That Kind of Kid

I adored my first grade teacher fiercely.  In the only picture that I have of her, Ms. Poindexter is a middled-aged, spare woman with dark hair, squinting in the bright sunlight as three or four polyestered children dance around her and make faces at the camera.

I remember pinwheeling down the hall at Ms. Poindexter, after some sort of school break, and flinging myself around her waist in simple enjoyment of seeing her again.  Despite my devotion, I understood without being able to put into words that the feeling was not quite mutual.  Indeed, I'm not sure that she knew what to do with the first-grade me, an awkward kid with abrupt passions who couldn't quite sit still.

I remember running up and down the long red counter along one side of the classroom, doing a sort of jumping thing in the middle.  I remember scooting in and out of the reading station, unable to stay put and listen to the story being read out loud. 

I remember being stood in the corner, the worst punishment ever, as it required some attempt to harness my impulses and ever-moving thought.  Casting about for anything to do, I contemplated the big green roll of paper, taller than myself, which shared the corner with me.  Wetting one finger with my tongue, I started digging a hole through all of the layers of that roll with the dream of finally hitting upon the cardboard middle.  I remember concentrating so hard that I didn't even hear Ms. Poindexter calling me from my punishment.  I had no problem hearing her anger and disappointment over the ruined roll of construction paper.

Let loose at recess, I would run the length of the playground, all the way up to the higher area where the farmland began.  And, despite the creeping feeling that I didn't quite fit, that I seemed to operate on a different wavelength altogether, I would feel vibrantly happy.

In the third grade, I learned that I would be leaving that small elementary school for a much larger one all the way downtown, which my mother diligently took me to tour.  I never went to that school, where the classrooms smelled of mold.  That fall, as everyone I knew was bused into the city, I started going to private school.

The kids in that school had known each other since kindergarten.  The lines were drawn. I would sit by myself on the playground, imagining a series of pipes, snaking all the way to my mother's office which would somehow connect us, allowing me to see her and her to see me.  I started drawing, transfixed with the way that a squiggly line could become a profile.

Enforced isolation lent me this startling new ability to concentrate.  While I ended up failing my science project because I couldn't remember to bring in the piece of requisite lettuce to serve as bait for the guinea pig tracing it's way through the maze, I also spent hours in the art room, focused so intently that I never noticed the class leaving without me.  The teachers at this new school didn't know what to do with me either, but they let me craft my own path with a little guidance and not much interference.  In the fourth grade, they discovered that I had read all the books in the little library and brought ones from the bigger middle school down the hill, just for me.

Things got better at this school; they slowly got better, until the sixth grade, when they were good.  By that time, however, my habit of concentration through isolation had become well and truly ingrained.  I survived in the classroom by drawing until the period ended and I could learn the material from books on my own.

In my second year of graduate school, I participated in a psychology experiment because I knew some friends who were also doing it and I needed a little extra money.  It was a long test, about three hours.  A week later, however, they called me back.  "We think that you have ADD - Attention Deficit Disorder," they said, and offered me the option of more tests.  I declined the tests, but I did start reading.

And it made sense.  The way that I learned to learn made sense.  My frustrating inability to sit quietly through a lecture or find my keys five minutes after putting them down just clicked into place.  I began pouring through my early memories and seeing them in this light in order to recognize my younger self as the brave, resourceful little girl that she was.

This post was written for Julie's Hump Day Hummmm, and it came out much more bleak than I thought it would.  I promise happy thoughts and FOUND Little Tikes basketballs (thanks, Jody) for tomorrow (or the next day).

Lost

"Ball," said Ty-baby yesterday as I buckled Hen into the mini-van.

"Ball," said Ty-baby, again.

"Uh..hum," I said, concentrating on the squirming Hen.

"BALL, BYE," exclaimed Ty-baby, who had already been fastened into his car-seat.  I didn't say anything.  My cell phone rang and, finishing up with Hen, I answered it, opened the driver's side door, talked a few minutes, hung up, and drove away.

