May: A Retrospective

May is my favorite month:  it's sunny and flowery and I get to watch my kids get hysterical if a bee comes within 10 yards of them.  Three of them have inherited my distinct screeching while flapping arms move.  Caleb remains stoic under almost any circumstance.  Two weeks ago, he sprained his finger in school and didn't tell me about it until five minutes before his evening baseball practice was over.  It was swollen and a lovely shade of aubergine.

In early May, John and I went to NYC for the sole purpose of checking out the progress of the Freedom Tower.  We had heard rumors a skyscraper was going up, but after ten years, one wants to see such a thing for oneself.  John told me that when it's completed, it will be 1,776 feet.  Two hours later, I got it.  And honestly, I think it's a little hokey. 

The real purpose for the trip was to attend a wedding reception at The Players Club in Gramercy Park, which is where I'm going to live after John dies and I land me a millionaire.  Gramercy Park, not the Players Club.

The Players Club is not as risque as it sounds.  I was disappointed, too.  Apparently, it's the place where Mark Twain went to play pool.  I know this because they had his pool cue on display above a fireplace.

The next day was Mother's Day.  John took me to a Yankee's Game.  On Father's Day, we're going to the NYC Ballet, because that's how a marriage works.  It's all about give and take. 

We hate the Yankees, but were well behaved and impressed with the beautiful stadium.  We were also surprised to find that the Yankee fans seemed like normal individuals; none of them wore pants made out of one hundred dollar bills.  We ate hot dogs and wrinkled our nose surreptitiously when A-Rod went up to bat.  The Mariners won, so that was nice.

This is the last picture I took of Kiah before her accident:  She's with her boyfriend, Charlie the Chow Chow. 

The twins and their spider hats!  (They won't go in the bathroom if there's even a remote possibility a spider is in there.  Shrieking and flapping if they see one.)

I accompanied Ben on his class trip to the zoo!  We had some important Ben and Mommy time.  And Ben and Mommy and sea lion time.  And Ben and Mommy and polar bear time. 

                                                 Hello, you.

The twins had their end-of-the-year school picnic! 

On Memorial Day weekend, we met friends in Olcott and rode the carousel and threw rocks in Lake Ontario.  My kids could throw rocks into Lake Ontario for the rest of their lives and feel they'd lived lives full of joy and purpose. 

The next day, we had a barbecue at our friends' house.  They have a pool. Ella and Dan floated for a long time.  This picture is taken after Daniel started to sink.  I was successfully fishing him out of the pool when my husband dashed across the patio and plunged into the water, soaking me and ruining his iPhone.  He dubbed himself a hero.  I dubbed him... something else.

Ella cut her own hair this month.  I bought some headbands to hide the problem areas.  This is how she likes to wear her headbands.  She also likes to wear socks in the summer.  Those are not bruises on her arm, but sticker residue.  Sticker residue is the worst.

And that was May.  Where are the pictures of Caleb?  This is a good question.  I'll ponder that over the course of June.

Twins in School: To Separate or Not to Separate?

I’m a little nervous about the fall.

Daniel and Ella will be attending full-day kindergarten.

It’s going to be weird, to suddenly be without any of my kids for seven hours every day. Not that I’m complaining. I’m sure I’ll find something to do. There are soap operas to watch, clothes to be purchased, snacks to consume, and people to gab on the phone with. That’s not where my concern is at all.

There are two things I’m worried about. First, Ella on the school bus. Have you seen this child? She’s five, but she looks and talks like a three-year old. And she throws fits. Tantrums of grand proportions. Screaming and caterwauling and lying upon the floor, belly down, in protest of what she perceives to be some indignity done against her. Like I didn’t have apple juice in the fridge. Or I deigned to suggest she not wear pajama bottoms to school. Things like that.

I feel that these fits pose a problem if they happen in the den of iniquities, i.e. the bus. Then again, Caleb, Ben, and Daniel would be there, too- I’m so conflicted. Yay bus or nay bus?

