Memories

Between paying the nanny for her remaining vacation and paying the new daycare center, we paid out over $1,000 in child care for the week.  This would have been fine had we had actual childcare.

In case you were wondering why I didn't post long rambling letters about the second, third, and fourth days of daycare, it was because the center decided that Ty-baby's cough and slighly runny nose meant he was sick and sent him home.  They added Hen-bug for good measure.

Not having childcare is stressful.  It's hard to work a job, manage a house, and keep two toddlers from swinging from the chandeliers. 

I truly hope that next week is better, that the twins are better.

Spending time in their company, however, made me realize the things that are important to them.  They are, in this order: daddy, trains, balls (with hoops), and dog.  They remember these things and can recount them.  These are are their memories, or at least, the memories that they can tell me about. 

"Dog, dog, dog" cries Ty-baby as we drive down the street in the van. 

"I see no dog," I tell him.  Then, I remember that one of our neighbors was walking his dog when we left the neighborhood about twenty minutes ago.

Recalling the giant balloons that heralded the grand opening two weeks ago, Hen-bug cries "boon" as we pull into the gym parking lot.

As the family archivist, it stands to reason that I should record not only my own memories, but their memories as well - memories of red balls, choo-choos, and a cold late afternoon in the yard.

Now, Two

Our boys turned two with the maximum amount of fanfare, including a birthday cake that turned their poo green.  I'm not talking any maybe-green shade either, but a bright summer grass green.

We were all excited over here.

I'm assuming that it was the cake because the deep blue icing was so strong that it stained their hands and mouths blue for hours following the party, making the boys into two little Goth toddlers.

The cake before the cutting:

Goth-Baby:

Other than the scary blue icing, the party did go off fairly hitchless and the boys had fun playing on the gym equipment. 

Following the party, we opened presents at home with the family. 

The celebration continued into Monday as my parents, the boys, and I travelled to the next county.  There was a little something for everyone:  my folks looked at new homes; the boys saw cows; and I got to hang out with all of them.  Walking along the brick paths of the neighborhood, clutching a little hand in each of mine and come-hither mooing at the cows in the distance, I felt perfectly at home and perfectly comfortable.

Two is going to be good.

Countdown

I've spent the morning running around collecting the last few gift bag items for Hen and Ty's second birthday party tomorrow.

I would like to think that I learned from their first birthday.

The five kids invited to the party quickly overwhelmed our home, which shrunk to the size of a rather small box.  I decided then, no matter what, the second birthday party would be outside the house and be short.

Even in the South, it's not a good idea to plan for an outdoor birthday party in February.  As a result, we rented out the little inexpensive gym where the kids take classes.  Although our event is pretty much as low-key as it gets, I've been having an interesting time adjusting to the world of kid parties.

Over the last two weeks, I've had to figure out the answers to the following questions:

1) Who do you invite?  We decided to keep this party focused on friends who have kids around the age of the boys.  However, this seemingly unassailable paradigm started to fray when we approached the gym class that the boys attend.  Who do you invite?  Everyone?  Even people who don't talk to you?   I didn't have space for the entire class, so I slipped invitations to the two parents who were friendly and whose children were close in age to the boys.  This might have been a faux pas, but we only have two gym classes left, so at least it's a faux pas with fairly minimal consequences.

2) What do you put in the Gift Bags?  We went to a birthday party two weeks ago were we got pens, pads, a chalkboard, and a CD with the birthday boy's favorite songs.  The CD was really well done, but it got me thinking about copyright and the music industry.  Would somebody sue me for distributing 15 CD's with "Dancing with Wags the Dog" on them?  I didn't want to find out.  As a result, we have chalk, noisemakers, bubbles, and bouncy balls.  On seeing the bouncy balls, G. made his only contribution to the composition of the gift bags by saying:  "Weren't those things outlawed in the 80's?  I mean, don't they zoom around and then hit the kid upside the head?" 

