Ballad of the Over-Tired Toddlers

"The twins didn't sleep much last night." The bleary-eyed Mom-of-the-Kids informed me this morning when I arrived at work.

I nodded my head, applied my game face, and held on to my cup of coffee for dear life.

The poor Mom. Lately, the twins have been viewing nap time as 100% optional, exacerbated by the fact that they now have the ability to almost-soundlessly make a jailbreak climb out of their cribs, aided and abetted by their twin/co-conspirator.

Like ninjas or something.

That's all well and good, and expected even, if not for the fact that they are still young ankle-biters. And still badly need their rest to remain, ya know, sane. And The Mom needs her rest too, which is hard to come by when there are one or more small voices calling out "MAMA?!?" unexpectedly at dark thirty each night.

I'd imagine she also gets a little tired of having to disentangle herself from the ceiling fan each time that happens too.

Anyway. Point. Yes. Kids (and parents) need sleep to function. Moving on.

The Kids were all fine today, if not a little red around the eyes from sleep deprivation. There were a few fights that broke out, maybe one or two unwarranted tears from overreacting chitlins, but nothing a little redirection and extra caffeine (on my part) couldn't handle.

Then came naptime.

After busying Buddy with an activity downstairs, I carried Brother and Sissy upstairs for nap Sacred Hour. The first technique I always employ is to lay them down after stories and hugs, leave the room, and cross my fingers that they'll conk out without help.

Since that hasn't worked in recent memory (now that they're ninjas, remember), I generally have to go to Plan B, rocking the twins to sleep. So today, with Sissy wailing in her crib, I set about rocking Brother first.

(I have to rock the boy-child to sleep first. Because he seems to recognize my authority a little less than his sister... given that when he begins climbing out of his crib in front of me, and I give him a firm "No-no!" in my most serious and authoritative voice, he bursts into hysterical peels of giggling. Complete with tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks. Ahem.)

Anyhoo.

Rocking Brother today while he was overtired and fighting sleep tooth and nail was right up there with a WWF match. He, throwing his tiny arms and body weight around like a pro, and myself humming lullabies serenely to him like a crazy person while I wrap him in a blanket (for warmth and the safety of my face) and cuddle him in the chair, slowly rocking back and forth...

To the tune of his indignant and irate wailing and gnashing of teeth. To an almost two year old, being told to sleep is the equivalent of being hung by your toenails, it seems.

Sissy fell asleep within minutes of Brother's overtired chorus of screeching. I'm not sure how, but I won't knock it. And after crying hysterically, trying to break himself free of my gentle and comfortable (yet iron clad) grip, Brother cozied down against me in a sitting position, head against my chest, not quite asleep but knowing sleep was non-negotiable at that juncture, and perhaps also feeling (as I knew he would if he just allowed himself to be still a moment) the weight of exhaustion that enveloped his small little mini-linebacker's body. We rocked in silence for a few minutes, both relaxing in the calm after the storm of The Child Who Wouldn't Sleep. The only other sounds in the room were Sis's slow, even breathing from her crib, the gentle hum of the fan, and the slight squeak of the rocking chair as we pressed on toward dreamland.

Finally, Brother leaned away from me slightly so he could look me in the face and removed his pacifier for one final bid at negotiating nap. Since he found hysteria-laced wrestling matches did little to curb my resolve. Today anyway.

"How 'bout..." he started, eyes half closed from exhaustion, "how 'bout I watch Lawwee dah Coocumboor?"

I smiled at his eyes trying mightily to stay open and focused on me, "No, Brother Bear. No Larry the Cucumber. It's time to relax and sleep..."

"Ok." he mumbled, returning the pacifier to his mouth and closing his eyes.

He was asleep before his head even made it back to my chest.

One little boy and one little girl finally asleep in their cribs. One touchdown sign from one tired but victorious nanny. One Mom of the Kids who, with any luck, won't have to fight over-tired toddlers to sleep tonight, and maybe (just maybe) will get some blessed sleep of her own... And one five year old boy downstairs scarfing down sugar-y snacks before bed with a guilty conscience, while keeping a hawk-eye on the stairs for signs of my return...

But that's a post for another day... ;)

"What???"

Brother is becoming quite the linguist. And he's pretty understandable for the most part. Its funny to get him to say bigger words, because he has the enviable gift of turning a 3 syllable word into a 2 paragraph declarative statement. I learned this when I was preparing a pizza casserole with the kids a few weeks back.

"Pizza casserole." I recited for him, not expecting him to be able to pronounce it in any semblance.

"Pissa..." He began uncertainly, "Pissa cassa--.... whoa."

Yes. "Casserole" now comes with a lengthy pause between syllables and no R's in sight. Its pretty cute.

