrupt, I'm giving it a shot. 

The rules: list a word that describes you for every letter of the alphabet. Offer as much or as little explanation as you wish. Please keep the words positive (for example, don’t use “fat” for F or “lame” for L), and feel free to get creative.

Ardent
Bold
Celebratory
Daring (especially when it comes to heights)
Energetic (well, occasionally)
Fairly Fashionable
Grader (constantly grading papers, constantly)
Happy
Impish
Jocund
Kind
Loyal
Married
Nosey
Open
Public Speaker (love doing this - the largest group I've spoken to was 300 people)
Quizzical
Repetitive
Sudden
Techie
Unguarded
Volunteer (not very often, but it happens)
Worker
Xenodochial (meaning hospitable, kindness to strangers.  Take that, Free Rice!)
Yawning (at any point before morning coffee or after evening dinner)
Zappy

How To Put Up Christmas Decorations (Monday Mission)

1.  Ask your husband if he would mind going up into the attic to pull down the boxes.  When he replies that he will after raking the leaves, remember that the boys will only be sleeping for another hour and decide to get down the boxes yourself.

2.  Hunt around for the stick that goes in the loop that pulls down the attic stairs.  Find it in the spare bedroom closet.  Put the stick in the loop, pull down the trap-door and unfold the attic stairs.  Gaze up at the stairs.  Flick the switch to turn on the attic light.  Gaze up the stairs again.

3.  Remember that you really, really, really do not like the attic.  In fact, one might say that you have an attic phobia.  Also remember the contentious relationship you had with the previous owners of your home.  When the home inspector found a dead bat in the attic, your husband joked that it was a voodoo bat.  Remind yourself that there is no such things as voodoo bats.  Remind yourself that the bat is long gone.

4.  Try to feel better about going up into the attic.

5.  Slowly climb the stairs to the attic.  Pause before sticking your head through the attic opening.  Try not to think about the fact that this is the point at which you are the most vunerable.*  Try not to think about things (voodoo bats) flying out of the opening and attacking your head.  Clench your teeth.  Finish climbing up into the attic.

6.  Look around for the boxes of Christmas decorations.

7.  Hear a scrabbling noise.

8.  Do not jump as you might fall through the opening.  Do not climb down.  Remember that you have not yet gotten the boxes. 

9.  Find the boxes. Open a few boxes to make sure that they include the decorations that you need to put up.  Do not allow yourself to think about black widow spiders which are far worse than voodoo bats and much more likely to be hiding in your attic.

10.  Find the boxes and lower them gently through the opening.  Climb down a few stairs to make sure that they land gently on the carpet.  Do this several times until all boxes have been rescued.

11. Hear your brother-in-law coming up the stairs. Know that he would think closing someone in an attic to be a superbly funny joke.  Ponder the fact that he is probably not married for this reason.  Scamper down the steps just in time.  Say "hello" to brother-in-law and enlist his help in closing up the attic.

12. Open boxes.

13. Put up Christmas decorations.

This post was done for the Directions Monday Mission over at Painted Maypole.

* Edited to correct this misspelled word.  oops.

Conversations with my Mother in Law

As I was the first child (of two) and my husband was the last (of four), my in-laws are of a completely different generation than my parents.  Born in the final years of the depression, they grew up with the Second World War and raised their children in the 60's.  Because I genuinely like my in-laws, its easy for me to underestimate the differences between us.

************

MIL (helping with the dishes): Where do you put those special cups the boys have?
Me:  You mean their sippy cups?
MIL:  Those are the ones.  They didn't have them when my boys were little.
Me (thinking):  So that's when they started putting plastic on the couch.

************

They were encouraged to use formula, but also had to sterilize the bottles in clunky contraptions that steamed up the kitchen.  Nipples would wear out quickly and had to be watched, closely.  My mother in law didn't know anyone with a dishwasher.

She was lucky enough to get a diaper service for her last child, but had to wash the diapers in the toilet and put them in the diaper pail for the first three.  "I had a dryer," she commented. "I was the first one in the neighborhood."

***************

"It used to really bother me when people said I didn't work," she said.  "I worked really hard."

"I was so glad that my husband could come home every day for lunch.  Of, course, I had to make the lunch, but we could talk. I didn't have anyone else to talk to for the longest time.  We left all of my family in Massachusetts.  I didn't know anyone in Connecticut."

"It must have been difficult," I said.

"It was," she said.