3) What do you do about Hen and Ty's hair?  If you're going to have bad hair any time in your life, it's probably the best idea to have it when you're under five.  The twins have really, really bad hair.  They get it from their dad, who also has about 4,000 cowlicks.  We used to keep it short until I decided to grow it out and now it's in that awkward in-between stage.  It's going to have to stay there.  At least they'll have something to laugh about when they see the pictures in ten years.

It's been so busy around here with the transition to daycare, the party, and my work responsibilites, which have suddenly skyrocketed from middling to vast, that I haven't had much opportunity to think about the fact that my little guys are beginning to be not so little.  Although I'm verging more on the anxious than the melancholic these days, lack of time to rue its passage might be a good thing.

worry, worry, me

G. and I discussed several of our "book" entries tonight.  It's only been a few days, yet we had three pages worth of comments.  Most of them were gotten through rather quickly and some of them were old issues that we've had since the beginning.

Last night, Super Nanny featured a husband and wife who confessed to having vast difficulties in their marriage, but seemingly not so difficult that they couldn't be solved within the hour.  This couple had been married six years, just one year more than G. and I.  As they discussed their troubles to a tearful, sympathetic Super Nanny, the husband turned to the wife and said, "You've changed.  You're just a different person since we've been married."

Our reaction was to laugh out loud.  It wasn't just because the husband was staring at the wife's boobs as he uttered this line, it was our mutual acknowledgment that, in many respects, we haven't changed.  He's still neat, a good cook, and fearful of people (me) messing with his stuff.  I'm still forgetful, messy, impulsive, exuberant, and anxious.

Recently, anxiety has been absolutely running away with me.

We've told our nanny that she can leave whenever she gets a job in her home state.  We've arranged for child care and, for various personal reasons, she really does need to go home.  She's been good to our family and we both want to help her out as much as possible.

It should be okay.  I've arranged for the twins to attend daycare at a recently opened center.  Even though I have little choice, I've been questioning my decision to the extent that I can't fall asleep at night. 

1) Daycare is so difficult to find in these parts that the center is about 30 minutes away from us (one way) on the highway.  We could get the twins into a much closer center, but it wouldn't be until September and they want a full month's deposit (well over 2K) in order to secure the spot.  If we stole from savings, we could secure the spot.  However, it would mean moving the twins to a closer center after they've been in the far-away center for only six or seven months.  Is cutting our commute worth possibly leaving a place that they've become accustomed to?

2) My decision not to get another nanny and send the little guys to daycare instead has been driving me crazy.  How are they going to fare in a situation where there's one adult to every seven children and there are fourteen (14?!?!) children in the room?  They've been two on one since they've been babies and, while they seem to play fairly well alongside other children, I'm still worried about this.  I think the part that drives G. crazy is that there's nothing much we can do about this.  We've already decided that they would benefit more from learning to get along in a group and having some sort of curriculum than being cared for another nanny.  But, I'm second-guessing this decision.  I'm third-guessing and fourth- guessing it, too.

3)  For their entire life, I've pretty much been in the next room.  I could hear what was going on and keep tabs on the boys.  Nevertheless, I completely missed the fact that our first nanny was not treating them with the kindness and patience which they deserved.  I'm going to be 30 minutes away.  How can I ever keep track of the twins?  What if something happens at the center?  Some kid beats up on them or a caregiver is unkind?  How will I know?

I don't know how one is supposed to deal with these sorts of questions, especially as our choices seem to be so limited.  So, not knowing how to deal with them, I toss, I turn, I poke my husband awake in the middle of the night, and I get an entry in the book.

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.

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.

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.

Hurricane Hen

It's been relatively easy to fix the problem of the missing set of keys.  I had duplicates of everything except for the keys to the Miata and a locksmith can replace those for under a hundred dollars.

I've had a much more difficult time with Hen-bug.

The "mine, mine, mine" which was so cute last night, persisted into today.  Everything Hen-bug saw was his - from my toothbrush to his brother's toy car.  When it was denied, he would burst into angry sobs.  In fact, he probably spent most of the day screaming and crying and stamping his feet in frustration. 

