Belly and The Bug: 2010

Oh dear

Belly likes to hang on the doors in our house. Well, not every door - just the ones with long handles. She opens the door, grabs the handle on either side, and pulls herself up into pull-up position, knees clamped to both sides of the door. She does this all the time. Her upper body strength is crazy - biceps and triceps like little rocks. And she'll do it until she breaks a sweat. Her poor hands are calloused, but she loves, loves, loves it! Who am I to stop her? Funny kid.

The other night I was cooking dinner and Belly was happily hanging on the kitchen door. I smiled at my silly. "Why do you like hanging on the doors so much, Belly?" She lowered herself and said sweetly, "It makes my bottom tingle."

Oh. Great. Sigh.....

Never fear.... I'm still alive!

Bet you thought you'd lost me, eh? It ain't that easy, friends. Fact is that I've been busy and moody and playing angry birds and you probably wouldn't have wanted to hear all the bitching that's gone on in my head anyway (damn birds). So here's a recap of the last few months in no particular order....

The babes are three

My precious little bundles of joy (and sometimes piss and vinegar) turned three on October 27th. We had a party for them at the place where we take circus classes. We flew on the trapeze, ate cupcakes, partook in general merriment. And just like that - they're not babies in the least. Quite honestly, they seem like they're going on five. Or sixteen. And all that dread I had of three? Somehow it seems easier than two so far. Maybe I'm delusional or hard is about to smack me in the face really, really soundly, but I'm liking three. Belly and Bug seem to be more imaginative, understand right from wrong better (even if they're still doing what they know is "wrong"), play together in a way that is more engaged than before... I don't know. Everything is just amped up a little in a good way. AND.........

Diapers be damned!

About five days before their birthday, I said a crappy thing to my girls. Well, it had the potential to backfire in my face and I said it without thinking and fortunately for me, it all worked out marvelously. I said in a very exasperated tone, "You know... only babies and two year olds wear diapers. Three year olds wear panties." They looked at each other. My mind raced - what if they simply were not ready to give up diaps? Or what if only one of them was? Would the other feel inferior? Did I just plant the seed of a lifetime of not being as quick as the other to grasp things? Fuck me. But then Belly repeated to Bug, "Only babies and two-year-olds wear diapers. Three-year-olds wear panties." And Bug said, "We're almost three." I asked if they wanted to practice wearing panties all afternoon. They said yes. And my darlings, that was the end of diapers (except at nap and bedtime). It has been wonderful. Except for one thing - they've taken to mostly pooping during naptime, which means I'm still changing at least one poopy diaper every day. I've been trying to figure out how to change their poop schedule so they'll poop in the toilet. Prunes before bed? I don't know. Anyone have suggestions?

Goth girls

I told the girls they could be whatever they wanted for Halloween. They were "skeleton faeries." They were soooooo goth and scary to other kids their age. I thought the whole thing was hilarious and felt quite proud that my girls stepped outside the princess box.

Some funny snippets

My girls have been saying and doing soooo many funny things lately. Today, for example, Buggy called me "little lady." I asked her where that came from and she said, "Well, you're little and you're a lady." Or when we were talking about Santa coming and I reminded them that he brings presents, throwing in that last year they thought I said "pretzels" and they got both presents and pretzels; Belly said this year she'd like cheese puffs. Buggy would like a trampoline for her dolls. There are a zillion other examples I'm not thinking of at this late hour, but trust me, they are high-larious kids!

I'm feeling more me

This is probably the real reason I haven't been a good little blogger the last however many months. I haven't been terribly happy. I haven't felt like me in a lot of ways. I sorta hit the bottom of that unhappiness and decided it needed to change or I was going to lose my mind. This is not a fun thing to write about but I feel I should because the purpose of this blog is to be my outlet for my thoughts. And I don't want to paint a picture that life is always rosy if it's not. Having kids takes a toll on a woman, mentally and emotionally. It's hard to stay home with them and not have as much mental stimulation as I once did. Sometimes it's hard to feel like more than roommates with your husband when we don't have time to invest in our relationship. It's a little tricky when my family and my husband and my close friends read this blog, though, because I don't want to share everything with everyone all the time. Some things I need to work out for myself. And this has been one of those things. I started going to a therapist in September and he's been wildly helpful to me. Dude has come with me a few times, as well, and is a fan. So.... things are improving. I'm feeling more like me. That's a good thing. And that's it.

More posts coming sooner than later. Promise. Cross my heart and all that stuff.

The talk

I am the child of hippies. And as such, I grew up with a working knowledge of all kinds of things that straighter parents didn't pass on to their kids. Oh I'm sure that Dude's parents explained the physical differences between boys and girls to him at a very young age, but was he privy to a book that explained the differences and showed nude photographic examples of boys and men/girls and women at varying ages? I'm guessing no. Of course, I also thought smoking pot was no different than smoking cigarettes - just something that some adults do. And I'd seen those special cigarettes rolled and felt confident that I could successfully roll one should the opportunity arise. No biggie. It was all cool. Groovy even. But let's get back to the naked thing. I've always thought that I'd be a pro at explaining these sorts of things to my girls. Yesterday, I got my first crack at it.

I've mentioned casually to Belly and the Bug on several occasions that boys and girls are anatomically different. They didn't seem to express any interest in the subject, so it was left at that. But lately? Buggy is veeeerrrrrrrrrry interested in the fact that her daddy has a little something extra going on that's different from what she's got. And since the three of them take a shower together every night, I decided it was time to sit down and have a formal conversation about it.

I set up the bowl of tortilla chips and the juice and invited the girls to sit with me. I asked if anyone wanted to have a talk. Belly's eyes lit up and she said, "YES, Mama!" Buggy said, "Sure! Do you want to talk about Sesame Street?" I suggested that we talk about how boys and girls have different body parts. Buggy gave me a total "whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis" look and Belly crammed about forty chips in her mouth. And so began their first "talk" about this sort of thing. They listened intently (amidst the chip crunching) and interjected thoughts here and there. I felt like it went as well as can be expected when having this discussion with two nearly-three-year-olds.

When all was said and done, I asked, "Any questions?"

Belly: "What letter does penis start with?"

Me: "Penis? It starts with a pa-pa-pa sound. What letter makes that sound?"

Belly: "P."

Me: "That's right."

Buggy: "Okaaaaay. But then, what does hippopotamus start with?"

Yes. Those questions instilled the confidence that I explained things perfectly. They clearly understood and processed their new knowledge immediately. I anticipate that this immediate changing of the subject will be par for the course when we have conversations such as these over the years. Ugh. And there will be so many. I'm dreading the teen years so fiercely already. Assuming we all make it through three....

"Hi. I took some poop out of my diaper...."

Words cannot express how I feel about hearing that statement and dealing with its aftermath. Oh no. Words do not contain enough power for that. If you could see how tightly my teeth have been clenched, then maybe you'd understand.

I can smell three

The girls turn three in just under two months. I can smell it and it sorta stinks. Oh wait - maybe somebody pooped in her diaper because YES THEY ARE STILL WEARING DIAPERS. God help me if they're not potty-trained soon. Over it? Why yes. I am.

Anyway - there has been such a shift in behavior lately that it has to be the prelude to three. I heard all throughout the trenches of two that three was worse and I thought, "HOW? How is that possible?" Now I realize. It's possible because they are so much better at articulating their thoughts, emotions, pissiness, defiance, dislikes and general malaise. They can say stuff like, "I'm just being rude. I like rude. If you don't like rude, I'm sorry." Or... "No, thank you. I don't want to get off my sister. Yes. I hear her screaming but I'm having fun."

On the other hand, I don't feel as guilty about doling out punishments because they clearly understand that there are consequences for their misdoings. This morning we didn't get to go to musical storytime because Belly wouldn't eat breakfast. Buggy was pretty pissed at her, too. Come to think of it, I was pretty pissed at her. I wanted to see our friends. Instead we watched Sesame Street so I didn't have to come up with a project or something to otherwise fill the time we would've been out. I'm good like that (read: lazy like that).

God I sound whiny. And of course I am - this is where I get to vent that shit. But can I give you an example of what I'm dealing with?

Today, 5:14pm - we're all in the kitchen

Belly: "Mommy! I have to go to the bathroom!"

Me: "Great! Let's go upstairs!"

Buggy: "I'm taking my hairbrush."

Belly: "I need my special baby. Where's my special baby?" Starting to whine and cry. "I can't go to the bathroom without Charlotte!"

Me: "Skip Charlotte. If you have to use the bathroom, let's go now."

Belly: "NOOOOOOOO!"

Me: "Fine. Then I guess you don't really have to use the bathroom. We'll stay down here and you can play with Charlotte."

Belly: "NO! I have to go!"

Buggy: "Mommy! I'm upstairs already!"

Ugh. So not cool. I grabbed Belly and we ran upstairs, without Charlotte.

Today, 5:18pm - Belly is on the toilet. Buggy is trying to brush her hair.

Belly: "Bug! Give me some privacy!"

Buggy: "Let me brush your hair."

Belly: "Buggy! Give me some space!"

Buggy: "No. I'm brushing your hair."

Me: "Buggy. Move away from your sister. Go out in the hall or play in your room until she's done in the bathroom."