But there are some words that he will shout randomly that have made me stop and stare wide-eyed at him, wondering how such a small little boy could have a vocabulary so reminiscient of a prison inmate and/or pirate.

For instance, after washing his hands, he'll point at the tank on the shelf above my shoulder and shout "F***!!"

"Um, no, dude. Those are called FROGS.... Ffff-roooo-gggggg-ssss."

"F***!!"

"Nevermind."

Later on, playing with his toys in the living room, he'll excitedly point at the mantle and yell "C**k!!"

"Cccc-lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll-ock, Brother, CLOCK."

After lunch, I'll be helping him out of his high chair, listening to him chatter. One day about a month ago, just as I leaned toward him to unbuckle his chair, he pointed at my face and exclaimed for the first time, "F***ER!!!"

Excuse me?

Logic enters my mind first: You're not saying what I think you're saying. You don't know that word. This is illogical. Your parents don't use that word. I don't use that word. You don't frequent nightclubs. What are you trying to say??... Well, I mean, he's SAYING it as clear as day. But I don't think he's intending to. Quick recap, are there frogs nearby? Suckers? Anything that could be mispronounced as "f***er" to a 20 month old? Come on now...

"What did you say, Brother?" I asked surprised, leaning closer to him for a better listen, hoping against hope I misunderstood him.

"F***er!" He shouts again, pleased with himself.

I look around desperately for anything he could be talking about... Table-- no... Chair-- no... Sister-- no... Fruit---?

"Fruit, Brother? Do you want some fruit? Is that what you're saying?"

"F***er!" He insists, pointing directly at my face.

Now, I can take a lot. But come on. We're friends, little man! And I hate to pull the guilt card, but the girl who wipes your bottom, feeds you yummy food, indulges your sweet tooth, hugs you when you're sad, tickles you, plays with you, and cuddles you when you're not feeling well does NOT deserve to be called "f***er", little dude. We need to hash out this bad blood you're feeling. Right here, right now. 'Cuz homie? She don't even play that game.**

I patiently put my face up to his grinning one. "I don't know what you're trying to say." I tell him calmly.

"F***er." He tells me again, putting a little finger gently on my cheek.

Realization hits.

"Freckle, dude. Fffff-rrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeee-ckllllllle."





**Editor's note: Apparently, my thought life turns slightly gangster under confusion. I assure my readers that I do not generally consider myself a homie. Nor do I possess full understanding of 'that game' that is allegedly not good to 'play'. Thank you and good night.

Every Neighborhood Should Have One

So there's this guy...

He's pretty tough. Pretty protective. Enjoys "eventures" . And has been encouraged as of late to pick out his own outfits before walks.

Most of the time, he's known as Buddy.

Occasionally, he's known as Iron Man.

Iron Man on patrol.

After a lengthy walk around the neighborhood with our very own Iron Man one beautiful spring day, I am convinced that every walking group should have one. They are so useful. And iron-ish.

For instance, Iron Man will walk ahead of the caravan, scoping out potential threats before the defenseless citizens can be endangered...

So intimidating.

He will draw attention to any potential threats he spots coming down the sidewalk toward us, so that we citizens can remove ourselves from harm's way...

"Quack."

He will educate the citizens on local wildlife, and how best to remain safe from any undomesticated animals...

"The wild animals went that-a-way, citizens. Stay close!"

Iron Man will impress you with his muscles. And will use them to make sure nothing blocks the citizens' intended route...

"Stand aside, garbage receptacles!"

After all his hard work, he will occasionally request to ride in the Iron Mobile for the remainder of the walk, but will remain vigilantly watchful until all citizens are home safe...

But, being Iron Man is tough. And a big responsibility. So, once he was back in the privacy of his home, Tony Stark  Buddy changed out of his crime-fighting gear, had some lunch, relaxed, and later took a well-earned nap.

Because frankly, being a superhero can be exhausting.

Poisonous Bacon

Every good moment you have in life should be enjoyed, appreciated, and relished. That much we've all been told time and time again ad nauseum. Its the good moments that sustain you through the bad, cause you to smile or chuckle like a crazy person while revisiting them in a boring checkout line or meeting, and they make life more than a just a shuffle from one job to the next; from one 'bill due' date to the next.

I'm blessed to have a job that makes me smile and laugh 1000 times more than causes me frustration or stress. I'm blessed to have friends that will inadvertantly call me for a chat when I'm just thinking to myself how bored or lonely I'm feeling at that moment. I'm blessed to have a family who are behind me no matter what, loving and supporting me. And I'm beyond blessed to serve my God who orchestrates it all so perfectly and lovingly.

That being said, let me tell you about my battle with poisonous bacon.

(Yes, you read that right.)

The Kids and I were playing in the kitchen playset one day a few weeks back, mixing odd "soups" together, having faux meals and snacks, and (in Brother's case) smacking siblings on the forehead with plastic spoons when he thought I wasn't looking.