On arriving home, I got out, got Hen out, got Ty-baby out and brought them upstairs for their nap.  It wasn't until later as we played before dinner that I realized what had happened. 

"Ball," said Ty-baby, standing in our living room. 

"Ball, please," I said, handing him a big, blue ball.

"No.  No. Ball," Ty-baby replied, shoving away the proffered ball with a wave of his hand.  "This ball?," I said, holding up a small, red ball.  "No. Ball," Ty-baby said.  It was only then that I realized what he wanted. 

For Christmas, we bought the boys a Little Tikes basketball hoop that stands about three feet off the floor.  In the beginning, both boys took the little orange ball that came with the hoop all the way up to edge and dropped it, slowly into the basket.  It was easily the slowest dunk in existence, but one that pleased both of them.   However, Ty-baby learned to jump.  And, then, he thought it would be cool to throw the ball and jump at the same time.  Within the last two weeks, he's learned to jump and throw the ball in the basketball hoop from about three or four feet away.

My two-year old has a jump-shot.  It's so cool.

He loves the orange ball that came with the hoop and tries to take it everywhere with him.  That day, it was rolling around the floor of the mini-van because I wouldn't let him take it into the store, for fear it would be lost.  As I was buckling Hen-Bug into the car seat, however, the ball was lost.  It had bounced out of the mini-van and Ty-baby saw it go.

I went back to the store this morning.  "Did you happen to see a little orange ball bouncing around yesterday," I asked.  "I think that it fell out of our mini-van."

I suddenly had the attention of all three women working there.  They did see the ball rolling around the immaculate streets of the outside mall yesterday and wondered where it had come from.  They noticed it nest in the gutter right across from the store, but it wasn't there now.

"The street cleaners probably got it last night," said one of the women. 

"Well, I'm going to look, anyway," I said.

And look, I did.  In the blustery morning, I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket and walked around the clean, empty streets of the mall, which had sprung up from farmland two years ago, seemingly overnight.  Not catching any hint of orange, I wandered in back of the stores, along the bed of the forgotten creek overgrown with grass and flanked by pointless, broken "tree protection area" signs.  The ball would stand out against the grey sky and the brown grass, perhaps kicked there by someone too tired to stoop down to retrieve it, but all I saw were fragments of paper and trash, blown there by the wind.

Saturday Night Reading

Both Hen-Bug and Ty-Baby love those lead-laden Thomas the Train toys with the little wooden tracks.  The joys of the train track hold them longer than anything else.  They gather the trains, hold them, and, when the coast is clear of other kids, run them along the track's hills and valleys. 

I thought that I would build on this love by buying some of the Thomas books.  No sooner did I start reading these out loud, than I ran into a sentence like this one:  "Peep, Peep, said Thomas."  This seemed very odd to me.  In fact, when reading the story out loud, I paused and substituted "choo-choo" for "peep,peep."  I just didn't think that "peep, peep" was a very train-like sound. 

In High School, I spent four months in Amsterdam.  While I was there, I learned many things, one of which was that cows in the Netherlands didn't say "mooooo."  Instead, they go "kooooooo."  So, that's my question.  Do trains in England go peep?  I just don't get it otherwise.

**************
I usually spend Saturday nights reading and grading papers for my composition courses.  It's a quiet time where I get to use my brain and I really enjoy it.  This group of papers was written for the argument section of the course.  Students are allowed to chose their topic as long as it has two (or more) possible sides.  I give a great deal of counsel about choosing a topic.  I advise students to select something for which they can find evidence and to steer away from topics which ultimately boil down to an individual belief.  These are the topics around which argument swirls but never settles because they involve a central issue which cannot be resolved.  Despite this counsel, I will get a few of these papers.

I usually read these papers carefully, giving advice to the students about slightly twisting their topic to make it more appropriate to the assignment.  However, I came up completely short tonight upon reading this title:  "Homosexual Americans Should Not Be Allowed to Raise Children."