Buggy: "No thanks, Mom. I'm fine brushing her hair."

Belly: blood curdling scream out of frustration

I remove the Bug from the bathroom and yell at Belly not to scream.

Today, 5:20pm - Belly is still on the toilet. Buggy is throwing diapers all over the hallway.

Me: "Buggy. Don't do that with the diapers. Stack them up where they were, please."

Buggy: "No. I don't have to." And she dances down the hall to her room, a diaper wake behind her.

Today, 5:23pm - Belly has successfully peed in the toilet and is washing her hands. I have convinced the Bug to try to pee, too, and she is now perched on the toilet.

Buggy: "Belly, stop washing your hands. I want privacy."

Belly: "No. I'm not done yet."

Buggy: "Yes. Stop washing your hands. You have to."

Belly: "No! I'm not done yet!"

Both girls start whining and repeating their lines until I tell everyone to knock it off.

Today, 5:29pm - Buggy is washing her hands even though she didn't pee and I'm now going about my business on the toilet. Belly is throwing diapers as high as she can in the hallway.

Me: "Buggy. You have enough soap. You have enough soap. YOU HAVE ENOUGH SOAP."

Buggy: "Okay. Now I need more water." And she turns the water up all the way, splashing it all over the counter and floor and squealing because she knows I'm wiping as fast as I can to yank her away. Which I do.

And then she says, "Sorry. Don't be angry. I love you. Clean up my mess."

That, my friends, is a random 15-minute snapshot of my day. Nothing too terrible. Nothing too great. Just average. And relentless - so motherfucking relentless. Ugh.

There's something a little off here

I like to think that the girls and I are fun and sorta cool. But lately? It's becoming clear that we might be more weird than cool. I'll blame Portland since it's nice to have a scapegoat (and there are bumper stickers on every other car that say "Keep Portland Weird"). Regardless, several indicators have been flashing the strange sign lately and I can't ignore them:

1) You know those little rings that you pull out of the nozzle of the half 'n half (or juice or whatever carton)? We wash and save them in our house because Belly and Buggy like to wear them as rings. The other day we went to the park and they both had four on a hand, like brass knuckles except white plastic. Cool? No. Weird.

2) A few nights ago when it was time to get out of the tub, naked Bug climbed into naked Belly's lap and the two of them started giggling. Belly proudly announced, "I'm holding Bug like a baby!" And with that, Buggy tried to nurse on Belly. We had to pull them off each other. Weirdos.

3) We have a tickle basket. You know those big Moses baskets that are given to you when you have a newborn and you maybe use it once or twice until you realize that it's wholly impractical? Yeah, we've got one, too. Except anyone who climbs in ours gets tickled mercilessly. I've only been in it once because I really do not like to be tickled, but the girls give it a whirl about once a day. As they've gotten older, they tickle each other now. I thought it was cool, but I've had several adults comment, "A tickle basket? Huh." So I guess that means... weird.

4) The weird straw that broke the camel's back? The other morning, the girls ate pesto eggs and a banana for breakfast. The Bug said she was still hungry. She wanted a donut. Um, yeah. There are no donuts here. I offered a breakfast bar. She said no. I offered an English muffin. She said no. I opened the cupboard. I pulled out a big box of Joe's O's and asked if she wanted cereal. She looked at me funny. Oh. My. God. My girls can identify capers in a piccata sauce. They ask to be taken out for sushi. But they haven't had cereal (not counting that baby cereal gruel stuff). I poured them each a small bowl. I asked if they wanted to eat it dry without milk or with milk and a spoon. Again, the quizzical looks. As I watched, they gobbled down two bowls of dry cereal like it was a handmade sweet corn agnolotti with shaved truffles. Sigh. I have to take on all the weird in this instance. What kind of mother never gave her toddlers cereal? Yep. That's right. You got it.

Make it work

I had one of those nights of sleep last night wherein I wake up a dozen times, but every time I fall asleep again, I go back to the dream I'd been having and keep going with it. I was just thinking the other day that it's been a long time since I've had a dream I remember. This particular dream, though, I remember very well, in full color.

I was nominated for an Emmy and desperately needed a dress to wear. So, the morning of the awards, I went to my good friend Heidi Klum and asked if I could borrow something. I mean, she had TONS of dresses, right? Right. She said sure, but she had a full day of hair and makeup and I would be on my own to raid her closet.

Did you know Heidi Klum and Seal and all their kids live in a gigantic, sprawling ranch house? Yep. It was like a ranch house with wing after wing after wing. I got lost a couple times, but knew that if I just turned around and walked far enough, I'd be back in familiar surroundings. But I digress.

Heidi had several giant rooms that comprised her closet and all of her clothes were hanging by type, length and color. I went to the dress room. It became obvious pretty quickly that I'd be wearing a short dress. Even though I could probably get myself into her size (she's curvy like me), I can't fake the height - not even with big ol' heels on. I started going through the several hundred short dresses that hung around the room.

I thought this would be an easy task. Heidi always looks great. Surely I'd be able to find something simple and elegant and be on my way in no time - after all, I needed to come up with a hair and makeup plan, too. Oh I was so wrong. Every dress I pulled out and tried on had something totally bizarre about it. The hem was unfinished. The sleeves were odd and varying lengths. There were puckers where there shouldn't be puckers. A sudden rash of neon sequins appeared after the dress was on, even though I hadn't noticed them previously. I noted all of these things aloud. I started to sound very much like Nina Garcia - sorta bitchy.

Dude came in to wake me at 7:15a this morning. I was bummed. In my groggy half-sleep, I didn't know what I was gonna do because I still didn't have a dress. And then I woke up all the way. I had to get going if I was gonna shower this morning.

The strangest part of my dream? I was going to the Emmy's because my reality show had been nominated for a number of awards. The past season had been particularly exciting with many unexpected twists and turns. What reality show, you ask? Oh. Why that would be my reality. Real reality. I'd had no idea that I was being filmed this whole year, but that didn't matter because the world had been watching and they loved it.

What does it all mean??

A day of no importance whatsoever

Today was not a day that will be especially noted in the history books. It wasn't a family birthday or anniversary. The girls did not become potty trained overnight (in fact, I changed FOUR poopers between the two of them - ugh). No crazy inheritance came our way. No winning lottery numbers. I didn't even make a fabulous dinner. It was just a day. But I was struck over and over by what big girls I have. They kept saying stuff that made me smile.

Belly: "I love you very much, Mom. No really."

Bug: Noticing that I was making dinner, "What are we having?"

"Taco salad."

"Taco salad? Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Yes or no?"

"No."

"Yes. Taco salad."

Belly: "No, Mama. I'm not a solid little kid. I'm a girl."

Bug: "Oops. Sorry. I pooped. Change my diaper. I'll say 'oooooh stinky!' when you change it."

Belly: After helping me put away four bags of groceries, "There, Mom. Now go take a break."

Oh for real, friends. They are funny and fun. They make me insane and proud. I love them more than cheese pups.

I drive a Delorean

Not really, but can I blame my flakiness on time travel? That seems like it would be a good excuse. Better, at least, than I'm freaking lazy and tired and uninspired. Sooooo.... yeah. Hi. Here I am.

What's gone down in the last month? Well. Tons, natch. We went to Wisconsin to visit Dude's family at their cottage way up nort der hey. The girls got their fill of cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles. Dude was, as always, the returning hero. I smiled a lot. I also took a little mini Rachael vacay of my own in the middle of that trip and trucked down to Milwaukee to visit some friends. Woot! I loved every second of it, although I admit to feeling slightly past-my-prime as I walked around the old college neighborhood and realized that it's still filled with college-age babies. There was even a raging party in my former apartment (the building remains so inappropriately named The Chateau) that I considered crashing. Oh, but then I remembered that everyone would think I was someone's mom and nixed that idea pretty quickly.

Belly and Buggy have aged about five years in the last month. Belly literally informs me daily that she's going to be seven on her next birthday. Their linguistic skills have gone crazy bananas. They form complex sentences that incorporate deep thoughts and spot-on slang. They're funny people! They're also punks. Both girls are extremely polite as they say "no thank you" when I tell them to "pick up your mess/eat your lunch/leave your sister alone/come wash your hands/etc." Good times.

Not so good times: Sissy joined up with the AmeriCorps VISTA program and moved to Bozeman, MT. Um, can I tell you how much this sucks? Thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis much. Truly! I have no sisters left in Portland now. It's weird. I don't like it.

Good times light at the end of the tunnel: We've had two naked afternoons wherein the girls informed me each and every time they needed to go to the bathroom and they used that potty like the throne it is. I found it incredibly nerve wracking when they sat on the couch, but they showed excellent understanding of that "I gotta go" feeling and no accidents occurred. Of course, they both pooped as soon as I put diapers back on them. But I'm happy with some baby steps on the potty training front 'cause it was looking grim for awhile.

I know I'm missing a zillion and three other highlights of the past month, but in an effort to hit "publish post," I'm ending this now. Before I go, though, I'd like to say that I so appreciate your continued interest in my lately-non-existent little blog here. My site meter numbers remain consistent, even though I'm the slackiest slacker this side of the Mississippi (maybe even both sides). That means that you peeps keep checking to see if I've posted. Awwww. Thanks. It warms the heart. I'll try to keep my Delorean in the garage for awhile so that I can write.

xoxo, R.