Immediately after we returned from his successful checkup with the pediatrician, I handed the boys over to G. and took a break.  After dealing with Hen's anger in the hospital, I felt that my patience had run completely out.  I had expected it to be better at home.  It wasn't.

It could be as simple as terrible twos hitting early.

Or, it could be something more complex. 

I think that the hospital stay might have rocked Hen's world.  He's gotten cranky when we've traveled and this wasn't traveling.  His brother wasn't around.  G. and I were only together with him only a small fragment of the time.  He had to be tied up to a crazy amount of wires for the better part of two days.  His routine and everything he was used to seeing every day was thrown out the window.

Oddly enough, we took Hen-bug to the same hospital where I stayed for five weeks while pregnant.  For the longest time, I had trouble driving past that hospital.  It was hard to take the Bug there. Even while living there for the better part of three days and taking care of the Bug, I stayed as far away as possible from the maternity wards.  It never even crossed my mind to visit any of the nurses I had gotten to know while I was there.  Actually, it did cross my mind as a nice idea.  It just wasn't going to happen.

I know how I feel about being in the hospital.  However precious I find my home, my routine, and the people around me, that these things are also transitory and fragile.  They might seem to be cemented by the repetition of thousands of moments, but they could disappear in an instant.  I wonder if this is something similar to that experienced by the Bug.

If so, I'm sorry.  And I hope that it's better tomorrow.

Home Again

After two nights and three days in the hospital, Hen-Bug finally made it through a nap without needing to be put on oxygen.  Just when I was thinking that we were set for a third night, he took a surprise second nap and passed the breathing test.

Hen-Bug was really ready to go.  As he felt better, he got increasingly more irritable.  He didn't want to be held.  He didn't want to be put down.  He certainly didn't want to go in the room, but he didn't want to be out of it, either.  He would knock away anything offered, with a scream.

One of the nurses told me that Hen-bug's mood was as a result of missing his brother.

This was proven untrue when G. showed up at the end of the hall with Ty-baby.  Ty let out a shout and raced down the hall.  Hen-bug did likewise.  For a moment, G. and I thought that they would meet to hug in the middle.  Passing by each other without a second glance, they wrapped themselves around the knees of the opposite parent.   G. and I smiled over their heads.

When Hen-bug got home, he ran around claiming everything as his.  "Mine," he proclaimed, clutching at the doorknob.  The dog was "mine."  So were the carpet, walls, and kitchen chairs.  He ran around the first floor three times, changing "mine", "mine", "mine", "mine." 

I think that it was "baby-speak" for "I'm glad to be home."

We do have to go back tomorrow, though, just to make sure that Hen-bug is still on the mend and to find my keys.  Hen decided, sometime during the hospital stay that the keys were also "mine" and put them somewhere completely mysterious. 

Ordinarily, I would be completely freaking out about this.  My. Keys. Are. Gone.  I am going to have to replace my keys.  How do you even do that?  But the minute that my mind starts chanting this, a competing sound drowns it out.  My Hen-bug is here.  At home.  With G. and myself and Ty-baby.

It's not all easy, but it's all okay.

Breathe.

The good thing about being fearful all the time, expecting the worst all the time, is that when something bad happens, you're not surprised.  In fact, you're downright efficient.

Because Hen-bug had some bad congestion, I made him an appointment with the pediatrician.  So little did I think of the congestion that I didn't even go to the appointment.  I stayed home with the sleeping Ty-baby and caught up on some work.  The nanny called me twice.  The first time she said that they were giving Hen-bug an oxygen saturation test, to determine the amount of oxygen he was able to pull into his lungs.  I asked if I should drive on over.  "No," she said.  With the second call, she put the pediatrician on the line.  G. and I drove on over.

Just because I'm efficient when bad things happen, doesn't mean that I'm a good packer.  I managed to pull together a bag for Hen-bug including three changes of clothes (?!?!), three Wiggles videos (thanks, Jenny!!), and a few books, but brought nothing except technology for myself.  This would explain why I'm writing this entry while listening to my iPod, after washing my hair in baby shampoo and putting on a spare pair of scrubs bummed from one of the nurses.