I haven't been able to read any further.

Believe me, students write arguments that conflict with my personal beliefs all the time.  Monitoring personal feelings and reading the paper for the argument, evidence, structure, and mechanics is essential.  Sometimes, I think that not agreeing with my students makes me a better reader of their papers.  It's the papers voicing opinions that I endorse that I have to read more closely, making sure that the student really has hit all of the requisite points and refuted the opposition. 

Maybe I can't even start reading this paper because it involves children.  Maybe it's because I've known parents, who happen to be gay, and who love and struggle and worry about their children just as I do.  I just don't want to hear this argument, much the less critique it, at least right now.

Next Stage

Yesterday, we learned that our nanny will be leaving us when her contract expires.

I took one minute to express our dismay and the next five hours trying to arrange alternative childcare. 

The best case scenario would be to enroll the twins in a preschool which they could attend a few times a week.  However, this would require that we find someone who wanted to work the precise hours that they were gone and be able to provide transportation.  After looking around a little bit, I realized that this person would be hard to find.

I thought about another nanny, but decided not to follow this path for several reasons.  First and foremost was the simple fact that we need some sort of stability in our childcare arrangements.  I've been lucky enough to keep our nannies for a year at a time, but who knows with the third one?   She could stay for a few weeks to a few months.  She could be great in person, but not-so-great when alone with the twins.  Hiring a nanny takes a great deal of trust and faith in yourself as a judge of human character.  As I'm only fair-to-middling in both of these areas, I figure that my number is just about up.

So, I called around to a few day-care facilities.  Most laughed in my face when I mentioned needing full-time care for twins in merely a few month's time.  However, one did not.  Granted, they're relatively far away from us, but I got a good vibe from the facility when we toured it.  They maintain a low child-to-caregiver ratio and seemed to respect the parents' wishes on issues ranging from binkies to potty training.  Each child eats meals prepared by the parents, so we wouldn't have to worry about the twins being forced to consume mommy's yucky food while everyone else chomps down fish sticks.

If it sounds like I'm all hale-fellow-well-met about this change, I'm not.  I've never made a decision that I haven't second-guessed thousands of times over again and this one is no exception.  I'm worried about my two little introverts in a full class.  I'm concerned that the longer commute will mean less time with the four of us as a family.  However, I think that they'd benefit from some of the activities and lessons taught by qualified folks. 

I hope it will be okay.  And, if not, at least I've learned one lesson from our first nanny.  Be alert to trouble and, when you see it, make plans to change.  While change is scary, it can also be a very good thing.

Private Pee

As the youngest of four boys, G. had very few things of his own.  Those things that he did have could be taken and broken and handed back at any time (or not) - a sort of rough, compulsory sharing.   

One of my favorite stories involves G., with his brothers, being taken to McDonald's by a favorite aunt.  On being asked what he wanted to eat, G. voiced his preference for not just fries, but private fries.  Rather than a pile of fries dumped in the middle of the table where the bulk went to the fastest and the biggest, G. wanted his own little stash to enjoy at his leisure.

This story explains a lot about G.  My hearing this story and understanding G. still as a boy in search of private fries has been one of the keys to our marriage.

Although it doesn't make me exactly comfortable, I've become used to the boys barging into the bathroom and giggling as I pee.  On the other hand, G. has managed to circumvent this particular parental right of passage by strategically staging bathroom visits and, when that technique fails, locking the door.

One of the many decisions we made this weekend, partially as a result of the massive conversation which followed my complete and total loss of cool, was to start potty-training the boys.  They'll be two in less than a month and seem to meet most of the criteria.  So, this weekend, I started following advice read on Internet potty-training sites (because you should always believe what you read on the Internet).  When the boys followed me into the bathroom, I started talking through the steps involved.

I will spare you this conversation.

"I'm not doing that," said G. 

It's fine with me, as long as G. realizes that he's the one who has to teach them to pee standing up. 