Father's Day is a wrap!

There's only one hour left of this day and - even though he worked six hours - Dude said this was the best of the three Father's Days that he's had thus far. For starters, we let him sleep in - until nearly 9am! That's about four hours later than a few other mornings this past week. And when he came downstairs, the girls greeted him with resounding declarations of "Happy Father's Day, Daddy!" "Happy Father's Day, Pop!" Oh yes - Belly has decided that she wants to call him Pop. Or Papa. Or sometimes Poppy. It's cute. I handed him his coffee and he admired the art installation that had been hung in the dining room. All week I'd had the girls paint pictures for him and then I added one of my own. I hung everything up on a string with clothespins. There were also cards from each of his daughters and some gift certificates for fun places. But the real focus of today was food - because that is truly the way to Dude's heart.

Dude's favorite breakfast is eggs benedict, so that's what he got. Sorta. Instead of English muffins, I used toasted olive bread. And instead of Canadian bacon, I used pancetta. Plus I added some sauteed spinach and garlic to the pile underneath the poached eggs and Hollandaise sauce.

Only the girls ate lunch - Dude and I were both still full from breakfast.

For dinner, I made boeuf bourguignon and mousse au chocolat using the recipes that I'd been taught on my Denver trip. Both turned out superb! The only problem being that there is a giiiiiant bowl of chocolate mousse in my fridge. It keeps whispering my name. I'm trying to ignore it.

So that was it. We didn't go anywhere or do anything that spectacular (except eat lotsa yummy food), but Dude said it was the best because it was the first time that the girls made a special effort for him. They knew it was "his" day and they liked celebrating it with him. Of course, they're still a little unclear on the concept because they wanted to sing him Happy Birthday, but they understood the special part.

Personally, I'm unbelievably grateful that he is such a wonderful father to our girls. They love him like mad and practically beg for him to be done working everyday (starting around 9am). And the love that he exudes when he's with them makes my heart melt. Complete strangers tell him that they love seeing how he is with his girls. He's just that great of a dad. Happy Father's Day, Dude!

Adventures in camping

I'm back in the land of a zillion half-written posts. Instead of scrapping them, I'm going to finish a few. Like this one...

I like camping. Well, in theory. If all goes according to plan. And it doesn't rain. And I'm not overrun with mosquitoes, other campers, cold, a leaky air mattress or animals. Then I like camping.

Dude and I decided that we would introduce the girls to sleeping in the great outdoors Memorial Day weekend and made plans to do a simple one-night excursion into the wilds of Oregon (at a proper campsite in a state park, of course). Dude picked out a destination and told me about it earlier in the week. I said okay. But then I did what I do and that's look into it at the last minute and decide that I wasn't sure it was a good idea. This place looked great if it were just the two of us, but I wasn't sure if our little peeps would really be into hot springs. You know - because they're TWO? Yeah. Oh. And the springs are "clothing optional." It could be low-key or it could be skeezy guys getting woody looking at my children. I didn't really want to find out. So at the very, very, very last chance I had to pull the trigger, I said I wanted to do something else. Because THAT doesn't cause an argument.

Instead, we drove up to Astoria - where the Columbia River meets the Pacific Ocean. You may know it better as the place where Goonies was filmed. That's right - Goonies. And we were only a week shy of being there for the big 25th anniversary celebration of its release, complete with a visit from Sean Astin and a performance by Corey Feldman's band. How did I not plan accordingly?? I only half jest. It would've been a hilarious scene. Anyway. We explored this cute, touristy town a bit and then went out to the state park to try to locate a campsite - on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Ha! After some internet digging and phone calls (thanks, trusty iPhone), we found a campground on the Washington side of the river called Cape Disappointment State Park that had tent spots available. Cape Disappointment? I must admit that I did not have high hopes.

But I was wrong! Cape Disappointment was right on the Pacific and we walked to the beach and there were cool tidal pools and amazing driftwood and a beautiful lighthouse. It was PERFECT. Well, except for the fact that it was effing cold and raining the whole time. Oh yes - it rained the whole entire time. Because I love that. Because that doesn't put a damper on, well, everything. The girls loved, loved, loved sleeping in the tent, though. The four of us climbed into one double sleeping bag and stayed toasty warm. And the next morning, after a thoroughly drenching walk to the beach to look at bright orange and purple starfish in the pools, Dude packed up the tent and its contents while I put the girls in the truck, blasting the heat on high, and got dry clothes on everyone.

So basically, it was a sorta sucky experience of which we made the best. I think we'll definitely take the girls camping again, but only if the forecast calls for clear skies and lots and lots of warmth. Nonetheless, here are some pictures:

Sea lions on the docks in Astoria

The back of our truck - loaded for ONE overnight; having kids sure requires a lot of crap

The tent during the only five minutes of sunshine

Giant driftwood teeter-totter

My kids running - with their coats on - into the ocean

Freezing

PSA

Friends, I feel that it is my solemn duty to share someone else's blog post with you. I'd like to state for the record that I endorse it 100% and could not have created a more comprehensive posting if I tried. Please. Read it. Heed it. Thank you.

Don't be dumb, Daddy

Dude forgot to warm up the girls' bedtime sippy cups of milk tonight and so had to stall when the appropriate time came. He decided to quell their whiney chants of "Milk! Milk!" with a rousing rendition of Old MacDonald. And that ol' farmer had a monkey... or at least Dude thought he did. Buggy immediately piped up, "NO! MONKEYS DON'T LIVE ON FARMS!" Dude asked where they live and she said, in her best impression of a 14-year-old who thinks her father is an idiot, "Houses." And the she suggested that he sing about flamingoes. Flamingoes live on farms. Duh.

Sniffledy sniff sniff hiccup sniff

I think I've mentioned it here (but I'm too lazy to go back and find proof) that my sister Bri is going off to the Peace Corps. She's heading to Kenya, leaving Portland this coming Sunday morning, for 27 months of a holy-crap-adventure-of-a-lifetime-and-probably-find-a-cure-for-AIDS-at-the-same-time-because-that's-how-she-do experience. I cannot accurately express how proud of her I am, but know that it is a hella heap. She has a gigantic heart, a really big brain, and more compassion than nearly anyone I know. And she's cute, too!

Bri's been staying with us for the last week and I've thoroughly enjoyed having her around. Most importantly, Belly and the Bug have been able to spend a lot of great quality time with her. They quite simply adore her. They ask about her as soon as they wake up both in the morning and after nap. If we go somewhere, they demand to know exactly where she is when we return home. They want to spend every waking minute with her. It's very sweet. We'll have to fire up the ol' Skype to be sure everyone sees everyone else while she's overseas.

Bri is not the only do-gooder in this family, though. Oh no! Far from it! My other little sister, the one I call Sissy, has accepted a position in Bozeman, MT via the AmeriCorps VISTA program and she's leaving us, too! WHAH! Sissy leaves in mid-July for a year and I will certainly write more about that then as I can only handle feeling down in the dumps about one sisterly desertion at a time and Bri gets dibs because of her timing.

But oh sigh, people. We moved to Portland largely to be closer to family and now they're all moving away. The only positives I can find for myself in Bri going to Kenya? I've inherited her hipster tall green boots, her cutie-cute sundress and her new custom-made Fuji bike! I mean, I'm "taking care" of these items until she returns. And all I know is this: Kenya better freaking take care of Bri or I will personally kick its ass. I'm not messing around here. This is my little sister. I take no prisoners.

Seeing this one through to completion

I have four draft posts that have not been completed since the last time I wrote on here. Ugh. All of them are outdated and so here I am starting number five. I will complete and post this tonight. I'm hell-bent.

First of all, I can't believe that it's freaking May 4th. Hello? Where is this year going? Spring has rocked around here - until the last week or so. We've had beautiful weather. The flowers have exploded around my house. I've spent time barefoot outside. Sundresses have made their way into my clothing repertoire. And then... we've had cooler than normal weather and knee socks are making a comeback on my lower extremities. I'd like to register a strong "WTF?!" with whomever is handling this ridiculousness. Stop it and give me back my warm, sunny days.

Second, my children are growing up. They're officially two and a half. They're in the middle of a big "out" growth spurt. They're using pronouns correctly. They're speaking in complete sentences. Just today I had a lengthy conversation with the Bug about President Obama. She informed me that he's a good man and she loves him. Belly then chimed in that he's awesome. What politically astute little peeps! But they're still not showing a strong interest in the potty. Several times a day, the toilet sees some pee action from them, but the buck stops at poop. WHY? I've been going along and not pressuring them while promising M&Ms to anyone who wants to do their number two business on the toilet, but my patience is growing thin. I'm so tired of diapers. Today, I changed five poopy diapers between the two of them, one of which was a blowout (you non-kid-having readers should know that this is not a reference to getting your hair did but rather to a diaper that leaks). The reason for this is that my mother-in-law was here cooking for the girls and Dude this past weekend. Friday night they went out for Chinese; Saturday night she made Meat Dish Supreme; Sunday night was Country Captain Chicken. As entertaining as it might be to go into the details of these dishes, I'm not going to. Let's just say that they have wreaked some gastro-intestinal havoc upon my babies.