I think I thought that the pediatric ward was going to be like the Special Care nursery where the babies stayed right after they were born with round-the-clock-care and parents sleeping snug (if somewhat restless) in their own beds at home.  It's not.  I'm right here in the hospital, on a cot, next to the Bug who's sleeping in a stainless-steel cage of a crib.  Perhaps I'm a really awful parent, but it's not really where I want to be.  However, I'm sure that it's not where the Bug wants to be, either.

Hen screamed for the first three hours.  Only the Wiggles were able to calm him down.   Our pediatrician came in and scowled at the image of Hen glued to the Wiggles, but I didn't really care at that point.  If TV keeps my sick kid from screaming, bring on the boob tube.

We know that the Bug doesn't have RSV.  It could be any one of thousands of viruses that's producing the mucus that's crowding his lungs and making it difficult for him to breathe.  The only treatment that's possible is oxygen and a nebulizer every four hours.  This seems to be doing the trick, though.  His oxygen saturation is now up to a respectable 94 and will hopefully stabilize soon.

I hope that we'll get to go home tomorrow.

This baby shampoo just isn't any good for my hair.

The Tale of Four Santas

I love our Santa picture from last year.  The boys may not be looking at the camera, but they are looking at Santa, with a mixture of wonderment and curiosity.

This year, the curiosity is gone.

They've figure out what Santa's all about.

And he's evil.

He's an evil, scary, evil man.

The first indication of this came about three weeks ago when the nanny took the boys to visit their first mall Santa.  They didn't even get up to the roped enclosure before Hen-bug caught one look at the man in red and started screaming. 

A retreat was hastily beaten.

The second time; it was Ty-baby who sounded the alarm.

You would think that we would learn, right?  You would be wrong.  Thinking that the third time would be the charm, we carefully approached another Santa, settled the boys on his lap, and quickly retreated for the flashbulbs.  We weren't fast enough, however, because Ty-baby took about one second to latch onto Santa's (real) beard with both hands.  Sensing a threat in the rapidly approaching "elves," he pulled all the harder.  I had to literally pry his fingers away.

I'm beginning to think that Santa and twenty-two month olds just don't mix.

We finally did get our photo with Santa, by the way.  G stands to one side of Santa with me on the other. Santa's in the middle.  The boys are on the outside. 

Just for A Second

I was in the bathroom.

G. was in the yard....raking leaves.

I heard two little giggles and came out.

Our Christmas tree was leaning precariously to one side.  It had no garland.  And the twins were pulling the strand of lights across the kitchen floor.   Pine needles and ornaments littered the bottom of the tree.

If only they were old enough to understand the concept of coal in one's stocking.

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.

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. 

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.

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?

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

Tots About Town

After playing in the front yard most of Saturday morning, Hen and Ty hit a farewell bash for a friend of their long-time assistant, otherwise known as mom.  The twins, sporting matching Red Sox jerseys, partied well into the early evening.  "They seemed really relaxed and friendly," says a source.  "They were eating, drinking, just hanging out and having fun."

The following day, the duo were spotted entering a prominent photography studio where they stayed for about two hours.  "They wouldn't stop screaming," says the photographer who snapped the pix of the boys.  "We had this nice Christmas display all set up and they didn't even look at it twice."  Another onlooker noted that "They tried to get Hen to settle down by giving him a stuffed animal, but he just threw it across the room."  The unruly tikes were soon bundled into their car and driven away by their assistant.  They were later spotted at the hot Hollywood eatery, Chez Suz.

Written for week's Monday Mission, hosted by The Flying Mum. The mission was: You are a Superstar! What are the tabloids saying about you today?  I so read Peo.ple.  Shhhh...don't tell.

To My Alarm Clock

To My Sweet Alarm Clock,

You and I have had a long history together.  For over ten years, you gently whispered NPR into my ear every morning to make sure I got to school or work on time.  You've seen me through final exams and early morning flights.  You've been knocked off the bed side table, hidden under the bed, and perched precariously on a dresser.  But you've always hung in there, doing your job.