Aside from talking through the steps involved in going to the bathroom, though, I'm not quite sure what else will help the boys make the departure from diapers.  So, I'm interested to hear your favorite tip.  What worked for you? 

And, in return for all your wonderful advice and for the words I so needed to hear on yesterday's post, I bring you this!  SNOW!  South of the Mason-Dixon line!

Those of you who live far, far, far north of the Mason-Dixon line and have been seeing snow for months now don't need to thank me.

Into Consideration

I don't know whether it came through clearly, but we had a hard, hard day yesterday.  Between catching glares for daring to bring two rambunctious toddlers to the library and struggling to do my job while caring for those toddlers, I was exhausted by the time it came for the twins to go to bed.  Rather than sleeping that day away, though, I woke up this morning in the same horrible, cranky mood.

I got up.  I got the twins up.  I got them dressed.  We all went downstairs where I made them breakfast and cleaned up afterwards.  As they were playing, though, I made the mistake of checking email on the Blackberry where a co-worker left a message that needed to be addressed immediately.  I pulled out my computer, as the twins started screaming, and tried to hastily type a message.  Hen-bug grabbed for the Blackberry which slipped through his grasp to the floor.  The battery fell out whereupon Ty-baby ran away with it.

It was at this moment that G. came downstairs.  Where might he have been all this time?  Oh.  He was sleeping in.  Although I will give him the gift of a Saturday morning lie-in occasionally, today was not one of those days.  I lost it.  I lost it more thoroughly than I've lost it in months by screaming, "WHEREWEREYOU MYBLACKBERRYISINFOURPIECES ANDYOU'RESLEEPINGWHILEIDOEVERYTHING  ICAN'TDO EVERYTHING ICAN'TTAKE ITANYMORE."  And I grabbed my computer and ran upstairs.

Not to sound self-pitying, but it's hard folks.  It's hard to work and be a mom and a wife.  It's hard when the nanny calls out without much notice leaving G. and I to scramble.  It's hard to keep your cool when the twins are screaming and undisciplined and you're wondering whether you made a huge mistake by working in the first place.  We can go months and months thinking that the twins are fine and we're fine, but then comes a day like today which draws everything into question and we realize that we're not doing as well as we think we are.

Oh, Truck

You know it's not a good day when your husband's favorite part of it was going to the DMV.   We never would have gone to the DMV if my husband didn't forget to renew his driver's license, thus giving me not only an excuse to drive everywhere but also the perfect retort to any attempt at back-seat driving.   We also had to take the twins to the DMV because our nanny asked for the day off so she could drive two states South in order to purchase a new car.

An alternative title to this post, now that I think about it, could be "fun and games with cars."

They had closed the little, run-down closet of a DMV nearer our house so we had to drive into the city to go to the big, fancy, urban DMV.  They had rows and rows of chairs!  Light-up numbers over each station!  Hordes and hordes of DMV people!  The twins were in heaven, simply playing with the ropes, used to make sure that the line in front of the head DMV person snaked appropriately.  They weren't your usual ropes, but pretty, red velvet covered ropes, more typical of your average Oscar ceremony than the DMV.  Since there wasn't anyone waiting, the twins played with the ropes, touching them to make them swing and running under them.  I stood within a foot of them, ready to jump if the play got out of hand.

It was then that I realized that the prettiness of the urban DMV had made the people who worked there mean, mean I tell you.  Two minutes into their play, a uniformed woman told me either to hold my children or take them out of the DMV.  Well, since we were in the middle of a rather seedy strip mall, I had only one choice.  I herded the twins to the very back row of the rows and rows and rows of green chairs and tried to entice them into sitting.  This, predictably, did not go over very well.

The twins got a little louder.

It was only a matter of seconds before we came to the notice of a second DMV worker.  "You have to make those kids be quiet," he said, "or take them out of the DMV."  I tried to tell him that they would be a lot happier (and coincidently, quieter) if they did not have to sit in a chair.  This did not fly very well.  At the same moment that I was plummetting with the DMV, Ty-baby spotted the picture of a large SUV.