And why was Mimi here? Because I was not! That's right - I had a vacation all by myself! Friday morning, I flew to Denver to visit one of my best girlfriends in the whole wide world and didn't come home until Sunday night. Lord knows I needed a vacation, but I thought that I would be a little more lonesome for my family while I was gone. I called home twice a day and the girls would say, "Mommy, come home!" That certainly gave me some pangs of homesickness, but they generally subsided after I hung up and picked up my wine glass again. Oh I had so much fun. I drank plenty, I was goofy, I made French food (actually took a French cooking lesson in which we prepared Boeuf Bourguignon and mousse au chocolat), I laid out in the yard, I slept uninterrupted, I didn't structure my day around nap time, I didn't change any diapers. I was free! I was Rachael! Let me be clear that I overflowed with love for my girls when I came home and snuggled them to sleep, but I would've happily stayed away a few more days. The break was very, very much needed. And I fully intend to do it again when I can.

I think that about brings us up to speed on the bigger things going on here at Chez Belly-Buggy. Except can I say that even with only five people remaining on American Idol, I'm already getting giddy with anticipation for the next season of So You Think You Can Dance? Because I really do think I can dance, just not like that.

They have no idea how much they'll want a nap in 15 years

See these cute little sleeping girls? I took this picture last night.

And that was the last time they slept... Why don't they want a nap today? WHY???

Tantrum terror twins

Back when I was preggo with the twinnies, I learned that there are MOM and POM clubs all over the country. You know, Mothers Of Multiples and Parents Of Multiples? I thought it would be a good idea to join one since I had no idea what I was getting into, but ultimately never did because the websites were too cheesy for me to actually pull the trigger. I didn't want to become one of the MOMs pictured. And I didn't want to feel obligated to have my kids hang out with other multiples. The idea of a bunch of twins and triplets (or oh-my-god quads) hanging out at the park together seemed like a bit of a freak show. My research, however, uncovered that every one of these clubs holds a big resale event twice a year as a fundraiser and HOLY CRAP is it awesome. Last week I joined Portland's MOM chapter because they let members shop the sale before the general public and yesterday was the big day. Unfortunately, I didn't really have options with the girls so I took them with me... which led to meltdown from child #1.

All was going well - and by well I mean as well as can be expected when shopping with a couple of two-year-olds. Belly inspected every item on a hanger within her reach before discarding it and the Bug did all of her circus tricks as she dangled from the clothing racks. I feverishly perused everything that was size 2T, 3T and 4T as I caught flying hangers and tried to convince my kid that these were not monkey bars. The cool thing about it being the presale was that everyone else shopping knew exactly what the twin thing was about and nobody batted an eyelash. No one walked up and asked me to control my kids. No one looked at me like, "Ugh. I hate kids." No one seemed to really care. It was beautiful.

Then we got in line. Oh lord - the line. We stood for 25 minutes before it was our turn. About 5 minutes into that wait, Belly decided that she wanted to leave and proceeded to go from whining about it to full-blown hysterical screaming, complete with stomping, hitting me, spinning until she fell, the works. Buggy stood there quietly inspecting the twins and triplets in line behind us. Every mom in the place took turns either smiling at me or walking past and patting my shoulder. That part was nice, but it did nothing to stop my wailing child. We paid for our goods and walked out. Belly instantly stopped crying... for 45 seconds when she announced that she needed to be carried the block to the truck. She flipped her tantrum switch again and lost her shit before she even completed her declaration. Fine. I half carried, half dragged her and the Bug and all our stuff to the truck; got them in their car seats; doled out snacks; and put my head on the steering wheel for a couple deep breaths. Belly wanted to hold my hand. Fine. I reached back and held her hand. She was calm. Again - that lasted about 45 seconds until she started screaming, "DRIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!!!!!" Me, being the always patient mother, yelled back, "ENOUGH! EAT YOUR SNACK AND STOP THE SCREAMING!" Yeah. I'm awesome like that.

We came home and immediately went up for nap. Belly was exhausted from all of her antics, crashing pretty quickly. Buggy would not go to sleep. Would. Not. So I told her to read quietly until Belly woke up and I'd come get them when the music ended. She seemed fine with that plan.

After nap, we had lunch and the girls wanted to watch Sesame Street. Down to the family room we went to watch some quality television together. The Bug was immediately sucked in. Belly just wanted to... I don't know... accost me? She wanted to snuggle but not just snuggle - stroke my hair, bury her face in my neck, try to pick a mole off my cheek, insist on touching my bra, say "MOM" four thousand times in a row. I. Just. Needed. A. Little. Space. Finally Sesame Street ended and the Bug came out of her daze to instantly start screaming, "MORE ELMO! MORE ELMO! MORE ELMO!" Seriously. Meltdown from child #2. She went from zero to sixty in about .3 seconds flat. She started throwing herself around the family room as she hit her tantrum stride. Belly wasn't phased and kept saying "MOM" as she tried to continue some heavy petting. I didn't have it in me to deal with it all so I said that we could watch just the Elmo's World segment again. Buggy was happy with that. I had bought myself only twenty more minutes, though, because the tantrum continued as soon as Elmo was gone again. I separated Belly from my body and made her walk upstairs as I tucked the shrieking Bug under my arm. Once in the kitchen, both girls started crying that they neeeeeeeeeded me to pick them up; they neeeeeeeeeded me to hold them. I don't know, friends. I hit my breaking point. I yelled. I informed everyone that Mommy needed space and they all should go in the other room. I cried. It was ugly.

Dude came downstairs to go to the bank at this point. He clearly did a quick assessment of the situation and took Belly with him. Thank god. Buggy and I made popcorn and she ate it quietly while I became human again. By the time Dude got home, I was fully functioning and we all went out for dinner.

A good friend of mine recently said that it's the marathon of parenting that's so hard - the day in, the day out, the constant constant everything. I couldn't agree more. I can handle tantrums in a vacuum. I can handle the physically needing me every minute in a vacuum. Some days I think it's really too bad I don't live in a vacuum.

Then earlier today I was driving home from a few hours at the mall by myself when I passed Dude and the girls on the street. We stopped, rolled down our windows and chatted a moment before I headed home and they went about their errands. Those girls looked so cute and small in their car seats; so innocent. I wanted to cover them with kisses.

Dang this mothering thing is a trip.

Thanks, Dude

My husband has always had a bit of a warped sense of humor - part of why I love him like I do for sure - but lately I've noticed that he's teaching our girls all sorts of "fun" words and phrases. You know, the kind of stuff that's funny at the time, but I know that I will try to don my invisible cloak the day they decide to break 'em out in front of the sweet old lady in line at the grocery store or to my in-laws. A few terms that are now part of Belly and Bug's vocabulary:

Rumple dumple - that'd be the butt, Bob

Loaf - as in, the kind one might find in a diaper

"Don't look at my bum, bum lookah!" - yeah... self-explanatory

Then there's stuff that I've written about before, like Buggy always saying, "Ew! Messy diap! Stinky!" when I change Belly's poopy diapers.

The problem is that I think it's really funny, too. I try sooo hard not to laugh because I don't want to encourage that kind of talk, but I can't help it. It's terrible. Between my swearing and Dude's effed-up sense of humor, our girls don't stand a chance.

Easter catch up

I haven't meant to be a neglectful blogger, but somehow that's exactly what I've become. While I can update my Facebook status and upload pictures of my ever-growing girls on a regular basis (thanks, iPhone), it isn't always easy to get solid time in front of the ol' laptop to update here. Hopefully this isn't another hollow promise - but I will strive to do better.

Today is Easter and it is the first time in years that I didn't go to church with Dude. I usually attend with him on Easter and Christmas Eve, but eh, not this year. He took the girls and I hit the grocery store instead. When you think about it, though? Isn't walking the aisles of the fancy food store and purchasing expensive fresh morels more like my church than actual church anyway? I think so. What moves me is not the "word of God" as projected to me by a priest on a dais surrounded by Easter lilies, but rather the perfect rose created when you slice across the white stems on a head of bok choy; or the crunchy sweetness of spring peas; or the mellow smoothness of a finely crafted wine.

I'm going to make chicken scallopine for Easter dinner today. I know that doesn't sound very special, but peeps, you are fooling yourself if you believe that. I cut the chicken breasts into thin, thin filets (instead of traditional pounding). I dredge them in a mixture of flour and "porcini powder" (ground, dried porcini mushrooms), and saute them in butter. Meanwhile, the morels are simmered in sherry and a little chicken broth, then combined with cream, tarragon, chives and a couple other yummies to make the best freaking sauce in town. Put the chicken and some steamed asparagus on a plate, spoon the sauce and morels over the top... a taste divine. I will worship it appropriately as I savor the flavors in just a few short hours.

I hope you have a glorious day and celebrate whatever it is that brings you love.

