What Daddy and Cats Have in Common

I recommend taking your own tiger and monkey to the zoo,
in case the ones that live there permanently are not being entertaining.

The twins are reaching that age where it is possible to have full conversations with them. Pair their budding conversation skills with their emerging two year-old logic and you get gems like this:

Julia: Kitty cat have whiskas?
Mommy: Yes, kitty cats have whiskers. Do snakes have whiskers?
Both: Nooooooooo!  (This is obviously a silly statement that Mommy has made.)
Mommy: But doggies have whiskers.
Matthew (agrees): Doggie have whiska.
Mommy:  Do you know who else has whiskers? Daddy has whiskers in his beard!
(long pause as their gears turn, and they absorb what I have said.)
Matthew (uncertain): Daddy... is... a... kitty cat?
Mommy: No, Daddy is not a kitty cat!  But Daddy has whiskers!
Matthew (more sure of himself than he has ever been): Daddy is a kitty cat.

http://www.dansdata.com/kitten.htm 

I almost explain to them that if Daddy had been born with the flexibility of the cat, he would be able to clean his own genitals with his tongue.  Given the implications of having this lauded ability, I have serious doubts  that the twins would ever have been born.  Or any of our children, for that matter. I could be wrong.

Big kitty cats have whiskers, too.

No Longer New Parents

Michael would never have been allowed to
eat lollipops in bed.

There is nothing like your first baby to make you fear the world and its dangers, however small. When we had our first little boy, we considered him to be a fragile, delicate little creature that was vulnerable to loud noises, gassy foods, and invisible germs. We sterilized his binkies and bottles. We used dye-free, unscented laundry detergent. If organic food had been readily available then, he would have had organic food served in BPA-free dishes.  He did not watch television, and we read to him daily, hourly even. At the playground, we hovered in case he fell and to give him constant encouragement at every new challenge.

Here they are eating off a picnic table which is
probably covered in bird poop residue.

Similarly, there is nothing like a set of twins for your third and fourth child to make you realize that kids are pretty resilient, and that as long as they have a loving, supportive environment, they're fairly indestructible. So, now instead of protecting their ears from loud noises, they have screaming contests when they are supposed to be napping. Instead of holding their hands and hovering as they climb the playground structure, we let them play freely- although I still get a little nervous when Julia swings out over empty space, with glee, hovering for just a second at a height where a fall could result in both neurologic as well as orthopedic injury.  I gave away the bottle sterilizer once we had our second child, since I figured the dishwasher worked just as well. I guess we buy organic if it's convenient, but I'm not obsessive about it, and if the non-organic is cheaper and looks fresher, that's what's going in our grocery cart.

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Series/WonderWoman

The kids also all watch television, more than some kids but less than others. It's a fight I that I don't invest in too much anymore, since all the kids, even the twins, read obsessively, are extremely creative, and none of them are likely to become "gamers." It's also increasingly more difficult, as my older children are able to work the DVR and Netflix with a dexterity that I don't even have, despite my childhood expertise in programming the VCR. My husband helpfully points out that we watched a lot of TV when we were growing up.  And while TV now is different and worse than TV thirty years ago, the shows back then were sexist and horribly acted with terrible, predictable plots and we loved them.  (Have you watched Wonder Woman with Lynda Carter recently? I rest my case.)

Here is an actual photo of Michael picking food up off
the floor to feed the twins. And where are we? Capturing the
moment on camera so I can post it on this blog.

We still read to the twins, sometimes hourly, as they have a library of board books at their disposal, but when food falls on the floor, we sometimes pick it right back up and let them eat it, as long as there is no hair in it. That's where I draw the line. Actually, that's not true. If I know who the hair belongs to, then I just pick the hair off.  I draw the line at visible dirt in the food.  That's where I draw the line.  I'm pretty sure that I would not have re-fed already chewed and rejected food to either our first or second child. Now I think of it as recycling, and reducing waste. And let's face it, when you make weekly trips to Costco to buy staples like milk, eggs, and spinach, you try to maximize what gets in their mouths so you don't have to make a second trip.