Now, as you sit covered in dust, you must be a little concerned.  Why I have I not used you in so long?  What happened to our reliable 6:30am wake-up time together?

Truth be told, I have a new system.  Rather than NPR, however, the system wakes me up to a variety of sounds from crying to babbling to screaming my name.  Also, the system doesn't seem to accept any settings later than 7:00am.  In fact, it's not very good at accepting settings at all.  When I request a later rising time on a Saturday, like today, I get woken up at 4:15am in the morning.  Have I mentioned that "snooze" doesn't always work?

Now granted, this new system does come with glad toddler smiles and sweet faces, but all of this can be of cold comfort so early in the morning.  In short, alarm clock, I miss you and think often of the time when we can hopefully be together again.

Until then,

Suz

The Difference between Dog Treats and Gummy Bears

We've been working on the difference between food and not food with the boys.  Cheese, banannas, and crackers are all food.  Dirt, twigs, mangled pumpkin stems and chalk are not food.  One can be eaten and used as fuel for a growing body.  The other is gross.

A closely related cousin of this difference, and a much finer point to grasp, is that people have one type of food and dogs have another type of food.  Dogs can eat people food, although it is not encouraged, but people cannot eat dog food.  That, is also gross.   

We had multiple opportunities to practice this difference today as I gave Ty-baby some treats to share with the dog.  I thought that he had the idea down when I turned my eyes from him, turning them back only to find him dribbling a dark brown substance and trying to feed the dog a gummy bear.

While doing the laundry from my trip this weekend, I felt myself fingering a fuzzy fraying of fabric.  Looking closely, I saw that there was a one-inch hole right under the seat of my jeans.  I've seen those holes before.  The dog chews them when I'm lazy enough to leave my jeans on the floor where she can reach them.  However, the jeans had spent the weekend in the laundry basket.  They must have gotten the hole before the trip, which means I flew about 4,000 miles with my ass flapping in the breeze and was too tired or jet-lagged to notice.

Nice.

Maybe dog food would have been better.  On the second thought, no.  Probably not.

The Bug Bites Back

Ty-baby has been driving us to distraction.

His favorite thing to do, when angry, is to grab fist-fulls of Hen's hair and pull.... hard.  As Hen breaks down into heart-broken sobs, Ty-baby laughs.  It's quite a reaction he gets, too, as any adult near the vicinity hurries over to pry Ty-baby's hands from his brother's head. 

We've tried everything to stop Ty's behavior. 

We've said, "no."  We've said, "gentle to brother."  We've tried to intercept Ty-baby before he can grab Hen's hair.  We've tried ignoring Ty while lavishing attention on his screaming brother.  We've cut Hen's hair really short in hopes that Ty-baby will have trouble latching on to it.  In desperation, G. actually gave Ty's hair a little pull so he could see how it felt.

Nothing has worked.

Until today when Ty launched himself quickly toward Hen-bug, grabbed his hair and pulled him to the floor.  Hen-bug started crying. 

And so did Ty.

Hen-bug, who never bites, had latched onto Ty-baby's foot with his teeth. 

He actually bit him rather hard.  Hard enough to warrant Bactine and a band-aid.

For about an hour or two after the incident, though, Ty stayed far away from Hen.  Whenever Hen came near him with a toy or anything else, Ty would move away.  He stayed near the nanny and didn't even respond when Hen would come over and gently pat him. 

We haven't had another hair-pulling incident since.

Pumpkin Patch

I love and always have loved Halloween.  When little, I’d spend months planning my costume, struggling to optimize my one sanctioned chance to step physically into my fantasies, becoming a ballerina, fairy princess, the one-eyed, one horned-flying purple people eater or whatever else came to mind.

I also liked the candy.

As an adult, I relish the turn from our hot southern summers and chance to see some of our neighbors.  Because G. and I don’t really hang out at the neighborhood pool, we only see the people who live around us as they speed down our road or walk their dogs around the little circle in front of our house.  I love the illusion of community, or is it community itself, created by streams of costumed children on our front porch as trusting parents wait patiently in the driveway.