Mom rules

I don't think I've discussed it here, but my mom went to Costa Rica on December 13th and didn't come back until day before yesterday. SHEESH I missed her. And the girls have relished - truly relished - having her here. They want HER to put the banana on their plates in the morning. They want HER to read to them. They want HER to play blocks with them. And you know? I'm more than happy to offer her up to complete those tasks. I've thoroughly enjoyed having her here to lighten my load a little. More importantly, though, I've enjoyed having her here to visit with me! Nanni came as regularly scheduled on Wednesday afternoon, so Mom and I got to go out for lunch at our hands-down-favorite Middle Eastern restaurant in Portland (Nicholas) and clothes shopping all by ourselves. What a treat! She's going home tomorrow morning, but I'm grateful that she was here for a few days and that she'll once again be several hours away instead of somewhere down on a mountain top in Central America. I love Costa Rica and am thrilled that she's also fallen in love with the place, but if I'm here, I'd like her here, too. I'm just sayin'. Welcome home, Mom!

Forward progress

I grew up a skinny girl. I weighed about 100 pounds (mind you, I'm also just under 5'4" and have tiny bird bones) until I was 21-ish. Then I gained weight as will happen when a girl becomes a woman. But I never did anything about it and, blech, I slowly began to hate my body as it got larger and softer, larger and softer. Sure, sure - I lost weight for my wedding but then gained it back shortly thereafter. I was seriously unhappy with my figure and had just started a diet plan when I got knocked up a few years ago. Um, yeah. A twin pregnancy doesn't do anyone any favors if you know what I'm saying and I think you do. After the breastfeeding was done, I was a solid size 12.

Now I want to be clear - I don't give a crap what anyone else's size is. I love people of all different shapes and sizes and would never judge ANYONE based on that criteria - except myself. I was woefully, woefully, woefully unhappy with how I looked and my self-image was pathetic. But who had time for the gym? Not. Freaking. Me. I had two kids.

Aaaannnnyyywaaaayyy..... remember my major crisis last December about turning 35? It had the effect of kicking my ass into action about getting happy with myself again - mentally, emotionally, physically; about getting good with me, my life, and where it's all headed (even if that's unknowable). I'm still working on everything, but I'm feeling a lot better about things. Dude and I are working on a few items that needed attention. I'm taking a parenting class that's giving me some tools for dealing with the girls when things are getting too nutty. And peeps? I've been losing weight. I still don't have time for the gym, but I've been counting calories and my clothes no longer fit. I did a big organization of my clothes the other day and tried on a bunch of stuff that practically fell off me. My skinniest skinny jeans? They're now my baggy jeans. It's exciting! But it also leaves me with the dilemma of needing and not being able to afford a new wardrobe.

I went to the Rack today to get some new jeans. I wasn't sure what size to get, so I grabbed a bunch of different ones. I feel sorta giddy saying this, but I'm either a 4 or a 6 depending on the jeans. And really - I think it's closer to the 4. I ended up buying a pair of sixes that I've been wearing for a few hours now and they're starting to slide down my hips. Yes, I'm totally bragging here. But only because it feels so GOOD to not look at my body and sigh with utter and complete disgust.

Remember my wish to be young again when I was sitting precariously on the cusp of my birthday? Well... I am! I am! I am! Or at least I'm the size I was when I was young. But you know what's even better? I still have all the good stuff the last ten years have brought me and don't have to give any of it up. Pretty kick-ass, eh? I think so.

Two more additions to the last post...

"Heads up, Mommy. Belly a little boy. Belly my brother."

And she's taken to saying tootle-loo instead of goodbye, except she says, "toodle-doo!"

My funny Bug

I try to keep things even with the girls. Lord knows life ain't always fair, but I shoot for even. This post, however, is dedicated to my Bug. She has been dropping a lot of little cute/funnyisms lately and I thought I would share...

She saw an airplane the other day and tried to grab it out of the sky. She knew she couldn't reach it, but she wanted to try anyway.

She put her toy teapot on the kitchen table, shoved her hands in her pockets, and watched it with a sour look on her face. I asked her what she was doing and she said, "Oh mommy. Coffee cooking. Need more coffee."

Dude and I were talking at dinner and she heard me say motorcycle. "Buggy motorcycle! Mommy! Want motorcycle! Buggy want motorcycle! My motorcycle! My motorcycle!" She followed this with a whiney tirade about needing a motorcycle. As soon as she got over it, she said that she wanted to go to the beach. She wanted to walk on the beach. "My ocean! My ocean! My ocean! My ocean!" Yes, she launched into full whine with that, too, but it was funny to see her want something so unownable so desperately.

(Man, I'm making up words left and right in this post.)

"Buggy excited [to] see Aunt Erika! Panda, polar bear excited, too!"

Overheard on the baby monitor...

Belly: "Mommy! Nap over!"

Buggy: "Bummer, Belly. Shh. Read Pajama Time. You a sweetheart monster."

"I love you, Mommy... Very much... Like cheese pups (puffs)."

EVERY time I change a poopy diaper on Belly: "Ooooh! Big mess! Messy diap! Pew, Belly!" (Is that how you spell pew in this instance? It doesn't seem right, but my brain can't think of an alternative...)

I'm sure there are more, but those are the top-of-mind ditties. She's a handful but she sho is cute.

Better

Yes - today was better. And thank god because I was about to leave the children outside the grocery store with little notes pinned to their shirts that said, "FREE (+ the expense of maintenance and upkeep)." You guys were right. We all needed to get the heck out of the house. We went to Swap this morning and then home for nap. I burned a new nap time cd last night that doubled up a few songs in the middle, thus increasing the music time to a full 80 minutes and eliminated the need for me to sneak back in the room to restart the cd. PLUS I largely ignored Belly's cries (instead of calling up on the monitor and telling her to shush) and I think she may have actually fallen back asleep for awhile. Sure, she fussed again and was back to her usual shenanigans, but not for the entire time and not at the same shrill volume that has become her norm. It was... dare I say it... tolerable.

After nap and lunch, we got out the new trikes and I pushed them ALL over the neighborhood. Seriously. Our neighborhood is pretty hilly and I pushed them with the "parental handles" for about an hour. My arms were jelly achy afterward. It's not easy to push two 30ish pound kids on trikes at the same time! But it was an excellent workout. Here we are saying hi to Dude at the coffee shop down the street...

Then we came home and played and read books until Dude finished working. There were no major tantrums, no serious problems of any real sort. HOORAY! Another day like yesterday would've done me in for sure. I'm living day to day here, so this counts as a huge plus.

Last night we went out to dinner with our former realtor and her husband. They have a five and a half year old son. The husband was refreshingly candid about how having a kid cramped his style but he loves him more than anything. I like that kind of frankness in a person. Anyway, the rough part of the conversation was when they agreed that it's JUST NOW seeming like they can go back to enjoying some of the stuff they did pre-kid (art ambitions, etc.). Just now? Now that the kid is in school? I practically pounded my beer at this news and proceeded to lament how I'm barely keeping my nose and mouth out of the water so I don't drown with these lovely girls of mine. They laughed and laughed, even telling me that I should do a stand-up routine about it. Go ahead. Laugh. I guess I'm a crying on the inside kind of clown.

But today was good. And that's not nothing.

You know what else? I've got tons going on this week. Wednesday night, Bri is babysitting while Dude and I get gussied up and see the Vienna Boys Choir. Thursday night I'm going out with my mama friends. And Sunday night, Dude and I are going to see Black Rebel Motorcycle Club at the Wonder Ballroom. It's almost like I have a life.

Questioning motherhood

Look. I admit that I have wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember. There have been other goals along the way - I think in fifth grade I wanted to be a lawyer; in sixth grade I decide I wanted to be an actress and that stuck with me for, oh, ever; I did the nonprofit career thing; I've always fancied myself something of a writer (never quite figured out a job around that one) - but being a mom has always been a top priority. Here's the thing, though. I thought it would be easier than this. THIS is really freaking hard. I remind myself all the time that no one ever died of mothering two two-year-olds. I find myself screaming at them to stop screaming at each other. I count to ten 9000 times a day. There are days (today is one of them) when it's all I can do not to spank them. Sure, sure - they're cute, but that doesn't really matter when they blatantly disregard what I say to them about EVERYTHING.

I assembled two new sparkling tricycles for them this morning. They whined the whole time I did it. They argued over who got the first one. Each girl wanted BOTH bikes when the assembly was complete. They ran into each other on purpose and caused massive tears. I took them up for nap. Belly woke up after ten minutes and HOWLED for the next 40 until the music was done.

It is sunny and 60 degrees outside. I'm giving them lunch and have promised that we will ride the bikes in the driveway after lunch. BUT PEOPLE - they refuse to eat lunch. They are sitting in their seats crying about not liking it. I have threatened a second nap if they don't eat SOMETHING.

Seriously. Shoot me. Put me out of my misery. I'm filled with anger in a way very, very unbefitting a mother. Parenting books? Fuck 'em. I have read 32 of them. I'm either told to modify my behavior or to just "get through it." Get through what? The next 16 years? I. Will. Not. Make. It. And modify my behavior? Oh I have. Trust me, I have. And it doesn't do a damn thing. They are holy terrors for me. This behavior is not displayed for Daddy or others. It is reserved for me alone.