Faux food

After a while, Buddy held up a plastic piece of bacon. "This is poisonous bacon, Devyn." He told me solemnly.

"Aw man..." I acknowledged seriously.

"Yeah." He nodded impressively, staring at the bacon in his hands. Suddenly, his head shot up, a mischievious glint in his eyes. "EAT IT!!" He yelled, grinning.

Not wanting to encourage ideas of murdering me, I gave the standard, "Um, no."

Before I knew what was happening, I was a few feet away, curled up in a ball on the floor as Buddy bounced on my back screeching, "Eat it!! Eat the poisonous bacon!! It tastes good, I promise!!" All while giggling and trying to shove the offending meat product up my left nostril.

"Babies! Help!" I called out to our two audience members.

Sissy grinned and continued to suck on her two fingers, content to observe. Brother stood up gallantly, dropping most of the toys in his hands. How cute! I thought to myself, He's coming to save me.

From that moment, I covered my head as the bacon in question made another attempt toward my face, and instead heard the quick pitter-patter of feet that meant my hero was coming. I felt rather than heard as Brother took a flying leap and launched himself onto my crumpled form alongside Buddy with a battle cry of "TACO-OOOOOO!!!"

Then, naturally joining on his big brother's side, Brother began beating me senseless with the toy taco clutched in his hand. While the bacon continued to stab at my mouth and nose. All to the sounds of children giggling mischieviously.

Who knew poisonous bacon could lead to such a fun afternoon?

Picnic Haiku

Lunch was pond picnic
Kids picked me fifteen flowers
"Please just don't fall in!!"

Snake School

Remember a few posts back when I reasoned that it was too early in the year for snakes?

You really shouldn't listen to me about stuff like that.

The Kids' lawn guy was doing his mowing, trimming, raking thing outside on Friday and went to trim the two overgrown, flowy bushes by the back fence (the ones I am daily fishing The Kids' balls out of while we're playing) and came face-to-face with a footlong Copperhead.

(Insert heart failure)

We Southerners don't screw around when it comes to our Copperheads, or our Rattlesnakes (who at least give a courtesy jingle before they take a snap at you). So I had a dilemma to work through: my desire to keep The Kids in one piece vs my reluctance to be scared inside on beautiful days with three high-octane ankle-biters.

My solution? Snake School.

I gathered the children in the backyard, and enlisted the help of Buddy's toy snake to give him (the twins were uninterested, and instead frolicked around during Snake School) a basic crash course in what to do if he came across a snake in the yard.

I instructed him that snakes are always cold. So they like to lay in sunny spots sometimes, like the grass or the porch. And then they will take naps in hiding spots that protect them from birds and big animals, like the bushes, or under a pile of sticks or rocks, etc.

Then I laid the toy snake down in the grass and asked Buddy to tell me what he'd do if he came across a real snake outside.

"I'd stomp it in its stomach like this!" He demonstrated.

"Um no. Don't do that. That's a very bad idea. What is a better, safer idea?"

"I'll pick it up and throw it!" He said confidently.

"Also... Um... A very bad idea, dude."

Buddy looked confusedly at me, like there was nothing else to do with a snake besides stomp it or pick it up.

"Snakes bite, Buddy. Its what they do if something big and tough-looking, like you, comes up to it. And snake bites HURT. And then you have to go to the doctor. So if you ever see a snake in the yard, you stop, run backwards away from it with your hands out of the way, and call out to whichever grown up is here, Mom, Dad, or me. And we'll take care of it. But you never ever touch it, ok?"

"Ok." He nodded solemnly.

Then I hid the toy snake around the yard a few times so Buddy could practice proper snake procedure. And here was the result, mid-run:

His arms and hands are safe, I'd say.

And I feel much better having had this little talk with him. Let the warm weather begin!!!

Twins

I have always been fascinated with twins.

Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen are about my age, so I grew up watching them on Full House sharing the role of Michelle. I remember when I found out that 2 little girls were playing 1 character, and would sometimes even trade out mid-scene depending on who was better at dramatic lines, and who had a better knack for comedic timing. I watched one episode 2 inches from the screen, hardly blinking, trying to catch the twin switcheroo, and I never did.

It boggled my mind. And then and there I wanted a twin.

I mean, think about the possibilities! Switching places. Having someone your age to play with. Never needing a mirror again. (This was a child's interpretation, remember.)

I even went so far as to lie about having a twin when I was in fourth grade. I had a pretty needy, semi-stalkerish friend who we'll call Susie. Susie started out a fairly normal friend: had the same class at school, ate lunch with the same people, would occasionally play after school... Then Susie started calling me her twin sister, even though we looked nothing alike, save for having brown hair. And she began calling me on Sundays to find out what I would be wearing each day of the coming week "so we can match everyday".

Days 1 and 2 were novelty-like, and I played along with it. She was my friend after all. Beginning on day 3, it was getting old. I had worn the "wrong shoes", she accused me, and ruined the whole thing.

Day 4 I rebelled. I was supposed to wear jeans, a red shirt, and sneakers with my hair half-up. Instead I wore a sundress, black shoes, and a full pony tail. (Note: I really have no memory of my actual rebellion outfit. I just remember it was opposite of what she expected me to be wearing.)

Susie was irate! And she let me know in no uncertain terms that whole day. And called me again that night to verify what I'd be wearing the next day. And THEN called the next morning as I was leaving for school to double-check.

She could be a little draining.

A few months later at day camp, I saw her running excitedly up to me. And I was not in the mood that day to deal with a shadow named Susie. So I lied.

She called out "Devyn!! Over here! What are you doing? Can I come??" And I kept walking not looking up. She caught up with me and grabbed my arm. "I called you, why didn't you stop? Where are you going? What are we doing today?"

I blinked in shock and lied through my teeth, "Devyn? Ohhh... Nope. Not me. I'm Sevyn. Devyn's twin sister. Devyn's sick at home today. Sorry."

(Sevyn was clever in my book of twin names. My twin had to be a girl, so Kevin was out. And our names had to rhyme, because that was my understanding of most twin names-- Mia and Tia, Sara and Kara, etc.)

Now. I don't condone lying. And I want the record to show that my lie about having a twin named Sevyn only worked for a short while, until Susie asked a camp counselor who knew my family if the twin thing was real. (I really should have thought it through a little better.) But I was a child. And desperate for my own space.

Caring for twins now gives me a whole new view of them that I had only guessed about before: the comraderie, the bickering, the I-only-want-that-if-my-twin-can-have-one-too, the affection, and the bodyslams.

And it has made me appreciate how many people will ask if the twins are identical. Even if they look NOTHING alike. And are opposite sexes. And then ask if you're sure they're not identical. And how do you know for sure.

I still think having a twin would have been fun. But the questions would have killed me.

In the Absence of a Good Roommate

I am moving out on my own.

Soon.

As in, this summer.

I had my fingers crossed for quite some time that a fun, yet trustworthy roommate would appear out of nowhere for me to get a place with. But sadly, the internet searches were quite frightening, and after graduation, you are no longer assigned a reliable roommate by a much-more-knowledgable-than-you-about-such-things university housing staff, and most of my dear friends are flung out across the map in search of the elusive job. So, it looks like my roommate will be.... me.

Geez I hope we can get along. ;)

At first, I was really pretty nervous about the thought of living on my own. But then I started thinking it through more carefully, and this is what I came up with:

1) Most women I've talked to who have lived on their own have told me it was an amazingly delicious part of life for them, not answering to anyone, having a space that was 100% their own, etc.

2) What if 20 years down the road when I'm married (God-willin') with kids (God-willin'), I regret not ever having had the experience of the total and utter self-reliance of living alone?

3) I can decorate it any which way I WANT TO!!!!! Wahahahaha!

4) It will be totally and utterly mine. If I want to come home and relax and have silence, I can. If I want to come home and be loud and turn on some music and what-have-you, I can (I know, I know..still have to respect the neighbors...). And. If I want to not come straight home from whatever I'm doing, just spend a day going wherever the wind takes me, I can! (Not that I can't do those things living at home right now, but I mean, c'mon, it's different, ya know??)

5) All the horror-movie scenarios I have in my mind of the things that COULD happen, in all honesty hardly ever happen outside of the silver screen. And if something scary does happen, I have tons of friends nearby, pepper spray, a pretty good right hook, a scream that can wake the dead, and my big-girl pants. And I'm from Texas, guys. Someone getting the better of me? Yeah. Right.

Here are the things I still need to gather for my big move:

-Pots and pans. Being the true Southern girl, I have my eyes set on these ones. In red or black, I think. Paula Deen is my people.
-Silverware.
-Glasses.
-Cooking utensils. Spatulas, knives, sauce spoons, etc.
-A kitchen table. I like the bar table style (the taller table that usually only has 2-4 chairs). But I love a good deal even more! So we'll see what ends up happening...
-A small desk.

Apart from those things, I don't think I'm missing much. Whether I'm truly not missing much or if I just uttered my famous last words remains to be seen. Stay tuned!

And any prayers or good thoughts sent my way in (hopefully!) getting the apartment I want would be incredibly appreciated!!

Beef with Aunt Bea

One of my primary childcare philosophies is that when the kids are going nuts, and no amount of redirection or "hey, stop that" is helping to calm their hyperactivity, then the project you'd like to bring into the equation the LEAST is the one you should do.

As warped as that sounds, it really and truly has worked.

This philosophy has produced Jello Wars, Pudding Painting, fingerpainting, and various cooking projects on rainy days when the kids and I are BOTH gazing longingly out the windows at the outdoor playset. And its turned otherwise-insane days into fun, memorable ones where each of the kids are completely plugged in to a group project. You know what Mama says about idle hands, after all...

However, this fail-proof theory blew up rather spectacularly in my face today, thanks to Aunt Bea. Some may remember this woman as the kind-faced mother figure from Mayberry, who doles out sage wisdom and homemade goodies as often as she draws breath on The Andy Griffith Show. However, I will remember her as being a lady to regard with distrust in the kitchen when she offers up an "easy as pie" rainy-day fudge recipe.

The rain was falling today, the kids were doing aimless laps around the house leaving chaos in their wake, no show nor movie would hold their attention, and they seemed determined to injure each other with whatever was in their hand at the moment. Going back to my afore-mentioned philosophy, I grabbed a few cookbooks and began searching for an easy recipe the kids and I could make together. In a Mayberry-themed edition, I found a seemingly-simple fudge recipe containing 6 ingredients we had on hand, 4 steps, and a smiling picture of Aunt Bea.

"C'mon Buddy!" I called, arranging chairs around the kitchen island for the kids to stand on, "Cooking project!"

"Don't wanna!" He called back, eyes glued to a Hulk show that had just started on tv.

So I went ahead with the twins, being enthusiastic, and teaching them each of the ingredients as we added them to the bowl.

Step 1: Mix sugar, milk, and cocoa.

"Sugar." I demonstrated, adding in the ridiculous amount Bea called for.

"Doogah!" They echoed, each sampling some.

"Milk." I went on, measuring some out.

"Mew!" Sissy repeated.

"Doogah!" Brother insisted.

"Cocoa..."

Each baby stuck their finger excitedly in this new ingredient, sampled it, and made a face.

"No!" Sissy admonished me, getting off her chair and leaving.

"Doogah!" Brother demanded.

Step 2: Cook until soft ball stage. Then add in final 3 ingredients.

Figuring the "soft ball stage" would become apparent as I cooked (why would Bea give an instruction that was not as black-and-white as she was?), I pulled Brother away from the stove and began cooking, stirring constantly so the milk-based mixture wouldn't scald. Losing interest quickly, Brother toddled off.

Stir.

Stir some more.

And more.

CRASH!!!!

"Buddy, was that you or the babies??" I called over my shoulder.

"The babies." He answered dully.

Knowing the fudge would surely scald if I stepped away, I put tons of excitement in my voice and gasped with enthusiasm, "Oh my gosh, Buddy, I have the best idea! Do you want to be my extra-special-all-star helper right now?!? And get to earn a treat??" (I planned on using him as a living-room spy, while I was stuck at the stove.)

"Nope. I'm comfortable." He said lazily from the couch.

Sighing, I turned off the stove, and went to extricate the babies from the midst of a toy avalanche they had joyfully created. Once the mess was picked back up, I went back to my post at the stove.

"Do you want to help yet with the fudge, Buddy?"

"Nah..."

Step 2: Cook until soft ball stage. Then add in the final 3 ingredients.

Mmmkay, Bea. I still don't know what you're talking about with the soft ball stage... And I've been stirring for a while...

Stir.

Stir.

Stir some more.

Shake off arm cramp.

Stir.

Darn it, Bea. This was supposed to be a fun project. Now I'm cookin' it alone, the kids aren't even interested anymore, and apparently, I don't speak Mayberry. Come through for me, here!

Stir.

Stir.

She lied.

Stir some more.

"Want to come see what's going on with our fudge?!"

"No. I'm gonna go to the bathroom." Buddy responded.

I can't believe Aunt Bea lied to me.

Stir.

And more stirring.

Nothing ball-like happening.

At this point, I called someone more domestically-inclined, who informed me that the "soft ball stage test" is where you drop a bit of your mixture into water, and if it forms a ball in the water, its done.

HOW IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY WOULD ANY NOVICE FUDGE-MAKER KNOW THAT, BEATRICE?!? What kind of "simple" recipe is this??

Dutifully, I dropped a little into a cup of water.

No, "soft ball", Bea. I think you make things up for kicks.

I gave up, added the final ingredients, and a few marshmallows for giggles (half of which melted) and went to the final step.

Step 3: Pour onto greased cookie sheet and allow to harden.

As I scraped the last bit onto the cookie sheet I was muttering darkly to myself.

"Stupid soft ball trick.... making things up... never made a ball... followed instructions perfectly... Whatever, Aunt Bea, you can kiss my butt...."

"WHY WOULD SOMEONE DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!?" Demanded a voice behind me suddenly.

After I disentangled myself from the ceiling fan, I answered Buddy's question.

"They shouldn't. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have said that out loud, but I was being quiet and I thought you went to the bathroom, dude."

"I just finished, and I wanted a snack, and I heard you." He cut his eyes at me.

"I'm sorry, Buddy. That wasn't a nice thing for me to say, even by myself. I'll say sorry next time I see her, ok?"

Satisfied, he walked off smiling, snack in hand.

Here it is now, 4 hours later. The kids are long-since napping. My fudge is still gooey. And I've made a promise to a 4-year-old to apologize to a fictional character.

One who LIES!

Not bitter. Oh no. Not one bit.

The finished product.

Speaking Toddlerese. Lesson One.

Watching toddlers who are still navigating the murky waters of speaking correct English can be cute, fun, sometimes frustrating (for both parties), and oftentimes ends with a small child's version of Catchphrase/charades.

Complete with the awkward gesturing, impatient jumping around, and over-the-top excitement when true communication is achieved.

The following Toddlerese words are ones which are used regularly by The Kids, and will be included in my forthcoming dictionary "How to Speak Toddlerese and Finally be Able to Decipher What the Heck They're Trying to Tell You".

Coming to a bookstore near you.

GUGACK- cupcake. Usually used to inform the caregiver that the child is feeling faint with lack of sugar and needs sweet sustenance poste haste.

GOOGEE- cookie. See above.

GIBAK- give back. Used in a variety of situations, such as when a sibling or caregiver has mistakenly taken something the child previously had, or when the child just wants it, period, regardless of who had it first.

MEW- milk. As in, give me some. Now.

MIMOW- Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Usually used as an all-encompassing way to convey "the show you're watching sucks, dude. Change it immediately to one I like. Preferably one with an animated talking rodent. Kthanks."

NAK- snack. Please see the general definition of "mew".

HUH- hot. Used ceremoniously as a chant while a child dances at least 6 inches away from a cup of coffee or oven or hair straightener. Conveys that the child knows not to touch said object, and wants to be sure you remember as well.

Lesson one, complete.

Valentines and Copyrights

For Valentine's Day, I had all these Hallmark-esque plans of sitting around the table with The Kids as they happily and neatly create the types of Valentine cards that parents tear up over.

As I gathered the art supplies from the far reaches of the house, I shared my plan excitedly with Buddy.

His response?

"Devyn. I'm not doing that. That's stupid. I won't make a Valentine. I think I'll just go to the store and buy stuff for Mom and Dad instead."

And with that, my Hallmark-esque vision crumbled into a pink and red glittery pile before my eyes.

No matter how much I talked about how fun it would be, and how much I bribed him (hey, this blog is a no-judgment zone) he refused.

Instead, I gathered everyone in the backyard so that the mess wouldn't be inside, and so that 2 of The Kids could frolic in the sunshine while I art-ed with 1 child at a time. Before I knew it, the twins were having their first true encounter with finger-painting (not 1 at a time), and were having a ball, while I was scurrying around trying (and failing) to keep everything fairly neat and organized.

The following is my conversation a few hours later with my darling New Yawkah. I love her.

"Man. I am so purple and exhausted."

"Tripped down stairs or marker fight with your nannees (my new made up word for the kids you nanny)?"

"Finger painting with twin 17-month-olds..."

"I was close! Pictures on blog?"

"Oh no no. If I had introduced a camera to the mix, the fit would have hit the shan."

"Not even to capture the aftermath? Haha, sounds fun though!"

"The aftermath was 2 nekkid (but colorful) babies, a dripping water hose, purple clothing scattered over the lawn, and a deep puddle of water on the back porch."

"That's the PERFECT opening line for a movie! Copyright that shiz!"

"I'm on it."

You heard it here first, folks!

Oh! And happy belated Valentine's Day!

Because I Am So Hopelessly Behind...

I had a good long break from this blog from October to late January. Non-intentional, of course. I just suddenly found myself with less time on my hands to actually type things out as they come. And so now I am very behind on sharing some major developments.

Beware of my bullet notes.

• I BOUGHT MY FIRST CAR!!!!!!!!!!!! The first one that's totally and completely mine, anyway. Before December, I had been driving my Dad's little pickup exclusively since 2003 (though he never would let me refer to it as mine). But anyway, I started getting really serious about car shopping as soon as I got back from Australia. Each time I had a free moment I was scouring dealerships' webpages looking for good deals. I found it was safer that way, being in the safety of my own home, protected by internet anonymity. A young woman, new to car-buying, not mechanically-inclined, alone, going into used car dealerships on evenings and weekends? The target on my backside could NOT have been any bigger. But, being on the internet and speaking with sales reps through email (primarily), being able to check their sales info against car websites, call them out on any gimmicks they tried to sneak past me, and then bid them against each other for a great price all led me to get a GREAT DEAL on a GREAT CAR!! I'm a little bit proud. ;)
• The Kids are all so much bigger and different that they were in their nannylogs debut. Man. Let's start with Buddy: almost five years old (whoa). Still runs around constantly in his Hulk pjs. He recently lamented to his mother "But Moooommm, I only ever feel tough and strong when I wear my Hulk pajamas! Don't make me take them off!" On the plus side though, the foam Hulk fists? Its been quite some time since they have bashed me off-guard in the face. I don't know yet if that has genuinely passed, or if he is merely lulling me into a false sense of security.... I've been spending quite some time trying to get him excited for school in the fall, but to be honest, he's not too thrilled about it. I'm sure there will be more on that later. BUT. Ah man. THE KID HAS STARTED READING!!! I am so ridiculously excited! Now, he's not reciting Chaucer or anything, but he's got the basics down, and is starting to connect the dots on letter sounds and putting all the sounds together to form a word. From his booster seat in the car the other day, he confidently spelled out the word "bag" to his mother and I, with absolutely no assistance. It was a proud moment.
• Brother is getting quite ornery with age. But he's so darn funny, with a mischievious little twinkle in his eye and impish grin. He spends a majority of his day chasing Buddy around the house, wanting to do absolutely everything that Buddy gets to do. Naturally, this has led to a few sticky moments, and I'm formulating a theory that little boys' bodies must contain some form of naturally-occuring rubber (with all the accidents that make me gasp and cringe, which they seem unfazed by). He is also constantly talking. While mostly sounding like an adorable minion, he's also got some definite English going on too. And he LOVES to parrot. And giggle. Its pretty stinkin' cute.
• Sissy loves to be held. Not so much for the attention, but just to be able to see what you're doing. She's not one to lose composure over being set down, but given the choice she prefers to be up on a hip (has to be the left one too... she has her preferences) sucking on her fingers, observing. She is the only child I have ever seen who can be bribed with clothing. It doesn't even have to be hers. Just hold up a random shirt and say "Sis, what have I got here?" And she comes running, eyes shining, as fast as her adorably chubby legs will carry her. Such a smiley little sweetie. And she absolutely LIVES for getting dressed in the morning. As far as talking, she's started to parrot a bit more, and will say a few words, but is truthfully perfectly content to let Brother handle most requests and negotiations. She and I stick together in the house full of rough-housing little boys.
• I have my feelers out to move this summer. Probably much more to be said about that as the time gets closer!
• Multiple trips planned for this spring/summer! One MAJOR one to a big city, one RELAXING one to horse country... Both involving sweet friends who I don't get to see nearly enough for my liking. Pretty pumped!

I think that is about all for the bullets... Actual posts to come!! Thanks for indulging my Reader's Digest-esque catch-up session!

Don't Go Into the Woods...

The Kids house backs up to a beautiful and serene green belt, which is arguably one of the best things about the backyard. The small trees and frequent bunny visitors create an idyllic view when gazing out across the yard from the back porch. Its one of my secret daydreams to imagine the day when my "job" is to sit on that back porch chair, looking across the beautiful yard and beyond, a glass of sweet tea at my side as the kids all laugh and play peacefully together.

And since my vision does not include anyone eating small rocks or bugs, bopping each other with sticks or toys, or attempting to run each other over with Power Wheels vehicles, I'd say I'm not quite there yet.

But its a nice vision anyway.

Buddy is also quite fond of the backyard greenbelt, but for an entirely different reason. He loves it for the possibility of endless "eventures".

I have long held the belief that Buddy is a country boy mistakenly living in the city. He enjoys all things guns, sticks, knives, and Bear Grylls. So it is a favorite pasttime of his to hop the small back fence with his dad and tromp around "in the woods" as he calls the small area, exploring, finding big sticks, and stomping in any interesting mud puddles he comes across.

So today, since it was a gorgeous, warm, and sunny afternoon, its too early in the year for snakes, and the children were energized and ready for something a little different, I elected to throw caution to the wind and take all three ankle-biters on a short jaunt over the fence. I figured since Buddy does it a lot with his Dad, there wasn't an issue.

Are you laughing at me yet? Because you probably should be.

I had been promising Buddy just such an outting for almost a year now, but we never could leave the safety of a sidewalk with the giant stroller. And each time before the babies weren't strong enough walkers to do much traipsing. So naturally, when I began lifting the kids over the fence, their excitement was palpable, and their thrilled grins could not have been bigger.

Everyone was having a blast crunching through the leaves, tripping over the odd hidden bunny hole, and inspecting every inch of the area right by the fence. Buddy at first tried to lead the crew straight into the thickest part of the "woods", but I quickly convinced him it'd be better to stay by the fence for the babies' first "eventure".

Buddy, electing himself leader, set off immediately at a relaxed pace, pointing a few things out to his siblings. Brother, a little adorably timid in this new leaf-strewn world, reached up and took my hand before following. And as for Sissy, it was all I could do to keep her hand in mine. She clearly had her own agenda and route.

We barely had gotten a few yards away when I stepped down and suddenly had that dreaded, pushing feeling of something piercing right through your shoe (which is no small feat, given that my boots are almost an inch thick at the soles) and scratched the bottom of my foot. I briefly let go of Sissy's hand, brushed away the leaves from where I had just been scratched, and sure enough: there was an old small piece of wood under the leaves with a orangish, rusted nail sticking up about an inch high.

"EVENTURE OVER, BUDDY! We're going back right now!"

"Awww why?" He whined from ahead of me, "We just started."

"There are dangerous things back here, I didn't know or I wouldn't have let us do this." I said as I scooped up the twins, Sissy struggling mightily against me.

As I hurriedly lifted each of the loudly-protesting kids back over the fence into the safety of the yard, it hit me how much God had REALLY been looking out for us on that brief trip over the fence. It creeps me out to think back now at what else could have been hidden under the leaves for our unsuspecting selves to step on. OF COURSE, I would rather myself step on a thousand rusty nails before Buddy, Brother, or Sister would step on one, so I was blessed that I was the one that stepped on that nail rather than them (with the twins on either side of me... SCARY!)while I just-so-happened to be wearing the only shoes I own that have soles thick enough to take the brunt of the nail's length for me. Really now, what are the chances?

And while yes, everyone WAS having a ball "in the woods", I doubt I'll ever be brave enough to take the kids back there again. I'll let Buddy get his "eventures" in with his Dad.

And Bear Grylls.

A Lesson in Theology

Buddy has been going through the typical small-child coming-of-age fear of dying. Neither I nor his parents are prone to randomly bringing the subject up to the kids, so we have figured this is just a natural thing for him to worry about as he gets older and first comes into contact with the idea that no one is immortal.

His parents and I have been easing these random fits of worry by assuring him that he doesn't need to be concerned about things like that; That he and his family will all be together for a long, long time.

And, taking a cue from his mom and dad, we've also taken this opportunity to get him excited for heaven, and to tell him just how awesome of a place it is. SO awesome that he doesn't need to even be concerned about death. We may have stretched some of the theology in the process (such as telling him about all the candy and video games he'll get to have in his mansion in the sky), but we figure as he gets older and his faith grows his vision of heaven will evolve as well.

Anyhoo. All that brings me to the events of lunchtime today.
Buddy, Brother, Sister and I were all sitting around the table eating and tossing around the usual mealtime banter (actually, Brother and Sister were spending their time tossing around the actual MEAL, as toddlers are apt to do...) when Buddy suddenly sighed dramatically and exclaimed "Devyn... I just can't WAIT for heaven!"

Smiling, I agreed.

Buddy continued, "I can't wait for my big comfy bed that will be made out of a cloud that Jesus will give me."

"Oh yeah, dude. I bet that will be the comfy-est bed ever!" I encouraged. "Your big comfy cloud-bed will look so cool in your big mansion that Jesus will give you!"

"Yeah. And outside I'll ask Jesus for a big grill for Dad. He likes grills."

"That's a good idea!"

He turned to me, "How big will your grill be, Devyn?"

"Well. I'm sure I'll have a grill too, but I bet ya'lls grill will be bigger than mine, since your Dad loves grills more than I do. Because Jesus puts all of the things we love the very most in our houses in heaven."

Buddy thought a moment. "I'm gonna have so much candy and video games then!"

"Mmm."

After a few minutes of thoughtful chewing, he continued "Devyn, what color is Jesus?"

"Hmm, that's a good question, Buddy. What color do you think he is?"

"He's red."

Allrightythen.

"That's a pretty interesting color to be. We'll have to see if you're right when we get there." At this point, I sat back and just watched the little cogs turning in his head as he dreamed up what his heaven would be like.

"Devyn, why don't you know what Jesus looks like?" He asked. "Did you forget or something?"

"I haven't seen Him yet. We don't get to see Him until we go to heaven."

"But what about before you were born?" Buddy challenged, "you saw Him in heaven before He sent you to earth!"

"You're right, Buddy, I did. But after you get sent to earth, you forget exactly what He looked like, and you just have to trust and remember in your heart that He's there, waiting for you to come back. That's called having faith."

He chewed his fishstick thoughtfully while mulling this over in his 4 year old mind. Suddenly he dropped the fishstick, eyes wide, and stood up in his chair.

"THAT'S WHAT IT SAYS IN DAD'S BLACK OPS GAME TOO!!! When things are dangerous and there's scary music playing, the guy yells 'HAVE FAITH'!!"

"Exactly."

A lesson in theology over fish sticks and green beans, with Black Ops references.

Whatever works, man. ;)