"TRUCK!!," he announced.

I should take this moment to tell you that Ty-baby loves trucks.  He knows absolutely what they are and identifies them at every opportunity.  The only problem is that he can't say "tr."  He says something else.....something else that sounds like a Bad Word.   

Later in the day, this word would also be pulled out at the library, which we left in haste when I couldn't take the angry stares of fellow patrons any more.  Seriously, people, I would love it if my kids sat down in the little chairs and happily read The Little Prince rather than running around the waist-high shelves.  If you have a technique for making this happen, let me know.  Otherwise, don't sit near the children's section and glare at people who are at the end of their ropes to begin with.

But, back to the DMV.

The unhappy DMV person became even less happy, even as I hastened to praise Ty-baby for pointing out the lovely, black, TRuck.  I was really missing our little, friendly DMV where students sat on the floor doing homework and kids bobbed next to their parents taking tests.  I didn't know what to say to the DMV as I could either have my kids sit down or be quiet, but not both.  As a result, I did the only thing that I knew to do and excused myself.

Holding one twin and dragging the other by the hand, I went into the huge, empty women's bathrooom where we played loudly and happily for the next ten minutes, flushing the occasional low-flow toilet.  It was a wonderful, welcome relief.

Late To The Party

Too often, I find myself running late.  Forced to park a quarter mile away, I hurry past rows of parked cars lining the neighborhood street before turning into the driveway and proceeding up the front walkway.  I always hesitate a minute before knocking.  Does my hair look okay?  I weigh what I've brought the hostess in my hands.  Will it be enough?  Could it be too much?  I listen for a moment to the din inside the home and raise my clenched hand to the door.

I've been feeling this way whenever I consider the baby shower being through by Mad and Jen in honor of their child, volunteerism.  Here I am -- a little late, a little windblown, and, as usual, hesitant.

A few months ago, after reading Jen's blog and thinking a good bit, I decided to give money to anyone I met who needed it.  I don't mean hundreds of dollars.  I mean the dollar or two of spare change that most folks have in their wallets, myself included. 

This decision represents a change for me.  I usually either look away or mutter something that ends in "no" when asked for money.  I rationalized this behavior by figuring that the money would probably go to booze or that it was just a con. 

However, I've slowly been realizing that the use for the money didn't matter.  Anyone who's willing to brave cold stares or the feelings of invisibility that arise after being looked past for the hundredth time in a day must have a really valid reason for standing on that street corner.  Even if they don't, even if they have a roll of hundreds in their pocket, I consider that they've earned my money by simply braving the chance that I'd say "no" or, worst than that, nothing.

I thought that I'd end up giving away about five or ten dollars a week.  Much to my surprise, after months of carefully checking my wallet each week to make sure that I had money in it to give away and staying alert to all around me, I'd given away exactly one buck.

Considering my gift for the baby shower, I thought of all of this. The fact of the matter is that I don't see poverty.  Even when I did drive to work, I traveled to a swanky office park that wasn't even served by public transportation.  I go to the supermarket.  I go to the gym.  When I go downtown, it's to the children's museum and I park right across the street.   

So, for the baby shower, I recognize that I need to do something that would truly be in service of those less fortunate than myself.  And, eventually, I needed to involve the boys.  Given my odd schedule and need for travel, not to mention working a forty hour week, teaching online, and trying to spend some time with my family, it's been hard to find something that would work.  I've looked around, read all the posts on Jen's blog and contacted my church to see if they had any volunteering ideas.  I'm still in the process of finding something that would work for me, especially given my other commitments.

In the meantime, until I find something where I can put in a few hours a month, I'm going to make bears.  I can easily make a bear on a plane or in an airport.  I can make a bear while watching TV with my husband.  Since I'm a better seamstress than I am a knitter, I might start by stitching a bear or two, but I might eventually progress onto knitting as it's a little easier to transport.