***************

My mother in law snuggles the twins.  She heats up mashed potatoes for their lunch in the microwave and helps me hunt for the play kitchen that she doesn't quite believe is needed. 

I'm glad she's here.

The Great Kitchen Debate

The juxtaposition of Thanksgiving with Black Friday has always seemed a little odd to me.  While Thanksgiving gives us time to look on family, food, and the things we have with gratitude, Black Friday, quickly becoming a holiday in its own right , has us focus on acquiring more of those things.  There's very little gratitude involved.

Last night, in a strange blending of the two, my mother in law asked me what we were planning on getting the twins for Christmas.  As they are almost two, we're probably in the last year of being able to not get them very much, especially as we buy clothes and such during the year depending on need.  However, I was planning on getting them a play kitchen and said so.

You would have thought that I was thinking of buying the twins knives for Christmas or scissors and telling them to run around. 

Play kitchens, I was informed, were a big no-no as they were for girls only.  Any boy owning a play kitchen would get beat up on the playground.  A play kitchen would also influence their sexual orientation.  They would be wearing dresses and playing with dolls next. 

Clearly, we're not talking about the Free to Be You and Me generation.

I expected the situation to be a bit better when braving Toys R Us in search of this kitchen.  I looked through the aisles and picked up a toy or two, but I couldn't find any play kitchens.  "Where are the kitchens," I asked a frenzied employee.  "They're in the girl's section," she said.

Of course.

You need shades to tolerate the amount of bright pink in the girl's section.  There was an assortment of plastic Little Tikes and Playschool; however, the only wooden kitchen was pink with purple and light blue trim.  It confirmed every stereotype.  It just wouldn't do.

After returning from Toys R Us and searching online, I've found the same thing to be true of boy's clothing to be true of play kitchens.  You can get the cute, brightly colored clothes unblemished by sports references, but you're going to have to pay big for them.  It's also possible to find a cute non gender specific kitchen; they simply cost a great deal of money.

And I don't know whether it's the juxtaposition of Black Friday with Thanksgiving or the fact that it's threatening to overwhelm the holiday entirely, but I'm increasingly reluctant to pay the price.

Into the Dark

An old graduate school roommate of mine once called me a "top forty station" after entering the apartment only to find Jane's Addiction playing for the 500th time as I made dinner. 

He's correct. 

I don't listen to music that frequently, but when I do, it's entire albums at a time and I tend to repeat those albums over and over an over again until anyone around me is completely sick of them.  Once an album has run its course, however, I rarely listen to it again.  For about five straight years, during college and immediately afterward, Paul Simon's Graceland served as my personal soundtrack. 

"I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis Tennessee," I'd sing. "I'm going to Graceland.  Poor boys and pilgrims with families and we are going to Graceland."  Despite the somewhat wistful lyrics, the song and all the songs on the album had the ability to make me feel okay .... okay about college, about graduate school, about being alone.

Most of the songs that caught my interest during high school deal with the issue of being alone more directly.  "Who will drive you home, tonight?" asked The Cars.  It was a question that I couldn't quite answer, although I tried.  The question had come up before as my friend Kelly and I debated whether it was better to be the owner of a lonely heart (me) or have a broken one (her).  Yes was the first band we ever saw live, even though we didn't know most of the songs and I had no clue why the older people sitting next to me needed my binocular case to roll oddly sweet-smelling cigarettes.

In a way, however, it seemed that issue of loneliness, expressing it and coping with it had vanished from my musical tastes. I have a husband whom I love.  I have the twins and I am no longer alone. 

I really believed that loneliness would never crop up again until about three months ago when flying home from a client visit in Minnesota, listening to a series of songs which my friend had downloaded onto my iPod.  Most of the songs were good, but none of them grabbed me until I heard this:

And I do believe it’s true
That there are rocks left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too
So brown eyes I hold you near
Cause you’re the only song I want to hear
A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

The song stunned me like a hand snagging the back of my shirt collar.  It whipped me around and focused my attention on something that had been bothering me since the boys were born.  Having everything that I ever wanted, it would be against my very nature not to worry about it being taken away. 

I bought the album, Plans.I found the same ideas stated more clearly in these lyrics, "Love of mine some day you will die/ But I'll be close behind/ I'll follow you into the dark."  As I listened and listened and listened, I realized that "love of mine" was broader than just my husband.  It meant the boys, too, and myself. 