I love these girls like no other people in the world, but they are freaking killing me. I used to be a lovely person. Now I'm an evil monster inside. Maybe this is three goddamn weeks of being home with sick kids talking (tomorrow we will actually venture out in the world again), but I'm not so sure. Everyone says to treasure this time. I want to hurt those people. They are not in my shoes. I want six-year-olds who go to school.

Spanglish

I've been teaching the girls tiny bits and pieces of Spanish as we go along on this mother-daughters journey. They have a couple bilingual books that they like to read and both can solidly count to twelve in Spanish. I wish that I could just yammer away at them all the time in Spanish but I've lost so much by not speaking it on a regular basis. To think that I once debated abortion and prostitution and government controls over women (before storming out in a huff) entirely in Spanish in a college class... Anyway. They're picking it up in little dribs and drabs at a time and I'm grateful for that at the moment. I'll come up with a real language learning plan for them before too long.

I'm telling you this because Belly and Buggy are currently having a raging debate - as they sit on the kitchen floor looking at books - over whether the Bug should be counting in English or Spanish. Belly is practically chanting, "English! English! English!" and Buggy is countering with "Uno! Dos! Face!" Those little smarty pants. They're cute (when they're not being total punks).

I heart swearing

Sorry, but I do. It can't be helped. I'm 35 years old and I cannot be retrained to refrain. It's fact. Tonight the Bug said "dammit" in perfect context, with complete nonchalance at the dinner table. I tried not to laugh as I covered my face in my napkin. Dude did not approve. Dude does not approve of swearing in general, so to hear it from his tiny daughter's mouth is not cute to him. But this little episode actually reminded me of another ditty that I wanted to share from a few weeks back...

Again the scene was the dinner table. For whatever reason, Belly said, "Jesus!" I nearly sprayed Dude and all of dinner with my mouthful of beverage as I busted out in full chortle. Dude looked at me like I was his 15-year-old juvenile delinquent daughter and said, "HONEY!" See - Dude goes to church every Sunday. He's got religion, unlike yours truly. That's fine. It works for him. I'm cool with it. But my point is that saying "Jesus" or "Jesus Christ" is really, really not on his list of acceptable utterances.

Buggy was quick to her mother's defense. "Daddy, Mommy loves Baby Jesus." And I was just as quick to add, "It's true - I love babies. If Baby Jesus was here right now, I'd hold him." We all smiled sweetly at Dude. Subject dropped.

Poor Dude. He's such a nice guy.

Middle of the night post

Yep - it's almost 1am. I'm wide awake. The girls have been sick for the last week with a viral respiratory thing that has been pretty ugly - fevers, hacking coughs, snot for miles. Ugh. And today (or yesterday at this time of night), I finally couldn't take it anymore. I woke up feeling like my head was being squeezed in a door. Dude took the girls downstairs and I kept sleeping. And sleeping. And waking up every now and then to blow my nose. And sleeping some more. I took some Dayquil at 12:30p and finally got up at 4:30p. I'm still congested something fierce, but not feeling "sick" anymore.

And now I'm wiiiiide awake. It's so late that they're actually showing videos on VH1. I am going to be so messed up tomorrow.

Happy freaking Valentine's Day

Last weekend was, clearly, the big romantic gesture from Dude and I certainly did not expect anything like that again for Valentine's Day. We're usually more of the Valentine's card and a nice dinner kind of folks anyway - not buying into the giant boxes of chocolates, dozens of roses, etc. But Dude informed me earlier in the week that we were going somewhere for a "family Valentine's thing" on Saturday at 5pm. I pried for clues and was told that it was inside and I didn't need to make dinner. Hm. That could pretty much mean dinner anywhere. Fun!

So Friday late afternoon found me exceptionally tired and crabby with my throat starting to hurt. Uh oh. We ate dinner and I basically went to bed with the girls, falling asleep around 8:30pm. I awoke Saturday morning at 7am feeling fine. Fashew! Crisis averted! Because moms don't get sick. I'm just not allowed to. It doesn't work.

Needless to say, there was a no celebrating of the day of the Valentine on Friday.

Saturday morning found us with one sick little Buglet - nasty cough, thoroughly runny nose, slight fever. Poor kid. We spent the morning being pretty chill, then Dude watched them for about 3 hours in the afternoon so that I could leave the house by myself for a break (lord knows I need those as often as I can). When I came home, Buggy seemed so-so and Dude said that she would be fine for what he had planned. So, off we went to... FIVE GUYS! I love me a little bacon cheeseburger with all kinds of stuff on it. Yuuuuuummmmmm. Anyway. Bug's health proceeded to go downhill rapidly while we there, including somehow getting a diaper wedgie and peeing all over my lap just as our food was ready. No really - Happy Valentine's Day family dinner. Good times.

Both girls fell asleep as we drove home. We changed them, got 'em in jammies, and called bedtime early. Dude laid down with them, as he does every night. It took forever for Buggy to fall asleep soundly enough for him to get up, though. Finally, finally he came downstairs... and announced he didn't feel very well, had a major headache, was going to do the dishes and go to bed. Which meant that I took off the little number I had hidden under my sweats and shoved it beneath the futon. Sigh.

Today, the Bug is more sick than yesterday (including puking on the couch) and Belly's cough is getting worse. I'm not even going to allow myself to think that there might be some sort of romantic anything with my husband tonight to celebrate this day of amour.

But I sincerely hope that you and yours have done something spectacular to mark the day. I've been living vicariously through my friend on Facebook who posted pictures of her hot air balloon ride. Obviously, she does not have kids.

My most embarrassing moment evah

A comment on my last post made me remember my most embarrassing moment ever yesterday. I keep thinking about it and I may as well tell you. We're friends, right? It was so, so, so, so terrible and I'm sure hilarious beyond compare - although the retelling of it still makes me a little shaky. But here goes...

For years, my most embarrassing moment was my first date - as in, my first date with a boy in a car ever. I was trying on two different but very similar shoes when he arrived to pick me up. In my teenage fluster, I left the house with different shoes on my feet. We went to his house and I met his parents and grandmother. They kept looking at me like I was a freak and I didn't know why. Then, as we got back in the car to go to a party, I saw. Oh, I wanted to die. I asked the boy to take me home - "just for a minute!" - but he wouldn't move the car until I told him why. And then he took me home so I could change one of my shoes, but he totally laughed at me. And Erika made sure that everyone at school knew about it on Monday. It was terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible. That all changed, though, and became a nothing story after THIS though...

I have never been one who is fond of the gym. I'll do it if I have to, but I'd rather be doing just about anything else. Unfortunately, if I don't get enough exercise and eat right, I start to look plump. I don't like looking plump so there you go. The beauty of having two 2-year-olds is that they keep me pretty active (but I'm still going to get a home elliptical machine). ANYWAY. For several years in my twenties, I took dance classes at my local community college instead of paying for a gym membership. Ballet, modern, Afro-Brazilian - I took 'em all. Each class was an hour long, four or five days a week (I usually took two back-to-back) and they were $11/credit. All dance classes were only one credit each, so do the math and you see what a bargain this was. PLUS - and this is a big plus - I was listed as a "dance major." SCORE! It was like living out some alternate world fantasy. Now, I took tons and tons of these classes but I really am not a very flexible person, so you know, I was only so good. Which is to say that I was incredibly mediocre. At best. But I didn't care. I had a lot of heart and I wasn't trying to be the best in class. I just wanted a good workout, which I surely received.

My ballet teacher, though, was not about mediocre. She wanted the best. She demanded the best. She liked me well enough because I tried my hardest to be good and she knew that she didn't have to break it to me that I wasn't a real dance major (and never would be). It was sort of our unspoken understanding. She was incredibly tough and looked a lot like Susan Powter - which is to say, yikes. Nobody messed with her. Her name was Charlotte.

Charlotte let it be known on the very first day of class that the "final" was the big recital at the end of the semester and we were going to start learning our routine after the warm up at the barre. Oh yes - we WOULD be the best dancers up there; and oh yes - we WOULD make her proud; and oh yes - there WOULD be hell to pay if we didn't. This recital was sort of a big deal. Every single dance class in every single genre performed. The audience was all of the other students and any guests they wanted to bring (which meant a lot of parents with video cameras). I didn't sweat the recital, though, because Charlotte and I had our little understanding. The class was divided into five rows and I was in the fourth one back. It was exactly where I wanted to be.

The semester waned on and every class we perfected and added on to our recital piece. Charlotte chose three soloists. She moved those who were getting better and better forward in the rows. Those of us who remained mediocre stayed in the back. Then I had a family emergency of sorts that was taking me out of town and I was going to miss the last three classes before the recital. I asked Charlotte if I could just skip it. She said no, that I had to perform in order to pass the class. I knew the routine at this point, so I wasn't really worried. Charlotte said to just remember who was next to me in my line and to be sure I was in the correct spot when entering the stage and she wasn't worried either. So good. I went out of town.