We don't even bathe them anymore. Just toss them in the washer

on the 'heavily soiled' setting...

and then tumble them dry. 

Detective Brain

Sometimes when you're missing something,
it's best to hire a professional.

When we have kids, a significant portion of the brain becomes devoted to keeping track of other people's personal items, as well as details about their elimination patterns. At the risk of revealing too much about myself, I hesitate to proffer an exact percentage of brain power utilized for this purpose. Moreover, what I find most concerning is that some information is likely trickling out of my brain in order to make room for things like my kids' names, when their library books are due, and whether or not we need more eggs.  I'm talking about important information that's seeping out, like when I last oiled my paper shredder- it's probably been a year. And whether or not I made their appointments at the pediatrician- I was only 3 months late for the twins' 18 month well-child check this year. (They looked really good when it came to evaluating their milestones- I'm sure that extra 3 months helped.)

I understand and accept that it is somehow my job to keep track of everything that comes through our house, but frankly, I sometimes have trouble keeping track of every PERSON that is in the house. Not too long ago, I forgot that Julia had followed me into the basement.  I finished putting a bunch of boxes away, and turned out all the lights. Sometime later, I realized she was missing, and remembered that she might be downstairs. She was happily playing on the computer. She may have been blogging about being a twin.  I wouldn't put it past her.  Allison probably taught her how to Google. 

I swear I just saw Allison's pink bracelet somewhere.

Although, when children are pestering you with questions every 5 minutes when you are trying to do important things like check Facebook or type up a blog post before you forget the details, they're pretty easy to track.

Mommy!  Do you know where my belt is?

No, I don't know where you put your belt.  The last time I saw it, it was wrapped around the stuffed dog like a collar with a string tied to it for a leash.

Mommy!  Do you know where my black shoes shoes are?
No, I don't know where your black shoes are.  Is it possible that they are in the laundry room with ALL THE OTHER SHOES?  Is it possible that if, when you came in the house, you had taken them off and put them in the laundry room with all the other shoes, that you would then be able to pinpoint their exact location?

Mommy!  Do you have my water bottle?
No, I don't have your water bottle.  I keep my water bottle separate, because I don't like unidentifiable chunks of chewed food floating around in my bottle.  Also, I don't want to drink water that someone has dunked their pudgy grubby hand in.

Once we left Bear at a hotel = DISASTER.

Mommy!  Do you know where Bear is?
No, I don't know where Bear is.  If having Bear is important to you for sleeping at night, then I suggest, as I have suggested in the past, that you leave him in your bed. *Bear is the most disgusting, unsanitary creature in the entire world. He is so thin now that I am considering giving him some of my extra fat cells.  And I have plenty to spare.

Mommy!  Do you know where I left my bookmark?
No, I don't know where you left your bookmark. Can you just use a piece of scrap paper?  Can you just use one of the ten thousand little precious art projects and notes that are covering the fridge and countertops? 

Mommy and Daddy are also guilty.  Have you seen my wallet? My purse? My phone?

iSpy an iPhone.  Can you spy the iPhone?

This is where I keep my Sharpies.

My personal record for losing my phone is 5 times in a day. One time I found it with the ringer turned off and under the couch cushion. It doesn't help that certain children find Mommy's stuff to be far more interesting than their own plentiful toys. This includes but is not limited to purse contents, nail clippers, phone, keys, iPod and camera stuff, and water bottles.

And no, sweetheart, just because I found my water bottle does not mean you can drink out of it. 

The problem is that sometimes kids can be camouflaged.

What Is the Ball Sack For?

The children are surfacing!  Throw in more balls!

No parent looks forward to the inevitable chat about Where Babies Come From.  For the longest time, we got away with "They come from the uterus." I sailed through how they find their way out of the uterus, and what happens if they get stuck.  I was even, sort of, okay with my husband's helpful contribution, "Women basically poop babies out of their vagina." Not exactly accurate, but not exactly inaccurate either.  I let it slide with a firm admonition, "Don't ever EVER talk about this at school."  In the back of my mind, I've always kind of anticipated a phone call from either the school, an irate parent, or Child Protective Services. You would think that with this kind of "at the ready" attitude, I would have been prepared for a particularly LOUD dinner about a year ago.

Some kids have more balls than others.

Picture a crazy dinner, where 3 out of 4 kids are wailing.  And I mean screaming-especially the twins. I don't recall why everyone was upset. My husband had left the table- in my memory, it was to check the scores-- although to be fair, this may not be exactly accurate, but it may not be exactly inaccurate either.  My oldest, the glittering eye of the storm, calmly asked, "Mommy. What is the ball sack for?"  Correctly predicting that my answer would have been something mundane and unsatisfying like, "It's there to hold the balls," he immediately took it back, "I mean, what are BALLS for?" Did I mention the screaming? And it's just me, with no back-up? And no strategy, no prepared speech or presentation?

Umm, they're called testes, not balls. 
Ok, Mom, whatever. What are testes for?*

*Here's where I wish I had had the foresight to have said, "They make testosterone."  I feel like I could have taken the conversation in a whole other direction, and really bought a little time, like a year or two, to come up with a strategy or seek back-up.  It was just difficult to form a complete thought with all that mayhem in the background.  In my not exactly inaccurate memory, the mayhem by this time included a trumpeting elephant herd and a dozen monkeys swinging from my pot rack and flinging feces at each other along with the children. Summoning all my powers of concentration, I tried to buy time with,

Umm, they make sperm.
Well, what are sperm?

Girls can have balls also.  They just don't have
a handy ball sack, and therefore must find
other places to store them.

In an instant, everyone was quiet and eerily still because I was about to say something titillating, forbidden, or on the outskirts of naughtiness.  Or some combination of all three.   Although I might have been willing to take a risk that neither of the twins would choose "SPERM" as one of their first words, I didn't think my then 4 year old daughter needed to be updated about the function of sperm at least for another decade or two.  While my mind raced to think of an answer, in the periphery of my visual field I saw my husband slinking back to the table.  A tsunami of relief washed over me, except that... wait... what the... he caught my eye and literally SPUN AROUND ON HIS HEEL and walked away. As relief turned to disbelief, ire, and bitter thoughts of revenge, I told my son that we would have to postpone this conversation until everyone was in bed.

We managed to get all the kids in bed, but still had not had a chance to discuss strategy- mainly due to the logistics involved in getting four children some combination of undressed, bathed, dried, lotioned, powdered,  diapered, teeth brushed, read-to, snuggled, tucked in, kissed, back-scratched, and lights-outed. Suddenly we heard soft footsteps padding into the room. As we damned that kid's perseverance and reminded ourselves that one should never make promises they aren't willing to keep, we took a deep breath and dove in to THE TALK.

This time my husband did not leave the room (probably because he knew that if he did, his own ball sack would be in serious jeopardy) and instead led the discussion with:

You know that there are differences between girls and boys and men and women, right? 
(Michael nods, elementary stuff here.)
Well, another difference is that women make eggs, and men make sperm. Babies are made when the egg and sperm get together, and the way this happens is...
(Michael interrupts) Oh, I already know this part.
(Parents exchanged alarmed/concerned/curious glances) You do?
(Authoritatively) Yeah, it has to do with movie kissing.
(More glances exchanged.) Ummmmm...well, sort of...
(Michael continues, now confident) When a man and woman movie kiss, the man spits sperm into the woman's mouth, and then she swallows it, and that's how the sperm gets to the egg to make a baby.

And that, folks, is why you should never try to move kiss your sibling.

At this point, we ceased all eye contact.  I may have stopped breathing.  What went through my mind was a THIS COULD HAPPEN scenario where we were at someone's house for Thanksgiving, and Grandma, wheelchair-bound by her weak heart, is there having brought what might be her last green Jell-o and cottage cheese salad mold with the family.  Her head bobs, Jell-o salad-like, enjoying every minute because it could be her last, when there is a knock on the door.  It's strapping, boisterous cousin Kurt, who has just returned from his overseas war assignment, and no one has told his wife that he was coming home on leave. Surprise! She screams, startling Grandma who recovers, but looks pale, and then (the wife) throws herself on him and they movie kiss like no one has ever movie kissed before.  Suddenly, my son screams in delight, "MOM!  THEY'RE MAKING A BABY RIGHT NOW IN FRONT OF EVERYBODY!"  Grandma hears this, startles again, and that's it.  No green Jell-o cottage cheese salad for the next family gathering.  I felt like if we didn't correct his misinformation, I could someday be responsible for some poor woman's death.  I just couldn't live with that.

Movie kissing is for responsible grown-ups.

So we told him how sperm really gets to the egg, keeping it simple. Like every other kid his age, he thought it was disgusting, but was immediately able to apply his newfound more accurate knowledge, and formulate a few clarification questions.

So...YOU MEAN... that you and Daddy...?
Yes. Every person was basically conceived this way. You, your sisters and your brother, Mommy and Daddy, your grandparents...
So... YOU MEAN... that Grandma and Papa...?
Yes. EVERYONE YOU KNOW.  Grandma and Papa too. 

And then that was it.  He padded back to bed, and to fill in the gaps, we bought him Where Did I Come From? the very next day. When we gave it to him, he scurried away, read it in 10 minutes, and then gave it back to us.

Mommy?  Where do cavities
come from?

Well, do you have any questions? 
 No.  Have you seen my toothpaste?

But his mind was churning.  The next day, while driving in the car, he asked my husband if redheads also had red hair in their pubic area. I think my husband said something about only if their hair wasn't dyed. (silent thank you for not introducing handy phrases such as carpet and drapes)  The book has since been put away.  I'm pretty sure our daughter hasn't yet picked it up, but I imagine that it won't be too much longer.  I will be no better prepared, because I don't think you can really predict exactly what angle it's going to take.  Sometimes those balls just roll out of the sack and come flying at you out of nowhere.

*Big thank you to Michelle, who reminded me of the movie kissing part as I was telling her how I was struggling to write this post, and feeling like it just wasn't coming together the way a good sperm and egg should.

Too Old for Toys and Spongebob Underwear

After a week long celebration of Allison's birthday this year, I asked Michael if there was anything he was thinking about that he wanted for his birthday.  He sighed, and basically expressed that he was kind of getting too old for Legos and was not old enough for "an iTunes gift card or whatever comes next."  We came up with a few intangibles, like rock climbing sessions, or dinner out.  Response? Shrug. I also suggested prescription sports goggles, as he has mangled his glasses a few times at soccer games and practices.  He kind of got excited about these, which for some reason made me feel a little twinge of guilt.

I remember taking a good look at Michael's hands several years ago and suddenly noticing that his baby dimples had disappeared.  I don't normally get nostalgic about things, but something in me wailed, "NOOOOOOO!  My little boy!"  The iTunes gift card conversation was remniscent of this. I ended up getting him some gag gifts, and The Philosophy Book, which he actually really likes (I know this because he reads it all the time- I don't make this stuff up. He's weird.), even though he can't pronounce any of the philosophers' names correctly.

Michael, it's pronounced SOCK-ruh-tees.

No, Mom, it's sew-CRATES. 

Uh, no. It's SOCK-ruh-tees. Ask your father if you don't believe me.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when he commented on the clean Lightning McQueen Sheets on his bed tonight. "Mom, those ones with the green stripes? Those are fine.  I don't know about these Lightening McQueen sheets.  I mean, they're fine, I guess."  Yeah, okay, I guess I should have known better.  Like when I noticed he was purging his underwear drawer of all his Spongebob Squarepants boxers.

What are you doing?

I'm getting rid of my old underwear. They're too small.

Seriously?

Yeah, these all leave red marks on my waist, plus I'll be in middle school soon and I'm pretty sure middle schoolers don't wear Spongebob Underwear.

(Feeling another twinge of guilt for not noticing the red marks) Middle school? You're in 3rd grade!

Yeah, and next year I'll be in 4th grade, and 5th grade after that. Middle school is only 2 years away. 

My husband pointed out that I will have had my fill of baby hand dimples by the time the twins lose theirs, and I'm sure he's right about that.  In the meantime, with the twins still under two, I am reluctantly transitioning into tween-dom, even though he's not even in double digits yet. I even asked him about a DS, but thankfully he wasn't interested in that. "Mom.  Kids are always losing their DSs, and plus I prefer to read."  Not that I was going to get him one anyway. Hopefully the optometrist will call this week to let us know the prescription sports goggles have arrived.

Alternatively, maybe these will still fit him.

Halloween Again?

Our little Allison has never been one to go for the traditional pink glitter girls' costumes.  Don't get me wrong, she loves to dress up in princess costumes and little sparkle fairy skirts when she's playing, but her Halloween costume choices have always been a little bit out of the mainstream.   When she was 2, she wanted to be Darth Vader. I guess that sort of counts as mainstream, in that I was actually able to find a costume for her.  I had to make her a lightsaber, though. It turned out really well.  She immediately used it to pretend to cut off her big brother's arm.  When she was 3, she wanted to be Captain Picard.  Disclosing that costume choice implies that we, her parents, might be closet Trekkies, or Trekkers, rather, since Picard was a ST:TNG (Star Trek: The Next Generation) character and not from the original cast.

Note the Barbie doll she is
casually swinging by the hair.

Because I'm trying to achieve a certain level of honesty, I will refrain from deleting that last possibly overly revealing sentence.  Just because we let the kids watch a Star Trek episode if they get ready for bed efficiently, and just because a friend of mine permanently loaned us his entire ST:TNG DVD library does not make us Star Trek nerds. We didn't BUY them, after all. I graciously took them as a favor to his wife.  My point:  very few, if any, 3 year old girls would choose to be Captain Picard for Halloween.  A bald Star Fleet captain from a show that hit its heyday 20 plus years ago. Yes, that's correct. If you think it's more recent than than, think really hard and don't forget to ask the computer to carry the one. Twenty. Plus. Years. Ago.  Imagine my surprise when I was unable to find a Captain Picard costume online for her size, which was 2T at the time.  I even looked for bald wigs, but I guess not that many 3 year olds want to pretend they're bald. I thought about making one for her, because I'm that insane, and actually had a few prototype patterns sketched out, but finally talked her into going as Dr. Beverly Crusher instead, since I was able to locate a blue uniform online. As it turns out, it's much easier to buy a costume online than it is to sew one together.  Plus I couldn't figure out how to thread my serger.

When she was 4, she couldn't decide between Ginger from Gilligan's Island...

A movie star... (from nearly 50 years ago)

a princess, or a black cat...

So she ended up wearing all 3 costumes.

So, given that last Halloween's costume choices were all fairly mainstream, well, except for Ginger, I was a little bit surprised when she declared several times that she wanted to be Michelle Obama for Halloween.

And also, can we please put brown make-up on my arms and face, too?
Ummm, no.  We are not going to paint your face or arms brown.
Well, I want to be Michelle Obama.
(I let it go for a few days, but she brought it up again.)
I want to be Michelle Obama for Halloween.
Michelle Obama? Really?
Yes, Mommy.  And Michael can be her husband, you know, that guy Barack or something like that.

Sigh.  I feel like I owe it to her to indulge in her when she gets these awesome ideas. (Except for the brown make-up- we will not be doing that.  We also will not be dressing up one of the twins as Hitler, as Michael suggested, or letting Michael go as Gaddafi, another one of his brilliant but socially unacceptable Halloween ideas.  I seriously don't know what is wrong with my children.)  If she can keep up her independent thinking, and not be afraid or cognizant that she is going against the grain, maybe someday she can do something like that guy, Michelle Obama's husband. Not that I would wish that upon her in a million years. So I guess sometime in the next month, I will be making a sojourn to the fabric store to get some fabric for a sheath dress.  Unless she changes her mind.  Stay posted for pictures.

Financial Responsibility Fairy

One day Allison, while combing her balding Barbie's hair and carefully rearranging her hand-me-down Barbie streetwalker fashion outfit, said to me, "I wish I had fairy wings."  Standard 5 y/o girl comment, very cute, aaaw, how sweet, blah blah blah. Then she goes, "I'd fly to Trader Joe's and then I'd fly to the bank and pay some bills."

Mom!  It's not a Dunce Cap!  It's a Gnome Hat!
I made it at Fairy Camp!
(Ok, sweetie.  It looks like a Dunce Cap though.
Are you planning to wear it through dinner?)

Real Barbie Housewives of Allison's Place

That got my attention. I had been kind of worrying about letting her indulge in all the pink tutu fairy Barbie glitter sparkle vomit stuff, but also didn't see a good way around it.  My hope was that if I let her do the princess dress-up stuff while she was 4, she eventually would think of it as stuff she did as a baby 4 year old, and be less interested in it.  In my fantasy world, it would all be phased out and fascination with science, math, geography, and other nice, safe, interests. I realize that our Disney friends Britney and Lindsay started out princess glitter and went in a slightly different direction, but that was not my plan.  My plan is to tell any prospective boyfriend that her eczema is actually leprosy and that if he tries to touch her, his penis will likely fall off. She might hate me, but I've heard this happens anyway shortly after they hit double digits, so I figure I have nothing to lose.

Actually, so far I think we must be doing okay. I'm less worried about the inundation of fairy books now that I realize she's apparently been reading about how Financial Responsibility Fairy bests the Compounded Interest Imp in the Financial Section of the Happy Wall Street Meadow Journal.  Credit Card Debt Fairy and Foreclosure Fairy have valuable lessons to teach our young girls. Although truth be told, Streetwalker Barbie has a few valuable life lessons herself.

I'm sure it helps to have a big brother who maybe takes his Scottish-Chinese penny pinching ancestry a little too seriously.  We recently started giving Allison an allowance, which is 50 cents a week. She put her first two quarters on the counter, mainly because she wasn't thinking about it, and her piggy bank was upstairs. Her big brother started yelling and I mean YELLING at her.  I almost intervened, except that quite frankly, I was a little terrified of his bleak message:

YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE YOUR MONEY LAYING ON THE COUNTER!  IF YOU DON'T SAVE YOUR ALLOWANCE, YOU MIGHT NOT HAVE ENOUGH MONEY FOR COLLEGE, AND THEN YOU MIGHT NOT GET A GOOD JOB, AND THEN YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO PAY FOR THINGS LIKE CLOTHES, FOOD, AND ELECTRICITY FOR YOUR HOUSE.  YOU NEED TO PUT YOUR MONEY IN A SAFE PLACE!!!

He's got a point.  We do have a lot of kids to send to college.

Eyes wide, and slightly teary, she scrambled upstairs to dutifully put her quarters away in her pink sparkle glitter piggy bank. If she's anything like her brother, she'll soon have enough saved up to chip in a few cents toward her share of the electricity that's powering her nighttime fairy reading light.

Tractor Fairy enjoying the county fair.