I'm not a morbid person, at least I don't think that I am, but history has taught me that I listen to music to find solutions to problems, or at least identify them.  In an odd way, this is what I'm finding in Death Cab for Cutie.  I walk around the house humming, "I need you so much closer" from Transatlanticism.  And, so much of the time, even when I'm alone, I find it to be true.

One of the benefits of living near a college town is the music scene.  Going onto the DCFC website, I saw that they played a small, but storied, venue in this town back in May.  I've told my husband that if they come again, in 2008, that we'll be there.  We'll probably be the two oldest people in the audience, but there nevertheless.  We'll be together because, after all this time, I think that my friend Kelly was right.

It is much better to have a lonely heart than a broken one.  I know that, for now, I'm so lucky in having neither one.

** This was written for Julie's Hump Day HMMM.

Blue Birds

One of my favorite, most memorable Thanksgivings, occurred twenty-six years ago.  As a thirteen-year-old, I had several days off from school.  I had nothing to do in terms of either studying or cooking as my mother's ability to prepare dinner seemed to depend on her being almost completely alone.  Holed up in my room, I worked for almost two days drawing a map of Middle Earth with paintings of the major characters scattered around the margins.

Although I would spend other Thanksgivings alone, mainly in graduate school, that holiday a long time ago stood out as one in which I devoted myself to doing something creative for exclusively for myself.   I wonder sometimes, whether the strong desire to spend time alone impacts the twins, as my mother's dislike of having anyone in the kitchen with her, influenced me. 

One of the lovely things about having almost-two-year-olds, however, is that very little seems to faze them.  Although we eventually might trace elements in their personalities back to specific moments or habits, we are thankfully oblivious of these for now.  Everything is good.  The boys are happy.  Having spent the day on my kitchen chairs and planning to spend the day with them tomorrow, so am I.

Before....

After.....one of six chairs.

And close up for the blue birds

A Break Before the Busy

Last Thanksgiving just saw G., myself, and the boys trying the great failed Turducken experiment.  We were, thankfully, alone at the time. 

Now that my in-laws will be flying into town, we're going with a far more conservative menu.  As usual, G. has charge of the turkey and I'm doing the side dishes including sweet potatoes and roasted green beans, with the recipe directly from our free trial issue of Cook's Illustrated.  If the recipe turns out, we'll order the magazine.  If not, well, we still have Cooking Light.

In addition to my two side dishes, and dessert, I'm also tackling several home projects.  I had planned on decorating the bedroom, but this might need to wait until my Christmas vacation as the kitchen seems to have taken precedence.   

I used to think that the kitchen was clean, that is, until I tried to see the room as my MIL would view it.  Although she's far too polite to say anything, simply thinking of her brought out the stained grout, the filthy kitchen cabinets, and the kitchen chairs in desperate need of new fabric.  I don't like to clean, but fail to clean long enough and you've got home improvement.  Oddly enough, I'm much better at home improvement.

Before all this work begins, however, we took a bit of break to feed the ducks, enjoy the fall weather, and take a breath of calm before the storm by bringing the boys to the local park. 

The ducks got a little close for comfort....I've never seen them fly right up onto the railings.

Market

My parents put their home on the market this weekend.   They bought this home eight years ago.  After weathering several hurricanes and seeing the price of milk (not to mention gas) rise dramatically, they're leaving Florida to head to my state.

Although I'm thrilled, I'm also a bit concerned.  My parents and I haven't lived in the same state since I was in high school.  And it's not like we've been just over the border from each other.  I've credited my good relationships with both my parents and the in-laws to the fact that we live thirteen hours away from them, and they live in opposite directions from each other.

It's nobody's fault, really, that my parents and I have trouble getting along after spending more than three consecutive days in each other's company.  My parents, especially my mom, will say anything.  Moreover, they seem to care more about the occasional spot on my jeans, my work habits or the way I drive than anyone on the planet.  "Suzie!" my mom cries when the car gets over 65 MPH on the highway, "slow down!"  She then slams the imaginary break on the passenger side.

However, I also expect more from my parents than almost anyone else in my life, except for G.   As I put these words on the page, I'm finally getting to the real crux of the problem.  Although my parents, with a lifetime of habit and wealth of knowledge, treat me as though I'm six, I will occasionally act it.

Despite all of this, I am glad they're moving here or close to here.  Having them near will give my boys the chance to have something that I've never known, a relationship with their grandparents.  None of my grandparents are still alive.  My mom's dad died before I was born and her mother, an alcoholic, was only a shadow presence.  We saw my dad's parents only on holidays due to his mom's enduring health problems. 

I'm so grateful for this opportunity, but I have to ask ..... if your parents live within an hour, what makes it work?  And what do you try to avoid? 

Party On, Dudes!

It seems hard to believe, but I've never been to a child's birthday party.  As a result, I was probably looking a little too much forward to the party that we attended today.  Primarily, I was excited because the party was held at the same gym where the twins take classes during the week.  I'd been scoping the gym for the twins' second birthday party as it took me two days to get the crayon out of the carpet after the first one.

My only mistake was assuming that only moms went to children's birthday parties.  Everyone was a couple at this party, even the parents who brought only one child.  I was fine with G. staying home, watching UCONN football, because I assumed that he would be the only dad present.

Wrong.

Nevertheless, we managed to have a fine time, mainly because both boys decided to get a bad case of the willies.  While other 19 and 20 month olds careened around the gym, the twins stuck close by my side.  They didn't want to go in the ball pit.  They didn't want to bounce on the trampoline.  They didn't want to crawl through the tunnel.  It was the strangest thing.  They stuck close to me and close to each other.

It could have also been the presence of Miss Karen, the apparently evil replacement for the much-better-known Miss Donnie.  I'm not sure whether she does all the parties at the gym, but it was a serious fly in the ointment as I would be seriously disappointed if every photo of Henry turning two featured his angry, frowning face. 

Trips

Usually Ty-baby follows Hen around, more or less.  Ty-baby does pretty much what Hen does and wants to play with whatever toy has captured his brother's attention.  However, the nanny brought her little boy with her today, and Ty-baby fell instantly under his three-year-old spell.

Rather than either going off on his own or joining the other two boys, Hen sulked.  Seeming to take Ty- baby's defection personally, he hovered on the periphery.  He would pick up a toy, only to cast it aside a few minutes later. 

The whole thing reminded me, again, of junior high school where our little group of friends would split into thirds - the leaders, the followers, and the cast out.  Granted, Hen's exile was more self imposed than anything else, but it got me to thinking that one isn't the loneliest number, as the song goes.  You may be alone at one, although not necessarily lonely.  The loneliest number? It's three.

It's okay now, though.  The nanny's boy is gone and we're back down again to two. 

Change of Season

Seeing pictures of Fall trees and first snowfalls reminds me of driving north to attend a yearly academic conference.  As the conference took place in Michigan in March, the drive there showed Spring slowly retreating as the miles accumulated.  On the drive back South, buds emerged from trees and leaves unfurled within a matter of hours.

So far, Fall has been slow in coming to our corner of the country.  It's been warm.  G. debated wearing shorts on Halloween.  The leaves have stayed firmly green far past the time they had changed and fallen last year.

It has not felt natural.  It's felt weird, as if the earth was shifting into a new phase and realigning itself.  I don't think it can be pinned to global warming.  Maybe to the drought?  I'm not sure.

********************

I've always been a morning person.  Sick of riding the bus in high school, I had my parents drop me off on their way to work.  As none of the classrooms were open, I would sit on the slick, clean floor with my back against my blue locker, reviewing homework or reading.  An occasional janitor would pass before the flow of people became steadier and my extended feet impeded traffic.  Only then, would I get up, stretch, and go to homeroom.

I loved the fresh start.  The feel of my skin in the mornings and the ease of being alone.  In the morning, the world seems to have fewer people in it. 

****************

Recently, however, I've been drawn to the late, late evenings, after everyone else in the house has fallen asleep.  I've been forcing myself to stay away late into the night with my computer on my lap and a blanket twinned around my ankles.  The problem is, I think, that the morning has become crowded with crying and showers and eating and noise.  I crave silence and my own time.

It's felt like a shift, like that of Summer unnaturally extending into Fall, and I'm not quite sure of its meaning.  I only know that I require that feeling of fewer people in the world and I'm having to find it where I am able.  What makes it better is that first trees have changed color and the leaves are finally falling. 

Priceless

One business trip ticket: $245.00
Two nights in a hotel: $680.00

Almost three days without either "Hot Potato, Hot Potato" or "Big Red Boat" stuck in my head = Priceless

I know that I didn't post for the last two days, but I did write many fabulous entries in my head.  Those count, right?   

What Difference Insurance?

I've written this in response to the call for posts about the financial impact of infertility over at Stirrup Queens and Sperm Palace Jesters. 

I've told very few people that our insurance completely covered infertility treatments.  We didn't do anything special to secure this coverage.  We weren't and aren't anyone special.  My husband just happened to work for a company that completely covered all infertility medications and procedures at an area clinic of our choice.  Our only expense was a $25.00 copay for the ultrasounds.  My husband didn't know what a huge impact his choice of employeer would have on our lives.

Over two years ago, we were told that IVF with ICSI would be our only available path to conception.   We consulted with an RE who recommended a laproscopy.  After I had healed from the operation, we moved straight to IVF with ICSI.  When our first cycle failed, we waited the three months recommended and then tried a second time.  This attempt succeeded and our little twin boys were born in February, 2006.

As a result of our coverage, we wasted no time in getting treatment for this disease which devistates so many families and families-in-waiting.  Time is crucial in infertility treatment.  I was 36 when we received our diagnosis.  If we did not have coverage, I would have had to spend precious months and years scraping up the money to begin treatment.  How much money, you wonder?  Well, I can tell you that the laproscopy alone ran our insurance company well over $7,000.00.  What did we pay?  About $500.00.  A car payment as opposed to a car.  The IVF with ISCI cost about $15,000.00.  We paid close to $1,000.00.  While other couples cried and hoped and begged money from relatives or took second jobs, we stopped eating out as much and were even able to save a little bit towards the cost of actually raising our much hoped-for children.

I'm sure it's clear now, why I stayed silent.

Who knows?  Some folks might be horrified that we had coverage and used it so extensively.  After all, not being able to have a child isn't a life threatening disease and our decision to pursue treatment no doubt contributed to our relatively high insurance rates.  But anyone who raises that argument doesn't really understand infertility.  Many of the illnesses covered by insurance are not life threatening and, who knows, maybe my kids could grow up to contribute to the cure for a life threatening illness; they could bring some real light to the world.  There's a chance that they could even change it.

And that seems to be a chance worth insuring.

Design Challenge

I believed myself an extrovert until coming across the Myer's Briggs definition of introversion in college.  People are wonderful, but they exhaust me with this Saturday coming as no exception.  In honour of our friends, in town for the weekend, we had a few couples over to watch college football. 

Overall, the arrangement worked very well.  The adults hung out in the family room with the TV while the kids ran amok in our dining room, which we turned into a playroom about five months ago.  Food for all could be found on a table in the kitchen.

It came as no surprise to myself when several hours into the event, I found myself catching a breather and five minutes of "alone" time up in our bedroom. 

As I sat on the bed, however, I realized that our bedroom was actually a rather poor sanctuary.  It's the only room that we haven't painted.  The valances are hand-me-downs from G's mom and the duvet cover sports several holes where the dog chewed it in a fit of pique. 

It would be hard to describe this as the room "where the magic happens."  In fact, that would probably be the kitchen, which is quite nice.  And the "magic" would be a lovely batch of G's creme brulee.

In order to give it back the title, I decided that, this Thanksgiving vacation, I would revamp the master bedroom. Probably a few hundred dollars worth of reworking and five days of vacation, nothing major, no new furniture, but just enough to make it a little more comfortable. 

So, without further ado, I bring you our room.  What would you do?   I can tell you that we did redo the master bath and it's now a nice purply-gray with gray tile.

You're Not Miss Donnie

Every week, I sneak away for an hour to attend a toddler gymnastics class with the boys and our nanny.  Before signing up for gymnastics, we checked out the classes taught in specialized gyms for children.  Finding the monthly rates to be more than twice that of the local Y, we gravitated instead to the large gymnastics building down the road which apparently supplements the income generated by wanttabe Nadias and competitive cheerleaders by offering weekly classes to the much younger set.

Our nanny, who has admitted to being able to perform a mean back-flip, obviously feels at home in this environment crowded with bars and balance beams and trampolines on which the older children perform as parents watch from the observation deck.  Seeing as my gymnastic skills stop and start at the humble somersault, I feel much less comfortable.  I vividly remember finding refuge under a table at a gymnasium very much like this one and drawing with colored markers as my sister cartwheeled to her heart's content.

The boys love the class.  They love bouncing and climbing and exploring the gym.  I didn't realize how much until today when their teacher, Miss Donnie, was out with her sick child.  Miss Karen taught the class, instead.

Ty-baby did wonderfully.  He followed Miss Karen through all the songs and let her lead him across the trampoline where he jumped and jumped, bare feet coming up and securely hitting back down.  Hen-bug, on the other hand, seemed confused during the song.  Instead of following along with head-shoulders-knees-and-toes, he stood in the middle of the circle, staring at Miss Karen.  When she tried to hold his hand, he pushed her away.  Hen-bug struggled across the trampoline alone.

He glared at Miss Karen for the rest of the class. 

Granted, the effect was a little comical.

But in that comic impulse, I also felt the rush of understanding.  I understood Hen-bug's anger and am thankful that Miss Karen understood it, too.  "It's not about you," I told her.  "I think he's upset that Miss Donnie isn't here to lead him across the trampoline."   

It's easy to understand when a toddler throws a fit.  It's less easy to understand when an adult throws one.

This has been a hard week.  I've been yelled at and called four-letter words, both when shopping and within more professional settings.  I've taken it hard.  I've taken it personally.  I've gotten angry and wished for some sort of vengeance for the perceived injustice.  However, it's not about me.  It's about someone's anger at being told "no" or being cut off in traffic or not having all they think they deserve.  It's directed at me, but it's fundamently not about me. It's not about Miss Karen, either.

I blame Miss Donnie.  It's all her fault.

Nobody frowns like the Bug.  Poor Miss Karen.

Peace, War, and English Compostion

Many of my students are either at war, going to war, or moving away from war.

It's not the population that I trained myself to teach.

I did most of my graduate student teaching at a large research university.  Most of my students were traditional college age and, while some took full advantage, others didn't completely understand the opportunities they had as a result of attending large research university.  Many students doubted that they belonged in my course.  Writing was not something they needed to learn.

The gyrations I trained myself to perform to interest, engage, and convince large research university  learners are not needed for my current population.  As I teach completely online courses, my learners could be any where in the world.  They could be on board ship or sent on assignment at short notice.  I learned to respect these obligations and become completely flexible about deadlines.  It doesn't matter when students submit essays as long as they submit them at some point and take my comments into consideration.  These students want to learn to write.  Most come into class recognizing the importance of clear writing that communicates their point.  It's up to me to guide them, work with them, and give them what they need to succeed.

After teaching in this format for three years, I feel like I know these learners.

Every semester, they have to write an essay detailing an event in their lives and drawing meaning from that event.  It's always a struggle to have them write about a single event rather than their entire lives or years in their lives.  I get a lot of stories about weddings and the birth of children.  The greatest number of papers that I receive, however, focus on the decision to join to army.  The second favorite topic seems to be war and survival in the face of death.

When I was growing up, I attended a different, but no less large or research oriented institution, than the one where I learned to teach. I knew that I could make mistakes.  Like my first students, I made them in abudance.  I skipped class.  I drank too much.  I didn't study.  I wrote my papers an hour before class.  However, I couldn't get into too much trouble.  I also made my decisions buoyed by the invisible support net of relative wealth, privilege and expectation.

My current students usually have no such net.  Those that write about the decision to join the army universally draw the conclusion that the opportunity to do so saved them - from crime, from boredom, from aimlessness, from poverty, from abusive relationships, from all sorts of things.  The army gave them a structure and a productive place to belong.  These type of students also write, full of pride, about the day where they earned promotion or advanced in rank.  They describe hard days of work, evenings of study, and the ceremonies of public recognition.

The tenor of these essays differ markably from those that concentrate on war, itself.  In fact, if you didn't know better, the two armies, the one that saves and the one that fights, would seem to have nothing to do with each other.  The students that describe being under fire and surviving also exude a certain pride; however, it is a pride tinged with grief and guilty relief.  There is very little triumph.  It is also these learners who go on to write their argument papers about the war and our reasons for war.

The knowledge and thought that goes into these papers has, perhaps unfairly, astonished me.   I thought that I would read paper after paper after paper justifying the war and our presence in Iraq.  Although I do get a fair number of those, I also get a good number that make the case against the war and for leaving the country.  Regardless of the point of view, the papers on this topic have a tendancy to be well argued and well researched, with an effective blend of personal experience and secondary sources.

Reading these papers, all of them, has made me angry.

There has got to be a way of reconciling these two armies, the army that so many young people credit with "saving" them, but does so only to throw them in the path of danger.  Now, granted, not all my learners feel this way about the army; students join for all sorts of reasons.  However, there has still got to be a better way.  One that does not depend on war.

To Hen-Bug: Age Sixteen

Dear Hen:

Yesterday, at your bidding, we went out into the woods together while your brother slept.  Granted, you never would have thought about opening that rickety gate or following that narrow path had I not opened it for you, the first time, and bid you to go look, go see.  Having been there once, though, you now run down to the gate and rattle it for me to open.  And you go further and faster down that narrow path than I would like.

For someone who's not yet two, you are fearless.  You clutch at the small growing trees and laugh as pull them to and fro.  You sit on the fallen trees.  Finding those that fell on an angle, you bounce up and down as the tree moves like a see-saw.  You have a knack for discovering those trees. 

But I see a lot of things that you miss.  I see the dark holes where spiders (you know that the black widow lives in our state by now) lurk and the broken ground around rotten tree-trunks.  You stomp your feet at me when I pull you back.

Your father wonders why I let you go back behind our house.  But, seeing your fascination with the pin-needles lying in the driveway and your discovery of pinecones, I thought it might be fun.  Now, you want to do it all the time.  It's really not that bad, but it's certainly not a sanitized, comfortable path.

And this is my point.  You are probably very frustrated with me by now (and with your dad).  It must like we give with one hand and take away with another.  You probably don't believe me when I say I can see dangers that you can't see.  Maybe you can see them too, by now, but just don't care.  But I do.  And I always will, as I see that little, tiny boy in the woods - jumping on fallen logs.

Love,
MOM

Just That Tired

I knew that daylight savings time was going to be bad.   The boys usually get up at between 5:30am - 6am.  Falling back an hour meant that they were yelling "mamieeeeeeeee...mamieeeeeeee" at 4:15am. 

Oh, joy. 

While everyone without small children enjoyed their extra hour of sleep, myself and these ladies along with many others, I'm sure, are suffering the ramifications of being dragged from sleep an hour early.

Today has been particularly tough because Ty-baby was sick most of last night.  Well, that's what I told G. at any rate as an excuse for handing the babies off to him at 7:30am and trying to take a nap, which didn't work.  In reality, Ty-baby was sick until about midnight, when he finally went to sleep.  My raging insomnia took over afterwards, condemning me to watching Dr. Who (twice) and reading Entertainment Weekly cover before finally falling asleep at around 1am.

Insomnia sucks. 

It also means that instead of doing something more productive, like going to the gym, during nap time that I'm sitting on the couch half asleep and half awake with Waterworld on the TV.  Next to learning how to banish insomnia, I'd like to learn how to nap.

I really need to go to the gym, too. 

In response to my first NaBloPoMo post, Kim asked about whether I've recovered completely from the epidural.  The answer is "yes" and "no."  I've come a long way from the walker and the cane, but I still have only about 85% strength in that leg.  After having come so far, this last bit is really gravy.  The weakness means that I have a hard time achieving the heel-strike so important in running, which used to be my favorite form of exercise, hence the need to go to the gym.  My legs are getting all flabby and I don't like flabby.

I'm glad that we've not planning on having more kids because I would never have another epidural.  Ever.  I don't care if what happened to me is a one-in-a-million event.  I'm just wondering if something extremely unlikely had to occur, why couldn't I have won the lottery?

One Large Glass of Wine, Please

Last year, I hit upon the perfect Christmas present for both my parents and the in-laws.  I engrave one of those small eighty-page picture albums with their names and the date.  Then, I fill it with pictures taken of the boys throughout the year, arranged by order of month, and preface each month with a description of their activites and skills. 

It's the perfect gift because 1) they don't already have it and 2) it's not something that they can buy themselves.  However, the gift also has a negative side.  Not only does it take me a while to do, but it involves going to the mall and I've shopped online since back when online shopping was a Big Deal.

Whenever I go to the mall, I always park near and enter through Saks Fifth Avenue.  This also has its pros and cons. 

On the pro side, the elevator is large and empty.  Leaving the elevator, you walk through the children's department to get to the mall.  One time, I found a $70 onesie on sale for $15, which meant that one of the twins got to look like some baby out of Pe.ople for a few months.  The part of me which gravitates towards Peo.ple while waiting to purchase groceries got a little thrill from this while the other part worried that I was giving the impression that I would drop $70 on a onesie.

On the con side, I have to deal with the crazies.

The mall was crowded and someone, obviously in a hurry, had parked in the fire lane in front of the store.  I had the boys which proved to be a problem as the car largely blocked the wheel chair ramp.  As I manuevered the stroller up onto the sidewalk, barely on the ramp, the right side knocked against the bumper of the car.

I was on the sidewalk when the young twenty-something came running out of the store screaming at me.  "You Bitch!," she yelled, "Did you hit my car?"

"The stroller might have bumped it," I said, "but you're blocking the ramp and you're in the fire lane."  I was trying to be reasonable here.

"I'm going to sue you if there's a scratch," she screamed, running around the back side of the car to check.  It was nice that she was taking good care of the Chrysler certainly purchased by mommy and daddy, but I doubt that this is what they had in mind. 

As she hurled insults at me, I practiced my usual immediate response to crazy which is to proceed quickly in the opposite direction.  In my book, any overblown, threatening response to a slight, if not non-existant offense, ranks as pretty damn nuts.

My judgment was confirmed when a patrician-looking older woman came up to me in the lobby.  "Did that girl just call you the B-Word?"

"I think she did," I said.

"You should get her license plate," said the woman, "report it to Saks." 

By this time, however, the girl had already sped away.  As I regretted not grabbing that license plate, I wondered what the folks at Saks could do.  Ban her credit card?  Call her parents?  Throw a Manolo Blahnik shoe at her?  In retrospect, any of the three would have been just fine with me. 

And that's the down-side of my response to crazy.  By the time I decide to stick up for myself, however ineffectually, it's usually too late.

Like I Need a List

I decided to do NaBloPoMo back in October.  However, I need a Higher Purpose or Compelling Reason for embarking on anything that does not directly involve money or sleep.

As an aside, I'm sleepy today.  I couldn't get to sleep last night despite trying to bore myself to sleep by watching the entire Thursday night TV line-up three times on TIVO.  The babies woke me up today at 5:15am.  I think they wanted to go trick-or-treating or play with the dog.  I couldn't tell which one.

I decided to come up with a list of topics that I wanted to cover this month so I wouldn't be stuck writing about poo and the number of times people have asked me if the twins are "natural."  Without further ado, therefore, I bring you my great NaBloPoMo list:

1)  The great twin club debacle and why I'm not a joiner
2)  Various and sundry attempts at getting Fit and loosing Weight
3)  Dressing twins and boy clothes in general
4)  The virtual toy exchange - or "what I should get the boys for Christmas"
5)  The pros and cons of having parents within driving distance
6)  Becoming a better photographer
7)  Doing every meme or blog blast that crosses my path.  Seriously.  Meme me.
8)  My huge, wonderful week of vacation before Thanksgiving
9)  What I do when I'm doing nothing
10)  Why our dog is sad

Is there anything, in particular, that you would like to hear about?  Any questions that you might have?  And, why I'm at it, if you're doing this posting-every-day thing, what are you planning to talk about?

It's All About The Dogs

It feels somewhat appropriate to start off this first day of NaBloPoMo by looking back rather than forwards.  Besides, despite the Halloween overload that everyone must be feeling, it's my obligation as both mother and blogger to say something about last night's festivities.

They're going to want to do it again.  Like tonight.  I can just see them coming toward me lugging their pumpkins and pointing at the door.  Be it known that this is the peril of going trick-or-treating when your kids are only 20 months old.

It's not about the candy for twins.  When we decided to take them out to the four houses immediately surrounding our home, I thought that the outing would be primarily for me, G, and our neighbors - a sort of "show of our tremendously cute twins" tour, monkey edition.  We would traipse around, chat, admire the costumes of other little kids, get a few lollipops and leave. 

In setting forth this plan, I underestimated the physical strength required to carry a 30 pound child up and down driveways on a way-too-warm-to-be-October southern evening.  Of course, both twins decided they wanted to be carried after we visited the second home.  There will be a rule, in future Halloween outings, that we go home when the boys decide that they no longer want to walk.  Or, we'll invest in one of the cute little wagons that some of our neighbors were using. 

As it was, we carried them from house to house.  We'd put them down on the porch.  They'd immediately cluster around the windows next to the door looking for the dogs.

The twins love dogs.  "Dog" was their first word and is shouted every time we hear a bark, collar jingle, or the sound of nails on hardwood.  Every neighbor we visited but one had a dog, so it was an evening of dog fun.  Of petting (gentle).  Of kisses.  Of being knocked down but clambering back up again. 

We did encounter one cat, but the twins just weren't interested.  Looking at the animal, Ty uttered one hopeful "doooogggg?", but lost interest when none of the identifying features were forthcoming.

All in all, it was a great Halloween.  I just hope that the neighbors are understanding when we show up again tonight. 

Supertwins!

Monkey Fight!

Sad Monkey Comes Inside