So, we went to the pumpkin patch this morning.  I had never been to the pumpkin patch, but I knew that the nanny went there last year.  I tend to repeat things on the weekend that the nanny does with the twins during the week.  It’s my way of understanding what goes on when I’m working and of participating in it.  Besides, our nanny tends to come up with some really good ideas for keeping two toddlers busy and happy.

The pumpkin patch turned out to be quite the toddler paradise with a hayride, a slide, some barnyard animals and a little fenced-in dock.  However, in all fairness, it wasn’t so much a pumpkin patch as a big field, speckled with previously plucked pumpkins just waiting to be selected and brought home. 

The lack of vine didn’t bother the boys one bit.

Squinting against the brightness of the sun and brilliant contrast of orange pumpkin against green grass with shining blue sky, the boys ran from one pumpkin to another.  And really, there is nothing sweeter than that.  A beautiful day.  A field.  And tiny boys, picking up one pumpkin after another, testing their strength and glorying in it.

Tomato Moments

I've slowly been going through my digital photos and developing those pictures that I'd like to display or give away.  This takes a long time because, on average, I take from 400 to 500 pictures a month.  I have no idea where this falls in the scheme of things, whether it's a lot or a little.  It seems like a lot and I've been feeling oddly without purpose while my camera receives its annual cleaning.

This weekend, particularly, seemed to present more than a few opportunities for picture-taking.  The heat finally lifted and we got the first hint of fall with 70 degree weather.  For the first time in about three months we could venture outside without feeling the immediate urge to take a long shower.

We spent most of the time outside working on the yard.  Hen, Ty, and I went to the nursery to buy some plants to replace those that didn't make it through the summer.  The stroller couldn't handle the gravel pathways of the nursery, which left me running between Hen and Ty, shoving the necessary plants on the cart as I encountered them.  When Ty wanted to push the cart and do nothing else, I finally had to ask for help.

While I planted about thirteen ferns and hostas, Hen and Ty wandered around the backyard.  They played with the hose and messed around in the sandbox.  They were happy and cute and messy and perfect.

My favorite image of the entire weekend, though, was when Ty crawled into G.'s overgrown garden and emerged with two tomatos, one in each fist.   Delighted, he proclaimed "ball" and proceeded to bang the tomatos together.  Seeing this, Hen grabbled one from him and perhaps figuring it was food by smell, bit into it.  Juice trickled down his chin and he laughed.  Then, Ty offered him his tomato, which received the same treatment.

If you like tomatos, which the twins do, there are few things as good as a late summer tomato, straight from the vine, eaten when there's a chill in the air.

At first, I missed having my camera to capture the tomato-sharing, especially as the twins are rarely together without fighting.  In retrospect, perhaps the moment would have been diluted by my lurking behind a camera.  In my concern about "getting the shot," I probably would not have paid as much attention as I did or let myself go in laughter at Ty's shocked face as he grabbed the fruit back from Hen and tasted garden fresh tomato for the first time.

I'm pretty sure that I will get back behind the camera in a few weeks, but in the meantime, I'm learning to observe the moment as it happens, and let it pass.

Saying No

The twins have learned to say “no.”

They do not seem to understand quite what it means.

Me:  “Do you want more banana, Ty?”
Ty-Baby:  “Nooooooooooo”

I take the banana away.  Ty-Baby cries and stretches out his hand for the banana.

Me: “Do you want to get out of the tub?”
Hen-Bug:  “No!”  Shakes head.
Ty-Baby:  “Nooooooooooooooooooooooo”
Me:  “Okay, we’ll stay in then.”

We stay in for five more minutes until Hen’s teeth start chattering and he gets lifted out.  Seeing this, Ty starts shaking his head:  “No.  No. Noooooooo.”   The minute I tell him that he can stay in, he lifts his hands to get out.

Me: “Hen-bug, where’s your nose?”
Hen-Bug points to nose.
Me:  “Hen-bug, where’s your foot?”
Hen-Bug lifts his foot.
Me:  “Hen-bug, where’s your belly?”
Hen-Bug:  “No.”

Okay, maybe they have a point on that last one.  I would also protest if asked to identify my feet forty times a day.

No matter what I say, the answer to any question is "No."  Even if they don't know what the question means, or even if they do know what it means, it's impressive how the answer is always "No."

No, I don’t want to watch Wiggles.  No, I don’t want any more cheerios.  No, I don’t want to get out of the car / climb the stairs / get in the car / brush my teeth.  And I most certainly do not want to go to bed.  No way.  No how.  No bed. 

No.

Frankly, I’ve always had a hard time saying “No.”

When the people from the twin club ask me if I want to store over hundred books on my already groaning shelves, I say "yes."  When my manager asks if I would mind traveling out to the west coast on a moment’s notice, of course I wouldn’t mind at all.  Could I help fix our nanny’s computer?  Yes!  Give away boxes of the twins’ baby clothes?  Yes! 

Of course!  Give me the number / date / information.  I’m in.

We’re told to say “yes” to life.  The only things that we’re allowed to deny are drugs, alcohol, and chocolate.  If we say “no,” we’re being stingy, mean, and ungenerous.  Saying “yes” is infinitely more socially acceptable. 

Quite frankly, I would like to learn from the twins and start giving out “No” as my default rather than “Yes.”  I might be able to watch a little more television and, failing that, at least be a little less stressed.

“Hmmmmm,”  I say to my manager, “California?  I’m not sure.  What about sending one of our team members from Texas?”

It's not much, but it's a start.

Boundaries

Because nothing makes me want to spend time outside more than a day off and I'm one of those folks who must always be doing something, we puttered about in the yard most of Monday.  I took Hen-Bug to the garden center for some plants while G. took a hacksaw to the overgrown camillas in our front yard.  As he hauled the branches into the woods, I dug holes for the new shrubs and flowers. 

The twins swirled around us, alternatively interested in my digging and G's hauling.  Although the large branches scared them to tears, they would follow him to the open gate.  Once they got there; however, they would pause.  Our boys, who would truck happily into a parking lot or waltz blithley into the street, looked for G. and waited patiently for his return.

Bottle Bound

When the boys turned ten months, we introduced the sippie cup.

When they turned one year, we decided to restrict binkie use to bedtime only.

When they turned fourteen months, we decided to eliminate bottles.

When they turned sixteen months, we decided to eliminate bottles.

When they turned eighteen months, we decided to eliminate bottles.

The result?

At nineteen months, they still get two bottles of whole milk - one in the morning and one at night.   At this point, they can ask for their bottles.  They'll be sitting upright in the high chairs with an array of food spread before them, but the minute that either G. or I go anywhere near the microwave or the small collection of Dr. Brown's, we hear a growing chorus:

"BA?" 

"BA!"

"BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA!"

At this point, I turn to G. or he turns to me and we have a conversation that goes something like this:

Me: What do you think?

Him: Well, what do you think?

Me: I don't want them to become orally fixated.

Him:  They already are orally fixated.  They're babies.

Me:  But I don't want them to stay that way.

Him:  Better than anally fixated.

Me:  Bwhahaha.  You said anal.

Me:  So what should we do?  Should I put milk in the sippy cup?

Babies:  BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA!

Him:  Whatever we do, let's do it quickly.

Me:  I don't know.

Him:  They'll just fling it across the room.  You know that.

Me:  But we have to start sometime.

Babies:  BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA! BA!

Him:  Let's start tomorrow.

Me:  Okay.  Tomorrow sounds good.

So, it's official.  We're starting tomorrow.  No more bottles.  Tomorrow.

Baby Talk

The twins are the opposite of Eskimos.  Rather than having many names for one thing, they have a handful of words which convey a variety of meanings.  To the casual observer, the word “dog” means only one thing.  To the twins, “dog” can mean a complex variety of things.  Elephants are labeled as dogs as are cats, sheep, llamas, and, mysteriously, tables.

The meanings explode when it comes to the word “door.”  “Door” not only means, “there is a door,” but also, “I would like to go through the door,” “open the door,” “close the door,” and “my brother is currently blocking the door.”  Because “door” means so many things, confusion is inevitable.

Yesterday, Ty-Baby went over to my office door and proclaimed “door.”

Now, Ty-Baby is not allowed in my office, so I said, “No, Ty-Baby.  No door.  No door.”  At the exact same time, the nanny was praising him for correctly labeling the door as a door:  “Yes!  Ty-Baby!  That is a door!”  Our voices overlapped:  “Yes!”  “No!.”

I have absolutely no idea which one of us was correct in our interpretation.  The baby didn’t pay attention to either one of us.  He did, however, share a look with his brother that seemed very clear in its ability to communicate his meaning:  "Adults are silly, frustrating, and slightly strange."

Signs

I hate to get up on a high horse, but it completely boggles my mind as to how a grown man can sit in an airport, right next to the gate, and have his flight leave without him.  Although G. insists that the gate agent never called the flight, much the less his name, I still have trouble seeing this happening.  Yet, happen it did, with the result that I spent another night by myself and spent my morning driving to the airport to pick up a very grumpy G.

While we were both at the airport, Hen-Bug and Ty-Baby went with the nanny to a toy-store which offers free entertainment on Monday and Wednesday.  This entertainment happens to be a clown who sings, dances, and offers musical instruments to the kids so they can strum or bang or rattle along.  Although Hen and Ty typically play these instruments with gusto, some else grabbed their attention.  Seeing a little girl press her head against the drum as she played, they did likewise, and probably got an earful.

Our nanny used this behavior as a chance to strike up a conversation with the little girl's caretaker and learned that she (the little girl) was hearing impaired.  Finding that they had some other interests in common, our nanny chatted with the caretaker, who was glad for the conversation and admitted that they rarely got the chance to play with other kids.

It was during this conversation that they noticed that all three kids were keeping very quiet, but didn't think anything of it.  They did think it odd, however, that the little girl kept going to her nanny for food, taking handfuls of crackers and fruit, and toddling off with them.  At this point, I should mention that the boys know one sign and only one sign.

The sign for "eat."

When our nanny poked her head around to look at the boys, she saw them with both cheeks stuffed full of crackers, busily trying to figure out how to peel a bananna.  With his mouth full, Ty smiled and signed "eat" again.  If he knew the sign for "candy," I'm sure that he would have used it.

The little girl responded, but with what her nanny recognized as the sign for "friend."

I hope that the nanny does follow up on her plans to get the boys together with the little girl again.   Although I think that a "friend" in toddler-land is someone whom you occasionally allow to steal your toys, I hope that they could eventually sign it back to her.

39

It seems that I've taken a little unintentional break from blogging while I paused to turn the ripe old age of 39 on Saturday.  Like many folks I joke that this will be the first of several 39th birthdays, but the fact of the matter is that it doesn't really bother me.  Although there have been some pretty rough spots, I've enjoyed my thirties, certainly much more than my twenties.

For my 39th birthday, G. and I actually left the house to stay a night in a hotel less than 30 minutes away.  It turned out to be a brilliant decision.  My parents had come up to help us out for a few days during the nanny's summer vacation and volunteered to take the babies for the night.  Although it was the perfect night for us, I think that they were a little disappointed that we didn't go out on the town.  Instead, we had a nice meal and went promptly to bed.

We slept for eight delicious hours, woke up, and then turned over to sleep some more.

It was perfect, beautiful, sleep.  We actually talked, too, which I don't think that we've done for some time and not all of our discussions revolved around the babies.  Most of it concerned if we were going to move and where, whether we could afford a real vacation next year, work, and other things that people talk about when they're not running after a toddler hellbent on destruction. 

When G. and I returned from our 24 hour vacation, we all headed out to the park together:

Hen-bug climbs....

Ty-Baby hikes...with stacking cups and ball.