Second, the school district is putting significant pressure on me to separate the twins. I have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach about this. First off, I don’t want to go from juggling two different teachers and two curriculums to suddenly juggling four different teachers and four curriculums. I’m not that organized.  And, come on, this really is all about me.  I’d love for the twins to have the same homework, same field trips, same class parties, etc.

The CSE director, who directs Ella’s IEP, strongly encouraged me to separate them. “Speaking as a twin…” she said.

Speaking as a twin? That’s not being objective, right? Of course she'd be a twin.  Poop.  Her points were valid, I admit. All the reasons I want them to stay together- they like being together, they understand one another better than anyone else, they don’t like being apart for longs periods of time- are “bad,” signs of “codependency,” and “perceiving two individuals as one unit.”

Poop.

They are only five. Is encouraging them to be apart at such a young age truly healthy? Unlike identical twins or even same-sex twins, even though they have a strong bond, they are not joined at the hip. They have separate interests, different friends at school, and now, separate bedrooms.

I’d like to keep them together for kindergarten. This is going to make that “that mom” in the eyes of the district.

Poop again.

Thoughts?

The Day in Pictures

John is having a hard time accepting that his coffee maker is kaputs. Every time he brews coffee, it leaks all over the place. So he's taken to brewing his coffee in the sink, even though we have at least four other functional coffee makers collecting dust in the garage. My head hurts thinking about this.




This is what happens when certain people leave their lime chips out:

The pre-wash cycle:

This is what the twins were doing while I was bringing groceries in from the car. I can now empathise with what those poor people in Iceland went through. This picture doesn't quite detail the extent of the damage. They flung ashes across the room, onto all of the furniture, onto the clean folded laundry, even onto the television. My vacuum cleaner needed emptying four times. During the third time, I'm pretty sure it swore at me. And one of my attachments broke while I was vacuuming the cushions. Cleaning up the living room= 2-hour project.

Look what I found!!! It's the wishbone from last Thanksgiving's turkey. We are such procrastinators.

Now is the time where I ask if I can come stay with you for a day or two. If you have a house where all of the people and animals have COMPLETE control over their bowels and are reasonably quiet, I assure you, I would make a very pleasant house guest.

If not, I understand. I hear there's plenty of room at the Hotel California.

Animal or Food

Ella is very good at labeling things (she will happily point out your ears, hair, nose, eyes, and boobies) but is not very good at categorizing things (do you smell with your nose or your boobies?) So, our speech therapist has her categorizing items she sees on flashcards. We call this game “Animal or Food?” We’ve been practicing this throughout the day. Here’s a portion of yesterday’s edition of “Animal or Food”:

“Ella, is this an animal or a food?”

“Apple.”

“Very good! It is an apple. Is an apple an animal or a food?”

“Food.”

“Good job! Okay, look at this picture. Is this an animal or a food?”

“Kitty.”

“Yes, it is a kitty. Is a kitty an animal or food?”

“Mew!”

“Nice kitty noises. But I asked if a kitty is an animal or a food…”

“Animal.”

“Yay Ella! Okay, how about this one?” I show her a picture of a cow and she stares at it, perplexed, like she’s never seen a bovine creature before in her life. After a moment of contemplation she responds:

“Food.” And I have nothing to say to that because we had hamburgers a few nights ago.

The potty-training is not going well. Ella pooped in her brand new Cinderella panties. Daniel is taking a Custer’s Last Stand approach to the issue. The whole thing has been rather exhausting.

Today is the last day of school. Caleb wants to celebrate. Caleb is very big on celebrations. The other week, he came home and wanted to know what I was planning on doing to celebrate Flag Day.

“I wasn’t planning on doing anything,” I told him. He crossed his arms and scowled.

“You should at least go out and buy a flag.”

I didn’t.

I really want to send the twins to preschool next year. Mainly because I crave two mornings of freedom, but also because I think it would be good for them. But I just don’t think it’s feasible. Twins, you know, are expensive. Twice as expensive as singletons.

And to be honest, I have doubt as to whether or not they will potty-trained by fall.

Last night, Ella and I played "Boy or Girl."

“Is daddy a boy or a girl?”

“Boy.”

“Is Caleb a boy or a girl?”

“Boy.”

“Is Ella a boy or a girl?”

“Boy.”

I think we’ll work on gender recognition before we force the potty issue. Sigh.

Tinkle tinkle little pee, in the potty you will be...

Today I took the twins to the library for the Potty Tales program, which is just what it sounds like. We learned to boogie to the potty dance, listened to stories about children who have conquered the potty mountain, and sang “Tinkle Tinkle” to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle.”

On the ride home, I discussed the cultural implications of remaining in diapers past a certain age to Daniel and Ella.

“…so, if you want to someday get married and have children of your own, it is crucial you wear big boy or big girl underpants. Because I can almost guarantee your mate will. So then, Daniel, do you want to sing the potty dance song again?”

“Yes!!!!”

“Good! And when we get home, will you make pee-pee in the potty?”

“No!!!”

It’s a process, people.

As a born procrastinator, I admit I should have been more diligent in potty training them in the past few months. People in Africa carry their babies around naked, training them to poop and pee over a potty (or hole in the ground or whatever) on command. Two-months olds! Little itty people! When I read things like this, I feel like a complete and utter potty-training dud.

Last week, I told myself I would start seriously potty-training after the garage sale, although Ella and Daniel were adamantly against it. Potty-training that is.

I put Ella on the little potty and pulled down her pants.

“Ew,” she said, “stinky stinky butt.” She loves to say stinky butt. Anytime she smells something foul, she declares it a case of the “stinky butt.” Whenever I change Daniel’s diaper, she comes over to inspect whether or not Daniel has a “stinky butt.” If I happen to run about upstairs in my underwear, she points at me and yells, “stinky butt!” (Which I take offense to. For the record, my butt smells like roses.)

So Ella was on the potty. She immediately got up and ran off yelling, “Ew! Ew! Ew!”

Ben has been training Daniel in the art of pooping on the potty. In fact, the training sessions got a little weird, so I had to put a stop to them. Daniel won’t even sit on the potty and clings to his diapers like Charlton Heston clung to his guns. During the Potty Tales program, we all encouraged our kids to shout “No more diapers! No more diapers!” If it had been a union strike, Daniel would have totally crossed the picket line. He is that attached to his diapers.

“YES diapers,” he muttered. Ella, on the other hand, never gives up an opportunity to yell anything.

“No more DIAPERS!” she shouted with the crowd, and then did a little spin move and fell down. An agitator for sure.

Tomorrow, we’re going off diapers cold turkey. I expect there will be at least four to five accidents. But I’ll put them on the potty ever hour and see if anything happens. I’m betting Daniel actually goes first, because I expect he will be mortified when he has his first accident.

Oh, I don’t want to do this. I’m thinking of moving to Africa, where I can carry my babies around naked in a sling, and live a life of minimalism. I mean, I’m sure most African peoples can’t conceive of having so much crap that they could sell it at a garage sale. (My garage sale was rather poorly attended, by the way.) I would be the palest African in the history of Africans and would live in perpetual fear of the black mamba, but a simpler life appeals to me. Sometimes I think- I know- I make my life harder than it has to be. By accumulating worthless junk. By procrastinating. By picking fights with people on the internet. (That’s a bit off-topic, I realize, but it’s what I’ve been up to lately.)

I want simplicity. It’s something I’m really really going to work on- after I potty-train the twins, of course.

Proof that Raising Twins is as Hard as Training for the Winter Olympics. Sort of.

I have verifiable proof that raising twins is just as hard as training for the winter Olympics. My health insurance carrier told me so in this short informative video:

Did you catch the "these are really hard things" montage? I, of course, zoned right in on this all too familiar image:

Not only are they twins, they are b/g twins!!!!

Raising twins is also as hard as these things:

Riding a bucking horse
Surfing a 10-foot wave (Is a 10-foot wave considered high in the surfing world? I want to make this sound REALLY hard.)
Riding a tiny car thing on a dirt road
Olympic skiing

I know raising twins is as hard as these things because they were all in the SAME montage. And ExcellusBlue, which just so happens to be our healthcare provider, is an honest establishment that only feeds the public the TRUTH.

Today was hard. Today, the twins unpotted a plant and made sure the dirt got really ground into the rug. They dumped a box of cheerios all over the floor and shrieked when I swept the cheerios up because they were, um, eating them. As I made lunch, they pulled all the books within their reach off the bookshelf. One of them tore a page out of C.S. Lewis' The Problem of Pain. Each blamed the other, probably because they understand too well the contents of that particular book.

I took them outside. They spilled bubbles all over their clothes and then rolled in dirt. They fought over a Cozy Coupe, even though I bought TWO Cozy Coupes to avoid this very problem. Ella threw sand and got some in Daniel's eye. Daniel retaliated by hitting Ella atop the head with a sand rake.

Sigh.

Daniel, who was a very dirty little boy by the end of the day, announced he was yucky yucky yucky and requested a bath. Ella was playing happily and quietly in the sandbox, so I brought Daniel inside to give him a thorough washing. (To clarify- John was home at this point and in the back WITH Ella, lest you think I left her alone in the yard to fend for herself against the rabid bunnies and red ants. The wheels in your head are turning. Though it may appear I'm negligent in my parental duties due to the shenanigans my children get into, I assure you I am a capable mother! Generally speaking! I admit that today was a doozie. Days like this, thank God, don't come along very often.)

Back to our regular scheduled program. Daniel was about to get in the tub.

He refused to get in the tub. "I want Lella," he insisted. "Lella too."

So freaking cute.

In the not too distant future, they will no longer be able to bathe together because it's just not done once boys and girls get past a certain age. What is that age? I would imagine 4 is pushing it.

I'm going to call the people at ExcellusBlue and ask them for advice on this matter. Because, from what I can tell by their excellent informational video, they totally get it.

Three Parts

I

On Friday evening, I headed off to my once-a-year singing gig with at the Conservative Party Banquet right here in Rochester, New York. The Conservatives, being relatively conservative, do things the same way year after year. Therefore, I know every May I can make $100.00 singing Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes at the Rochester Riverside Convention Center. I get to sing with my dad, which is lovely, and Joe, a saxophonist who was also best man in my brother’s wedding, and this year a bass player I’d never met before. I’d love it if we were a real band. Sadly, we’re a once-a-year phenomenon. My dad is threatening to quit altogether, even though I came up with a great name for our would-be jazz ensemble. It’s… wait for it… Improversations! (Improvisation and conversations put together.) It came to me in a dream. I thought I was incredibly witty for coming up with it on my own; I then found out Michael Scott from The Office first coined the term. (The subconscious is a strange vault of information.) Nevertheless, I think it’s a name that would look good on a drum. (On a related note, Improversations could use a drummer.)

This year we made the evening news.

I am famous. Again. Surprisingly, the phone calls aren't pouring in.

You can see me and Joe a few seconds into the segment. I am singing Porter’s “Let’s Misbehave,” which is always an appropriate pick for any political event. (Though our gigs so far have been limited to right-wing political events, don’t be fooled. We would be happy to play at your wedding or bar mitzvah.)

II

On Saturday, Caleb and I went with my dad and stepmother to see Peter Pan in Stratford. This was Caleb’s first theater experience, and he loved it. After every scene ended, he turned and asked if the play was over. He wondered if the pirates were actually real pirates, because they certainly looked real. He clapped loudly when Peter Pan implored the audience to help save Tinkerbell’s life. He gasped when it appeared the Jolly Roger would sail right into the audience, and stared amazed at the starry sky from which Wendy, John, and Michael flew home.

It was a fantastic performance, despite the fact that Tiger Lily and her Indian friends were turned into Amazons. (Political correctness is destroying the theater!) The Amazons were all female and looked an awful lot like Xena Warrior Princesses.

It was a treat to spend the whole day with Caleb. Speaking of treats, my dad and Sigrid stuffed that kid full of sweets- cookies, hot cocoa, ice-cream, and candy. And, when Caleb had to use the potty five minutes after we left Stratford for home, my dad didn’t scold him. Not even a little. I’m only mentioning this because it’s not how I remember my dad acting when Holly-of-the-very-wee-bladder had to stop some place to use the potty on car trips.

Before the play, we took a walk by the river. This couple was making out in a disgusting fashion. So I took a picture. (That'll learn 'em.)

Caleb, oblivious to the couple on the bridge, is excited about feeding a mass of swans.

Here's the boy in action.

III

Yesterday, we had a full day of church, naps, and an evening visit from friends. I went to bed last night feeling full of warm fuzzies. I love my children. They are good people.

It is my job to check on them before I start my own getting into bed process, which is long and complicated. Sometimes, I don’t check on them. I climb into bed, start the process, and John says, “Did you check on the kids?” I sigh and get out of the warm covers and take a peek at them. Inevitably, Ella is stripped down to her diaper, though on occasion, her diaper is off completely and that, of course, needs to be remedied.

Why doesn’t John check on the kids? I’m not sure. He seems to think it’s his job to remind me to do it. It’s strange how over time couples get relegated to specific, inane roles. For instance, it’s John’s job to fill up our nighttime cups. When he’s out of town, I reach for my cup and feel disoriented and confused when it’s not filled with fresh, cool water.

My bedtime process consists of adjusting the covers just-so, applying hand-lotion, taking my happy pills, drinking my cool water, flossing my teeth, and then reading until I get sleepiesh. I must wear pajama bottoms to bed and the sheets must be tucked in correctly.

This is why I don't get my kids. When I go to check on them, they look like this:

Daniel has completely removed his sheet, and is lying on top of, instead of under, his quilt. His feet aren't even on his bed.

Ella's feet are hanging out of the crib. Note that she has stripped out of her pajamas. Her blanket, at least, is not covering her face like it usually is.

So, last night I dressed Ella, put Daniel in a position that made me fairly certain he wouldn't wake up with a neck cramp, and went to bed, still filled with the warm fuzzies. A lovely weekend.

We are Gazelles

This morning, I found two eggs perched in the middle of the window-seat in the library/dining-room/ room where Holly folds her laundry and then leaves it in piles until the mood to put it away strikes. Which occurs maybe once a week.

As soon as I saw the eggs, I was sure it was going to be a good day. The eggs, which had obviously been retrieved and transported from the refrigerator to the window-seat by twin A or twin B, were fully in tact, not a crack in them. So there was that to be grateful for. Oh- and I was hit with profound inspiration: egg salad for lunch!

This is the way life has seemed, lately- just teetering on the border of total disaster. Like the day the hot-water heater went. I was using the microwave and the stove at the same time, which is a big no-no in our house, when I blew the fuse. After muttering, John went into the basement to switch the power back on and discovered an impending flood. If the fuse had not blown, John would probably not have ventured into the basement that night, and 25 gallons of water would have seeped out of the heater and totally ruined my gift bag collection, which is about eleven years old. It is an enviable gift bag collection, I might add.

The hot-water heater died just a few days after my vacuum went kaput. I knew the vacuum was getting old. It had begun to act ornery, only cleaning one room before it would refuse to work anymore. I would let it rest a half an hour before proceeding. Vacuuming turned into an all-day event. Then one day it wouldn’t start at all. I hope my calling it a petulant bi*%* isn’t the reason why.

Unfortunately, I did not run right out and buy a new vacuum. This is because I am a gazelle. (I'll explain that in a minute.) We decided to really research vacuums and get one that would last more than three years. (Not might be a good time to let you know that if I were you, I would not buy a Hoover.)

I reminded John after the water heater was replaced that we also needed to get a new vacuum. He gave me his “intense look” and said, “Let’s take one thing at a time now.”

Does he really think going without a vacuum is a viable option? And let me tell you what, my “intense looks” rival his any day.

John and I are doing a “Total Money Makeover.” This is based on a book of the same name. We have made a rather strict budget and are committed to getting out of debt. We’re in it for the long-haul, like gazelles, and do not plan to go fast at first only to peter out later, like a cheetah. This is a metaphor. It’s from the book.

In a year, we should be able to refinance our 30-year mortgage into a 15-year mortgage and start making major payments on the loan we took out for the modest house in the Hamptons that we can’t visit as it is inhabited by zombies. By “modest house in the Hamptons” I mean school loans, and by “zombies” I mean loan officers. This is also a metaphor. I made it up myself.

We remain vacuum-less. It’s pretty awful. My broom and I have been getting better acquainted. I guess we’re looking for a great vacuum sale or something because gazelles are smart shoppers.

Speaking of smart, last night my dad asked Caleb who he thought was smarter, his mommy or his daddy. You may think that this is kind of a sick question to ask a kid, which may be true, but we wanted to know.

Caleb, without pause, said, “Oh, my dad.”

“WHAT?” I shrieked. He looked frightened.

“I’m not mad,” I promised. “I just want to know why you think that.”

“Because lots of times I ask you questions and you always say, go ask dad…”

I wanted to tell them that it wasn’t because I’m not smart, but rather, because I am inherently lazy. And since about 80% of Caleb’s questions are either hockey or baseball related, I feel John has a slight edge on the “appearing smart” scale.

Signing off now. Laundry to fold in the library/dining-room/room where Holly folds laundry…

Three Years

The twins turned 3 on Saturday. We had a low-key hoopla sans balloons but with cake and ice cream and pizza. My favorite part of the day was when Daniel opened a Lightning McQueen remote controlled car and gasped. 3-year old gasps of utter joy are fantastic.

I have posted lots of pics chronicling their growth over the past 3 years. I am not a photographer. I got my second lowest grade in college during photography. These pics are not edited because I am lazy. I think I'm trying to make a kind of apology for my lack of artistic ability and my laziness.

Before we gaze upon the wonders that are my twins, here are some facts about their early, early years.

When the OB found Twin B on the ultrasound, I had a (smallish) panic attack. The doctor assured me he was more than capable of monitoring my pregnancy and delivering my twins because he had a lot of experience doing so. His office is strategically located right across the hall from a fertility clinic, and patients carrying twins just sort of drift in.

Daniel was born first, which was good, because his head was facing down. Ella came out second, feet first.

Ella weighed 3 lbs 8 oz and Daniel weight 7 lbs 15 oz.

Daniel had fluid in his lungs and they whisked him away immediately. He didn't cry. They wanted me to push to deliver Ella. It was a very bad couple of moments. It seemed like forever until I heard him cry.

Ella had three skin tags on her face, which John called her "floppies." This was a clue that something might be up with her kidneys. Two of the skin tags were by her ears, and the ears and the kidneys develop at the same time. Weird.

Ella had plastic surgery at six months to remove her floppies. The surgery left a dimple in her right cheek.

I named Ella and John named Daniel. When we were finally able to hold Daniel in the hospital, John gazed down at him and said, "Dan. Dan the man." It was then that I realized he had named our son after Dan Marino. (John is a Dolphins fan.)

I breastfed Ella and Daniel for over a year. Not because I'm a boob nazi, but because buying formula for twins would have bankrupt us.

Before Ella was allowed to go home, she had to pass a stress test. They put her in her carseat atop of a vibrating table and monitored her heartrate. I walked halfway into the NICU to take her home and saw the carseat across the room on the table. But Ella wasn't in it.

"She's not in there," I told the nurse. The nurse panicked.

"What do you mean? I just put her in there!" We walked up to the carseat. Ella was indeed there, her tiny dark blue eyes staring bright and wide at the lights above her. She was so small that the carseat had completely engulfed her, making her invisible unless you were about three feet away.

Daniel and Ella slept next to one another for the first two months of their life.

They slept most of the time.

The preemie clothes were too big for Ella.

I know. The cuteness is a little overwhelming.

First vacation August '07

First trip to see Gigi, my cantankerous grandma in Schroon Lake.

First Halloween.

Fall '07

Valentine's Day '08

Summer '08

Second Halloween

This happens a lot.

Daniel loves gowacks.

4th of July '09

You have no idea what a pain it is to get them down from up there.

First haircut at 2 1/2

I'm a very trusting mother.

3 at last. My friend Katie made the cakes. Ella wouldn't get off her cell phone.

I mean, really. That is so rude.