The day of the recital, I went to school and found my class in the auditorium. It was PACKED. Every seat was taken and it was standing room only in the aisles and along the back of the room. Holy smokes! I started to feel a little nervous. I found the girl who I was to follow onstage and waited until our class was called "on deck." All of a sudden, we went to the side of the stage OPPOSITE what we'd rehearsed for months. I grabbed the girl's arm and asked her what was happening. She said that Charlotte had made some last minute changes at the dress rehearsal and we were entering from the opposite side, starting in the opposite pose (turned toward the right instead of the left), but once we started moving, everything was exactly as it had always been. "Are you SUUUURE that's it?!" Yep. She was sure. Okay. I could handle that. Like I said - I knew the routine. We were called out from the wings to take our places. I followed my girl closely. Wait. What was happening? Where were we? FUUUUUUCCKKKKK!!! Apparently, my girl - whom I was always a little surprised was lumped back with the rest of us very average dancers - had been moved to the front row. And now I was there, too. And I couldn't just slip back four rows. I was stuck. There were seven dancers in the front row now - me in the middle and three on either side. I was having trouble breathing. Everyone struck their opening pose and I mentally gave myself a pep talk, "You can do this. It's 3.5 minutes of dancing. You. Can. Do. This." I was sweating under the stage lights and the music hadn't even started. "Remember - once we start moving, it's the same as it's always been." I could do it. Besides, it was really about one minute of dancing, everyone but the soloists leaving the stage for another 1.5 minutes, and then the full class for the last minute. I planned to slip into the back after the soloists. I only had to make it through one minute of front row center. I felt confident. And man, I was fooling myself something fierce.

The music started and I went toward the right just like we'd always done. Except everyone else came left, so I actually knocked into the girl to my right. I tried to recover and go left, but then everyone was going right, so I knocked into the girl to my left. Yes. That's correct. Two dance moves into the recital and I had taken out two girls. And there was Charlotte, in the front row, breathing fire as the rest of the audience roared - ROARED! - with laughter. I did what I could to finish out the other 56 seconds with some sort of dignity, but it was a total joke. I was so shaken and frazzled that I pretty much forgot the choreography and was just making shit up. I wondered if there was a trap door in the floor through which I could flee. Finally the minute ended and we exited stage right while the soloists soloed. I wasn't about to go back out there - not even in the last row. So when everyone went back out for the last minute, I stayed in the wings. I shoved part of a curtain in my mouth to keep from vomiting. Then the class took a bow and started to exit... the other side of the stage! Because of the way things were set up, the only way for me to get out of the wings, off the stage and out of the auditorium was to go with them. So I ran out after them with my arm extended like all of theirs - but about five feet behind the last dancer. When the audience saw me, they erupted in laughter again. Somehow, I got my bag and left the building before anyone could say anything to me and Charlotte could behead me and take a dump down my neck.

I got in my car and drove home, shaking my head the whole way and saying repeatedly aloud, "Disaster. Complete disaster." I went home and crawled into bed, grateful that neither Dude nor either of my two girlfriends I'd invited had been able to attend. I kept replaying it in my mind and it was like some America's Funniest Home Videos clip that seemed fake. Except that it was so very, very real.

Seriously. My heart is pounding just typing this out.

Needless to say, I didn't take ballet the next semester and told my other dance professors that I was taking the class pass/fail with the understanding that I did not have to perform in the recital. Everyone agreed (they'd all been there to witness the debacle, right?). When I saw Charlotte in the hallway, I hid. It was a full four months before I turned a corner and there she was right in front of me. She smiled at me menacingly and said, "Rachael. Hello."

"Uh, hi, Charlotte. Listen - I'm sorry. I can explain. No, I can't. Yes, I can. Just kill me now and get it over."

"I'm not going to kill you. Hundreds of people saw you make a fool of yourself. I figure you've suffered enough humiliation. I like you. You can take my classes again if you want - just no more recitals. Sign up pass/fail next semester if you want. It's fine." And she walked away.

I did take more classes from Charlotte and I rehearsed for the recital just like everyone else, but I was always a no-show on performance day. I couldn't bear to set foot in that auditorium again.

The only performance that I ever participated in after that was a parade, in full costume, with my Afro-Brazilian dance class. My two girlfriends who had missed the ballet recital were there early to get good seats and had their cameras at the ready. They were sorely disappointed when I followed the routine to a T and didn't have any wardrobe malfunctions or take out any other dancers. How boring. They thought they were there for a show...

Dude duped me

Remember how my last post ended with me saying that Dude had some sort of surprise date planned for us last night? WELL! Let me tell YOU! He really pulled a fast one on me. And booooooooy was he proud of hisself.

I got dressed to go "out" - an outfit that could be a little overdressed in a totally cazh atmosphere or a little underdressed in more refined environs. I couldn't decide between the "nicer" shoes or the "funkier" shoes, so I put on one of each and headed downstairs to get Dude's opinion (he was the one who knew where we were going, after all). He liked the funkier ones and said, "But have you decided what you're going to wear in the morning? Are your toiletries together? You really should at least get your toothbrush." I was all, "Whaaaaaaaaa......??" Seriously. What was he talking about? I have never spent the night away from the girls. Ever. And not only that, but they have never spent the night away from me. Never ever. I looked at him quizzically, "Are you serious?" Yep. He was.

I went upstairs and got a few things together, and as I was packing up my toiletries, the worry about this overnight thing set in for real. I actually started to feel a little angry that I wasn't given notice so that I could mentally prepare for the separation. And what about the girls? Dude obviously hadn't told them or I would've heard about it (they are TOTAL blabber mouths). They needed more preparation than this! I was starting to think this was most definitely not a good idea.

Dude put the girls to bed and I went downstairs to give Bri more than an earful of instructions. She assured me repeatedly that everything was going to be fine - "You really need to relax." So easy for her to say. Dude came down and said that he needed 10 minutes and he'd be ready to walk out the door. "Oh, and did you pack something to wear in the water?" I looked at him in utter disbelief. See... the other thing I should mention here is that yesterday was the worst day of my period, too. I explained to Dude that I was not about to put on a bathing suit OR get into water of any kind. I just wasn't. He told me that was fine and ran to get his stuff together. I thought I might have a panic attack.

Ten minutes later, we walked out the door and left. Oh. My. God. It was happening.

Dude had gotten us a room at the McMenamin's Edgefield and there were 9pm dinner reservations at the Black Rabbit restaurant waiting for us. I ordered a glass of wine and things started to seem a little... rosier. Dude and I had a lovely, lovely dinner (steamed mussels; roasted beet & arugula salad; trio of small plates for entrees - grilled quail with roasted potatoes and gaufrettes, Tunisian beef kabobs with sweet potato balls and spicy tagine, tea-smoked duck breast with Asian slaw and crispy wontons; cheese plate). By the end of the meal, I wasn't worried about the girls anymore. I mean really. They'd be fine. I even decided that I wasn't going to call Bri to check in until morning.

Dude's intention in all of this clearly was to be super romantic and get some quality hours for just the two of us. Part of this, naturally, was to be spent in the boudoir (we ARE husband and wife, after all). But as I mentioned before, I was in the middle of a visit from Her Majesty Mother Nature herself and that was really, uh, out of the question. So you know what happened instead? We played one hand of gin rummy, during which I started to pass out. And then Dude read his book while I snuggled up next to him and fell into a deep, deep sleep. And I slept and slept and slept and slept... until 8:09am!!! You non-kid-havin' readers will think this is no big deal, but I assure you that it is monu-fucking-mental. I slept for 8+ hours in an uninterrupted row. That hasn't happened since some point in the middle of my second trimester of pregnancy. And let me tell you that being well rested feels pretty sexy.

I called Bri at approximately 8:11am. She put me on speaker phone. The girls were all, "Hi, Mommy! Bri here!" As it turns out, there had been zero crying and everyone was perfectly perfect in every way. Who were these little angels? Surely not my trouble dolls...

Dude and I had a big ol' breakfast, walked the Edgefield grounds a little bit, then checked out and headed home at 11am. I ran in the house and Belly and Buggy greeted me with hugs, but not desperate cries. Who knew that this would be so easy? And now that we know, we shall do it again. But maybe next time Dude will do a little better with the timing of it all...

Victory will be mine

Things have been getting slowly, slowly better with the nap time wars. Today was the day that I finally felt like I'm going to win. Buggy woke up and didn't cry - just started playing quietly. Belly woke up and fussed. I shushed her over the monitor (we have a walky-talky function) and she did. She DID! She whined off and on for 20 minutes after that. Then - THEN! - they started giggling and playing together. I was right outside their door when the music stopped. They started whining, calling for me again at that point and but so what? It was time for me to be there. They had every right to bitch. So... HOORAY!! And on top of all that? I actually pulled a little trick today. It felt like their cd was going too quickly and they were still asleep, so when it was halfway over, I snuck back in their room and restarted it. So really they were in there for a nap and a half today. It was GLORIOUS!

I will reign supreme. And apparently I will use a lot of capitalized words to let you know about it.

One other fancy tidbit... Belly pooped in the potty the other day. She pees once or twice a day, but never has there been a dump from either one of them (Buggy rarely even pees). I showered that child with praise and fanfare the likes of which she'd never seen. And then I pulled out the Extra Special Treat that had been promised if that day were to ever arrive: M&Ms. I gave a couple to Belly and one to the Bug (so she could see what the big deal was all about). Belly promptly spit them out and asked for a cracker. Uh... what?? What kid doesn't like M&Ms??? Apparently, Belly. But she was perfectly happy with the cracker and Buggy was perfectly happy to scarf up Belly's unwanted treats. To each her own, I suppose.