Wish me luck.  Let's hope that my bears actually look like bears!  I'll let you know how it goes.  And, in the meantime,  I'm still carrying around that extra buck or two in my wallet.  Maybe, at some point, I'll find someone who needs it.

Getting Better Slowly

Ty-baby didn't scream as long as usual last night after I put him in the crib.

That is, I don't think he did.  I had a hard time hearing him over the din of G's fortieth birthday party.  And that, I think is the trick of reducing the guilt that seems to accompany "crying it out" like a bad shadow.  Make sure that you have friends shouting downstairs as they watch the football game and drink.  Put the baby to bed and join them.

I didn't expect to have much fun at G's party.  As we married later in life, G. and I have three basic categories of friends.  My friends.  His friends.  Our friends.  The last category is the smallest and needs to have some attention paid to it.  The middle category features the drinking - golf - football watching buddies that G. mostly hung around with before we were married.  I enjoy hanging out with these folks, but don't see them very often, especially after we had the boys.  It was this crowd that G. asked me to invite to his party.

I had fun.  I didn't really expect to.  In fact, I had been complaining to myself for more than a week about having to prepare for this party. Football doesn't really hold my attention.  The minute that I popped the boys into bed, however, I felt myself relax.  I had a few drinks.  I watched the game.  I talked a bit.  I had no idea how much I needed non-kid-related, face-to-face adult conversation. 

I feel much better.  I actually think that Ty-baby cried for much shorter amount of time last night.  We'll see if it's better tonight, but I have a feeling that it will be.  And, if it's not, I feel that I'm much better equipped to handle it.

Three in a Row

Never before have I thought for an instance that we could ever wind up on Super Nanny.

We have not handled Ty-Baby's sleep trauma well.

After letting him cry for almost an hour the first night, we managed to convince ourselves that it was a fluke.  As a result, we were not prepared for the same ragged howling last night.  When Ty-baby started crying again, without showing any signs of slowing, we broke like a pair of dry twigs. 

Or, rather, G. broke. 

He went upstairs intending to sooth Ty-baby and came back downstairs, carrying Ty-baby.  Ten seconds later, Hen-Bug, noticing that he was alone in the room, started screaming as well.  "You can't bring down one baby and leave the other in the room," I said.  "It's not fair."  As a result, we had the babies downstairs, happily playing with trains, eating gluten-free cookies, and watching Project Runway until about 8pm.  G. and I were somewhat less happy.  We were even more unhappy when we put the tired twins to be at 8:30pm only to have Ty-baby cry for 45 minutes.

We surrendered our principles, and we didn't even get results.  That sucks.

So, tonight, we went back to principles. I lay Ty-baby down in the crib and put Hen-bug in bed.  When I turned around, Ty-baby had gotten up and was holding onto the crib bars.  His eyes shimmered with gathering tears.  I bent over, hugged Ty-baby for a long time, and then stepped away as the corners of his mouth turned down and the tears spilled over.  Ty-baby's crying started before I even left the room.

I know that Ty-baby needs to learn to sooth himself to sleep.  At almost two, he also needs to learn that we're the ones in charge, which is what this is all about, I think.  I just wish that we didn't need to leave him alone as part of the lesson.  When I think about it, however, I realize that Hen-bug and Ty-baby are only alone when they sleep. 

Although the twins sleep in the same room, we're all alone when we close our eyes and start fading away from the thoughts, sounds, and colors of waking life.  It's difficult to do.  It's only when I'm really, truly tired that I seek out sleep.  Otherwise, I lie in my bed, with either the computer or a magazine propped up on my knees, clinging to the day with everything I have.

Ty-Baby's Bedtime

I had set aside this evening to write a thoughtful, well-reasoned post about, perhaps, our adventures in gluten-free land, Ty-baby's emerging language, or G's upcoming 40th birthday.

But I can't do any of these things because Ty-baby is screaming.

He's screaming so loud that his voice is cracking, fraying at the edges, and I have no doubt that his face is beet red and tear stained.  We put him to bed about thirty minutes ago.  Two minutes after the realization that he was alone, except for his brother, the screaming started and it hasn't stopped yet. 

Sitting down here and typing while Ty-baby screams is excruciating.

My kids have always been good sleepers.  While I assert that we've successfully cried it out since they were little guys, it's always with the caveat that they've only ever cried for under ten minutes.  As far as sleep goes, I never hesitate to admit that we've had it relatively easy.

Ty-baby's now crying for his Daddy.

I've rarely wavered in our approach to sleep.  A handful of times, when the twins were very little, I've taken one of them out of the crib to try to settle them to sleep in our bed, but I haven't had to do this for ages.  As they've grown older, we'll step into the room and sooth them before quietly leaving again.  Since they turned one, almost a year ago, we have not taken them out of their cribs and have not needed to do so.

I hear G. moving about upstairs. He hears Ty-baby, too.

I'm sure that we're dealing with different issues now, at almost two, then we were dealing with when they were babies.  I'm sure that there's a certain amount of will and intent involved in this struggle.  Ty-baby, for whatever reason, does not want to go to sleep.  G. and I need him to do so.   We're tired, too.  We're ready to relax and have dinner.  We want to talk to each other and watch last night's Daily Show.  In the face of Ty-baby's constant crying, however, these reasons sound selfish.  The decision to set a standard bedtime for the boys appears arbitrary and overly academic.

Ty-baby now has a period of silence.

It's been 48 minutes since bedtime.

He's screaming again, but without the edge.

We're hoping that he'll go to sleep soon.  We wonder, as parents do, if we're doing the right thing.   We've gone into Ty-baby's room twice to comfort him and make sure that nothing is wrong.  Nothing is wrong except that he's in the crib and wants to be out of it.   We want him to be in it.  We struggle both with Ty-baby and ourselves.  What would be so bad about taking him out of his crib?  What are rules made for but to be broken?  We're on the edge.

There's silence now.   

G. goes up to check.

He's asleep.

At Least There's Cheese

Hen-Bug went to the allergist yesterday.

The pediatrician suggested that we make appointments for both boys after learning that I'm allergic to shellfish. It's not like I'm planning on plying the boys with lobster any time soon, but I was curious about whether they would vomit copiously upon ingesting it for the first time.  I think that the boys would appreciate my informing them of any allergies before they ordered shrimp and barfed on a first date.

It turns out that Hen-Bug is allergic to shellfish, particularly scallops, but that's not the half of it.  He's also highly allergic to fish and we've been told to avoid giving him tuna, specifically.  We've been asked to withhold peanuts until age three, at which time he'll go into the allergist for further testing. 

This is all fine.  It doesn't rock our world.

But the allergist's face told me that we had more to go, and we did.

Hen-Bug's test showed a mild reaction to wheat and oats, so we've been asked to monitor his gluten intake.  According to the allergist, this means that Hen should not have more than one serving of gluten per day.  If we feed him oatmeal for breakfast, he shouldn't have pasta for lunch or crackers for snack.  This creates quite a problem because that's exactly what we feed the boys: Oatmeal.  Mac n' Cheese.  Crackers.  Fruit.  Veggies.  Ravioli.  Bread. 

Avoid gluten? 

You've got to be kidding me.

I'm convinced that Beck fixes nutritious gluten free meals balanced on one toe.

If I have one area of laziness in my life (and I have many), it's cooking.  I don't make food as much as I procure it.  Box.  Restaurant.  It doesn't matter.  Eighty percent of the food that we eat is procured.  And this bothers me.  It's bothered me in the past and it bothers me now.  It's something that I need to do something about.

Tomorrow.

Today, I needed to find something for Hen-Bug to eat.  On Chris' advice, I went to Whole Foods.  "They have an entire aisle of gluten free products," she said.  And they did.  I bought gluten free snack bars, cookies, mac n' cheese, pasta, waffles, and french toast.  With all these boxes filling the freezer, I'm feeling a little bit better.  When Hen-Bug gets hungry, he'll have something to eat.  However, this is a stop-gap for many reasons, the most prominent being that buying gluten-free food in boxes is not at all cheap.  It just buys me a little time, which is worth it.

Welcome Back, Me

Although we encountered the typical annoyances that stem from five adults inhabiting a too-small space for more than three days in a row, the trip to my parent's house for Christmas turned out to be a huge success. 

There's something to be said for completely unplugging from everything, including the cell phone, and allowing yourself to be dragged to the beach, the pool, and out to lunch.  I would have liked to check in during the twin's nap time, but G. had to get out of the house every day just to maintain his sanity and quench his desire for fried foods (hence, the lunch).  After a while, letting my day just revolve around the twin's schedule seemed natural and pleasant.  The unbelievably good weather helped, too.

The flight down to Florida was okay, mainly because we were super prepared with games and toys and DVDs.   We knew that we had a four hour layover in Atlanta.  We marshaled our energy and were ready for twin tiredness, crankiness, and need for entertainment.  If the twins found some of that entertainment by leaning over our seats and blowing raspberries at the people in the next row, this otherwise unacceptable behavior was deemed largely okay.  It was, after all, two days before Christmas and everyone was in a festive mood.  There were also numerous kids flying by themselves, especially in the unspoken "family section" in the back of the plane.  These kids seemed eager to amuse themselves by amusing Hen-bug and Ty-baby, for which we were really, really grateful.

The trip up from Florida, back to our home, was disaster on wheels.  Our first problem was that we were tired.  Really, really, tired.  While at my parent's home, we slept in the only bed available to us, which happened to be a really small twin.  Now, I don't know about you, but I barely find a twin bed comfortable when I'm alone.  Put another human being (especially a large one) in that bed and sleep becomes almost an impossibility.  When my sister wondered why we didn't just "snuggle" as her and her husband did, I replied that G. and I aren't the snuggling type, which is true.

So, we were tired, but we were also unprepared for the trip home.  I don't know what I was thinking when I put the twins in the cheap CVS brand diapers.  I do know what I thought when I lifted Hen-Bug out of the stroller only to notice the big wet spot on the seat and feel it, through my shirt, a moment later after settling him on my hip.  I thought, "Damn." My diaper bag only held two more CVS diapers (useless, useless, useless), some wipes, and a big, plastic pig into which one could deposit big, plastic coins.  It did not have anything which could be worn by either a baby or an adult.  This is how Hen-bug ended up wearing a light green onesie, purchased for $11.00 at the Atlanta airport, which read:  "Someone who loves me went to Atlanta and bought this shirt."  It should have read:  "Someone who loves me went to Atlanta and bought this shirt to avoid being covered in pee."  Next to Ty-baby in his comfortable weather-appropriate turtleneck and sweatpants, Hen-bug, in the onesie, didn't look much loved at all.

The last, and final mistake, was taking pity on ourselves and our pee-covered condition to upgrade to first class.  This can be easily done on AirTran, by just forking over an additional $40.00 a ticket.  However, we had forgotten that we were traveling on New Year's Eve.  Most of our fellow travelers who decided to upgrade did so, apparently, under the assumption that they would just redeem their $40.00 from AirTran by ordering numerous free drinks.  Just let it be said that a bunch of crazy drunken folks flying on New Year's Eve are much more irritated by screaming babies (and, oh yes, did they scream) than unaccompanied minors flying a few days before Christmas.

Hence, my New Year's Resolution, which is the only one, other than the perpetual effort to loose weight, that I will make.  We will go back to the island again, even after my parents move, but when we do so, the twins will be sweetly settled in their own seats.  And, we'll either be in the mini-van or in Coach.