And in non-kid news - I have a date tomorrow night. Dude informed me that the children need to be hitting the pillow by 7pm and Bri is babysitting. No other details were supplied. Fun, eh? I love a good surprise.

Oh peeps

I've been wanting to blog, but my energy has been at about -26. These girls. My god. Belly has continued the screaming every single nap time for the last week and a half. I can't separate them because a) I don't have a safe place to do that and b) they freak even more if they're not by each other (at least I'm pretty positive that would be the case). Buggy cries for a couple minutes and then plays quietly, but Belly goes for eleven on the volume every single day. Today it was a solid 45 minutes of screaming. I have no other ideas, which means no other options, so it is just continuing.

And can we talk about the "No! MINE!" for a minute? And the pushing? And the hitting? And the hair pulling?

I'm so at the end of my rope, I'm thinking about building a tree fort in the back yard so I can have a place all to myself. I will pull up the rope ladder and listen to music and pretend I'm 22 with not a care in the world. Or I might run away and sit by some hotel pool for a week wearing large sunglasses, sipping vodka drinks, and telling anyone who asks, "Je regret. Je parle le francais seulement." Or I might... I don't know. Something has to give.

Sorry this isn't a funny, fun glimpse into life at Chez BellyBuggy, but this is reality. I'm aching for fantasy. Positively aching at the moment.

Day 3

They still chose the screaming option. I wanted to shoot myself. What happens if we get to, say, the end of next week and they're still screaming for 30+ minutes when they wake up from nap and are forced to stay in their room until the music stops? I need to explore my options. I want to have a back-up plan. Suggestions?

Taking the reins

As my last post about life with children indicated, something needed to change around here. And so I've instituted a new nap time policy. First, I had Dude put a hook-and-eye on the outside of the girls' bedroom door. Then I told the girls that nap time goes to the end of the cd. I will lie down with them until they are asleep, but if they wake up and the music is still playing, nap time isn't over. They have several choices at that point: a) scream, cry, pound the door and call for me; b) lie back down and either sleep some more or just rest quietly; or c) read some books or play quietly. No matter what they choose to do, I will be downstairs until the music stops.

Yesterday was Day 1. It totally freaking sucked. Both girls went for option A for about half an hour. I called over the monitor several times to remind them that I was just downstairs and would be up when the music stopped. At the appropriate time, I went upstairs to find them both lying on the bed covered in snot and tears, still screaming.

Day 2 is a little better, but not much. The Bug woke up about 10 minutes ago (there's still a good 15-20 minutes of music left). She cried for about 5 minutes and then started to peter off, but now Belly is going full throttle, "Mommymommymommymommymommymommy..."

They'll get used to this routine, right? I mean, I know they will, but right now is downright miserable for all of us. I'm not exactly enjoying having a "break" when I'm spending the whole time feeling like I should rescue my kids from their own personal hell. But then I'm in hell by not getting a break.

To top it all off, Dude is sick in bed. He has a doctor's appointment in an hour, but he's pretty sure that it's a sinus infection.

Both girls are now raging in full effect up there.

Welcome to the happy house.

Looking for love in all the wrong places

So yesterday afternoon, Dude and I went out for some pints and Gin Rummy at the Lucky Labrador while Bri and Sissy hung with our girlies. It was pretty random and fun and I must say that Dude was waaaaaay ahead until I came from behind and totally spanked his ass at cards. That's right. I'm gloating. I rocked it.

Anyway, we were starting to wind things down when two women in their 30s came and sat at the table next to us with their beer. I couldn't help but eavesdrop. Oh my. The one with the short, dominatrix-ish bob talked a mile a minute. She started out by saying that she'd just slept with someone who informed her immediately afterward that he wasn't over his ex-girlfriend and that means that there are now only three guys in town that she hasn't dated and they are... (she actually named names here). Then she said that so-and-so broke his foot so she needs a new riding partner and she's taking a drawing class and there are some really great nude male models in Portland. "There's this one? Who is really little? I mean, like, EVERYTHING about him is really small. Here. Look. I took a picture." At this she pulled out her iPhone and the two of them gushed about how tiny he is.

My God, women! How old are you? Their shallow prater was just... painful. I looked across the table at my dear husband and felt very grateful that I'm not single. I also realized that - if I should ever find myself in that most unfortunate predicament - I can handle the competition. Ugh.

I'm under attack

Things have been pretty difficult on the parenting front lately. The girls are just... I don't know... really hard on me. EVERYTHING is about pushing my buttons and seeing how far they can go. I'm feeling like a crappy mom because I'm yelling all the time, constantly saying no.

Monday was insane. I took the girls to Swap 'n Play in the morning. That was fine. They fell asleep in the truck about five minutes from home. I called Dude and asked if he'd help me carry them in to bed. We got them up there, but then Buggy woke up 15 minutes later. And she woke up Belly. I crawled in bed with them to get them back asleep, but they were being punky - goofing around, sticking fingers in my eyes and ears, popping their heads up and laughing at each other. I very calmly told them that this was nap time. If they didn't want to nap, they could read books or play with toys, but they needed to stay in their room. Mommy was going to go downstairs. They started to cry and both said, "No! Snuggle Mommy!" So everyone cuddled up again. Within 30 seconds they were doing it again. And again, I warned that I was going to go downstairs unless people wanted to sleep. It didn't stop. So I said that I was going downstairs and I'd be back in ten minutes. I got up and walked out. Both girls started SCREAMING and reaching over the gate in their doorway as I walked away. I came downstairs, but I could still hear them. So I grabbed the monitor and headed to the family room in the basement. I turned on the monitor just enough that I could see the red light "activity indicator" but not have any volume. It was maxing out over and over and over. I felt like crap. But you know what? They are two years old. They can't hang out in their room by themselves for ten minutes? What happens if they scream that whole time? Are they going to be permanently scarred? I didn't think that would be the case, so I stayed down there for ten whole minutes. The red lights never stopped going.

Exactly ten minutes later, I came back up. I could hear the screaming as I got closer but it seemed muffled somehow. What was going on up there? I walked up the stairs and turned down the hall to see Dude sitting in the hallway holding their door shut. WTF?

Dude had been sitting in his office on the phone with his business partner. He heard the screaming (seriously - the whole block probably heard the screaming), but then all of a sudden Belly was screaming a LOT closer than before. In fact, he heard her pounding on the gate at the top of the stairs. He got off the phone. Somehow, Belly had gotten over the gate in the doorway of their room (a first!). Dude returned a screaming Belly to her room with her screaming sister and went back in his office. Pretty soon, the screams were getting closer again. He went back in the hall to see Belly running down the hall and Buggy literally flipping over the gate, landing on her back in the hallway. He told them that they needed to stay in their room, took down the gate, shut the door, and quickly realized that they could easily open the door. So there he sat - sitting in the hallway, holding the door closed until I came back up.

What a disaster.

The afternoon continued with the girls doing their best to make me insane. I have no doubt they were trying to get even with me. Late in the day I remembered that I needed to reset the dehumidifier and went down to the basement for, oh, 45 seconds. I shut the door from the kitchen behind me so that no little people followed. As I was coming up the basement stairs, I heard some fumbling with the doorknob. Belly locked me downstairs. She freaking locked me downstairs. I could go out the back door and let myself in the front door, but the back door needs a key to unlock it - a key that was in the kitchen. Fortunately, I had my phone on me so I called Dude and had him let me back in.

I hear that the terrible twos got nothin' on three. Really? REALLY?? I'm not sure I'm going to make it.

A new year, a new boyfriend, and some Little House on the Prairie

Whelp, lemme tell you that NYE was perfectly fine. Dude and I got some amazing Indian takeout, opened yummy wine, made a fire, put a Muse station on Pandora and talked well past midnight. It wasn't a wild dance party, but it certainly wasn't boring either. Sometimes it feels like we get so bogged down in parenting (and bills and chores but especially parenting) that we lose track of each other. It's such a challenge to balance (his) work time, family time, alone time and couple time. There's just not enough time in the day. Or sometimes the week. Or - I hate to admit this, but it's true - the month. I'm not talking physical intimacy here, but bonding, engaging couple time wherein we're not discussing Belly and Buggy the whole time. New Year's Eve found the two of us having just that kind of special time - and both acknowledging that we need to find more of it. So, I'm taking a boyfriend in 2010. And that boyfriend is Dude.

And with that, we had a date on Saturday night! Bri babysat and we went to HUB for dinner, followed by bowling at Grand Central Bowl. SO fun! I think I've bowled exactly twice (counting last night) in the last 12 or 13 years. It's really an activity that requires alcohol. The more I drink, the better I am. We played two games with pretty pathetic scores - the first he won 85-83 and the second I won 111-100. I think with another vanilla vodka and coke and one more game, I may have broken 150. I might also have puked.

So complete non sequitor...

I have two Little House on the Prairie tidbits for you. The first is from McSweeney's and I thought it was hilarious!

The second is a beautiful set of LHOTP coasters that Erika made for me for Christmas. Check it: